Screening in the Before Midnight section of the 2025 QCinema International Film Festival, Dutch filmmaker Morgan Knibbe’s sophomore feature The Garden of Earthly Delights portrays a gritty, neon-tinged Manila inferno centered on a young queer protagonist played by first-time actor JP Rodriguez. A teenager named Ginto descends deep into the Manila gang life, encumbered with poverty, drugs, crime, and forced prostitution, while refusing help from his sister Asia (Francesca Dela Cruz), who resorts to sex work to save up for a more lucrative job abroad. As Ginto roams the unforgiving city, he falls for another street boy, Jojo (John Michael Toling), forcing him to wrestle with his identity, with brief guidance from the sexy siren Beyoncé (Bunny Cadag). Ginto soon crosses paths with Dutch tourist Michael (Benjamin Moen), who wanders through the Philippine capital’s red-light district, after failing to search for the whereabouts of a Filipina girlfriend he meets online and has been sending money to.
The Garden of Earthly Delights is fundamentally a work of magical realism, a striking portrait of the legacies of the neocolonial and neoliberal empire, hinged on a mosaic narrative that can instantly, and perhaps too neatly, register as “poverty porn,” especially in a society where poverty is the default. At times, the movie offers a stubbornly stylized view of the metropolis during the Duterte era; other times, its breathtaking presentation of the city’s painful conditions, immersed as it is in the urban din and stench, risks desensitizing the viewer, with an editing that feels by turns patient and frantic.
Manila, in many respects, functions as a sturdy scaffold for Knibbe, who is very much aware that the bold choices he makes as a director add up to the politics of his project. A particular fraction of the moviegoing audience might even invoke the likes of Lino Brocka’s Manila in the Claws of Light (1975) or Ishmael Bernal’s Manila by Night (1980) in assessing the film’s depiction of the urban nexus and its dwellers, but I’d argue that, considering its shock value, it tethers closely to the polarizing cinema of Brillante Mendoza, only with more formal rigor and finesse. What allows it to be viscerally compelling, though, are the performances of its Filipino cast, particularly Rodriguez, Dela Cruz, and Cadag, who all inhabit their characters’ dizzying world with real intention and whose predicaments inescapably, painfully, mirror each other. The film suspends itself between sociopolitical reportage and hypnotic allegory, even as its knotty themes don’t always hold together.
During his trip to Bukidnon to conduct research “for a documentary about worldwide pre-colonial gender diversity,” Knibbe openly entertained my questions over email about shooting in Manila, the film’s complex topics, and the White gaze.
The Interview with Morgan Knibbe of The Garden of Earthly Delights
Lé Baltar: How did you come up with this kind of story for a film, and how did it end up becoming a Philippine co-production?
Morgan Knibbe: I am often asked why I wanted to make this film in the first place, and why in the Philippines. I have traveled extensively in Southeast Asia, partly for work, but also to better understand my family history. My Chinese-Dutch-Indonesian grandmother was born and raised in Semarang, Java, and married a Dutch soldier after Indonesia’s bloody war of independence. This personal connection to the region deepened my awareness of the lasting impact of colonialism. However, it was my work as a cinematographer on a documentary about street kids in Manila, the capital of the Philippines, that truly inspired The Garden of Earthly Delights. I witnessed firsthand the rehabilitation of a group of young boys who had been taken out of the slums by an NGO in order to undergo therapy for a year. These boys all carried unimaginable scars from poverty, sexual abuse, and addiction, yet I also saw their incredible resilience. Their experiences formed the basis for the character of Ginto.
As I spent over a year in the Philippines, I became increasingly aware that these boys’ realities were not isolated incidents, but rather intertwined with deeper systemic issues. The Philippines have been colonised in a particularly profound way, first by the Spanish and then by the Americans. One could say that it’s a sort of Spanish-American version of Southeast Asia, where Christmas lasts from September to late January, and where giant shopping malls, American fast‑food chains and the omnipresent Church all coexist alongside extreme poverty — the country is even named after Spanish King Philip II. In my opinion, the devastating results of Western expansion are more clearly visible there than in most of the other countries I’ve visited around the world. This legacy is deeply felt in the sex tourism industry, where women and children like Ginto are treated as commodities on a massive scale and where predominantly white men can act with impunity.
The way I see it, we live in a global economy where bodies are exploited, whether in sweatshops, mines, plantations or brothels. Striving towards the lowest possible wages, multinationals continue to prey on those most vulnerable, exploiting resources and bleeding the former colonies dry, while people in the West enjoy disproportionate wealth. This is why I started writing The Garden of Earthly Delights, with the goal of asking audiences to recognise and acknowledge the humanity of those who have been dehumanised for centuries. The film asks audiences to confront a history we have too often chosen to ignore.
Lé Baltar: I learned that you worked on this film for seven years. Why did it take that long, and how did that kind of incubation shape or change your vision?
Morgan Knibbe: Of course it takes time to finance a film, but the timeline also stretched out because we really wanted to do the research properly and navigate all the complex issues with the utmost care. From the start we were acutely aware of the many pitfalls that accompany stories about marginalised people, especially when the filmmaker comes from a white, privileged background. Too often such narratives become exploitative or extractive, repeating negative stereotypes or presenting themes in a superficial way. That was precisely what we set out to avoid.
Our primary aim was to expose exploitation, not to perpetuate it. Striking the right balance was complicated, because we wanted to confront audiences with very real suffering and pain. A great deal of emotional tension surfaced during pre-production as well, and I was repeatedly questioned about my intentions by the Filipino cast and crew. They wanted assurance that I would not reinforce harmful stereotypes. Producer Armi Rae Cacanindin, for example, was more than a producer or logistical manager; she acted as a guardian of her country, culture, and people, ensuring they would not be framed negatively by a white, male director.
Casting non-professional actors from the slums presented its own set of challenges. I did not want to have only trained actors from privileged backgrounds, because I wanted to collaborate with people and communities who understood the hardships of our film’s characters on a personal level.
I wanted to stay true to their experience instead of appropriating and reenacting it with rich people. But of course we also had to make sure we would not exploit anyone during the process. That is why casting alone took more than half a year. Our Filipino casting team was led by Bong Cabrera in partnership with Kints Kintana, and throughout production we worked closely with therapist Rainier Ladic and intimacy coordinator Missy Maramara. Their presence ensured that the boundaries of the actors, the children, and their parents or guardians were respected and that every interaction proceeded with informed consent.
To give a specific example of a very challenging situation: the mother of Macke, who plays Jojo in the film, became extremely distressed and considered quitting because she felt unworthy of the comforts she experienced on set, such as staying in a hotel. Never before had people from a higher class made a genuine effort to connect with her, let alone work together with her and her child. Together with therapist Rainier, we reassured her that her contribution was invaluable, that her child was exceptionally talented, and that we truly wanted to collaborate with them. In those conversations we learned she carried unimaginable trauma: she had lost four of her children in a fire in the slums. Rather than ending the collaboration, we chose to continue working together with love and care.
That careful, collaborative process inevitably lengthened production, but it was essential. Every potential blind spot had to be examined, and decisions were made collectively. The film ultimately became a testament to a cross‑cultural collaboration that spanned almost a decade, shaping a vision that is far richer, more nuanced, and more responsibly grounded than it could have been otherwise.
Lé Baltar: Were you ever overwhelmed by all the complex themes this film is trying to unearth? I mean you have all sorts of issues here: poverty, crime, corruption, substance abuse, sex work, gender politics, capitalist exploitation, etc.
Morgan Knibbe: Yes, dealing with so many complicated issues was overwhelming at times. But I hope the film shows that these problems aren’t separate. They’re all connected through intersectionality — meaning things like poverty, gender, and colonialism overlap and make each other worse.
The film tackles the harrowing subject of child sexual abuse in the Global South, not just as an isolated moral failing but as a symptom of a system built on inequality. Therefore it was important for me to demonstrate that Michael’s pedophilic orientation isn’t the only element that drives him to offend, his behaviour is facilitated by colonial power dynamics. And instead of portraying him as a flat, one-dimensional monster, we show him as a lonely and conflicted human-being. He does commit a serious crime, but reducing him to pure evil would allow audiences to distance themselves by blaming just one “bad guy.” The reality is that people like Michael can easily act on their darkest desires in the shadows of a global economy that normalises exploitation.
I often hear calls for harsher punishment of child abusers in countries like the Philippines and for EU intervention against sex tourism. While the impulse is understandable, such responses usually leave the deeper structural causes untouched. Extreme poverty forces people into survival strategies, including sex work, and criminalising either the workers or their clients typically pushes the trade deeper underground, making it more dangerous. Again, the film asks viewers to look beyond just surface‑level solutions.
Likewise, many people living in poverty turn to dealing and using drugs as a means of survival or to escape their harsh realities. Former Filipino President Duterte attempted to solve this problem through a brutal social cleansing campaign, resulting in the deaths of over 30,000 people, including children, and the imprisonment of many more. The most vulnerable thus become scapegoats. In this light, for many people, sex work becomes the lesser of evils.
Another complex, but central theme of the film is gender diversity. Trans-, queer- and gender nonconforming people are often the most marginalised of all, facing intersecting forms of discrimination. But long before colonisers weaponised Christianity and violently imposed a rigid binary system, many pre‑colonial societies, including the Philippines’ Babaylan, celebrated and even revered gender fluidity. They were already “woke” centuries ago, long before the West woke up. The colonial failure to completely destroy gender-diversity shows resilience and love in the face of oppression. Ginto and other queer characters in the film, like Beyoncé, represent that love and resilience. This theme culminates in the rainforest scene, where fluidity is celebrated rather than exploited. There, Ginto reconnects with indigenous ancestry, reflecting on the understanding that everything is interconnected — a balance between humankind and nature that has been shattered by forces of greed and ignorance.
Lé Baltar: How did you come across JP Rodriguez, and what made him perfect for the lead role of Ginto? It’s his first film, right?
Morgan Knibbe: The story of meeting JP Rodriguez is very special. We interviewed hundreds of actors over lengthy sessions, yet JP was actually casting director Bong Cabrera’s first‑choice candidate for the role of Ginto. The two had already worked together on Leonor Will Never Die, where JP played a small role. Moreover, JP partly grew up in a slum, giving him an intimate understanding of both worlds.
When I first sat down with JP for an interview, we talked for about twenty minutes, and I was struck by his quick wit and charming personality. He was also wearing lipstick, while at the same time displaying a kind of toughness. He had a certain fluidity about him and was hard to put in a box. I decided to ask him a difficult question: “If we were to make this film together, what would you want audiences to feel?” He thought for a moment and then answered with a single word: “respeto,” Tagalog for respect. I was baffled that this eleven-year-old child was able to verbalize the essence of our entire project in just one word. I knew at that moment that he was going to play the lead.
Lé Baltar: Among other awards, the film won best cinematography at the Golden Calves. Can you talk about how you finessed the film’s visual aspect and the magical-realistic atmosphere you’re trying to capture, alongside cinematographer Frank van den Eeden?
Morgan Knibbe: The film takes its title from the iconic painting by Hieronymus Bosch, who was also from the Netherlands. Painted in the 1500s, during Europe’s age of expansion, it was acquired by Spanish King Philip II, after whom the Philippines were named. The work inspired the movie’s visual language, depicting a chaotic world full of sin and reflecting the mindset of Western imperialism and the religious zeal that fueled it. Like the canvas, which portrays a paradisiacal garden, excessive indulgence, and a nightmarish hell, our movie juxtaposes wealth and indulgence with the brutal reality of exploitation.
We reinforced that contrast by giving each main character a distinct visual grammar. For Michael, the cinematography is formal and static, with frames within frames that lock him further and further away inside his bubble of wealth and his mental prison. This is juxtaposed to the gritty and intensely overstimulating chaos of Manila in which Ginto lives. There the camera is much more handheld, intuitive and dynamic. This was also dictated by working with the kids, who are full of life and boisterous energy. So in shooting with them, we had to be very flexible and agile.
Moreover, it was crucial for us to portray every character, especially those from marginalised backgrounds, with dignity. We wanted to show that the slums are not just dark and miserable; they pulse with colour, playfulness, love, solidarity and resilience. Even in harsh conditions, people create beauty, help each other and make the best of what they have.
In Ginto’s drug-infused visions and dreams, magical indigenous flowers bloom to the sound of pre‑colonial gong and bamboo music. Music that is considered to be a form of resistance against colonial rule to this day. The imagery symbolizes not only blossoming sexuality, but also the roots of gender diversity, love and resistance that colonisers could never truly eradicate. These moments act as bits of a paradisiacal garden that re‑emerge from the wreckage of oppression. A lot of research and care went into creating the score, which was composed by Filipino musician José Buencamino. He incorporated indigenous gong and bamboo elements while safeguarding the Philippines’ cultural heritage, honouring traditional sounds without appropriating any specific tribe’s music.
Lé Baltar: You shot chiefly on location, delving deep into Manila’s stunning urban corners as well as its gritty underbelly. Can you share more about that experience?
Morgan Knibbe: It was very important to me that everything looked real, because we wanted to portray things that actually happen. The moment it looked fake, it would lose its credibility and could feel appropriative or dishonest. Therefore, we had to shoot most of the film in real, existing locations, some of which would have been impossible to recreate, like the slums of Manila, for example.
Filming in the slums was difficult, but at the same time we were welcomed with exceptional hospitality by the locals. My experience is that poor people often share everything they have. In the slums of Tondo — “Happyland” and “Aromaville” — it was very much like that. People always welcomed us into their homes, even if they only had a tiny shack. We shared meals and we learned about their way of life. It was an experience I’ll never forget.
We also shot in real red-light districts, in Manila and Angeles, with tons of actors and extras portraying the sex workers and their clients. This was especially complicated for our intimacy coordinators. We managed to create a safe space, to get permission from every single person you see on screen, and still make it look like snapshots from a documentary. I’m very proud that we managed to achieve that. And that wouldn’t have been possible without our incredibly talented team, who managed to make the recreated sets look as if they were shot in real locations as well.
Lé Baltar: I’m particularly curious about the sequences set in prison. Is that a real prison? How did you secure that kind of access, and what was it like to film there?
Morgan Knibbe: I have been in Manila City Jail for research and was also very inspired by the work of photojournalists like Filipina Hannah Reyes Morales, who captured life inside the overcrowded prison cells. We tried very hard to shoot inside a real prison, but that turned out to be impossible for several reasons. Most importantly, we had to ensure the safety of our cast and crew, but we also couldn’t obtain the necessary permissions. That’s why our production designer Maolen Fadul and her team recreated the interior of Manila City jail inside an abandoned cinema building. They also created several of our other interior sets there, like Asia’s shack and Lapeña’s slum house.
Lé Baltar: There are lots of graphic scenes in the movie. Did you use prosthetics, or did the actors really go full frontal? How did you approach such explicit scenes, with intimacy coordinator Missy Maramara and psychologist Rainier Ladic?
Morgan Knibbe: Before any filming began, the entire cast and crew attended intimacy coordination workshops run by Missy Maramara and her team. For many participants the sessions were eye-openers; several people said things like: “Wow… I guess we did things the wrong way for decades.” I really think that intimacy coordination is essential for ensuring safety, consent, and respect on set.
Together with Missy we reviewed the script line by line to identify every scene that required intimacy coordination. Missy then held private, one‑on‑one conversations with each actor (without me being present) so they could state their boundaries without pressure. Once those limits were clear, the actors returned to me and we discussed what could be achieved within those parameters. The scenes were then choreographed and rehearsed repeatedly under Missy’s supervision.
For the scene with Asia and the American customers for example, also overseen by Missy, we used only prosthetics and there was no actual vaginal penetration. All the erect penises in the film are fake. Actress Francesca De La Cruz insisted that her face never be shown in full when the prosthetic entered her mouth, to prevent any stills from being captured and posted online. Despite that restriction, we collectively agreed that the scene needed to depict explicitly what women like Asia have to do every day in order to earn a living, and the toxic masculinity that often accompanies it. We did not want to look away from that reality.
The scene with Ginto and Michael in the motel room was likewise meticulously choreographed. From the moment the scene became physical, actor JP Rodriguez was replaced by an adult stand‑in. For the scene at the graveyard with Ginto and Jojo, we used stand-ins for the close up of the kiss.
Throughout the process, psychologist Rainier Ladic was on hand to support the performers emotionally, ensuring that the material was handled with care and that everyone felt safe and respected. After each shoot Missy and Rainier conducted a “de‑roll” session, helping the actors step out of their characters’ psychology and return to their own lives.
It’s also worth noting that our young participants had already been (indirectly) exposed to many of the difficult themes we tackle in our film. Unfortunately sex work and abuse are pervasive in their environments. The process of making the film actually gave them a safe space to get educated and discuss these issues in an informed way, under the guidance of professionals.
Lé Baltar: This is only your second feature following the 2014 documentary Those Who Feel the Fire Burning. What was it like to explore fiction for a full-length project and sort of shift gears?
Morgan Knibbe: It was quite scary and intimidating at first to make that shift, because I had never really directed a feature fiction film before. I had been on a few fiction sets as an actor and as a DOP, but other than that I did not have much experience. However, I felt confident that the material was very powerful and that with the right team, it would be possible. Documentaries and fiction films might be different in form, but in the end it’s about cinematic storytelling and inter-personal relationships. I do not believe in a dogmatic, strict or authoritarian approach at all. What is most important is to work together, to be flexible, to listen to each other and to make each other feel safe, respected and appreciated. In such an environment, creativity can flourish.
Lé Baltar: This is also the first time the film is screening in the Philippines. Some local audiences might react differently to the movie, given the kind of gaze—White and Western—involved in it. Were you ever conscious of that while putting the film together? If so, how did you wrestle with it?
Morgan Knibbe: Yes, I was hyper-conscious of this from the very first moment the idea for this film started taking shape in my mind. And I’m pretty nervous about how Filipino audiences will react. I deeply hope that they see the love and care that went into the film, that the intentions were noble and sincere, and that the film is not a shallow, voyeuristic depiction of poverty.
Born in the Netherlands, I feel I have a responsibility, exactly because of my privilege. This film, like my previous work, which focuses mostly on marginalised and exploited people, is both a form of activism and an act of love and solidarity. For me, cinema serves as an empathy machine, inviting people to forget about their own ego for a brief moment and immerse themselves in the lives of others.
I know many might ask, why would a white man tell this story? It’s white people who created so many problems in the first place. Moreover, contemporary identity politics often argue that storytellers should stay strictly within their own personal narratives, but I believe that stance can become individualistic and ignore our deep inter‑connections. Diversity, equity, and inclusion are essential, yet they remain surface‑level — or can even be reduced to a kind of marketing tool — if we do not also confront the systemic structures that produce inequality.
It is vital that those who live the experiences share their own voices, but marginalized communities frequently lack the resources to bring those stories to a global stage. Privileged (white) people therefore need to contribute to decolonisation as well. And it is also personal to me. Both my grandfathers fought in colonial wars on the side of the oppressors. My Dutch grandfather fought in Indonesia, my French grandfather in Algeria and Morocco, so I inherit that colonial trauma. Those personal histories push me to reckon with the past while trying to imagine a more equitable future.
The film may be shocking to some, but it was not intended as a form of entertainment, nor as “poverty porn.” Accusations to that effect miss the point; I understand why they arise, because confronting these realities can be painful. Ultimately, people often look away, either out of guilt, shame or colonial amnesia. Moving forward requires us to acknowledge the problem and work together on solutions.
I believe that true connection and progress are only achievable by thinking across the borders of nationality, wealth, skin colour, and ethnicity. We all live together in this world and must collaborate to survive. The Garden of Earthly Delights itself is the result of cross-cultural collaboration between the Netherlands and the Philippines. Mutual respect was the absolute guiding principle during the entire production and I made friendships and connections that will last for a lifetime. I hope this film will instill a similar sense of respect and empathy among audiences, encouraging dialogue for positive change.
The Garden of Earthly Delights recently played at the QCinema International Film Festival.
Learn more about the film at the QCinema site for the title.
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