Vesuvius, Seklusyon, and the Fear of False Faith

HERE’S a thing I’ve noticed when watching Filipino horror films: Filipinos are deeply religious yet we also fear our own faith. 

The dim glow of lit candles in the altar, the eerie chant of a ‘pabasa’ echoing through the night, the solemn, porcelain gaze of the saints— these are all symbols of holiness, meant to bring comfort and salvation. And yet, in horror films, these same images become unsettling. Faith, instead of becoming a source of safety, gives birth to fear. 

Observe this ‘Mahal na Araw’. Pay attention to the horror films aired on television. We’ve been using religious imagery to evoke fear for a very long time now. 

In Mike De Leon’s Itim (1976), the mystery behind the ghost of Rosa unfolds during ‘Mahal na Araw’. The hauntings intertwine with the images of the penitence, the sound of the elderly people’s ‘pabasa’, and the glow of the candles lit at church. 

In Chito Roño’s The Healing (2012), the religious imagery comes in the form of the faith healer Elsa, who prays in her altar of saints before doing her work. Her portrayal is very much reminiscent of Jesus Christ’s depiction in the Bible, of working miracles among the poor and the sick. 

Another horror film of Roño’s that depicts the uncanny through religious imagery was Ang Mga Kaibigan ni Mama Susan (2023), where a dark image of Jesus Christ (almost akin to Jesus Nazarene in Quiapo) is worshiped by the rural cult that Mama Susan belongs to. 

Yet what is it about religion that scares us? This question can be answered in different ways.

Perhaps, it’s the rigid, unspoken rules that dictate what is holy and what is forbidden. Or maybe it’s the fear of divine punishment, the idea that one misstep can condemn a soul for eternity. Religion, after all, is based on faith, on the trust that the divine is benevolent, that salvation is promised to the devout. 

But what happens when that trust is shaken?

There’s a case to be made that the anxiety surrounding false faith lingers in the minds of Filipino filmmakers who use religious imagery as a source of horror. By casting holy imagery in an unsettling light—teetering on the edge of the sacrilegious—they bring to life a fear that we unconsciously harbor and one that many of us refuse to acknowledge: the possibility that our devotion is misplaced, that the divine we worship may not be divine at all.

While many horror films that use religious imagery evoke a sense of unease, few explore the fear of false faith as explicitly as Erik Matti’s works—particularly in Vesuvius (2012) and Seklusyon (2016).

‘Vesuvius’ and the Deceptive Faith

It starts with a reminder, white letters on the black screen. As if Matti wants to offer a final warning before plunging you into the darkness:

“People claim to have witnessed apparitions of the Virgin Mary. However, Catholic doctrine claims that the era of public apparition ended with the death of the last apostle.”

Vesuvius (2012) is a short film, just under ten minutes long. It follows a man trapped in the monotony of his dull, unfulfilling life—caring for his ailing mother while being quietly dismissed by the woman he admires at work.

One night, in the middle of his sleep, the man wakes up with the seemingly apparition of the Virgin in front of him. She was dressed in gold and jewels, behind her a shiny light as white as her face. 

She whispered something in the ears of the male protagonist… and that’s when things began to happen. 

The film unfolds without dialogue, relying instead on an unsettling symphony of sound—the buzzing of flies, the crack of an eggshell, the hushed, wordless whisper of the Virgin in the protagonist’s ear. But rather than evoking solemnity, these sounds only deepen the sense of dread.

There is something deeply unsettling about the apparition from the moment the Virgin first appears. Her presence carries an eerie weight, a subtle wrongness that lingers in the air. As the film progresses, the unease solidifies, culminating in the protagonist’s disturbing actions—each one seemingly influenced by her whispers.

It soon becomes clear that the Virgin is anything but holy. The final, chilling shot reveals the truth: as she steps out of the protagonist’s room, the camera lingers on her feet—not human, but the cloven hooves of a beast. It is a quiet yet horrifying confirmation that she is no holy figure, but a sinister entity that has deceived the protagonist entirely.

This revelation encapsulates the horror of false faith. By unsettling the audience with ambiguity as to what the entity really is, Erik Matti confronts the deeply buried fear within the Filipinos’ religious consciousness. If the divine can be profane, if the sacred can be deceptive, then what certainty is left in faith? 

Throughout the film, Matti blurs the line between devotion and delusion. The protagonist, lonely and discontented with his life, clings to the apparition of the Virgin as a source of solace. He follows her silent commands, her whispers reminiscent of the ominous buzzing of flies, never pausing to question whether the force guiding him is truly benevolent. In doing so, he becomes a reflection of one of Matti’s recurring critiques—the Filipino tendency toward blind faith and the devastating consequences that can arise from unquestioning devotion.

Even the film’s title—Vesuvius— also mirrors this destruction. Vesuvius references the infamous volcanic eruption that buried Pompeii. In many ways, faith operates like a sleeping volcano, unshaken for years, providing stability, until one day, it erupts and swallows everything whole, just like what happened to our protagonist. 

This reference could also be a metaphor to the buildup rage he felt in his life, until he finally listened to his demons— in this case, the Virgin’s whisper— and let it out. 

‘Seklusyon’ and the National Trauma

But why are we like this? Why do we fear the falsity of our faith, yet we buckle at questioning it? 

In Vesuvius (2012), Erik Matti unearthed our deep-seated fear of a deceptive faith. He exposed the dangers of blind devotion and its horrifying consequences. Yet, it was not clear what caused the character’s blind faith. 

Four years later, Matti offered a possible answer in Seklusyon. 

Seklusyon (2016) was Matti’s entry for Metro Manila Film Festival (MMFF). It received quite a buzz from the viewers despite the lower box-office turn out of the festival that year. 

The film feels like an expansion of Matti’s ideas in Vesuvius—the terror of false faith, of unknowingly worshiping the devil. But this time, he amplifies the religious imagery, centering the story on deacons—men on the cusp of priesthood. 

The premise is simple: Postwar Philippines is still reeling from devastation, and the Catholic Church grapples with dwindling devotees. While the clergy struggles to maintain its influence, many sick and desperate Filipinos seek healing not from priests, but from a young girl named Anghela, rumored to perform miracles. Tasked with investigating her, Father Ricardo grows increasingly suspicious—not just of Anghela, but of the enigmatic nun guiding her, Sister Cecilia.

Meanwhile, four deacons—novices on the brink of priesthood—are sent into seclusion, a Church-mandated ritual meant to shield them from worldly temptations a week before their ordination. But when Anghela’s parents are mysteriously assassinated, she and Sister Cecilia are sent to join the deacons in their isolation. 

Soon, strange occurrences begin to unravel their faith, forcing them to confront the reasons behind it. 

Although Vesuvius excels in execution, Seklusyon provides a compelling exploration of why many Filipinos fall into blind devotion. The film suggests that one key factor is our deep-seated historical and national trauma.

It is fascinating that while Vesuvius appears to be set in the present time, Matti decided to make the postwar Philippines the backdrop of Seklusyon. 

What does this add to the film? 

By situating the story in an era of national grief and recovery, Seklusyon implies that desperation makes people more susceptible to false faith. The Japanese occupation and the war that followed it was the most violent in our history, halting our gradual progress to independence and fracturing our confidence and identity. 

The war left the Filipinos physically and spiritually broken, creating a void that religion— real or counterfeit— could easily fill. 

Take for example, the story of Marco in the film. During the war, poverty and famine were at their worst. The Japanese hoarded the resources to feed their armies, and they left the citizens of the country to deal with hunger. Marco’s— one of the deacons— story treads this line. During the war, Marco’s gluttony caused his siblings to die from starvation. It was this guilt that pushed him to priesthood as a form of atonement. 

But the Catholic faith is too much for Marco— too restrictive, too punishing for his already broken spirit without the concrete proof of miracles. 

That was why the alternative was so alluring for him. Unlike the rigid and punishing doctrine of the Church, Anghela offers something tangible—miracles that he can see, touch, and experience. 

She does not demand suffering in exchange for salvation. Instead, she grants it freely, easing the burdens of those who come to her. To Marco, who has spent his life consumed by guilt and the weight of atonement, this is the faith he has been yearning for: one that does not punish, but instead heals.

And we have to remember that Marco’s flight is not just his own— it reflects the struggles of an entire nation. Sister Cecilia’s face was burnt by the Japanese after she was gangraped by them, and yet, Anghela performed a miracle and restored it. 

All of the characters’ backstories were a reflection of the country’s collective trauma. And for a nation that endured so much, the promise of miracles— of divine intervention that makes sense of pain— is irresistible. 

This is why Filipinos cling so tightly to faith, even when some leads them to deception. When the world has failed them time and time again, religion becomes the one constant, the one thing that offers hope. 

Breaking the Cycle of Blind Devotion

Seklusyon leaves us with an unsettling question: How do we break free from the cycle of blind devotion? How do we separate faith from deception?

Matti offers no easy answer, but perhaps, the first step ought to be awareness. We have to return to our history and acknowledge the ways in which our historical trauma shaped our view of religion. We have to recognize that faith, while deeply personal, can also be weaponized. 

But awareness alone is not enough. We must learn to ask questions, to critically engage with our faith rather than follow it blindly. True faith should not demand obedience at the cost of reason. It should allow room for doubt, for inquiry, for growth. 

Lastly, we must recognize that confronting blind devotion is not an individual struggle— it’s a collective one. But in doing so, we must not rid ourselves of empathy. Because it is exactly the lack of that which led to the blindness. 

Matti’s horror films serve as cautionary tales, warning us of the dangers of surrendering our agency in the name of faith. And maybe, the only way to truly break free is to reclaim faith on our own terms—one that empowers rather than imprisons.