Malaya but Bound: The Illusion of Freedom in The Kingdom
I recently learned that The Kingdom, produced by MQuest Ventures in collaboration with APT Entertainment and MZet Television Productions, is set to continue as a series. That news prompted me to revisit the film on Netflix—and I realised I’d never actually written a proper review. So, here we are. Watching it again only reinforced how compelling its core idea is. The Kingdom is an alternate-history action drama set in a Philippines that was never colonised, instead emerging as a sovereign monarchy known as the Kingdom of Kalayaan. It’s a question many of us have quietly wondered about—what might the country look like had history taken a different turn—and the film leans fully into that speculative space.
In this reimagined timeline, Lakan Makisig Nandula, a widowed king, faces a looming crisis of succession. With three very different children—Dayang Matimyas, Magat Bagwis, and Dayang Lualhati—he must decide who is worthy to inherit the throne, even as political alliances, forbidden love, and betrayal threaten to tear the kingdom apart. Into this fragile balance steps Sulo, a social outcast whose involvement with the royal family sets off a chain of events that will shape Kalayaan’s future. Directed by Michael “Mike” Tuviera, who won Best Director at the 50th MMFF, and written by Michelle Ngu-Nario (from a story she co-wrote with Tuviera), the film boasts an impressive ensemble: Vic Sotto as the weary and burdened Makisig; Piolo Pascual as the vengeful yet principled Sulo; Cristine Reyes as the ambitious and politically astute Matimyas; Sue Ramirez as the initially sheltered Lualhati; Sid Lucero as the volatile Bagwis; and Ruby Ruiz in a commanding role as the Punong Babaylan, the kingdom’s spiritual and moral anchor. Notable special appearances from Eula Valdez, Iza Calzado, and Cedrick Juan further enrich the world. (For context: Lakan means king, Dayang princess, and Magat prince.)
What stands out immediately is the care and conviction behind the film’s vision. Tuviera and Ngu-Nario’s world-building is confident, imaginative, and deeply considered. Even if the execution had faltered—which it doesn’t—I’d still admire the sheer ambition of reimagining the Philippines on its own terms. Thankfully, The Kingdom is far from a misfire. It’s a gripping political thriller, layered with compelling characters and ideas that resonate beyond its fictional setting. At its best, it functions as thoughtful speculative fiction: by imagining what the country could have been, it offers sharp commentary on what it is today.
Vic Sotto’s casting as Makisig initially raises eyebrows, given his long association with comedy, but his performance is one of the film’s quiet triumphs. This may be the least “smiling” role of his career, and it works. He portrays a man exhausted by power, constrained by ancestral laws and divine expectations, and slowly worn down by the weight of rule. Close-ups linger on the sorrow and fatigue in his eyes, revealing a king who doesn’t crave authority but feels trapped by it. It’s a refreshingly restrained performance—one that allows space for his co-stars and presents a ruler who is, quite unusually, tired of staying in power.
The film’s strength also lies in its texture. Visually, it blends the familiar with the imagined: drone shots of recognisable Metro Manila landmarks recontextualised by monarchist imagery; interiors that resemble ancestral homes; production details like floor patterns, textiles, and a redesigned flag that feel organic rather than gimmicky. The use of indigenous fabrics and designs is especially striking, suggesting a fashion and identity shaped entirely outside colonial influence. Language, too, is carefully considered—the dialogue leans into deeper, less Hispanised Tagalog, subtly reinforcing the film’s alternate history. Spirituality permeates governance, with babaylans guiding the royal family and ancient laws such as the Batas ng Tugmaan (Law of Retribution) shaping justice. These choices invite reflection on which cultural elements may have been diminished or lost through colonisation, making the film’s Gatpuno Antonio J. Villegas Cultural Award feel well earned.
Performance-wise, the ensemble largely delivers. Cristine Reyes gives Dayang Matimyas a commanding presence balanced by vulnerability, particularly in her fraught relationship with her father, and she easily owns the film’s most convincing fight scenes. Sue Ramirez brings nuance to Lualhati, even when the character’s naïveté grates—as it should. Sid Lucero is reliably intense as Bagwis, while Ruby Ruiz exudes authority and moral complexity as the head babaylan. Piolo Pascual, unsurprisingly, excels in the quieter moments as Sulo, conveying restrained rage and grief with precision, even if that intensity doesn’t always fully translate into the action beats. A standout sequence—the one-on-one confrontation between Makisig and Sulo under ancestral law—is genuinely gripping, elevated by the emotional stakes carried by the supporting cast. Iza Calzado, in a brief role, is particularly memorable, suggesting an entire unseen backstory through subtle gestures alone.
If the film falters, it’s mostly in pacing and clarity. Some action scenes could be cleaner, and a few narrative threads feel underdeveloped. Ironically, my biggest complaint is that I wanted more time in this world—the film could easily have been 20 minutes longer. Still, Jessie Lasaten’s score lends the story an epic sweep, and the overall experience remains engrossing. The Kingdom reminds us of cinema’s power to reimagine reality, to pose uncomfortable questions about governance, class, tribalism, and freedom. Kalayaan may mean “freedom,” and its people may be called Malaya, but the film makes it clear that corruption, inequality, and betrayal can flourish even without foreign rule. In the end, The Kingdom leaves us unsettled in the best way—asking whether freedom is simply the absence of colonisers, or something far more difficult to achieve. As a foundation for future stories, it’s rich with possibility, and as a film, it lands with a seriousness and ambition that lingers long after the credits roll.
In this reimagined timeline, Lakan Makisig Nandula, a widowed king, faces a looming crisis of succession. With three very different children—Dayang Matimyas, Magat Bagwis, and Dayang Lualhati—he must decide who is worthy to inherit the throne, even as political alliances, forbidden love, and betrayal threaten to tear the kingdom apart. Into this fragile balance steps Sulo, a social outcast whose involvement with the royal family sets off a chain of events that will shape Kalayaan’s future. Directed by Michael “Mike” Tuviera, who won Best Director at the 50th MMFF, and written by Michelle Ngu-Nario (from a story she co-wrote with Tuviera), the film boasts an impressive ensemble: Vic Sotto as the weary and burdened Makisig; Piolo Pascual as the vengeful yet principled Sulo; Cristine Reyes as the ambitious and politically astute Matimyas; Sue Ramirez as the initially sheltered Lualhati; Sid Lucero as the volatile Bagwis; and Ruby Ruiz in a commanding role as the Punong Babaylan, the kingdom’s spiritual and moral anchor. Notable special appearances from Eula Valdez, Iza Calzado, and Cedrick Juan further enrich the world. (For context: Lakan means king, Dayang princess, and Magat prince.)
What stands out immediately is the care and conviction behind the film’s vision. Tuviera and Ngu-Nario’s world-building is confident, imaginative, and deeply considered. Even if the execution had faltered—which it doesn’t—I’d still admire the sheer ambition of reimagining the Philippines on its own terms. Thankfully, The Kingdom is far from a misfire. It’s a gripping political thriller, layered with compelling characters and ideas that resonate beyond its fictional setting. At its best, it functions as thoughtful speculative fiction: by imagining what the country could have been, it offers sharp commentary on what it is today.
Vic Sotto’s casting as Makisig initially raises eyebrows, given his long association with comedy, but his performance is one of the film’s quiet triumphs. This may be the least “smiling” role of his career, and it works. He portrays a man exhausted by power, constrained by ancestral laws and divine expectations, and slowly worn down by the weight of rule. Close-ups linger on the sorrow and fatigue in his eyes, revealing a king who doesn’t crave authority but feels trapped by it. It’s a refreshingly restrained performance—one that allows space for his co-stars and presents a ruler who is, quite unusually, tired of staying in power.
The film’s strength also lies in its texture. Visually, it blends the familiar with the imagined: drone shots of recognisable Metro Manila landmarks recontextualised by monarchist imagery; interiors that resemble ancestral homes; production details like floor patterns, textiles, and a redesigned flag that feel organic rather than gimmicky. The use of indigenous fabrics and designs is especially striking, suggesting a fashion and identity shaped entirely outside colonial influence. Language, too, is carefully considered—the dialogue leans into deeper, less Hispanised Tagalog, subtly reinforcing the film’s alternate history. Spirituality permeates governance, with babaylans guiding the royal family and ancient laws such as the Batas ng Tugmaan (Law of Retribution) shaping justice. These choices invite reflection on which cultural elements may have been diminished or lost through colonisation, making the film’s Gatpuno Antonio J. Villegas Cultural Award feel well earned.
Performance-wise, the ensemble largely delivers. Cristine Reyes gives Dayang Matimyas a commanding presence balanced by vulnerability, particularly in her fraught relationship with her father, and she easily owns the film’s most convincing fight scenes. Sue Ramirez brings nuance to Lualhati, even when the character’s naïveté grates—as it should. Sid Lucero is reliably intense as Bagwis, while Ruby Ruiz exudes authority and moral complexity as the head babaylan. Piolo Pascual, unsurprisingly, excels in the quieter moments as Sulo, conveying restrained rage and grief with precision, even if that intensity doesn’t always fully translate into the action beats. A standout sequence—the one-on-one confrontation between Makisig and Sulo under ancestral law—is genuinely gripping, elevated by the emotional stakes carried by the supporting cast. Iza Calzado, in a brief role, is particularly memorable, suggesting an entire unseen backstory through subtle gestures alone.
If the film falters, it’s mostly in pacing and clarity. Some action scenes could be cleaner, and a few narrative threads feel underdeveloped. Ironically, my biggest complaint is that I wanted more time in this world—the film could easily have been 20 minutes longer. Still, Jessie Lasaten’s score lends the story an epic sweep, and the overall experience remains engrossing. The Kingdom reminds us of cinema’s power to reimagine reality, to pose uncomfortable questions about governance, class, tribalism, and freedom. Kalayaan may mean “freedom,” and its people may be called Malaya, but the film makes it clear that corruption, inequality, and betrayal can flourish even without foreign rule. In the end, The Kingdom leaves us unsettled in the best way—asking whether freedom is simply the absence of colonisers, or something far more difficult to achieve. As a foundation for future stories, it’s rich with possibility, and as a film, it lands with a seriousness and ambition that lingers long after the credits roll.
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