A Cautionary Tale in Cinematic Necromancy
There’s a unique kind of dread that comes from watching a beloved novel brought to life—only to realize, twenty minutes in, that someone forgot to include the “life” part. Ang mga Kaibigan ni Mama Susan (Mama Susan’s Friends), directed by Chito S. Roño and based on Bob Ong’s cult-favorite 2010 novel, is one of those adaptations that proves some books should remain books. It’s not terrifying—it’s taxidermy with a budget.
The film should have been a masterpiece. The ingredients were all there: a found-journal narrative, rural superstition, and a slow descent into madness. But somehow, this eerie, atmospheric novel was flattened into a 90-minute PowerPoint presentation about a haunted lola and her suspiciously well-lit house.
The Plot: Diary of a Wimpy Exorcist
The movie follows Galo (Joshua Garcia), a college student whose journal project spirals into a horror story when he visits his sick grandmother, Mama Susan (the late Angie Ferro, delivering the film’s only convincing performance—and she spends most of it bedridden). Galo writes about the strange goings-on in his provincial hometown: whispers in the dark, unsettling religious rituals, and a sense that everyone—including his dear old grandma—is hiding something sinister.
In Bob Ong’s novel, this premise was a slow-burn descent into paranoia, told entirely through Galo’s diary entries. In the film, it becomes a series of disconnected jump scares interrupted by Galo mumbling to himself like he’s vlogging for a channel called “Paranormal But Make It Sad.”
The narrative pacing feels like someone hit the shuffle button on Final Draft. One moment, Galo is riding a jeepney; the next, he’s knee-deep in cult members and candles. The transitions are so abrupt that the only true mystery is how we got here.
The Horror: Catholic Guilt with a Side of Confusion
To be fair, Chito S. Roño knows how to do horror—he’s the man behind classics like Feng Shui and The Healing. But here, his signature atmospheric dread is replaced by Lola’s House of Jump Scares. Every eerie moment is telegraphed with enough musical overkill to make even the devil roll his eyes.
Picture this: Galo walks into a hallway. The lights flicker. A cat meows. BOOM—violin shriek! The screen cuts to black. Repeat until numbness sets in.
Instead of the psychological horror of the source material—where faith, sanity, and family all blur into one nightmare—we get a checklist of clichés:
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Children chanting.
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Candles everywhere.
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Possessed grandmother staring directly into the camera like she’s checking if you’ve done your rosary.
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Villagers who speak exclusively in cryptic warnings like “May mga mata sa dilim!”
It’s like the movie attended a seminar on “Basic Horror Imagery 101” and graduated with honors in mediocrity.
The Characters: Paper Dolls with Feelings
Joshua Garcia is a fine actor—when he’s given something to act. Here, he spends most of the movie looking mildly constipated while whispering exposition into his journal like he’s auditioning for an ASMR channel. Galo’s inner turmoil from the book—his grief, guilt, and existential confusion—barely registers. He’s just another horror protagonist who sees something terrifying and still insists on going deeper into the house.
Angie Ferro, in her final role, is the film’s one saving grace. Her presence brings weight and authenticity to an otherwise hollow film. When she stares blankly into space or recites prayers that sound like curses, you believe it. It’s just tragic that she’s surrounded by characters who feel less like people and more like NPCs in a haunted video game.
The supporting cast—villagers, cousins, mysterious children—exist solely to look creepy or deliver ominous lines before vanishing into narrative oblivion. Even the cult members seem bored, like they’re just waiting for lunch break between rituals.
Found Footage Without the “Found”
The movie tries to keep the novel’s “journal” format by having Galo narrate entries over scenes, but the execution is about as smooth as a rosary made of sandpaper. The diary conceit is abandoned halfway through, only to reappear sporadically when the writers remember it exists.
There’s an awkward tension between wanting to be an introspective character study and wanting to be The Conjuring: Filipino Edition. The result is a tonal Frankenstein monster—half moody arthouse horror, half local ghost story you’d hear from your tita after three cups of Nescafé.
Atmosphere: Haunted… by Poor Lighting Choices
For a movie set in a decaying provincial home, Mama Susan is surprisingly well-lit. There’s enough fluorescent glare to make it look like Mama Susan’s house doubles as a barangay hall. The cinematography occasionally tries for “moody and mysterious,” but it usually lands closer to “student film sponsored by Meralco.”
Even the haunting sequences are too clean. The Black Nazarene statues gleam like they just came from the carwash. The candles are placed with such symmetry it feels like a Pinterest board for demonic interior design. You don’t feel scared—you feel like you’re watching a horror-themed commercial for floor wax.
The Writing: More “Mama Meh” than “Mama Susan”
Bob Ong’s novel is beloved precisely because of its ambiguity and creeping unease. The horror came not from what you saw, but from what you realized too late. The film adaptation, however, seems allergic to subtlety.
Instead of unraveling Galo’s madness piece by piece, the screenplay pelts the audience with exposition like holy water. Characters explain every symbol, every curse, every weird noise. And when they’re not explaining, they’re shouting. It’s like watching a ghost story narrated by a barangay captain at full volume.
The dialogue also tries for humor at times, which is bold considering none of the jokes land. You can almost feel the screenplay struggling to balance dread with wit—only to accidentally stab both with the same crucifix.
The Ending: Lost in Translation (and Probably in Editing)
Without spoiling too much, the film ends the way most Netflix horror movies do: abruptly, confusingly, and with at least one unanswered question that’s clearly meant to feel “deep.” By the time Galo uncovers Mama Susan’s cult secret, the movie has long since run out of tension. The finale is less “shocking revelation” and more “okay, so now what?”
The final scene tries to leave you haunted—but the only thing haunting most viewers is the feeling that they could’ve spent two hours re-reading the book instead.
What Went Wrong?
Maybe Mama Susan was simply unfilmable. Translating a story told entirely through diary entries into cinema is no small feat. But instead of reinventing the structure, the film chose to play it safe—resulting in a movie that’s neither literary nor thrilling.
Even the scares feel outsourced from better films. You can practically hear The Exorcism of Emily Rose and Hereditarysighing in the background, wondering why their greatest hits are being recycled without royalties.
And yet, it’s not terrible in a fun way. It’s not laughably bad—it’s just depressingly mediocre, the cinematic equivalent of a cold cup of church coffee: bitter, underwhelming, and somehow still lukewarm.
Final Verdict: Bless This Mess
Ang mga Kaibigan ni Mama Susan wanted to be a chilling meditation on faith, guilt, and generational sin. What we got instead was a Sunday sermon interrupted by the world’s most confused ghost.
Joshua Garcia deserves better. Angie Ferro deserved much better. And Bob Ong’s haunting prose deserved a director willing to risk more than jump scares and narration.
In the end, the film’s only genuine horror is realizing that you spent two hours waiting for something—anything—to happen, only for the credits to roll like a mercy killing.
Rating: 3/10 — More Mama SNOOZE-an than Mama Susan. May her friends rest in peace—and may this adaptation join them.
