Family legend has it that Lamberto Avellana got very lucky during his Ateneo grade school admission interview.
He was not good at math, knowing the answer to only one multiplication problem: 9 times 9. He sat across from an American Jesuit, who first asked him what his name was, and then if he knew what 9 times 9 was. Proudly exclaiming “81!”, he impressed the Jesuit and was immediately granted admittance into the most prestigious school in Manila.
He was placed in a Grade 3 class. He was seven years old.
We loved hearing that anecdote over and over again as little kids. We never dared to question its veracity, and frankly we didn’t feel the need to. Because once Lolo, in his booming theatrical voice, seated as he was at the kabisera of his dining table, launched into one of his stories—and oh, were there many—we were riveted.
As children, we didn’t always fully grasp the near-reverence people had for our Lolo. Of course we knew he was a famous director, and we saw all the personal notes sent to him by various heads of state and important personages, framed and taking prominence in his study alongside all his trophies and awards.
But once he walked in through the door and sat in his dining chair, or in his director’s chair that he used in place of an armchair in his and Lola Daisy’s shared sitting area, he was simply our Lolo.
Grand productions
Our doting Lolo who, on a whim, would call whoever among the grandchildren were visiting to pile into the back of his red Yeoman so they could go along with him to the grocery store and get a treat, a 45 rpm record of their choice.
Our director-grandfather who liked to orchestrate grand productions in the kitchen, assigning each of the staff and the children an ingredient to prepare, all the while calling out instructions for how to cook siomai, or ropavieja, or the Hontiveros family recipe for lentejas.
Our TV-watching companion who would allow us to watch sitcoms and detective shows with him well beyond our bedtime on weeknights, or beside whom we would stare uncomprehendingly at the screen as Peking opera excerpts were belted out on Channel 9 on Sunday mornings.
Our biggest fan, who took time out to attend kindergarten Christmas programs, treated us to lunch after First Communion ceremonies, watched us parade in our prom outfits—through the years constantly marking our physical growth on the inside of his cabinet door while witnessing our development from infancy to curious preschoolers into awkward teenagers and young adults.
He let us in on his professional and artistic world, too. We were always welcome to tag along to a rehearsal or shooting. We were fixtures in his office, sitting on his editing chair or playing with discarded negatives as they fell to the floor. He was not one to allow us to be idle, and so we would always be given some sort of assignment—to read out lines, to prepare scripts for 10 or 20 or 30 people, to organize costumes on the racks.
One summer, he handed me a script that he wanted typed out. He and Lola would not tolerate mistakes, and so each page had to be redone until it was meticulously error-free; and, no, a dab of liquid correction fluid would not do.
In his element
Lolo was most in his element with lots of people around him, and sometimes with lots of noise and bustle, too. It often drove Lola crazy, she who was so reserved and thrived on her quiet space. He had a gift for gab, was unceasingly charming. And he knew it.
He was a busy man and he was an important man, but he had a soft spot for real people. Drivers and shoeshine boys, barbers and little girls selling sampaguita leis, he spoke to them all. He wanted to know their story. He listened to them. And in return they loved him.
“Director,” they would call him, never “Direk.” He would not abide it. “Why shorten a term of address? That’s just being lazy.”
He had his way with people, he magnetized them and they were happy to simply be around him. This was the bakya crowd that he coined the term for. The people that he not only featured as characters in his films, but also the selfsame people for whom he made his films, hoping that one day, the Philippine film and theater industry would be supported by an audience of intelligent and well-informed masa. He dreamt big and his ideas were well beyond his time.
Young man
I can only imagine how he was as a young man, finding his way and leaving his mark in the school he grew up in. To be sure, he was arrogant in the way that Ateneo boys and men are. But his peers and teachers probably forgave him, for he was indeed more accomplished than most.
He was writer, poet, actor, orator, radio host, director, painter, sculptor, dancer, cheerleader (yes, he founded the Blue Babble Battalion with two classmates).
Though born to a father who was a doctor, theirs was not a family of means. His father had decided to devote himself to be a doctor to the poor, and so even as a student living on campus in Padre Faura, Lolo had to earn his keep. He spent his midday breaks reading aloud to a roomful of Jesuits at the refectory as they had their lunch.
After all the priests had left the dining hall, he was then given a hot meal in exchange for his work. Thus did he learn the value of self-sufficiency while also honing his oratorical skills and widening his knowledge of the classics.
Huge impression
The Jesuits certainly left a huge impression on Lolo. He spoke fondly of his American Jesuit teachers, the ones who opened up for him a world not only in theater but also in history, literature and the arts, and the ways of the world. Without specifically using the terminology that I myself was to learn two generations later as a student at Ateneo, his daily work reflected Magis and he had a desire to give greater glory to God in all that he did.
He was a family man, he was dedicated to his craft and he was exemplary in his love for his country and its culture. He was truly a man for others.
The family of Lamberto Avellana is very honored to witness the celebration of his life and his work that has been put together by his beloved alma mater. It was at the Ateneo that the seeds of his passion were sown, and it is to this university that this year, in the year of his centenary, he has come back.
Thank you for helping us keep his legacy alive for a new generation of Ateneans. Pappy to some of us, Lolo to others, he was never completely ours to keep, and now we give back this talented, personable and most genuine of public figures to the home of his youth.
Dana Cosio-Mercado (Ateneo AB ’93) is the fourth of Lamberto and Daisy’s seven grandchildren. She is mother to two young budding artists who, though they never met their great grandfather, share much of his same passion for art, for life and for people. Dana is a writer, blogger and photographer presently based in Beijing.