Nervous Translation | Little White Lies

Ner­vous Translation

05 Apr 2019 / Released: 05 Apr 2019

Words by Matt Turner

Directed by Shireen Seno

Starring Angge Santos, Jana Agoncillo, and Sid Lucero

Young girl with dark hair sitting on a floral bed, reaching towards a radio or stereo system in a dimly lit room.
Young girl with dark hair sitting on a floral bed, reaching towards a radio or stereo system in a dimly lit room.
4

Anticipation.

Good title, eye-catching stills and an intriguing synopsis.

4

Enjoyment.

An effective representation of living too sensitively and feeling everything too strongly.

4

In Retrospect.

An intelligent and idiosyncratic film that lands on the skin, then lingers in the mind.

Shireen Seno’s strik­ing sec­ond fea­ture explores a peri­od of social change from a child’s perspective.

Many films adopt a child’s per­spec­tive, yet few tru­ly see the world as a child would. Shireen Seno’s strik­ing, scin­til­lat­ing sec­ond fea­ture Ner­vous Trans­la­tion bur­rows deep inside the head of its main char­ac­ter, eight-year-old Yael (Jana Agoncil­lo), show­ing what a strained, sense­less place it is to be.

Yael lives in Mani­la with her moth­er Val (Angge San­tos). Her father works abroad, and is present in the film only as a voice on tape record­ings. They are played most­ly by Yael, who rewinds and replays them like puz­zle loops, search­ing for some­thing inside the words. To Yael, her moth­er seems frigid and remote, drilling her daugh­ter with maths prob­lems or demand­ing silence. Dis­plays of affec­tion are rare and abstract.

Solace arrives only in cer­e­mo­ny, via small acts of order made in resis­tance to a world with­out any. Yael retreats into her­self, prac­tis­ing her hand­writ­ing, metic­u­lous­ly clean­ing the soles of her shoes, or prep­ping minia­ture dish­es for a tiny oven. Agoncillo’s intro­vert­ed per­for­mance is minute­ly detailed, an over-sen­si­tive child with a per­ma­nent­ly trou­bled face who betrays the inner tur­moil her few words avoid express­ing. Things feel tough too.

Yael’s frayed nerves and con­stant con­fu­sion are trans­lat­ed into harsh nois­es, bright colours and frag­ment­ed infor­ma­tion. The cin­e­matog­ra­phy vibrates with ner­vous ener­gy; the sound design is wiry and extreme. The fab­ric of Seno’s film shud­ders with the state of the char­ac­ter it is embodying.

When every­thing is so inter­nal, it’s easy to miss what is going on out­side. This is the Philip­pines in 1988 – over­heard con­ver­sa­tions, news snip­pets and fur­ni­ture-fit­tings reveal – and the coun­try is in dis­ar­ray. Fresh­ly freed of a 20-year dic­ta­tor­ship, an air of uncer­tain­ty pre­sides. No child is entire­ly obliv­i­ous; and noth­ing hap­pens in a vac­u­um. The coun­try in Ner­vous Trans­la­tion is anx­ious, it seems fit­ting that its main char­ac­ter would be too.

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