by franny trinidad
‘Kilig’–one of the many Tagalog words that is untranslatable. It’s the feeling of butterflies in your stomach or the sudden heat of your cheeks as they blush pink. Kilig is the desire for romance– or more specifically, the exhilaration brought on by the early stages of ‘puppy love.’
The Philippines, a nation characterized as highly idealistic and romantic, has unsurprisingly found a way to capitalize off of kilig. Though it is specifically a Filipino word, kilig is a universal concept, making it extremely marketable.
At the heart of this romance craze is the ‘loveteam;’ pairs of heterosexual-presenting actors who are often cast together in romance films. These pairings become a singular entity, with their onscreen romance often extending into reality.
Loveteams are the perfect marketing schemes– often lasting years and generating large amounts of revenue due to their dedicated fan bases of hopeless romantics.
The Philippine entertainment industry has relied on loveteams for decades– dating back to the American occupation. The nation was forced to modernize quickly due to colonization. Hollywood introduced technology and pre-production techniques to the Philippine film industry, which bombarded the systems of distribution with American films and disadvantaged native filmmakers. With this came a boom in the production of romance and ‘women’s films.’
Jose Nepomuceno, the father of Filipino film, is credited with introducing the first loveteam through his 1949 film, Ang Lumang Simbahan (Old Church), starring Mary Walter and Gregorio Fernandez. Highly successful, executives took notice and employed the star system to push out hit after hit.
Film became a form of escapism for the Filipino people as a way to remove themselves from the harsh realities of life in a colonized state. The overproduction of loveteam films led to the commodification of kilig, which ultimately exploited the Philippines’ desire for love and romance amidst suffering the effects of American imperialism. It is directly tied to the capitalist framework which penetrated Filipino values amidst the occupation.
For generations, Filipinos have watched these power couples’ fantasies on film. Loveteams have been formed, split, and re-paired in a never-ending cycle of blockbuster hits and teleseryes*. My lola* swooned over Amalia Fuentes and Juancho Gutierrez, for my mother it was Sharon Cuneta and Gabby Concepcion, and for me, none other than Kathryn Bernardo and Daniel Padilla.
The nature of loveteams invites intensely invested fanbases. Filipino Catholic-conservatism projects itself onto the characters played by the duos. They are oftentimes champions of purity; never portrayed sexually, religiously devoted, and follow traditional pathways for a relationship– exemplifying the ideals of love and consumer values.
Once these stars deviate from the formula which guarantees success, they are met with intense scrutiny and aggression from fans.
Loveteams who have split throughout the years have expressed how obsessive fan culture has been detrimental to both their career and self development as individuals.
“Loveteam is a phenomenon that only exists in the Philippines. To box a woman like that is so dangerous for mental health and growth– not just as a professional, but as an individual,” said actress Liza Soberano on her transition to being a solo artist.
Loveteams are not a senseless diversion, but a mirror into societal expectations. As consumers, understanding the historical and social contexts behind media phenomena is crucial. The obsessive culture surrounding Filipino loveteams is merely a lasting product of American imperialism and neoliberalism, which seeks to increase profit at the expense of workers.
The hostility of consumer culture and the commodification of loveteams has caused these artists to lose their individuality.
Kilig sells, but at what cost?
*teleseryes – television series
*lola – grandmother
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