The Weight of Shadows: Lav Diaz’s ‘Let Us Through, Dear Ancestors’ and the Anatomy of Colonial Trauma

The landscape of contemporary Philippine cinema is often defined by its relationship with time, history, and the scars of a colonial past. At the forefront of this movement is Lav Diaz, a filmmaker whose name has become synonymous with "slow cinema" and the uncompromising exploration of the Filipino psyche. His latest work, Let Us Through, Dear Ancestors, serves as a searing, monochrome indictment of the early Spanish colonial era. Set nearly a century after Ferdinand Magellan’s fateful landing on the archipelago, the film offers a "bruised history" rendered with the precision of a needle on skin.

Following the critical success of his previous epic, which focused on the demythologization of Magellan’s legacy, Let Us Through, Dear Ancestors functions as a convex-mirror inversion. While its predecessor utilized full-color scales to dismantle myths, this new entry retreats into a lush, high-contrast monochrome, embedding itself in the lives of the everyday oppressed. Clocking in at a relatively "trim" 151 minutes—a stark contrast to Diaz’s typical five-to-ten-hour runtimes—the film weaponizes the natural beauty of the Luzon jungles against the grotesque machinery of colonial acquisition.

Main Facts: A New Chapter in Diaz’s Cinematic Historiography

Let Us Through, Dear Ancestors is not merely a period piece; it is a spiritual and political companion to Diaz’s body of work regarding the Philippines’ "long night" of colonization. The film centers on the year 1617, a pivotal moment when the Spanish Crown and the Catholic Church were consolidating their grip on the northern island of Luzon.

The narrative revolves around three central figures: the predatory Padre Enciso (Bart Guingona), the defiant mestizo Dungwen (Christian Bables), and the mystical healer Babayeng Indimatadog (Isabel Sandoval). Through these characters, Diaz explores the intersection of religious imposition, sexual violence, and indigenous resistance. Unlike many historical dramas that favor spectacle, Diaz employs a formalist rigor, utilizing wide and medium shots to create a sense of observational distance that forces the viewer to confront the systemic nature of colonial cruelty.

Key production details include:

• Director: Lav Diaz
• Runtime: 151 minutes
• Cinematography: Black-and-white digital, characterized by deep blacks and luminous whites.
• Key Cast: Bart Guingona, Christian Bables, Isabel Sandoval, Yul Servo, Ronnie Lazaro, and Daniel Palisa.
• Themes: Colonial trauma, the "mestizo" identity, indigenous spirituality vs. Catholicism, and the cyclical nature of history.

Chronology: The Uncoiling of a Colonial Disaster

The story unfolds with a deliberate, rhythmic pacing, reflecting Diaz’s belief that disasters of historical magnitude rarely happen in a hurry.

The Architect of Subjugation (1617)

The film opens in a remote region of Luzon where Padre Enciso has been tasked with "civilizing" the local population. Enciso is the personification of the colonial spirit: a man who claims the land for King and Catholicism while indulging in "deeply impious extracurriculars." His primary ambition is the construction of a grand stone church, a physical monument to a foreign god intended to loom over the jungle.

To achieve this, Enciso dispatches expeditions of locals into the treacherous wilderness to retrieve supplies. These "errand-runs" are effectively death sentences; men perish from exhaustion, tropical diseases, or the poisoned arrows of Bari Bari (Yul Servo), a bandit leader who represents the untamed, violent resistance to Spanish rule.

The Refusal of the Bloodline

Amidst this backdrop of exploitation, we meet Dungwen, the adult son of a union between the Padre and a local woman—a "visiting" that the film correctly frames as systemic rape. Despite the social advantages his Spanish heritage might provide, Dungwen rejects his mestizo identity. He seeks only to provide for his family and raise his daughters in the "old ways."

This rejection of the "Father" (both biological and religious) leads to a vengeful response from Enciso. The Padre forces Dungwen to lead the most dangerous expedition yet: the transport of heavy marble for the church altar. This segment of the film evokes the grueling labor of Fitzcarraldo, as men drag a cartload of stone through the dense, unforgiving jungle.

The Capture of the Sacred

Parallel to Dungwen’s physical trial is the spiritual trial of Babayeng Indimatadog. As a traveling healer who refuses to convert to Catholicism, she represents the pre-colonial soul of the Philippines. Her presence is a threat to the totalizing order of the Church. When she is captured and imprisoned by Enciso’s men, her brother Himamat (Ronnie Lazaro) begins a desperate quest for her release, eventually seeking an alliance with the bandit Bari Bari.

The narrative reaches its spiritual zenith when Babayeng, huddled in a dark cell, breaks the fourth wall. She looks directly into the lens, offering a beatific smile that bridges the gap between 1617 and the modern audience.

Supporting Data: Technical Artistry and Casting

While Diaz has experimented with various formats—from the low-definition aesthetic of Heremias to the grand scales of his earlier epics—Let Us Through, Dear Ancestors represents a peak in his technical craft.

Cinematographic Detail

The monochrome palette is not a stylistic gimmick but a narrative tool. Each frame is meticulously composed to capture the "insect susurration and whispering foliage." The use of space is often compared to the works of Akira Kurosawa; Diaz utilizes different planes of action within a single wide shot, allowing the jungle to feel like an active participant in the story rather than a mere backdrop.

Performance and Characterization

The casting of Isabel Sandoval, a celebrated director in her own right (Lingua Franca), adds a layer of contemporary resonance to the role of Babayeng. Her performance is described as "grave and stately," providing the film’s moral anchor.

Bart Guingona’s Padre Enciso is a masterclass in the banality of evil. His loquacious monologues—ranging from musings on English pottage to the "monstrous" nature of his own children—reveal the psychological detachment required to maintain a colonial empire. Meanwhile, Christian Bables delivers a grounded, physical performance as Dungwen, embodying the silent endurance of the Filipino working class.

Official Responses and Critical Reception

Early critical reactions from international film festivals have hailed the film as one of Diaz’s most accessible yet potent works.

• Variety: The publication noted that the film "weaponizes the beauty of its setting… against the ugliness of the newly unleashed colonial spirit." It highlighted the dialogue as "fluid and natural," contrasting with the formalist visual approach.
• Cinema Scholars: Academics have pointed out that the 151-minute runtime may allow the film to reach a wider audience than Diaz’s previous works, potentially serving as a gateway for viewers unfamiliar with his "slow cinema" philosophy.
• Historical Societies: While some historians note that Diaz takes creative liberties with the specificities of 17th-century logistics, they praise the film for capturing the emotional truth of the era—a period of history that is often glossed over in standard textbooks in favor of the later 19th-century revolution.

The consensus suggests that while the film avoids the "coy panaceas of storytelling convention," it succeeds in creating a visceral connection to the past.

Implications: The Vision of Liberation

The title Let Us Through, Dear Ancestors is a plea for permission to move through a landscape—and a history—that is fraught with trauma. It is a phrase spoken by Dungwen’s daughters as they enter the forest, acknowledging the spirits that preceded them.

The Future Tense of History

Diaz famously avoids showing the "dramatic climax" in a traditional sense. The fate of Padre Enciso is left ambiguous, and the bandit Bari Bari’s raid on the church site offers no easy catharsis. Diaz argues that to show a clean, victorious revolution in 1617 would be a lie. Instead, he focuses on the "vision of liberation" as a concept that remains in the future tense.

A Mirror to the Present

The film’s implications for the modern Philippines are profound. By exploring the roots of the mestizo identity and the weaponization of faith, Diaz asks his audience to consider how much of the "colonial spirit of acquisition" remains in the country’s current socio-political structures.

The "bruised history" Diaz depicts is not a closed book. By having Babayeng look into the camera, the film suggests that we, the viewers, are the "descendants" she is looking at through the lens of time. We are the ones she is "letting through."

In conclusion, Let Us Through, Dear Ancestors is a monumental achievement in Philippine cinema. It does not presume to solve the problems of a troubled homeland, but through its sharp, precise, and scarring lines, it lights the way toward a deeper understanding of what it means to survive. Lav Diaz continues to prove that in the stillness of his frames, the loudest truths are told.