Lav Diaz's 'Let Us Through, Dear Ancestors' Is a Masterpiece of Slow Cinema

Where History Breathes: A Cinematic Time Capsule

When I first saw Lav Diaz's Let Us Through, Dear Ancestors, I felt as though I had been transported not just to 1617 Philippines, but into the very heart of a culture that has endured centuries of colonial violence. The film arrives on the heels of his earlier masterpiece Magellan, and while it's easy to see it as a companion piece, Diaz has crafted something altogether more profound here.

The Weight of Time in Monochrome

Diaz's return to black-and-white cinematography is nothing short of a masterclass. The stark visual language strips away the distractions of color and forces us into the textures of time itself. Each frame feels like a careful study in chiaroscuro, with light and shadow not just illuminating scenes but shaping our understanding of the emotional terrain.

"This is how history feels when it's been stripped down to its bones," I thought while watching the film. "How it remembers itself."

And what a memory it is. We follow Padre Enciso (Bart Guingona), a Spanish priest who's been sent to convert the native population of Luzon island. He's a man caught between two worlds, his faith both a tool and a weapon in the colonial machinery.

The Colonial Gaze Through Indigenous Eyes

What strikes me most about this film is how it subverts traditional power dynamics. While Enciso's narrative might seem to center on the Spanish colonial project, Diaz makes the native characters — particularly the women of the village — the emotional core of the story.

The way they speak of Bari Bari (Yul Servo), a bandit who raids the colonial supply lines, is filled with a mixture of fear and reverence. It's not just about survival; it's about resistance. Diaz captures the subtle ways that indigenous communities adapt to, and sometimes reject, colonial structures — all while maintaining their own cultural practices.

Isabel Sandoval: The Soul of the Film

One of my favorite moments in the film comes with Isabel Sandoval's character, Babayeng Indimatadog. As a traveling healer who moves through the forest with her brother Himamat (Ronnie Lazaro), she embodies a kind of spiritual continuity that colonialism tries to erase.

When she's captured and imprisoned, it's not just a personal tragedy — it's a symbolic representation of how colonial powers attempt to silence indigenous knowledge systems. And yet, even in that cell, her presence carries weight. The scene where she looks directly into the camera, smiling with what might be joy, sorrow, or wisdom, is one I'll never forget.

Language and Power

Diaz uses language as a weapon of resistance too. The dialogue isn't just about communication; it's about identity. When Enciso drinks coconut alcohol with Alejo Smith (Daniel Palisa), he jokes about the English making their pottage — a moment that speaks volumes about how colonialism is both imposed and internalized.

The film's Tagalog dialogue feels lived-in, not performed, which adds to its authenticity. We hear laughter, gossip, and whispered secrets that reflect the rhythm of everyday life in this time and place.

Slow Cinema, Fast Truth

At 151 minutes, Let Us Through, Dear Ancestors is a commitment to slow cinema. And by slow, I mean it moves with the gravity of history — not rushed, not sensationalized, but carefully observed.

This pacing isn't a flaw; it's a virtue. It allows us to sit with the consequences of colonialism and understand how trauma is passed down through generations. When Dungwen (Christian Bables) refuses to acknowledge his mestizo heritage, we don't just see a character wrestling with identity — we see an entire people trying to hold onto their humanity in the face of systematic erasure.

A Call to Remember

As I watched this film, I was struck by how relevant its themes are today. In a world where cultural appropriation and colonial narratives continue to dominate media, Diaz's work stands as both a reminder and a call to action. He doesn't offer easy answers — he asks us to listen, to remember, to feel.

The closing words of the film, “it shall be achieved, this vision of liberation,” are not promises but prayers — a testament to how art can carry forward stories that might otherwise be lost.

Final Thoughts

Let Us Through, Dear Ancestors is more than a film. It's a conversation with the past, a bridge between the colonial present and a possible future. It's a reminder that history isn't just about dates and battles — it's about people, stories, and the courage to tell them.

If you're looking for a cinematic experience that will stay with you long after the credits roll, this is it. A masterpiece of storytelling that doesn't just depict history — it makes us feel it.