Beyond The Flip Side: What Happened to Me After Sundance

Re-releasing The Flip Side on Youtube has been incredibly gratifying for me. Fans from back in the day have expressed how much the film meant to them and how seeing it again has brought back fond memories of an exciting time—a time when it felt like we as Filipino Americans could achieve anything. The reaction from younger folks who are seeing it for the first time has been great too. Many of them seem to connect with the movie, despite it being nearly as old as they are! This, I think, speaks to the film’s timeless themes and how Fil-Ams are still struggling to be recognized in a country that continually ignores us. 

What’s been most amusing is the younger generation’s reaction to me personally. Due to my ambitions as an author, I’ve been active on Twitter the past few months, getting to know young Fil-Am writers and creators. When I announced the film being on YouTube, I’m sure many of them were wondering who the hell I was. A few even admitted to Googling me! Their reactions were priceless: “How have I never heard of this movie?” “You were at Sundance?” “Wait, you’re HOW old?”  

To be honest, these types of questions, and the memories they stir, were the reason I’ve kept the film in the vault for so long. While Sundance was one of the most exciting times of my life, in many ways it was a bittersweet experience. While The Flip Side crew hung out, went skiing, and took in movies, I was off on my own, going to director luncheons where I was usually the only person of color in the entire room. Plus, it was impossible to get anyone from the mainstream media to interview me. I felt very much alone. As the festival days flew by, I began to suspect that nobody outside of the Asian American community cared about The Flip Side being at Sundance—a suspicion that was confirmed when not a single member of the mainstream media attended The Flip Side press screening. I was crushed. It was such a slap in the face. Few people know this, as I’ve never spoken about it with anyone outside my immediate family. 

My marginalization at the festival only foreshadowed what would happen to me in the following years. Due to my success at Sundance and on the strength of my follow-up screenplay, Hip Hop Don’t Stop, I was able to sign with a top talent agency. In the span of a few hours, I went from being a substitute teacher to a Sundance director armed with an agent and a hot new script. I’d arrived. Or so I’d thought. Hip Hop Don’t Stop centered around the rise and fall of street dancing in 1980’s suburbia through the eyes of two Filipino brothers. It had a diverse cast of characters and a sprawling Boogie Nights-type story. My agent shopped HHDS all around town; I met with many top production companies who were interested. They all praised my dialogue and attention to period detail, and for about one whirlwind of a month, I felt like I was finally breaking into Hollywood. None, however, ended up optioning the script. Most cited vague reasons like it needed to be “more universal” or “more relatable to a wider audience.” I, of course, had my suspicions of what they really meant, but they weren’t confirmed until one particularly memorable meeting. The producer in question buttered me up with the usual compliments, but then went on a surreal rant, completely reimagining my script. He told me it would be much better if the story “took place in a Dead Poets Society-type private school, with the students rebelling against the faculty using this new type of dance called break dancing.” He stopped short of telling me straight out that the leads needed to be white, but I could read between the lines. There aint no people of color in Dead Poets Society. 

After the meetings stopped and the buzz on my script had died down, I had a sobering conversation with my agent. He told me he’d had great hopes for HHDS and was disappointed about the outcome. I replied, “Yeah, you and me both.” Before hanging up, I asked him point blank, “Do you think it would’ve sold if the main characters weren’t Filipino?” He paused, then said, “Maybe… Probably.”

As the months passed, I devoted myself to promoting The Flip Side in a self-distribution theatrical tour. I booked theaters, talked with fans, sold Flip Side merchandise, and spoke at universities, all the while knowing that it wouldn’t last forever. I had to think about the future, about what came next. 

My agent brought to me a “project” that he thought I’d be interested in. “They don’t have a story,” he said, “but they have a title: Booty Dance. They want it to be about kids in underground clubs who grind themselves against each other in the dark. What do ya think?” I thought it sounded ridiculous, but I kept that to myself. In Hollywood, producers bring an idea to several screenwriters, who, if interested, write a script on spec. The producers then pick the one they like most. Basically, it’s an underhanded way to get writers to work for free. I politely declined. With no other real options, I decided to write something “mainstream” that I might be able to sell. I spent the next months writing a fish-out-of-water rom-com titled, Super Model, a cute story about a gorgeous comic book geek who falls into the glitzy world of fashion modeling. My agent didn’t like it. He said, “Maybe you should stick to writing about your own experience.” I replied, “Well, I’d love to, but apparently nobody in Hollywood cares when I do.” 

The months passed, and I experienced firsthand the Hollywood cliche of my agent not returning my calls. This wasn’t supposed to happen to me. I’d done everything right; I’d went to film school, studied my craft, devoted every waking moment of my life to filmmaking. In the span of a couple of years, I went from people calling me “The Sundance Kid” and “The Filipino Spike Lee” to just another Hollywood cautionary tale. I became a recluse—well more of a recluse than I already was. (Ha!) The last thing I wanted was to go to another party where someone would ask me, “Hey, when’s your next movie coming out?” I felt like a failure. I felt like I’d let everyone down: my wife, my family, the cast of The Flip Side, the Fil-Am community. Loved ones would tell me that it wasn’t my fault, that Hollywood just wasn’t ready for Fil-Am stories. I’d nod, knowing in my heart that their words were true, but still wondering about what could have been.

After years of Hollywood rejection and heartbreak, I decided to return to my roots of no-budget indie filmmaking. (Sure, making The Flip Side put me in financial debt, but what other creative choice did I have?) I wrote a mock-documentary about the 10th anniversary of an online dating site titled, IcompleteU.com. The story followed four different couples the site had matched, as well as the site’s homophobic/racist founder. The cast of characters was diverse, the story was timely, and it may have been the funniest thing I’d ever written. To generate word of mouth for indie producers, I entered the script into Scriptapalooza, one of the biggest screenwriting contests in the country. Out of three thousand plus entries, I finished in the top 10 finalists. My prize was free screenwriting software—the same software I’d written the screenplay on. (I can laugh about it now.) Despite my strong showing, nobody wanted to produce it. (Hooray for diversity!) Undeterred, I vowed to make the film by hook or by crook. And then the most amazing and wonderful thing happened.

My son, Alex, was born.

For years, my wife, Marifi, and I had been trying to start a family without success. We eventually turned to adoption. We waited five years without a single sniff from any birth parents, but after nearly giving up hope, we finally got the call. I’d wanted to be a father more than anything; even more than becoming a successful filmmaker. Out of the two of us, Marifi had the more viable career, and we needed her steady income to raise a child. The choice was easy. I became a stay-at-home father. I changed diapers, did midnight feedings, and taught our beautiful boy how to count, read, and write. I became a regular Mr. Mom, and I loved it! Alex has brought us so much joy, and I wouldn’t trade a single moment with him for anything. 

Raising a son meant that I could no longer make my sophomore film. Making a no-budget indie is an all-encompassing endeavor that takes up every waking moment of your life. It just wouldn’t have been possible. But I had an idea. If I couldn’t have a career as a filmmaker, maybe I could be an author. I’d always wanted to write a novel—hell, the writing has always been my favorite part of the filmmaking process—so maybe I could give it a go while Alex was napping or at school. Fast-forward six years, one failed Sci-Fi manuscript, and thirty-plus rejection letters later. If you’ve read my first blog entry, you know that last November I was finally able to land a literary agent. We’re on submission to publishing houses now, but that’s another pandemic-delayed story for another time. 

I’ve always wanted to tell stories, specifically Filipino American stories. After a brief moment of success and a lifetime of struggle, I’m still at it. But the story of Filipinos in the diaspora is one of struggle, and I’m hell bent on telling it. So, next chapter!

PS. I enabled the comment section, so drop me a holler.