Antoinette Jadaone’s “Sunshine,” winner of the 2025 Berlinale Crystal Bear and part of the 2024 Toronto International Film Festival lineup, takes on a touchy subject.

A brilliant Maris Racal plays Sunshine, an elite rhythmic gymnast training to qualify for the Olympics.

Time is tight: the Asian Championships are just three months away, followed by the World Championships — her last shot at an Olympic slot.

But here’s the problem: she discovers she is pregnant after consensual sex with her same-age boyfriend (Elijah Canlas).

The film opens strong, with Pao Orendain’s tactile, kinetic camerawork and Rico Blanco’s upbeat score — you immediately know you are in for a rare local film with technical polish.

Jadaone, who also wrote the film, frames Sunshine’s Olympic dream as a major loss if she keeps the baby. But Sunshine is a record-breaking national athlete, and the film fails to show the weight of that achievement.

She wears a tank top marked “Asian Games 2018,” and her coach (Meryll Soriano) warns her: “Balewala lahat ng gold mo sa Asian Games.” Since the Games are held every four years, and Sunshine is about 19 or 20, this suggests she won multiple golds in 2018 — a rare feat. She would be gymnastics royalty, a media darling, likely the most successful Filipina rhythmic gymnast in history.

Yet the film does not show her as a public figure. No news clippings, no media buzz, no crowds — just a few kids asking for a selfie. It also focuses mostly on her ribbon routine, barely showing the hoop, ball or clubs — all key to establishing her as Olympic-level.

Sunshine’s decision to abort is quick, and her fears and ambitions are underexplored. The Olympics, in fact, feel more like her coach’s dream — the film tells us this but does not show it.

There is no pressure from a country rooting for her, nor from sponsors who presumably funded her expensive training (which we are left to assume, since rhythmic gymnastics is an elite sport). No rival gymnast, no sense of competition, no major stakes, and no real glimpse into the demanding world of elite sport.

All this undercuts the tension around her unwanted pregnancy.

Then there is her older sister (an equally excellent Jennica Garcia), a single mother who gave up her athletic dreams to raise a child — with little visible struggle. Their household does not seem financially or emotionally strained. This weakens Sunshine’s fear of bringing another baby into the home.

Jadaone instead spends a chunk of screen time on soapy magical realism. An imaginary, foul-mouthed child (Annika Co) follows Sunshine around, mocking her decisions. But instead of adding insight, this character becomes repetitive and irritating.

Rhed Bustamante plays another pregnant teen, awkwardly inserted into the plot in an effort to cover too many sides of the abortion debate. But Rhed’s more serious situation makes Sunshine’s dilemma feel shallow — like a story about a girl careless with sex and unwilling to face the consequences.

Then comes a scene of Sunshine punching her stomach — evoking Eliza Hittman’s 2020 pro-abortion Sundance hit Never Rarely Sometimes Always, where the pregnant teen does the same, but with gut-wrenching realism and fear. Racal’s version feels timid and staged. Hittman’s film presents raw, emotional truth that can move even the most conservative pro-lifer to tears. Jadaone’s film, in contrast, lacks urgency.

Some visuals in Sunshine hit hard: abortifacients sold beside religious icons outside Quiapo Church — a jab at how the Catholic Church, in practice, is more ritual than moral compass. There is also a grim motel scene. But these moments cannot save the film.

Set in the predominantly Catholic Philippines, where abortion is illegal, Sunshine tries to raise issues around teen pregnancy and reproductive rights. True enough, the Philippines has one of the highest teenage pregnancy rates in Southeast Asia, especially among the poor.

But if a film brings this up, it must give some context. The Reproductive Health Law, passed only in 2012, was meant to help—but the Catholic Bishops’ Conference of the Philippines (CBCP) continues to fight tooth and nail against sex education and birth control.

The film ignores all this. Instead, it gives us a cartoonish, Bible-thumping doctor and a patriarchal pastor—villains standing in for real problems. We do not expect to be spoon-fed, but when a film enters controversial ground and hints at bigger issues, it has a duty to avoid shallow symbols.

Sunshine pushes for abortion to be legal. But this rings hollow in a weak, impoverished country still struggling to fix sex education, with the RH Law’s impact still limited by poor implementation.

In the end, Sunshine parrots Western slogans like “My body, my choice” without anchoring its stance in the Philippine context. The message feels imported and emotionally flat.

2 out of 5 stars