Not Your Average Poe
by Elbert Ventura

One of my favorite cartoon superheroes was almost elected president earlier this month. Fernando Poe Jr., action star turned politician, nearly took the Philippine presidency from Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo in elections May 10, with 37 percent of the vote. Although results won't be confirmed for another month, early returns and exit polls suggest that Arroyo will squeak by with 41 percent, more than enough in the Philippines' crowded presidential elections. But it's likely not the last we'll hear of Poe. No one ever goes quietly in Philippine politics — especially when, like Poe and a slew of other candidates, they also happen to be limelight-craving ex-actors.

My own memories of Poe (or FPJ, or Da King, as he is known by his fans) are mostly animated. Literally. In the 1980s, a short-lived cartoon series called "Panday" (which translates to "Blacksmith") was a staple of my primetime TV diet. Based on a series of films starring Poe himself, the series followed the adventures of a Roy Hobbsian smithy who forges a magical dagger out of a meteorite. Thus armed, Panday took on those who would oppress the dispossessed and defenseless, uttering a minimum of syllables in the process.

It was an archetype that FPJ rode his entire career. But even the movies weren't big enough to contain the image. The announcement of his candidacy in November 2003 framed his campaign as a call to service by others. "Actually, it is not ambition, it is more serving, serving the people and dedicating your life to them," he said upon entering the race. Whether the sentiment was earnest or cunning is beside the point. The lesson from the Philippine election is that a starstruck electorate nearly bought it and almost sent a man who has never held elected office, nor even finished high school, to the presidency. At least Arnold Schwarzenegger went to college.

Nor is Poe alone. His sudden rise to the national political stage is the latest iteration of a dangerous trend that has contaminated Philippine politics: the celebrity politician. When I left the Philippines in 1990, the country was four years removed from the People Power Revolution that ousted Ferdinand Marcos, the country's strongman ruler for more than 20 years. In his place the revolution installed Corazon Aquino, the widow of a slain opposition leader, who ruled for a coup-ridden six years. In 1992, the country elected as her successor Fidel Ramos, a popular and capable career civil servant under whom the country began to shake off the post-Marcos hangover. Ramos seemed to bring to fruition the hopes that sprouted upon Marcos' ouster: political maturation after decades of autocracy.

A decade later, mature is the last thing anyone would call the country's politics. I've watched with bemusement as a gallery of celebrity pretenders, many of whom I fondly remember from childhood, have marched into the halls of power on the strength of their fame alone. The roll call is impressive: Tito Sotto, a popular comedian and variety- show host, now a senator; Sonny Jaworski, arguably the most popular basketball player in Filipino history, also a senator; Ramon Revilla, action star, senator; Lito Lapid, actor and my favorite Filipino cowboy, governor of a major province. Even children of actors are getting in on the act. While Revilla has since left the Senate, his son has now made a run. Lapid has been forced to leave his post due to term limits; his son is running to replace him as well.

Of course, the biggest star of them all is former President Joseph Estrada, mustachioed hero of more than 100 films. In 1998, despite the opposition of the political and business elite, the powerful Roman Catholic Church and Ramos himself (who was barred by term limits from running again), Estrada, a political novice, swept into office on a wave of support from the country's underclass.

Since Estrada's win, the confluence of celebrity and political culture has not only grown, it has intensified. At Poe's rallies, the highlight has been the performance of the Sex Bomb Dancers, a quartet of spandex-clad hotties who communicate the candidate's platform in more expressive terms. Dolphy, the dean of Philippine comedy, has brought his routine to campaign stops. As his running mate, Poe chose Loren Legarda, a senator and former news anchor. Not to be outdone, Arroyo tapped Noli de Castro — also a senator and popular former news anchor. Arroyo also put together an all-star celeb team to grace her campaign rallies, topped by Nora Aunor, the self-proclaimed superstar of Philippine movies.

By most accounts, the celebrities who have won elections in recent years have been, at best, well-meaning and inept; at worst, they have been cynical and corrupt. Skeptics believe Poe is merely the public face of conniving politicians seeking to ride a sure thing's coattails. Indeed, having paved the way for Poe, Estrada may now be waiting for the favor to be repaid. In jail since 2001, having been ousted by a popular uprising over a corruption scandal, Estrada marshaled his considerable base to Poe's side during the election. Drinking buddies in real life, Estrada and Poe may well have imagined a scenario that could have come from one of their movies: the fearless hero busting his loyal friend out of prison.

Despite Poe's apparent defeat, the showbizzing of politics is unlikely to abate soon. In an undereducated, celebrity-obsessed and increasingly desperate culture, the mindless translation of support from the box office to the ballot box is almost inevitable. Ramos, in this context, was an aberration: the sober choice before the public gave free rein to its collective fantasy. When millions of voters flock to the polls — turnout is around 80 percent in Filipino elections — to vote for a simulacrum of a leader, it's a bittersweet freedom that's on display, the kind that may well engineer its own demise. The Filipino electorate needs to grow up, and soon. Either that or we'll have to get smarter actors.