Call Me Mother beyond labels

By Herman M. Lagon

Spoiler Alert: This column discusses key scenes from Call Me Mother. Readers who prefer to watch the film first may wish to return after viewing.

We went to Robinsons Jaro that Christmas evening fully intending to watch Avatar 3. It was a small family ritual—my daughter Parvane and I, a shared popcorn, a shared screen, and that familiar December feeling of choosing stories that stay with you longer than the holiday lights. We forgot one small detail: it was Metro Manila Film Festival season. Instead of blue aliens, we found ourselves staring at the poster of Call Me Mother. It looked safe. Festive. Familiar. We thought it would be a feel-good Christmas watch. What we did not expect was to walk out quieter, heavier, and oddly grateful.

Part of that gratitude came from what Call Me Mother quietly refuses to be. After last year’s And the Breadwinner Is…, Vice Ganda’s blockbuster that leaned hard into spectacle and non-stop quips, this film feels deliberately restrained. The comedy is present, but it relatively knows when to step aside. The slapstick no longer hijacks scenes meant to breathe. Silence, pauses, and glances are allowed to linger. That alone signals growth—not reinvention, but trust in the material. Vice does not rescue scenes here. Vice listens to them.

What makes the film especially interesting is how it communicates on two levels. On the surface, it is a story about motherhood—biological versus chosen, legal versus lived. Underneath, it is filled with quiet visual jokes, political winks, and background choices that feel intentional rather than accidental. One example that made my daughter and I smile: the pageant’s top contenders include Miss Iloilo, Miss Albay, and Miss Taguig. For politically attentive audiences, Iloilo and Albay were among the strongest Leni-Kiko provinces in the 2022 and 2025 elections, while Taguig points directly to Nadine Lustre’s character as Miss Pasig—a city led by Vico Sotto, often cited as a model of non-traditional, reform-oriented leadership. These are not plot points. They are Easter eggs, or at least that is how we saw them, placed softly enough to reward attentiveness without alienating anyone else.

This layering works because it never demands applause. Vice Ganda and Nadine Lustre are both known supporters of progressive causes, yet the film never sermonizes. Instead, it trusts viewers to notice patterns, symbols, and alignments. That trust extends to the film’s portrayal of marginalized lives. Like Breadwinner, Call Me Mother touches on OFW aspirations, legal precarity, queer parenting, pageant economies, and informal adoption—realities many Filipino families recognize. The difference is tone. Here, the issues feel lived-in, not announced.

The emotional center of the film belongs to Lucas Andalio. His performance as Angelo is devastating in its simplicity. He does not overact. He does not perform for tears. He simply reacts as a child caught between adults who love him in different, complicated ways. Every scene involving him grounds the film. Without Lucas, the story risks tipping into melodrama. With him, it holds.

Nothing prepares you, however, for the fifteen-minute conflict sequence near the climax. This is where Call Me Mother stops being good and becomes unforgettable. Social workers arrive. Barangay tanods assist. Authority enters a home that has known mostly care. Twinkle’s resistance is not violent, not hysterical, but ferociously human. Vice Ganda delivers what is arguably the strongest dramatic performance of her career here. The camera stays close, restless but controlled. The blocking tightens. Chanda Romero, Sweet, and Lucas match the intensity without competing for it. The scene understands restraint as power.

What broke us most was not the shouting, but the letting go. Twinkle’s decision to release the child, despite every instinct screaming otherwise, is an act of love stripped of ego. It is love that chooses safety over possession. That moment reframes the entire film. Motherhood, the film suggests, is not proven by paperwork, biology, or permanence, but by the willingness to lose without turning cruel.

Nadine Lustre’s revelation scene in the UniWorld pageant provides the emotional counterweight. Her character’s confession lands because it is not staged as redemption. It is presented as reckoning. Lustre resists theatrics, opting instead for calm vulnerability. The contrast between her poise and Vice’s rawness works precisely because neither tries to dominate the emotional space.

Technically, the film is confident. Jun Robles Lana’s direction balances chaos and control. The camera tilts when emotions tilt. Lighting tightens when choices narrow. The Disneyland scenes—especially the final framing of Twinkle, Mara, and Angelo—linger like a bruise you keep touching. You feel the hurt, but you understand the necessity.

The film is not perfect. Some plot conveniences require suspension of disbelief. The first half drags for some viewers. The narrative is not groundbreaking. But sincerity carries it. The tears feel earned. The humor knows when to exit. The message trusts the audience.

We walked out of the theater quieter than we entered. That rarely happens with MMFF films. Call Me Mother does not shout its relevance. It lets it surface. In a season crowded with noise, that restraint feels radical. Sometimes, the most subversive thing a film can do is to sit with love long enough to show how hard it is.

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Doc H fondly describes himself as a ”student of and for life” who, like many others, aspires to a life-giving and why-driven world grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions he is employed or connected with.