By A. L. Sarino
In an age where men in the media are subjected to sole agency when encountering sexual assault, the supposed solution loses its purpose.
Content Warning: Sexual Assault/Sexual Abuse
"You can say that adolescence is a hole universally present in the lives of everyone. Large or small, we experience hunger and emptiness in our soul during this period. However, to some boys this hole invades their lives with excessive frequency and in complex forms."
- Ka Yu-Jeong, Manhole, The Exquisite Metaphor for the Hole of Life
Even in the modern age, the topic of sexual assault done to men is a lesser-discussed topic in comparison to female sexual assault. While the number of exchanges about the issue between genders is on the rise, much of the dialogue that is present in today’s society is still held among men. It is no coincidence that male survivorship is not as dissected as its counterpart, as attitudes toward men and women are still championed differently even during the fourth wave of feminism.
The mention of the stark difference in likelihood of discussion is not an attack on the feminist movement but rather a statement of reality for a rising number of men and even boys. The general portrayal of male sexual assault in the media is sparse, with most real-life encounters painted as whimsical or laughable events. When society is blind to the hidden pain among young male survivors, how does one react to media that tackles said issue head-on? One that promises a nuanced exchange of dialogue but ultimately fails to offer a palpable sense of justice.
Would a piece of literature of this sort help the growing conversation about male survivors, or would it regurgitate the very same harmful social structures that it aims to avoid?
In the film titled He Who is Without Sin, directed and written by Filipino writer Jason Paul Laxamana, the repetition, rehearsal, and negotiation of the protagonist’s accumulated trauma are akin to the general coping mechanisms of real life sexual assault survivors. The revisitation of the encounter and the gradual unfolding of how Martin’s (the main character) psyche has been affected by it, as well as the counterarguments that he makes otherwise, are two of the many ways survivors make sense of what had transpired. It is reminiscent of exposure therapy, albeit self-inflicted, and is also a stylistic choice in storytelling.
Because Martin grew up in the province and has only recently migrated to the urban milieu, his perception of the city is idealized—apparent in the way he looks up at Lawrence, a reporter he is fond of who is from the city. The idealization takes a toll every time Martin is confronted with the nuances—or truth, for lack of a better word—of the sexual encounters he has experienced with Lawrence, much to his protests about maybe implicitly wanting the encounters to happen.
To add to this, his female friend’s assertion that he should have known that these things happen because he had been from the province stems from the fact that sexual assault is unfortunately rampant in the Philippine barrios, as well as how murder is accompanied by it.
The film dissects the supposed contradictions of being a male sexual assault survivor by presenting three different instances of sexual misconduct. As a society, we may still perceive men as immune against encounters like this, which stem from the heteronormative and patriarchal stances still present among individuals. "How could a man be a victim of sexual assault?" is what an old person would likely ask.
Martin’s sexuality complicates things more, with the question he himself considered hanging in the air—maybe he wanted it to happen? Add the lack of support for male sexual assault survivors worldwide, and his anxiousness about the situation is understandable but ultimately requires constant intervention to counter.
The contradiction between desire and trauma comes down to consent’s tendency to tread the borders of ambiguity. Martin defends Lawrence by saying that he invited him to watch pornography in his dormitory in one scene. It would be less of an invitation in Martin’s mind if he were a girl, which was implied by him in the film. Women may be free to express their sexuality, but it does not automatically coincide with an intimate signage unless clearly stated.
Martin’s sexuality also plays another part in his dilemma—if he were straight, it wouldn’t be as complicated as it is in his view. Another notable scene is when Martin reminisces about his high school self, admitting how he didn’t look sexually desirable up until his admission to U-Rep, the fictional school where he pursues Journalism. Consent and the complexities of showing or denying it are one of the factors in the clashing of desire and trauma. With how sexuality and gender identity naturally intersect in the politics of identity, the cases vary from individual to individual.
The idealization of news reporters, down to the way the film ended with a half-hearted apology from Lawrence and Martin’s practice reporting, makes the narrative feel as though it is afraid to fully immerse itself in justice. The message leaves a sour taste in the mouth as the seemingly unrelated pieces accumulate into a big picture.
This film, as provocative and relevant as it is, confines itself within a meek framework—there is no justice to be found in this story. Lawrence, the perpetrator, is allowed to provide a casual apology with nothing more to add. If Martin were instead a girl, the film would not have been released without uproar from the viewers about its underlying message. During the post-MeToo era, a narrative like this is generally frowned upon, as it portrays a reality that male survivors know all too well.
To sensibly engage with this piece while being informed of Laxamana’s stances, discussion should not be closed. Apart from dissecting the art vis-à -vis the artist’s political background, we should be wary of financially supporting the artist in any way.
We should also keep in mind the background of the artist and whether they belong to the prevailing hegemonic identities of their era. This would be useful when we analyze their work and how the artist navigates or tells the stories of people whose identities are not within their parameters of experience. So long as a work of an artist is discussed, its political motivations dissected and countered, and no generous financial aid is given to the artist, then engagement with their art is as sensible as it could be.
In his case, Laxamana’s history of supporting Rodrigo Duterte, an infamous former president of the Philippines, both confirms the implications of the film's meekness when it comes to providing justice to its titular character and the implicit idolization of news reporters. It is an implicit nod to the overall withholding of the narrative in regards to the issue it tries to tackle with nuance but ultimately submits to a centrist approach.
While there is no apparent justice given to Martin in the end, he is given the choice to move forward with his life and not let his experience halt his pursuit of his dreams. He still chooses to be a news reporter as he continues his schooling, and in the last minutes of the film, he delivers a perfect introductory piece to his class report. Providing agency is undeniably a cordial effort amongst writers of all genres, but in the context of solely providing it to male survivors, the message becomes murky.
In an age where men in the media are usually subjected to sole agency as a means of reprieve when encountering sexual assault, the supposed solution almost loses its purpose. Agency is a crucial thing to overcome trauma, but it should not be the only solution to life-altering experiences. It should simply be a route for survivors to partake in with their own volition and not a general recommendation to all.
In consolidation, Laxamana himself said that he has experienced an encounter similar to one of the three encounters that Martin was allegedly subjected to, and this information is crucial in the dissection of the narrative. Art as a form is dependent on the artist's milieu, and while it is crucial to discuss the implications of the film, it is also vital to acknowledge the artist’s own related experiences and how they can possibly shape the overall narrative. And in cases like these, writers like Laxamana should be given criticism along with kindness, as creating art with issues that may be personal to the individual is a struggle that deserve acknowledgement and respect.
He Who is Without Sin, while imperfect and in need of further furnishing, still stands as a film with courage, especially in the context of the Philippine region. It is unafraid to tackle a topic that is often underdiscussed due to its taboo-ness and sends a political statement that could help male survivors in their fight for less stigma and for safer spaces. With a more careful eye to the nuances of sexual assault experienced by men, it can be the film that it hopes to be and one that helps widen our notions of gender-based violence and the ways to find peace and heal from it.
About the Writer
A. L. Sarino is an emerging writer hailing from the Philippines. Aside from reading as a daily ritual, they take an interest in discussing prevailing social structures and injustices through literary film analysis. They study Creative Writing at the Philippine High School for the Arts and serve as a general editor at The Trailblazer Literary Magazine. 8Letters Publishing distributed their first book at the Manila International Book Fair in 2023. They can be found on Instagram at @a.l.sarino.