AS A self-confessed movie buff and a magsasa-film critic long before social media made everyone one, I grew up watching Metro Manila Film Festival entries. There was a time when the MMFF was as much a part of Christmas as Noche Buena and Simbang Gabi. It was a ritual, a tradition, something families looked forward to every December.
When I was younger and too penniless to travel to Manila during the festival, my friends and I would wait nearly a month before the films finally reached our local cinema. Later, in college, when we could scrape together enough money, we would troop to Manila with backpacks stuffed with snacks, as if we were going on an excursion. This was the era when you could enter and leave movie houses freely, without rigid screening schedules. On the ride home, we argued over which films deserved awards, re-enacted favorite scenes, quoted iconic lines, and confidently crowned our own festival winners.
The MMFF was far from perfect, but it was ours.
Today, watching it struggle feels like witnessing the slow fading of a tradition that once defined Filipino family life.
Award-winning director Jun Robles Lana put it bluntly when he lamented that rising ticket prices have priced ordinary Filipinos out of movie theaters. Before factoring in transportation or food, a family of four now needs around ₱1,500 just to watch a single film. As Lana wrote on Facebook, by pricing out the ordinary Filipino, the industry hasn’t just lost customers; it has lost its soul. Cinema, once a shared national experience, has quietly become a middle-class privilege.
Box-office figures tell the same story. Despite solid performances by a few titles like Call Me Mother and Shake, Rattle & Roll, total earnings barely crossed ₱350 million in six days, well below expectations. Several films may not even recover their production costs. This is not merely a business concern; it is a cultural warning.
For decades, Philippine cinema has struggled to balance commerce and craft. On one end are films engineered purely to sell tickets: safe formulas, loud jokes, familiar faces. On the other are earnest, well-made films that challenge and educate but struggle to survive financially. The MMFF was meant to bridge these two worlds: entertainment with substance, art with an audience. Somewhere along the way, that balance collapsed.
Reviving the festival requires shared responsibility. Government agencies like the MMDA must rethink policies that treat the MMFF primarily as a revenue generator. For years, industry leaders have called for subsidized ticket prices, tax incentives for cinemas during the festival, and stronger support for regional and independent films.
Producers must take creative risks again and trust audiences to embrace stories beyond tired formulas. Actors and stars especially those with huge box-office draws can use their influence to support projects that value storytelling over spectacle.
And moviegoers, too, have a role. Supporting Filipino films, especially those that challenge and inspire, is an act of cultural preservation. Cinema survives when audiences show up not only for escapism, but for stories that reflect who we are.
I have seen the MMFF at its best and its worst – from Ganito Kami Noon Paano Kayo Ngayon?, Minsa’y Isang Gamu-Gamo, Burlesk Queen, Atsay, Ina ka ng Anak Mo, Brutal, Kisapmata, Himala, Moral, Karnal, Haplos, Bulaklak sa City Jail, Jose Rizal, Muro-Ami, Tanging Yaman just to name a few to slapstick comedies and predictable dramas best forgotten. Yet even at its weakest, the festival mattered. It brought families and friends together.
If we allow the MMFF to die quietly, we lose more than an annual film festival. We lose a shared memory, a national mirror, and a piece of ourselves.
