Filipino film ''Kisapmata'' is a national allegory about patriarchy, possession, and death © by film critic Lalit Rao (FIPRESCI)

Filipino cineaste Mike De Leon’s Kisapmata (1981) is a family tragedy as well as a national allegory about patriarchy, possession, and death © by film critic Lalit Rao (FIPRESCI)

 

There are a very few films in Southeast Asian cinema that have left as haunting and unforgettable an impression as Kisapmata (1981), the seminal Filipino masterpiece directed by Mike De Leon. The film is often labeled as horror, but such a label fails to grasp its true texture. It is not a horror film in the conventional sense, with apparitions, monsters, or supernatural elements. Rather, it is a suffocating chamber drama that draws its terror from domesticity itself. Its huis-clos ambience, reminiscent of European psychological thrillers and theatrical confinement dramas, unsettles viewers precisely because it is so rooted in the ordinary and the familiar.

 

Adapted from Nick Joaquin’s crime reportage ''The House on Zapote Street'' and co-written by De Leon, Joaquin, Raquel Villavicencio, and Clodualdo Del Mundo Jr., the film reimagines the infamous 1960s case of Pablo Cabalding, a retired policeman who brutally murdered his family. The narrative, while inspired by this real-life crime, transcends reportage and creates a fictional space where patriarchal tyranny, domestic claustrophobia, and repressed sexuality converge into one of the darkest allegories in Filipino cinema.

 

Premiering at the 7th Metro Manila Film Festival in 1981, Kisapmata was immediately recognized as a landmark, winning Best Film. Its international journey included screening at the Directors’ Fortnight section of the Cannes Film Festival in 1982. Four decades later, its prestige was reaffirmed through a digital restoration presented at the 34th Il Cinema Ritrovato in Bologna in 2020, ensuring that new generations could encounter its disturbing brilliance.

 

                         The huis-clos ambience: A house as a prison in Kisapmata

 

The setting of Kisapmata is deceptively simple: the cramped home of a retired policeman named Dadong, his submissive wife, and their daughter Mila. The film’s events unfold between November and December, but the temporal markers are of less importance than the psychological environment. The house becomes a suffocating prison, where every corner is watched, every movement is monitored, and every thought is potentially policed.

 

This closed-door atmosphere evokes the French concept of huis-clos—a situation in which characters are trapped in a single space, creating an oppressive intensity. The walls of the home in Kisapmata do not just contain; they suffocate. The cinematography by Rody Lacap enhances this mood. His lens captures the shadows, the narrow corridors, the dim lighting, and the sense of being perpetually under surveillance. The camera seldom offers escape, framing characters in a way that emphasizes their entrapment.

 

Complementing this claustrophobic imagery is Lorrie Ilustre’s haunting score. The music is spare, often unsettling, and used not to overwhelm but to heighten the simmering dread. Every note echoes like an intrusion into the fragile minds of the characters, particularly Mila. Together, the cinematography and score create a sensory environment that matches the suffocating narrative of control.

 

                                               The tyranny of the father in Kisapmata

 

At the core of Kisapmata is the terrifying figure of the father, Dadong, a retired policeman whose absurd behavior and authoritarian personality define the household. His authority is absolute; his word is law. He controls not only the physical lives of his wife and daughter but also their inner worlds. Even the maid is not spared his domination—she trembles at his presence.

 

The absurdity of Dadong’s control manifests in small, yet deeply unsettling moments. When his daughter Mila announces her pregnancy, he interrogates her with grotesquely irrational questions: How did you get pregnant? Why did you make my daughter pregnant? These are not mere slips of language but revelations of his possessive madness. To him, Mila is less a daughter and more a possession, someone who can never truly escape his grip.

 

Even the act of leisure, such as going to the cinema, is mediated by his authority. He accompanies Mila and her husband Noel in his jeepney to the cinema hall, and rather than granting them space, he sits with them through the film. Every moment of their supposed independence is corrupted by his invasive presence. When he is not terrorizing his family, he diverts himself with strange hobbies—raising earthworms and pigs—as if to channel his need for control into the natural world.

 

The father’s menace is not exaggerated or caricatured; it is disturbingly real. Director Mike De Leon portrays him as a chilling symbol of patriarchal excess, an embodiment of a social system where male authority is unchecked, abusive, and ultimately destructive.

 

                          Women such as Mila and her mother are silenced in Kisapmata

 

If Dadong represents control, then the women of the film embody its consequences. Mila, the young daughter, is intelligent and sensitive, yet profoundly trapped. Her attempts at resistance are quiet and interior. She keeps a diary, documenting the cruelty of her father. The diary becomes her only voice, a secret space where she can narrate what reality denies her. Yet the diary is also a symbol of her powerlessness—words on paper that can never alter her destiny.

 

Her mother, on the other hand, is the archetype of submission. Weak, voiceless, and stripped of agency, she has long accepted her husband’s tyranny. Her silence is more than resignation; it is erasure. She exists only as an extension of his will, embodying the long-term effects of patriarchal domination. By showing her silence, De Leon reminds the audience of the generations of women erased by oppressive domestic structures.

 

                                  Sentiments of love and helplessness in Kisapmata through Mila and Noel

 

The presence of Noel, Mila’s husband, offers a glimmer of hope. Their love for each other, solemnized in a church wedding, seems to suggest an escape route from Dadong’s grip. Their union, however, never transcends the confines of the house. Even Noel’s father, a sympathetic man, is rendered helpless, cowed by the terrifying shadow of Dadong.

 

Noel himself is a tragic figure—brave in his affection but powerless in action. He represents the larger society outside the household: sympathetic, perhaps, but too afraid to challenge entrenched patriarchal power.

 

                                                     Religion and social façades in Kisapmata

 

The film also foregrounds the role of religion and social appearances. The family is devoutly Christian, regularly attending church, maintaining the facade of piety and moral uprightness. Yet beneath this religious veneer lies a household of abuse, fear, and incestuous undertones. This juxtaposition is biting: the Church, which should be a refuge, offers no protection against domestic tyranny. Instead, it functions as part of the social mask that conceals the horror within.

 

                                                               The unspoken incest in Kisapmata

 

One of the film’s most daring aspects is its subtle depiction of incest. In Filipino cinema, Kisapmata is hailed as the first major representation of incest, though it never shows the act explicitly. Instead, it remains covert, hinted at through gestures, words, and the overwhelming possessiveness of the father toward his daughter. This covert quality is what makes it more chilling. The audience feels the incestuous undercurrent without needing to see it enacted. By avoiding sensationalism, director Mike De Leon forces viewers to confront the psychological horror of incest as power and control, rather than as mere physical violation.

 

                                                            The climactic tragedy in Kisapmata

 

The film builds toward an inevitable explosion. When Dadong realizes that he cannot hold his daughter forever, he erupts in violence. His solution to losing control is annihilation: he murders Mila, Noel, and his wife, before finally turning the gun on himself. The ending is both shocking and tragically logical. For a man who equates possession with existence, death becomes the only way to preserve control.The massacre underscores the futility of resistance within such a system. Love, religion, sympathy, and personal courage all collapse before the relentless force of patriarchal tyranny. The tragedy is complete, leaving the audience devastated.

 

                                                             Real crime, cinematic allegory in Kisapmata

 

While the film is based on a real crime, Kisapmata is not a documentary. De Leon transforms Nick Joaquin’s reportage into a broader allegory about Filipino society. The father’s control is not only personal but symbolic of political and social authoritarianism. The early 1980s, after all, was still the era of Ferdinand Marcos’ dictatorship. The household in Kisapmata can be read as a metaphor for the nation itself: ruled by a tyrant, silenced by fear, and destroyed by unchecked authority.

 

                                              The technical triumph in Kisapmata

 

Beyond its narrative, the film is also a technical triumph. Rody Lacap’s cinematography, with its carefully constructed shadows, never lets the audience feel safe. The framing is deliberate, often placing characters in corners, under ceilings, or behind obstructions to emphasize their entrapment. Lorrie Ilustre’s score, haunting and sparse, punctuates the silence with dread. Together, they create a mood that lingers long after the film ends. The script, penned by four writers, is a masterclass in restraint. Every line of dialogue, no matter how absurd, feels rooted in psychological truth. The collaborative effort ensures that the film never tips into melodrama, instead maintaining a suffocating realism.

 

                             Restoration and legacy of Mike De Leon's classic film Kisapmata 

 

The digital restoration of Kisapmata in 2020 at Il Cinema Ritrovato in Bologna was not just a technical achievement but also a cultural necessity. For decades, Filipino cinema has struggled with preservation, and many classics remain lost. Restoring Kisapmata ensures that its importance is preserved for future generations. The film’s legacy is secure. It is studied as the first major Filipino depiction of incest, as a landmark in psychological cinema, and as a bold allegory of authoritarianism. Alongside De Leon’s other works—Batch 81 (1981) and Sister Stella L (1984), ''Kisapmata'' cements his reputation as one of the greatest Filipino filmmakers. Kisapmata remains one of the most harrowing films ever made in the Philippines. Its horror lies not in the supernatural but in the terrifyingly real dynamics of domestic tyranny, patriarchal excess, and societal silence. By crafting a chamber drama that is both deeply personal and politically resonant, Mike De Leon achieved a masterpiece that continues to disturb, provoke, and haunt.

 

''Kisapmata'' is a film that dares to show us the darkest corners of family life, the unspoken terrors behind religious facades, and the devastating consequences of unchecked authority. Watching it is not easy; the huis-clos ambiance suffocates, the absurdity of the father enrages, and the tragic ending devastates. Yet precisely because it is so difficult, Kisapmata is essential.