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Maris Racal in 'Sunshine.' Project 8 Projects

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Movie review: ‘Sunshine’ is fantastic for a country that fails its women

Ralph Revelar Sarza

<div><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1753413060298Photo by Project 8.jpg" style="width:950px" class="fr-fic fr-dib" alt="Maris Racal in &#x27;Sunshine.&#x27; Project 8 Projects"/>Maris Racal in &#x27;Sunshine.&#x27; Project 8 Projects</div>Antoinette Jadaone’s “Sunshine” lays out its stakes from the very first scene. Maris Racal plays the title role in what could easily be the strongest performance of her career, training for the Olympic qualifiers under a steely coach played by Meryll Soriano. It’s her last chance to represent the Philippines, and the pressure is brutal. During practice, her coach throws out a loaded remark about her gaining weight. At first, it just stings. Then it clicks — she’s pregnant. Then we see her in Quiapo, the beating heart of Catholicism in Manila, to meet a dealer selling illegal abortion pills. Jadaone leans into the irony without flinching. The pills are tucked among rows of Santo Niño statues, barely hidden, yet completely visible to those who know what to look for. It’s a blunt, brilliant image where the sacred and the profane share shelf space in a country that forces women to pray for options and then punishes them for finding one.Sunshine breaks the news to her boyfriend (played by Elijah Canlas) who speaks in a mix of English and Tagalog, but leans hard into the former. It’s a deliberate and unapologetic choice that subtly signals his privilege and how far removed his world is from Sunshine’s. As expected, he doesn’t take the news well. He questions her, distances himself, and eventually tells her to just get rid of it.While searching for a way to terminate her pregnancy, Sunshine starts seeing a young girl, clearly a figment of her imagination, who keeps appearing, pleading with her to stop. It’s the film’s riskiest move, introducing a surreal element in what had, until now, been a grounded and painfully realistic portrait of what pregnant teenagers in the Philippines go through just to keep living their lives. But the choice makes emotional sense. The girl is a projection of Sunshine’s own turmoil, shaped by a society that refuses to talk about abortion yet makes sure every woman feels haunted by it. Through this girl, the film captures what it means to face an unwanted pregnancy without guidance, without support, and with only the echo of shame and fear left to speak back. “Sunshine” is deeply committed to its critique of patriarchy, and that commitment shows even in the casting. The film brings together some of the country’s most brilliant actresses — both young and seasoned — to the point where even a cameo from one of Philippine showbiz’s most bankable heartthrobs isn’t enough to distract from the force of the women on screen. Every female performance pulls focus, not because the film tries to make a point of it, but because they’re simply that compelling.And one of them is Jennica Garcia, who plays Sunshine’s older sister and guardian — a single mother herself. There’s something so satisfying about watching Garcia in this role. She brings a calm, lived-in presence that quietly steals every scene she’s in. One of the smartest choices the film makes is how it writes her character. She doesn’t lash out at Sunshine upon learning she’s pregnant. She doesn’t shame her. Instead, she listens and accepts whatever choice her sister is about to make. It’s clear she’s been through it. And without needing to say much, she becomes the kind of support Sunshine never gets from anyone else. There was a point in the film when I started to worry that the imaginary girl might derail the story. I didn’t want the film to get too on-the-nose, or turn the mystery of her identity into a guessing game.Then two new characters are introduced. Rhed Bustamante plays another pregnant teenager, even younger than the 19-year-old Sunshine, impregnated by her uncle. When she sees Sunshine buying another round of pills after surviving a near-fatal first attempt, she asks for some too. Once Sunshine realizes what this girl has been through, she freezes, then hands her what little money she has left.That encounter opens the door for another: Ariana, a gay boy introduced to Sunshine by the same imaginary girl. Ariana looks strikingly like Bustamante’s character. That’s when I started to wonder — maybe these kids aren’t just random figures. Maybe they’re much younger versions of these teenagers. Maybe they’re fragments of the past she couldn’t protect, now returning to ask if she can still protect herself. But when Sunshine finally meets the father, a pastor no less, of the boy who got her pregnant, everything becomes painfully clear. They offer support. They say they’ll help raise the child. But Sunshine stands firm. She says she’s not ready to be a mother. She doesn’t want to be one. Then it cuts to her, twirling through a rhythmic gymnastics routine, ribbon sweeping through the air. Watching her is the little girl, smiling. And that’s when it hit me. She’s not a younger Sunshine. She’s Sunshine’s unborn child.Sunshine looks at her and asks, “Naiintindihan mo ba ako?” A quiet plea. Do you understand why I made the choice I did?The girl keeps smiling. “Gets ko na. Gets ko na. Gets ko na.” A soft, tender reply, not of resentment, but of release. Even if I never get to live, I understand.That’s when I remembered Ariana — how the character quietly vanished from the story right after the girl Sunshine helped went through with her abortion.“Sunshine” is the kind of film the Philippines has needed for years. It’s hard to overstate how vital it feels, not just in 2025, but after so many years without a film that thoughtfully centers women’s reproductive health in a country where it’s so often overlooked.Because the truth is, this country insists on children being born without ever insisting on giving them a world worth being born into.<div> </div><div>Ralph Revelar Sarza is an internationally published film critic based in Manila.</div>

Antoinette Jadaone’s ‘Sunshine’ is a bold, unflinching look at the realities of teenage pregnancy and reproductive rights in the Philippines, anchored by a career-defining performance from Maris Racal.

Antoinette Jadaone’s ‘Sunshine’ is a bold, unflinching look at the realities of teenage pregnancy and reproductive rights in the Philippines, anchored by a career-defining performance from Maris Racal.