When Prayers Snap for ‘Josh’

By Herman M. Lagon

There is something almost wickedly appropriate about watching “Sampung Utos Kay Josh” on a Maundy Thursday, especially with your daughter curled beside you, half-curious, half-confused about what this cheekily titled black comedy might reveal. Parvane and I stumbled upon the film on Netflix out of pure curiosity. What we got was far more than satire. It was an irreverent sermon wrapped in punchlines, awkward closeups, and the kind of quiet tension that simmers when laughter and discomfort share the same room.

The premise is jarringly simple: a devout loan executive named Josh suffers blow after blow—financial ruin, familial decline, existential crisis—until his faith crumbles. In a fit of despair, he sets out to break all Ten Commandments. What could have been a gimmicky, frat-boy type comedy becomes, under the right gaze, a bold and bittersweet study of disillusionment, grief, and personal faith. While the film does not quite land all its cinematic punches, it aims at something bigger—a conversation. And in that, it succeeds.

What strikes hardest is not the jokes, which oscillate between hilariously self-aware and too-cool-to-care, but the undercurrent of pain that runs through the entire film. You get the sense that writer Sherwin Buenvenida, in what would become his swan song, knew exactly what he was doing. He was not just cracking jokes; he was cracking open faith. Josh is not a saint gone rogue; he is everyman gone numb. He prays, but the answers are static. He obeys, but the universe responds with chaos. The temptation to break the rules is not rooted in mischief but in fatigue. Who among us, especially during the long uncertainty of the pandemic years, did not ask, “What is the point?”

Watching Josh spiral felt eerily familiar. As a teacher, I have met many students who, like Josh, begin with a bright sense of purpose. They study hard, pray harder, and trust that life has a reward system. But life is not a vending machine, and when nothing comes out after they have inserted every coin of effort and faith, the disillusionment can be quiet but fatal. That is what makes this film unsettling. It names the silence between us and what we believe in. And it dares to laugh in that silence without mocking it.

Pepe Herrera’s portrayal of Satan—or Santanas—is less menacing, more officemate-on-a-Friday-night. He appears, not with pitchforks, but with paperwork. That may be the most brilliant artistic choice of the film. Evil here is not a screaming monster; it is bureaucracy, indifference, subtle gaslighting. Theologically, this could provoke. But emotionally? It hits home. How often do systems masquerading as divine will manage to crush without ever raising their voice?

Now, let me be clear: this is not a perfect film. The cinematography occasionally gets too stylized for its own good. Some characters are more cardboard than catalyst. Dialogue sometimes drifts toward the didactic. But it is impossible to ignore its earnestness. There is an aching bravery in its comedy, one that recalls the existential panic of “The Truman Show,” the quiet rebellion of “The Invention of Lying,” and the searching gaze of “Life of Pi.” It is cinema that scratches beneath the surface of belief. Not to destroy it, but to test if it is real.

What makes this movie deeply Filipino is not just its setting, or the lechon-bribed tricycle drivers, or the borrowed vocabulary of Sunday school. It is how it confronts faith not as doctrine but as drama. In this country, religion is often inherited, but rarely interrogated. “Sampung Utos Kay Josh” pushes that interrogation forward, not to dismantle, but to discern. This is especially relevant for educators and community leaders who work with the young. To see faith tested onscreen with this much absurdity and sadness feels like a reminder that we cannot lead people to reflection with answers alone. Sometimes, you have to ask better questions.

Parvane asked me afterward, “Is it bad to laugh at someone losing their faith?” I told her: not if the laughter helps you understand it. And that is where the movie succeeds most. It opens up that delicate space where doubt and devotion wrestle. Not for a final answer, but for a little more truth. In that way, it becomes a film not just about commandments, but about contradictions. And if there is anything our divided, doubting, digitally distracted society needs right now, it is the courage to sit with contradictions and still believe in people.

I would rate this film 3 out of 5 stars. Not for lack of value, but because of how much further it could have gone. Still, it is worth the watch. It is worth the conversation. And maybe, like it did for me and my daughter, it is worth becoming part of your next Holy Week reflection. Not because it offers a new gospel, but because it invites you to look at the one you already have—with clearer eyes and, maybe, a more curious heart.