“Cut to Black: Remembering Mike de Leon”

It has been over two months since we first heard the news of Mike de Leon’s passing, through a simple Facebook post by Carlotta Films, the French distributor of several of his works. The shock hit me like a brick, yet the silence that followed seemed almost deliberate. It made one wonder if the news was verified? Then again, does it matter? With Mike, the absence of frills, gatherings, or fanfare—just a quiet departure—felt entirely in character. It was, in a way, a final cut to black—sudden, unceremonious, and entirely his own.

I first came to know about Mike de Leon when I joined the Asian Film Archive (AFA) in 2009. I had already heard stories about him— brash, no-holds-barred, forthright, uncompromising. He sounded intimidating even on email. In those earlier years, festivals often sought to borrow his films through the AFA, but he always refused. He recognised that the prints at AFA were the sole surviving preservation copies. What at first seemed like curt distancing, was in fact, a fierce commitment: aligned with the AFA’s policy of not loaning out sole surviving copies, he understood the fragility of film and insisted on safeguarding it above all else. He was among the very first filmmakers to entrust his entire film collection with the then newly established AFA, sending everything he owned to the archive in 2005—a gesture that set a precedent for others to follow.

From the irreverent satire of Kakabakaba Ka Ba? (1980) to the unflinching political allegories of Batch ’81 (1982) and Sister Stella L. (1984), Mike de Leon shaped Philippine cinema with wit, courage, and precision. His works were never just films; they were confrontations, mirrors, provocations that remain as urgent today as when they were made. I do not need to dwell on the merits of his films—enough people have done that already. After all, Mike de Leon is, without question, one of the most important Filipino directors of all time.

What I would like to discuss is Mike de Leon’s legacy as a filmmaker that is inextricably linked to his commitment to preserving his own work. In 2012, the World Cinema Foundation and the Film Development Council of the Philippines restored Lino Brocka’s Maynila: Sa Mga Kuko ng Liwanag (Manila In the Claws of Light, 1975). Mike had produced the film and was its cinematographer. He supported and actively supervised the restoration. Soon after, the Film Development Council of the Philippines and the National Film Archive of the Philippines undertook the restoration of Portrait of the Artist as Filipino—a film produced by his father, Manuel de Leon, which Mike also helped to oversee. ABS-CBN, which had acquired the LVN Pictures library, then restored two of Mike’s films—Kakabakaba Ka Ba? and Kung Mangarap Ka’t Magising (Moments in a Stolen Dream, 1977)—as well as Hindi Nahahati ang Langit (An Indivisible Heaven, 1985), produced by Vanguard Films.  The momentum in restoring his films led subsequently to AFA’s 2016 proposal to restore Batch ’81. This encouraged him to pursue the digitisation and restoration of the works still under his direct control—or those he could still wrangle. It was a pleasure that Mike himself was able to personally supervise the restoration of Batch ’81. The original camera negatives—used for the very first time by the Asian Film Archive in a restoration—were scanned and digitally restored at L’Immagine Ritrovata in Bologna. The scans were delivered to Mike, who brought them into WildSound Studios in Manila to supervise and re-colour-grade the film personally, before sending the graded files back to Bologna for completion. The cycle of collaboration—between lab, archive, and filmmaker—gave the restored Batch ’81 a particular sense of clarity and authenticity that reflected Mike’s vision and the collective care invested in it.

The restored Batch ’81 premiered at the Venice Film Festival in 2017. I was privileged to have the opportunity to be in Venice then and was given the task to read Mike’s speech at the screening. Those few minutes were quite literally, the highlight of my life. To be entrusted with verbalising his feelings and giving voice to his words was an immense honour—one that made me feel not only deeply valued, but also profoundly connected to his convictions.

I met Mike in person for the first time when we attended the 2017 QCinema International Film Festival in Manila where Batch ’81 was the closing film.  It was a gathering of cast and crew, and I witnessed the joy and camaraderie of his longtime collaborators dating from the 1970s—among them production designer Cesar Hernando and cinematographer Rody Lacap. Cesar, who sadly passed in 2019, had been one of Mike’s closest artistic partners. Mike once wrote to me that he had been by Cesar’s side at the time, and that he remained deeply stricken by his passing. He even took the time to remaster Cesar’s short film Motorsiklo, that AFA had digitised from the 35 mm print deposited with us—a work that Mike had produced himself.

It would have been meaningful if AFA could support the restoration of Mike’s other works. However, the rights to certain films were complicated and many of the elements were stored in different places, not part of the collection he had deposited with us. — This is illustrative of the fact that even when a filmmaker took such meticulous account of his works, the rights and transfer process may still not be straightforward. Rather than wait on AFA since we had to deal with institutional processes and ongoing commitments to other restoration projects, Mike forged ahead on his own path. However, he never failed to provide the Archive with preservation copies of each digitised and restored version of his films.

In the ensuing years, he oversaw the digitisation or restoration of Bayaning Third World (Third World Hero, 1999), Aliwan Paradise (a short made for the 1993 anthology Southern Winds), and his debut feature, Itim (The Rites of May, 1976). He also dealt with the long and arduous process of resolving the rights to Kisapmata (In the Wink of an Eye, 1981). He even returned to directing with what would become his swan feature, Citizen Jake (2018). He accomplished all this while struggling with illness that had already plagued him for many years. It dawned on me that these were his fearless acts—not for fanfare, but while he still had the strength to, he was ensuring that his film legacy would be remembered and remain accessible after he was gone.

In 2020, he began work on what was meant to be his final feature, Unfinished Business. Covid struck and the filming was never completed or resumed, as his health took a turn for the worse.  Still, he maintained course.

His impulse to preserve extended beyond his own films. Casa Grande Vintage Filipino Cinema was Mike de Leon’s living commitment to safeguarding the history of Philippine film—especially the films of LVN and other classics close to his heart. What began as a curated online forum dedicated to the surviving titles of LVN became more than just an archival showcase: it evolved into a platform, a community, and a locus for reminding audiences what was nearly lost. Active since at least 2018, Casa Grande made accessible rare materials, shared archival finds, and kept Filipino film heritage within reach.

He cared deeply for cinema, and he showed—through action more than words—that preservation and memory matter. Generations of filmmakers, including his peers and those who come after him, could learn and take a page or two from Mike—about persistence, meticulous documentation and love for the medium itself. He understood the importance of preservation, even if not the precise technicalities, the principle that without the original elements being archived, there would be nothing to digitise or restore from, and the film would essentially become lost. He recognised that he, as the creator and owner of his works, needed to take the initiative and the responsibility to work closely and honestly with the archive that he has chosen to care for his materials.

In 2023, the Asian Film Archive had the opportunity to organise a retrospective of Mike’s works after the Museum of Modern Art in New York had completed a showcase of the main body of his films, newly restored and available in digital form. Mike accepted our invitation to come to Singapore for his retrospective—an occasion that remains especially meaningful to us. During his visit, we brought him to try samsui chicken – tender poached chicken with garlic and ginger dipping sauce. Due to his limited mobility, we had no opportunity to let him try the famous Hainanese chicken rice that Mike had expressed about wanting to try.  I regret a little to this day that I did not fulfil that curiosity, to share the taste of Singapore in its truest, simplest form, the kind of sentiment that Mike would have probably enjoyed.

Mike returned to the Philippines after the retrospective. Not long after, he told me that his movement had become even more limited, but he was glad to have made the trip. Later, he shared that he had gone back to painting, though I believe he never truly stopped thinking about film. Sometime later, he wrote telling me about his personal collection of 8 mm films and footage—behind-the-scenes material from Kung Mangarap Ka’t Magising, Itim, and the documentary Signos (1983) by the Concerned Artists of the Philippines, including footage shot during the 1986 People Power Revolution. As his body slowed, his mind kept returning to the images and people who had shaped his life. He shared rare footage of Doña Sisang’s centennial birthday celebration—the matriarch of LVN Films—whose presence clearly loomed large during his formative years.

Later that year, he informed us about the restoration of Sister Stella L., supported by the Film Development Council of the Philippines. I’m not sure how far he took it or whether he managed to see it through to the end, but I look forward to the day when we can see the film. It would be the last of Mike’s films to be restored.

My last email exchange with Mike was in December 2024, when we transferred his collection of 8 mm films and their digitised copies to AFA for preservation. At the time, he was still cataloguing the footage and had only managed to send a work-in-progress list.

In the last few years, as we exchanged emails more regularly, I grew used to his presence—even through words on a screen. His replies were brisk and pointed, as if his mind was already three steps ahead. Then would come the long, detailed clarifications that felt more like lessons than answers—the kind that left you both awed and a little burdened. Amid the serious work notes, he would share his worries and quiet resignations about his health, his fondness for breaks in the cool air of Baguio, and a trip to Japan where he tried—but didn’t manage—to visit the grave of Yasujiro Ozu. Those “take care and stay safe” wishes during the Covid years and lockdowns were small gestures of warmth, glimpses that revealed beneath the stoic exterior, lay the gentlest soul.

And there’s another thread between us both that I will always hold close: Mike and I share the same birthday. It is a coincidence, perhaps, but for me it feels like a quiet kinship—an unseen reminder that our lives, in some way, will remain bound by time. I had wished him a happy birthday a few times in our correspondence—a small gesture, but one that now feels deeply significant.

In Last Look Back, his photographic memoir, Mike described his films as proof that “once upon a time, I walked this earth.” He wrote, “Along with the story of LVN, they are the best things I can leave behind.” Reading that line now, I think of that Sinatra song—it feels like both a farewell and a manifesto, the clearest expression of what drove him to the very end. He did it his way.