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Filipinos today,
movie fans especially, would be bemused to realize what a groundbreaking
phenomenon Nora Aunor was when she broke into show business as “The Superstar.”
Before
her, actresses were invariably mestizas, parlaying their fair complexions,
remarkable height, sharp noses and regal bearing to achieve stardom. Think
Gloria Romero, who ironically came from humble stock but whose queenly aura
drew adoration, even when producers deliberately sought to downgrade her
aristocratic appeal by making her portray laundresses and tricycle–driving
tomboys.
At
the height of her popularity, Aunor, or “Ate Guy” to devotees, was pitted
against another mestiza, Vilma Santos or “Ate Vi,” who, though fair of
complexion, was just as tiny and petite.
But
while Ate Vi entered the movies as a child actor and was catapulted to fame by
the popularity of her love team with Edgar “Bobot” Mortiz (now a TV director),
Ate Guy’s entry into show biz was via the enduring singing contest “Tawag ng
Tanghalan.” I remember everyone in our household jostling for a place in front
of the TV set when the contest aired, drawn by the truly powerful and emotive
voice of the diminutive teen from Bicol.
It
was only a matter of time before Aunor was snapped up by Sampaguita Studios,
which fielded her in a series of teenybopper films with her first film partner,
Manny de Leon, and, more successfully, Tirso Cruz III.
Just
to show you her extraordinary appeal, and the devotion she inspired, Pangasinan
Rep. Gina Vera-Perez de Venecia, daughter of Sampaguita head honcho “Doc”
Perez, recalls attending a fans’ gathering at the Sampaguita grounds for Ate
Guy. “When she arrived,” recounts “Manay” Gina, “she was immediately swamped by
the fans, but to be fair to everyone, she was picked up and asked to stand atop
a table.” This was when her fans rushed to the table, “some of them content to
wipe their hands on the hem of their dress, like she was the Black Nazarene or
some miraculous image,” says Gina, laughing.
* *
*
Given
the prevailing standards of beauty at the time, one had to wonder what made
Aunor such a box-office draw. After all, unlike the svelte performers then, she
was small (barely five feet), with unremarkable “ethnic” features, and most
significantly, she was of dark complexion.
Of
course, she had “the voice,” which escaped from her like a living creature,
full-throated, deep and powerful. Even when she belted teenybopper tunes in her
early movies, she managed to imbue them with resonance, remembrance.
And
then there were those eyes, which in her later films could speak volumes even
without a line of dialogue, expressing anger, pain, indignation, suffering,
inexplicable joy. Where she learned to exploit these singular features no one
knows, for save for one or two workshops much later in her career, she came to
the movies raw and untested, receiving little by way of guidance when all her
fans asked of her was to be herself.
And
what a self it was! Nora Aunor was—and is—simply, the Filipina personified. She
was not prettier or wealthier than her fans. She led a hard-scrabble life in
Bicol, and even the controversy over her parentage mirrored the troubled lives
of those most enthralled by her.
Before
Nora, fans adored their idols from afar, keeping a respectful distance and
expecting actresses, especially, to hew to standards of decorum and decency
enforced by movie producers like Doc Perez. But in Nora Aunor, fans embraced
someone just like them, embraced her for all her imperfections, and identified
with the wild ups and downs of her life.
And
she allowed them unprecedented entry into her existence. The story goes that
one reason her former husband, actor Christopher de Leon, left their conjugal
home was that he couldn’t find a moment’s peace, with the most loyal fans and
factotums allowed access to the master bedroom at all hours of the day.
* *
*
Of
late, Nora’s luster has dimmed a bit. Of course, she has grown older (and who
hasn’t?), and even that magnificent voice has been irreparably damaged by a
botched cosmetic procedure.
But
in the intervening years, especially through her own efforts as a producer, she
grew into her talent, appearing in films that not only won a slew of awards
locally, but also gained honors for our filmmakers abroad, while receiving
international accolades herself.
You
don’t even have to be a fan to recite her most memorable, iconic characters:
“Bona,” the exploited movie fan; Elsa, the ill-fated psychic healer in
“Himala”; the woman falling in love with a Japanese officer during the war in
“Tatlong Taong Walang Diyos”; the gritty survivor in “Bulaklak sa City Jail”;
and the self-sacrificing midwife in “Thy Womb.”
Late
last year, there were reports that Aunor had made it to the list of nominees
for National Artist in the field of cinema. But since then, Malacañang has not
seen fit to release the final list of honorees. There is scuttlebutt that some
“cultural figures” have objected to Aunor’s selection because of her perceived
personal flaws (and who doesn’t have one or two or more?).
But
what or who are we honoring here? Is this a canonization? Are we looking for
exemplary lives or outstanding achievements in the arts? For there is no doubt
in my mind that Ate Guy deserves to be named National Artist—if only for
showing the world, and Filipinos especially, that there is no shame in being
small, dark and humble, that there is much to be said in rising above one’s
station and exploring one’s gifts in as full, gratifying and enriching a manner
as has Nora Aunor, long and forever “The Superstar.”
