By Herman M. Lagon

The most cutting line in the entire Franco Mabanta-PGMN spectacle did not come from Congress, the NBI, or even Martin Romualdez’s camp. It came from veteran journalist Inday Espina-Varona, who, after watching part of the much-hyped “MartinLooterFund” episode, wrote with the kind of bluntness only old-school reporters can still afford: “17 minutes on, and no sight of an expose; just a hodgepodge of cribbed images and an anchor who seems to be auditioning for some pro-wrestling schtick.” A friend actually sent me the link early Monday morning, and, while working, I ended up watching and listening to the video three times just to be fair, understand the arguments fully, and hear the other side of the fence carefully.

I really tried to give the video a fair shake. I watched closely for the evidence, the missing links, the “aha” moment everyone seemed to be waiting for. Instead, what I mostly encountered was hype layered on top of more hype. Dramatic delivery. Big words. Emotional punches. The energy was there, no question, but clear evidence felt strangely absent. It did not feel like the kind of investigative work that slowly builds trust through facts. It felt more like a performance designed to keep viewers emotionally locked in. That was exactly why former NUJP chairwoman Ma. Salvacion Espina-Varona’s comments resonated with many viewers online. Many Filipinos, whether DDS, Marcos loyalist, politically homeless, or simply exhausted citizens trying to survive inflation, understood exactly what she meant.

What made the backlash against Peanut Gallery Media Network (PGMN) interesting was that the criticism did not come only from political opponents. Even some people who strongly disliked Martin Romualdez admitted feeling underwhelmed by the supposed exposé. Across Facebook threads and Messenger group chats, viewers joked that the anchor sounded more like a wrestler hyping a pay-per-view match than a reporter carefully presenting evidence. Others accused the production of stretching scenes and emotions just to farm “watch minutes,” the online version of making a school report longer to meet the required page count.

One commenter joked that by minute seventeen, a real investigative journalist would have already presented a timeline, verified documents, and interviewed sources instead of repeatedly teasing “Part 2.” The mockery landed because we are no longer strangers to online political theater. After years of viral outrage, dramatic livestreams, and algorithm-fed commentary, many ordinary viewers can already sense when a story is leaning more on performance than proof.

To be fair, PGMN was not entirely wrong in touching on the emotional weight of corruption. Their explanation of what one billion pesos means resonated because it felt painfully familiar. A thousand pesos disappearing after a few grocery trips. Ten thousand pesos lasting only until the next emergency. One hospitalization wiping out years of savings. Any public school teacher who has spent personal money on bond paper, classroom curtains, or graduation tarpaulins already understands how quickly small amounts vanish. That part connected because it reflected the everyday financial anxiety many families quietly carry.

But frustration alone is not investigative journalism. That distinction matters. A political rant can contain legitimate anger while still failing journalistic standards. Strong emotions and dramatic delivery can raise attention, but they do not automatically become journalism. That was the difficult point made by the Philippine Daily Inquirer editorial, “A propagandist, not a journalist.” Harsh as it sounded, many in media circles understand why the concern exists. In the social media age, people often mix reporting and performance together. Sometimes, strong emotions and cinematic presentation convince audiences, even without the depth and discipline that genuine journalism requires.

That discipline is usually invisible to audiences. Good investigative journalism usually begins quietly. It is built through document verification, source checks, legal review, and countless follow-up calls. Some stories even collapse after weeks of work. Veteran reporters understand that careful reporting matters more than looking dramatic on camera. A veteran journalist once joked that if a reporter looks too excited before publication, something is probably wrong. Good journalism is paranoid. It fears libel. It fears factual errors. It fears ruining innocent lives. In contrast, many online political influencers thrive precisely because they fear less. Algorithms reward certainty, outrage, confidence, and spectacle far more than caution or nuance. On TikTok and Facebook, “mukhang guilty” often performs better than “according to available records.”

The irony, however, is that mainstream media is hardly innocent. PGMN and similar networks are benefiting from a problem that has been quietly building for years: many no longer fully believe traditional media. Some think certain outlets are biased. Others feel some journalists have become too close to politicians, businessmen, or influential families. The Reuters Digital News Report (2025) found that this loss of trust is not unique to the Philippines. Around the world, polarization and misinformation online continue to blur people’s confidence in news. In the Philippines, where politics already functions like family inheritance mixed with celebrity culture, distrust spreads quickly. A tricycle driver in Iloilo who believes every major network is “bayaran” will naturally gravitate toward someone screaming “truth” online, even if the presentation resembles a late-night podcast fueled by caffeine and unresolved anger. PGMN did not emerge from nowhere. It emerged from institutional distrust, algorithmic incentives, and a public appetite for anti-establishment narratives.

Still, frustration with mainstream media does not automatically validate online personalities. That is where things become dangerous. The Inquirer editorial this Monday, May 11, correctly noted how difficult it has become to distinguish journalists from influencers and propagandists. Anyone can go viral. But journalism requires evidence, fairness, accountability, and discipline. Without those standards, public debate turns into pure noise where confidence matters more than truth.

The clash between Mabanta and Romualdez feels bigger than just one controversy because it mirrors what politics has become online. Every side now thinks the other is backed by trolls, influencers, fake accounts, or propaganda networks. Marcos supporters point fingers at Duterte vloggers. Duterte supporters point fingers at traditional media. Even independent journalists end up getting dragged into the mud by both camps. Somewhere in the middle, exhausted citizens scroll through contradictory narratives while trying to determine whether they are consuming news, propaganda, marketing, extortion, political demolition, or all four at once. The online ecosystem has become so polluted that many no longer evaluate stories based on evidence but based on whether the storyteller belongs to “their side.” That tribal reflex is perhaps more dangerous than any single vlog or network.

Yet one must also be careful not to turn this into a simplistic morality play where mainstream media becomes automatically heroic and online media automatically villainous. Some independent digital journalists have done courageous and legitimate work. Some traditional institutions have committed embarrassing ethical failures. The problem is not social media. The problem is when strong emotions start replacing facts, and performance becomes more important than verification. Viral outrage may attract clicks, but it does not automatically produce truth. Filipinos deserve reporting grounded on evidence, not just adrenaline and algorithms.

That is why Espina-Varona’s remark resonated with many people. Beneath the sarcasm was real concern about what media is slowly turning into. Somewhere between clickbait, troll wars, and monetized anger, many have forgotten that good journalism is usually patient, careful, and disciplined—not theatrical.

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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.