There is a particular kind of uncertainty inside an audition room. It lives in the space between names being called, in the shuffle of pages, and alongside the heavy silence of sitting among strangers, each carrying a version of themselves they hope someone on the other side of the table will recognize.
For a few minutes, everything is up for consideration: the face, the voice, the presence. Whether you look the part, sound the part, or feel like someone an audience would want to follow. You walk in, make your case, and if the room says yes, the waiting ends and the work begins.
But for Filipino cinema, the waiting rarely ends there. The audition simply takes another form. We wait for funding, producers, resources, screens, distribution, and audiences willing to look beyond the familiar. Filmmakers and artists continue to make their case for stories that, in the first place, have always belonged to us.
The irony is difficult to miss. A country as overflowing with stories as the Philippines should never have to keep asking for permission to tell them.
So, for Metroscene Mag’s September 2026 cover, we turned the audition around. Annika Co, Elijah Canlas, Ian Pangilinan, Nour Hooshmand, and Sassa Gurl—five of this generation’s promising actors—step into the frame as a generation still waiting to be seen. Not to ask who deserves the role, but to ask a more uncomfortable question: Why are Filipino stories still auditioning for the spotlight in their own cinema?
Next In Line
Our cinema already carries more than the textures of who we are— the languages we speak, the places we come from, the histories we inherit, the contradictions we live with. Yet Filipino filmmakers and actors have wrestled with a familiar dilemma: the prejudice surrounding local films that local means less, the struggle to be seen, and the constant feeling of having to prove that our stories deserve a place on the biggest screen.
For multi awarded actor Elijah Canlas, the problem is not a lack of stories. There are countless realities still asking to be seen—from the country’s political and social landscape to the experiences of marginalized and abused communities. Even stories of love, often dismissed as an overused subject in Filipino cinema, still have stories left to tell.
“Ang daming pwedeng sagot diyan eh. Our political landscape, our social reality, stories from the marginalized, stories from the abused, and stories about love. I think a lot of people think na sobrang overdone na sa Filipino cinema yung stories about love, but there are so many forms of love. Now, more than ever, we need to consume stories of love.”
The question, then, is not whether these stories exist. It is whether they are given the space, resources, and belief to be told honestly. When Filipino storytellers are given the same care and capacity afforded to stories from elsewhere, Canlas believes, they can tell their stories on their own terms—and that is where truth begins.
“Then we give our storytellers, you know, maximum capacity to tell their stories the way they want to tell their stories. And when they do, then we see the truth in it. Then we see the honesty.”
Stories Like Us
Ian Pangilinan arrives at the same question from another direction: if Filipino stories already exist in abundance, what makes them worth telling when audiences can now access stories from practically anywhere?
For Pangilinan, it is precisely their specificity. Filipino storytelling does not have to compete by becoming more universal. Its strength can come from being deeply, unmistakably Filipino.
“What makes storytelling so human is yung deep, deep personal connection that you have with it. So parang… sana yun ang ma-pick up ng mga people from Filipino stories, na it’s so uniquely us. It’s so uniquely… parang as much as people would try to replicate it, iba yung mga lumaki sa ganitong kultura.”
That connection lives in the details: the different cultures within the country, the people who grew up in Manila and those who grew up in the provinces, the humor and anger and perseverance that emerge from everyday life. Across different mediums, Pangilinan sees something that continues to unify Filipino storytelling: its sense of being lived.
“But I think, especially with Filipino storytelling, what often I find is naka-unify sa kanilang lahat is it feels so… totoong tao. As in, with all their textures, with all the struggles of Filipinos, with all the joys rin, the characteristic unseriousness ng mga tao sometimes. Even when faced with such difficult, difficult everyday problems, the ability to just persevere and make things either fun or… parang Filipinos always rage against yung everyday difficulties, whether it be through humor, through community, or whether it even be through anger sometimes, depending on the kind of style, medium, and all of those things that you choose.”
The point is not simply that Filipino stories are different. It is that their difference carries meaning. A story can become a meeting point between people who recognize something of themselves in it—a shared language, a familiar struggle, a joke that only makes sense if you grew up here.
And that connection is not limited to the people already inside the room. It extends to the people whose stories have historically been left outside it.
Who Gets to Tell the Story?
If Filipino cinema has no shortage of stories, the next question becomes more complicated: who gets to tell them, and who gets to decide how they are represented?
For Nour Hooshmand, representation cannot stop at putting different faces on screen. The process behind the camera matters just as much.
“I think it's a collaboration kapag nabuo ng characters and ng stories, na hindi lang siya isang perspective pero it's something na pinaghahandaan and pinag-uusapan. I think in between different perspectives, nandun yung katotohanan. Parang dun nagiging mas three-dimensional yung mga characters, yung stories.”
For Hooshmand, meaningful representation begins with the room itself: who is invited into it, whose perspective is considered, and who has the authority to shape the final story.
“Conversation, when creating work, it's important yung preparation na yun, yung conversation na yun, who's in the room? Who gets to decide how these people are represented?”
That question becomes especially urgent when looking at the stories that remain underexplored. Hooshmand points to queer and sapphic narratives—stories she believes audiences are already waiting and longing to see.
“Pero siguro, queer stories pa rin. Specifically, like, sapphic stories. Hindi pa siya sobrang na-explore… for me and I think na there's really an audience for it waiting and like longing for that representation.”
The issue, then, is not simply getting more stories made. It is making sure the people who understand those stories are not perpetually positioned as observers of their own representation.
Hooshmand argues for a film industry with more female and queer filmmakers, actors, and artists, particularly when telling stories rooted in those experiences.
“Siguro more inclusive kasi ngayon very male-dominated ang film industry. Siguro, just more female filmmakers, queer filmmakers, actors, artists. And I feel like yung mga sapphic stories should be told by, you know, sapphics.”
Representation, in this sense, becomes less about occupying a seat and more about having a say in what happens once you are there.
Representation Is Not the Finish Line
Multimedia personality turned actress, Sassa Gurl takes that idea one step further. For her, simply seeing people like yourself on screen is no longer enough. Representation has moved into another stage: one concerned with community, rights, recognition, and the ability to participate in shaping the culture that represents you.
“I think tapos na nga ata tayo sa representation eh. Not really tapos, pero parang achieved na natin yun. So what I think na next step na ginagawa natin is we build na community.”
That next step, she argues, means demanding the structures that allow communities to exist not merely as subjects of representation, but as people with agency within the industry and society.
“What we want na is to integrate na yung parang cost ng community natin to the media. Marami kasing restrictions on representation and how we present.”
Her own work with Multwoh (Patay Na Patay Sa'yo) becomes an example of what that ownership can look like. An all-queer production led by a trans woman, the film tells a trans story from within the community itself—something Sassa sees as significant precisely because queer love remains underrepresented in Philippine cinema.
“I’m very proud na kasama ko sa producing team ng pelikulang yun kasi mahalaga for me na to produce stories that really emulate my lifestyle, my identity, who I am, sinong minamahal ko.”
The distinction matters. A story told about a community is not necessarily the same as a story created from within it.
For Sassa, telling those stories also means handling them with nuance, care, and respect—especially when the stories challenge what mainstream cinema has traditionally considered commercially viable.
“And it’s important to me na mapakita yung love na hindi ko pa masyadong nakikita in cinema, especially in Philippine cinema. It’s really important to tell a story in a nuanced way. Kasi you’d handle it with care, you’d handle it with so much respect and love.”
Multwoh (Patay Na Patay Sa'yo), she says, is a risk precisely because queer love is the kind of story that studios have often been unwilling to fund. But its value cannot be measured only by whether it succeeds commercially.
For a young viewer, seeing that love on screen can be its own form of permission.
“I just want, like, yung mga bata na pag napanood nila tong pelikulang to, they would see themselves na pwedeng magmahal. Kasi when I was younger… I didn't have that luxury na makikita ko yung sarili kong nagmamahal.”
The goal is not simply to be seen. It is to make seeing oneself possible.
The People Still Waiting
And that brings the conversation back to the audition room.
Because even when the stories are there, even when the people capable of telling them are there, someone still has to open the door.
Young actress Annika Co does not romanticize that waiting. Asked whether young Filipinos today are given enough opportunities to tell their own stories, her answer is immediate.
“No, we're often still waiting.” The phrase lands differently after everything that came before it. Waiting is not always a matter of patience. Sometimes it is structural. It is the result of being told you are too young, too inexperienced, too different, or simply not yet ready.
“There’s already a lack of opportunities for young Filipinos because it’s always— it’s always like, ‘Ayy bata ka pa eh, so hindi mo pa ‘yan maiintindihan. Okay lang.’”
For Annika, the answer cannot always be to wait for someone else to decide that you are ready. “We're waiting. But nobody else is waiting for us. That's why we should just go for it, because we'll never know if we don't try.”
Her vision of the future begins with creating spaces where people can exist without having to constantly edit themselves. When asked what kind of space she hopes to create for herself and those who come after her, she describes something deceptively simple: a safe place.
“A safe place for everyone because I feel like now, it's so common that even our own homes aren't a safe place anymore.”
For Annika, a safe space is somewhere people can be themselves without hiding. “Somewhere where we can just be ourselves and not hide anything. Yeah, no filter.”
Sometimes representation is not about seeing a perfect reflection of yourself. Sometimes it is seeing a story that gives you permission to feel, choose, grieve, or simply exist differently.
The Responsibility of Being Seen
But if the audition is finally opened, what happens next? The responsibility does not end when someone gets cast.
For Canlas, acting itself carries an obligation because actors are not simply performing for an audience; they are participating in how audiences understand other people and themselves.
“I think [actors] should have maximum responsibility, ‘no? Kasi uhm… the role of the actor is to represent, right? And uhm… to show the truth and be believable when you tell these stories. So, malaking responsibilidad ng actor, hindi lang sa audience, kundi sa lipunan din. Kasi yun yung, yun yung responsibility ng isang artist. It's bigger than just, you know, telling this certain story.”
That responsibility requires research, care, and an awareness of who is watching. For Canlas, portraying a community without understanding its realities risks turning representation into performance without accountability.
Hooshmand arrives at a similar conclusion from her own experience: an actor has to remain grounded, understand the people being portrayed, know their struggles, stay aware of current events, and, whenever possible, speak directly with people whose lives inform the character.
“Mahalaga yung pagiging grounded and… yung truth yung characters na pinaportray mo. Meaning, you go through that extra work of actually knowing sino ba itong mga tao na pinaportray mo, being aware about their struggles, kung ano nangyayari sa current events, and if there's a chance for you to have conversations with the actual people para maintindihan mo kahit papaano yung danas mo.”
For Sassa, that responsibility means choosing stories she believes in and refusing one-dimensional portrayals.
“Important then that you set a good example and maging… siguro yun din yung choosing the stories that you believe in and making sure na hindi one-sided yung pag-portray mo. Bigyan mo ng humanity yung characters… and bigyan mo ng puso palagi.”
And for Ian, responsibility also means recognizing that not everyone has the same access to a platform. Film can become a window into communities whose experiences audiences may otherwise never encounter—from voters and farmers to jeepney drivers and people whose stories have been silenced.
The actor may be the face in front of the camera. But the responsibility of representation belongs to a much larger ecosystem.
Beyond the Waiting Room
That ecosystem has to include the structures that determine which stories actually reach an audience.
Hooshmand points to institutional support, more opportunities for artists, more accessible films, and stronger protection for Filipino cinema. Her experience of National Cinema Day, when reduced ticket prices drew large crowds, suggested to her that the appetite for local films is there—but economic barriers can still keep people away.
Pangilinan brings the issue down to something equally fundamental: whether artists can actually build sustainable lives from their work.
For him, progress cannot only be measured through box office numbers or international recognition. It also has to mean that the people making the work can afford to keep making it.
“I think yung sustainability talaga of people's… jobs and work. Kasi… ahhh.. minsan kasi, you know, as Filipino artists, how many times have we heard na, let's do it na lang for the friendship? Alam mo yun, parang friendship wage, gano'n, tawad rate, gano'n.”
The problem is not simply finding talent. The country already has an abundance of it. The problem is creating the conditions in which that talent can remain in the industry.
“Sana magkaroon ng more support financially ang arts in the Philippines. Kasi sobra. From students to professionals to veterans, grabe, mamamanghaka talaga sa talent nila. And sometimes ano.., sana mamatch talaga ng financials yung level of talent that people are putting forth out there.”
That same mismatch appears in the kinds of people given visibility. Pangilinan points to the enormous range of Filipino performers and creatives who exist outside the traditional mold of what a successful actor or artist is supposed to look like. Local theaters and student film festivals, he says, are full of people who remain undiscovered simply because the industry continues to look for familiar faces and formulas.
Annika sees a similar tendency in the stories themselves. She wants an industry willing to stop repeating the same formulas and take the kinds of risks that older Filipino films once took.
“I feel like we need... we need to change... doing the same exact ending.”
Because sometimes the safest choice is also the most familiar one. And when an industry repeatedly chooses what it already knows will work, the stories outside that formula remain in the waiting room.
Make Room
Still, the room is not empty. There are filmmakers making brave films. Actors willing to take unfamiliar roles. Queer artists creating stories from within their own communities. Young performers trying to build spaces where the next generation can exist without asking permission first. There are audiences looking for themselves in the stories they watch.
Pangilinan does not believe Filipino cinema lacks courage. He points instead to the gap between the stories being made and the stories reaching mainstream audiences.
“I don't think it's a lack of Filipino stories. Parang kumbaga, I don't think it's a lack of people—of Filipinos being brave enough to tell these stories. I think they are brave enough to tell these stories. Pero sometimes they are censored. Sometimes hindi pinapakita sa mainstream ang mga storya na ito for whatever reason.”
Which means the audience has a role, too. To look beyond what is already being marketed. To seek out the films that do not arrive with the biggest campaigns. To pay attention to festivals, independent filmmakers, student films, local theaters, and the stories that exist outside the usual circuit.
Because the next question is no longer Are there Filipino stories worth telling? There are. They have always been here waiting to be written, filmed, performed, funded, distributed, and seen.
The question is whether we are willing to make room for them.
The audition room, it turns out, has many doors. And each of those doors asks a different question. But perhaps there is one more question we need to ask: Who will be there when the story finally gets to the end of the line?
Because a story can struggle for its turn to be made. A filmmaker can fight for their turn to be heard. An actor can reach for their turn to be seen. But there must also be someone on the other side—to watch, to listen, to understand, and to care.
The line cannot end with the screen. It has to reach an audience.
And so, perhaps being next in line is not only about waiting for your name to be called. It is about making sure that when the doors finally open, someone is there at the end of the line waiting to receive the story.
METROSCENE MAG | SEPTEMBER 2026 COVER: NEXT IN LINE
Producer, Creative/Art Director & Editor-in-Chief: Elwyn Baccay (@markelwyn)
Photography by Josh Castro (@ajoshcastro)
Makeup by Irish Irish Mendiola (@irishmendiolaaa_), Dominic Ocampo (@dom.ocampo) and Jomari Braganza (@jomaribraganza)
Hair by Mharhea Banting (@workwithmhar)
Fashion Direction & Styling by Gen Real (@genreal__) assisted by Jasper Añonuevo (@jasperuevo), Lynus Martin (@lynuss) and Cha Fronteras (@chafronteras)
Video Director, Cinematographer & Editor: Gene Francis C. Sayson (@g.f.sayson)
Gaffer: Jessal Cruz (@jessalcruz)
Co-Producer: Avin Dela Cruz (@avindelacruz_)
Set Design by Elwyn Baccay and Niña Cruz (@cruzynina)
Shot at Sikret Studio (@sikret.studio)
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