From Nepomuceno to Baterna

By Noel Galon de Leon

In every fragment of an old film lies a trace of our nation. In every cut of celluloid, a part of our memory fades away. So when the news broke about the rediscovery of Diwata ng Karagatan by Jose Nepomuceno in Belgium, it felt like a wave of astonishment swept across the entire Philippine film community. Yet beyond the historical thrill, it was also a sharp reminder of our cultural neglect. How did we reach a point where the oldest known Filipino film had to be found in a foreign archive rather than in our own?

Jose Nepomuceno, the Father of Philippine Cinema, is not just a name printed on the yellowed pages of history. He was the first Filipino to dare to use film as a vessel for culture, identity, and resistance during the colonial period. When he made Dalagang Bukid in 1919, he proved that Filipinos could tell their own stories in their own language and for their own people. He began not with state funding or privilege but with conviction that cinema could be both art and nation-building. His films were mirrors of the Filipino soul filled with native music, clothing, and everyday life.

But the tragedy is cruel. Almost all of Nepomuceno’s films were lost to war, decay, and indifference. So when Diwata ng Karagatan was finally found, it was more than an archival triumph. It was the return of a national memory. It reminded us that stories, no matter how long buried, will always find their way home.

This rediscovery also leads us to another important figure in the country’s cinematic story, Quin Baterna, an Ilonggo filmmaker who, like Nepomuceno, poured his heart into his craft. In 1977, Baterna co-directed Ginauhaw Ako, Ginagutom Ako (I Am Thirsty, I Am Hungry), one of the earliest full-length films made in the Ilonggo language. That film was also lost and later, almost poetically, rediscovered in Belgium.

It is almost mystical. Two films from different eras and languages, both silenced by time, resurfaced in the same country. History seemed to conspire to bring them together, bridging national and regional cinema, reminding us that both are born of the same impulse: the Filipino desire to tell stories that matter.

Nepomuceno and Baterna belong to different generations but share the same creative bloodline. Both worked without stable systems of support or recognition. Both endured the limits of their time, the lack of funds, and the indifference of the establishment. Yet both believed that film did not have to be colonial or Manila-centered to be meaningful. In a time when the capital dictated taste, regional filmmakers like Baterna chose to speak in their own languages and through their own landscapes. That act of creation was itself a form of defiance.

Their connection is metaphorical and powerful. Nepomuceno is the root of Philippine cinema, the one who planted its foundation. Baterna and the regional filmmakers who came after him are the branches that continue to grow, carrying diverse fruits of culture and experience. One is national, the other regional, yet they share the same lifeblood, the same yearning to preserve the Filipino voice in film.

But why must we keep finding our films abroad? Because for decades, the Philippines has suffered from a kind of cultural amnesia. We lack a strong national film archive, consistent preservation policies, and the institutional will to value cinema as history. Instead of being caretakers of our visual heritage, we have often been witnesses to its disappearance. Each rediscovery becomes a celebration, yet it also exposes the painful truth that we continue to neglect what should have been sacred. These rediscoveries should not be seen as lucky accidents. They should be treated as lessons and warnings.

Regional cinema is not an alternative form of filmmaking. It is the heartbeat of Philippine cinema. Regional filmmakers from Iloilo, Negros, Samar, and Mindanao continue to create stories that are absent from mainstream screens. In their films, one hears the language of the marketplace, the rhythm of rain on tin roofs, and the silence of rural nights. These films are windows into the Philippines that the center rarely sees. They are the purest expressions of who we are, vibrant and unpretentious, filled with the courage of truth.

If Nepomuceno opened the door of Philippine cinema, Baterna and the filmmakers of today are opening its windows, letting light in from all corners of the archipelago. Yet how long will we rely on the sacrifices of a few passionate individuals? When will our government act, not with slogans, but with genuine commitment to protect cinema as a living part of national identity?

The story of Diwata ng Karagatan and Ginauhaw Ako, Ginagutom Ako is not just the story of two films. It is the story of two nations, one that created and another that almost forgot. But every time a lost film is found, hope returns. The waves of our cinema continue to reach our shores, carrying the message of our ancestors in film that our stories, no matter how buried or erased, will never truly disappear as long as there are those willing to dive deep enough to find them.