Vice Ganda finally gets serious and it works

By Noel Galon de Leon

This is not a trashy film, though it is not perfect either, and it certainly cannot be dismissed as just another loud MMFF entry meant only to sell tickets. “Call Me Mother” (Star Cinema, 2025) feels like a conscious attempt to widen the emotional and moral vocabulary of mainstream Filipino cinema. From the very beginning, it signals that it is not here to make us comfortable. Instead, it invites us to sit with difficult questions about love, responsibility, and the meaning of motherhood. Watching it, I felt that the film was less interested in pleasing the audience and more concerned with asking us to reflect on the lives we live and the choices we normalize.

What struck me immediately was how unapologetically serious the film is about its subject matter. Adoption, especially by a gay parent, and the idea of what makes a “real” mother are not treated as gimmicks or plot devices. These themes are placed at the center of the story, demanding attention. The film does not promise happiness at the end, nor does it rely on neat resolutions. Instead, it mirrors real life, where love often exists alongside loss, and where doing the right thing rarely feels clean or heroic.

I woke up early on the opening day of the Metro Manila Film Festival 2025 to avoid the crowds, a ritual I have shared with my partner for more than a decade. This year, however, I watched alone. That solitude mattered. Watching a film about unconventional motherhood, longing, and separation while being physically alone in the cinema sharpened my emotional sensitivity. It made the film feel less like entertainment and more like a conversation between me and the screen.

Curating which MMFF films to watch has always been important to me, especially when I plan to see several in one day. Call Me Mother was my first choice, and in retrospect, it felt right to begin with something that required emotional presence and reflection. Films like this demand mental and emotional space. They ask you to slow down, to listen carefully, and to engage not just with the story but with your own beliefs and biases.

Walking into the cinema at SM City Iloilo, I was surprised by how full it was. The audience was diverse in age and background, which immediately challenged the assumption that films tackling queer parenthood and adoption are niche or limited to certain demographics. There was something deeply reassuring about seeing families, older viewers, and younger audiences sharing the same space. It reminded me that Filipino audiences are more open than we often give them credit for.

I also carried hesitation with me. For the past couple of years, Vice Ganda’s MMFF films had left me disappointed, feeling that spectacle had replaced substance. I entered this screening with low expectations, almost as an act of fairness rather than enthusiasm. Perhaps that is why the film affected me more strongly. It did not feel like Vice Ganda trying to entertain at all costs. It felt like Vice Ganda choosing to listen, to hold space, and to trust the material.

The film opens with chaos, noise, and immediacy. There is death, panic, absurdity, and tenderness all colliding at once. This tonal overload mirrors the lived reality of its characters, especially Twinkle, played by Vice Ganda. Life does not unfold gently for her. It arrives all at once, demanding decisions before she is ready. The film understands this rhythm and refuses to simplify it for the audience.

Call Me Mother asks a deceptively simple question. How does one become a mother. The film suggests that motherhood is not a single moment or act, not biology alone, not legality alone, and not even sacrifice alone. Instead, it is something shaped continuously by choice, failure, love, and persistence. This idea unfolds slowly through the interactions between Twinkle, the child Angelo, and the other maternal figure portrayed by Nadine Lustre.

What makes the film effective is its refusal to lecture. While adoption law and social structures are present, they are never weaponized to instruct the audience. Instead, they exist as obstacles that the characters must live through. The legal system is shown not as an abstract authority but as something that directly affects bodies, emotions, and futures. This approach makes the film accessible while still being intellectually honest.

Vice Ganda’s performance surprised me in its restraint. Twinkle is not portrayed as a caricature or a symbol. She is flawed, anxious, hopeful, and deeply human. Importantly, the film does not problematize her queerness. It treats her identity as a given, not as something that needs justification or explanation. This alone feels like a radical shift in mainstream representation.

One of the most haunting questions the film raises is why parents lie to their children. Instead of framing lies as moral failures, the film explores them as acts born out of fear, love, and unpreparedness. It asks us to consider how often parents lie not to deceive, but to protect, and how heavy that burden can be. Watching this unfold, I found myself thinking of the lies I was told, and the lies I have learned to forgive.

The film also revisits a familiar narrative of choosing ambition over motherhood, symbolized by the beauty queen storyline. On paper, this conflict feels worn out. Yet Call Me Mother reframes it with empathy. It does not shame women for choosing themselves, nor does it romanticize abandonment. Instead, it asks us to acknowledge the social and economic pressures that make such choices feel inevitable rather than selfish.

There is a tenderness in how the film humanizes regret. Characters are allowed to make mistakes without being reduced to those mistakes. Redemption is not guaranteed, but the possibility of understanding is always present. This feels deeply Filipino, reflecting a cultural tendency to forgive without forgetting, to remember pain while still choosing compassion.

One of the most poetic moments in the film is the scene where the characters bathe in the rain. On the surface, it is playful and light. But emotionally, it carries a devastation. The rain becomes a symbol of temporary relief, of joy that exists even in sadness. It reminded me that happiness is often fleeting and situational, yet still meaningful.

Twinkle’s dream of working abroad and taking the child to Disneyland introduces a broader social commentary. The film acknowledges a painful truth in Filipino life. Love alone does not pay bills, secure futures, or fulfill dreams. Migration becomes both a promise and a sacrifice. The film does not glorify this reality, but it does not deny it either.

What resonated deeply with me was how the film connects poverty to moral judgment. It asks whether society judges mothers more harshly simply because they are poor. Dreams become moralized, sacrifices become questioned, and love becomes scrutinized when money is absent. Call Me Mother exposes this injustice without turning it into a sermon.

The film also asks whether motherhood can ever truly be taken away in the eyes of a child. Legal decisions may redefine relationships, but emotional bonds resist clean erasure. This tension sits at the heart of the story and lingers long after the film ends. It reminded me that family is not always who the law recognizes, but who stays, who chooses, and who loves consistently.

As a viewer, I appreciated that the film did not rush to offer answers. It trusts the audience to sit with ambiguity. This trust feels rare in mainstream cinema, where clarity is often prioritized over complexity. Call Me Mother chooses complexity, and in doing so, respects the intelligence and emotional maturity of its viewers.

Leaving the cinema, I felt unexpectedly grateful. Grateful that Vice Ganda chose a role that expanded rather than repeated her image. Grateful that Jun Robles Lana once again trusted audiences with a difficult story. Grateful that Filipino cinema can still surprise me, still challenge me, still make me think deeply about what it means to care for another human being.

Call Me Mother is not just a film about adoption or queer parenthood. It is a meditation on love as a decision, motherhood as a practice, and humanity as something we continuously learn. It asks us to reconsider our definitions, to soften our judgments, and to recognize that families are built not only by blood, but by courage, responsibility, and grace. In a festival often dominated by spectacle, this film chooses reflection. And for me, that choice makes all the difference.