Today we are observing International Women's Day.

The UP Film Center is holding a film festival in connection with the celebration. The festival usually features works by women directors or films with the plight and celebration of womanhood at its center. Included in this year's lineup are two films by Lina Wertmuller.

Marge and I managed to catch last Wednesday's screening of Ciao, Professore! (Or, Io speriamo che me la cavo) Initially, we planned to watch the 3pm matinee of Eve Ensler's TVM, the Filipino version. But when I arrived at the Dalisay Aldaba Hall, the place was swamped with people waiting for tickets. The performances were all sold out. I had a late lunch at the Chocolate Kiss and we thought up of things to do for the afternoon. A movie at the mall is out of the question: she had a class at 530pm and I had a story conference later in the evening. There's just no way to beat the afternoon rush and still make our appointments. So we decided to check out the festival across the street.

Ciao, Professore's premise is open and shut: A northern Italian teacher gets dumped in the southern Italian town of Corzano because of a bureaucratic mistake. The professor wanted to teach in Corsano, but he ended up in a Mafiosi hell hole. None of the kids attend school, their work and family responsibilities come first. Part of the movie plays out like Cosby's Kids Say the Darndest Things. All the witticism and badass vulgarities you wouldn't expect from eight year olds are there as a matter of course. The professor wanted to make a difference in the few weeks he's going to spend in the place. Cultural differences ensue, lots of humor. Then the professor's transfer is approved, and he leaves just when things are beginning to turn for the better.

It also doesn't let you forget what the festival is for: There is a scene in the film where the professor and his class celebrate Women's Day. They have this little party, and he gives out bouquets of mimosas to the girls under his charge.

Corzano and the North-South cultural odds remind me of our own differences in culture. Pride gets in the way. Language gets in the way. The kids attend this school called De Amicis, pronounced De AMicis. The professor corrects them: you're supposed to pronounce it De aMIcis. The locals shout back, "How dare you tell us how to speak our own language. You don't live here, you're just passing through and you expect us to absorb your 'superior' Northern notions."

It's like that girl in the mountain village we went to. She was a rape victim. She didn't want to speak with us because we were lowlanders, Manilenyos. From their experience, all the Tagalogs they dealt with previously cheated them and treated them like rags. We come along, not speaking a word of their language, requiring an interpreter, and we ask them to share with us their stories. So we must be like everyone else who went there. For them, we are proud lowlanders there to take advantage, to loot and pillage. There is no trust. We have no commonality.

Finally, we get through the barriers of language and pride because of the sameness of our sex. Our interpreter, a girl who works for the mayor's office, convinced the girl that she would be telling her story to another girl, meaning me. And presumably being a girl, and close enough to her age, I would understand her plight. We settled there on the floor of her hut, just the three of us, the camera whirring soundlessly, recording our "girl talk."