Dustin Celestino is one of the few Filipino playwrights and screenwriters with a distinct gift for words. He has a knack for delicious dialogue—satirical, witty, unpredictable lines that can make you laugh out loud, provoke you or force you to think.

His works, including Ang Duyan ng Magiting and his Virgin Labfest piece Ang Munting Liwanag sa Madilim na Sulok ng Isang Serbeserya sa Maynila, have shown this talent before. But Animal (stylized as A.ni.mál) feels particularly inspired.

A darkly comic satire shot entirely on an iPhone 17 Pro Max, the film does not have the glossy finish one might expect from a conventional production. The limitations of the device are initially apparent, particularly in its zooms. Eventually, however, they fade into the background because Celestino’s storytelling, Kara Moreno’s cinematography and an ensemble of remarkably natural performers take over.

The film’s composition and framing prove especially effective. Its angles, including Dutch, capture the right emotions at the right moments despite the technical limitations. The zooms, at times reminiscent of The Office, add to the sense that we are spectators at a political circus.

More importantly, Celestino trusts the writing. And the writing is delicious.

A.ni.mál begins with a video of a governor’s sexual abuse of his dog. That incident sets off a chain of events that exposes the family of Lily (a brilliantly funny Maxine Ignacio), the mayor’s only child, whose father, Dan Peralta (Jojit Lorenzo) is a political ally of the governor.

From that premise, Celestino builds a satire about political dynasties, privilege and the secret lives of public officials.

The film has an unmistakable The White Lotus quality. It does not copy the HBO series, but the resemblance is hard to miss, from its dark satire of the privileged to its visual touches—the repeated dog image on the poster recalls the series’ distinctive opening artwork—and its primal, animalistic musical score.

But where The White Lotus exposes the ugliness beneath the luxury of the ultra-rich, A.ni.mál turns its gaze toward the private world of corrupt Philippine politicians. And the result is painfully timely.

Celestino directly invokes the flood-control scandal, which turns the film into a darkly funny portrait of a country furious over corruption. The political dynasty at its center becomes a miniature version of a larger national reality: public servants with access to wealth and power, luxury that seems impossible to reconcile with ordinary Filipinos’ struggles, and the suspicion that what the public sees may be only a fraction of what happens behind closed doors.

It is a portrait of the times—and perhaps the joke is that the situation has become so absurd that laughter feels like the only available response.

The cast is excellent, with performances so natural and conversational that the mechanics of acting eventually disappear. There is none of that familiar indie-film sensation of watching an actor struggle to sound spontaneous. The performers simply seem to inhabit their characters. And that naturalism makes Celestino’s dialogue even sharper.

One of the funniest exchanges comes inside the car between Lily and her mayor father, as they clash over their respective worldviews and values. Both are brutally unfiltered, and their argument feels organic precisely because Celestino gives them such distinct personalities.

The self-described woke Lily's vocabulary—“safe spaces,” “talking stage” and other social-media-era language—makes her especially funny. Her tacky, expensive wardrobe becomes another hilarious detail: she has money but no taste or sophistication.

There is also something pointed in the character, a recognizable jab at the daughters of powerful politicians whose wealth and privilege coexist with an aggressively contemporary vocabulary of social awareness.

The film's sharpest writing, however, may come from its arguments and debates. Celestino knows precisely when to let the dialogue become absurd, hilarious and disgusting at once.

Another standout moment involves Dr. Grace (Bituin Escalante), the governor’s wife, and the mayor’s wife Ofel (Frances Makil-Ignacio) . It addresses a question that many Filipinos ask whenever allegations of corruption surface: How do the spouses of corrupt politicians live with the wealth and extravagance that surround them?

How do they accept the luxury purchases, expensive watches, Fashion Week seats and other indulgences that appear impossible to reconcile with the misuse of public money?

Celestino does not simply excuse these women. Instead, he imagines the psychology that might allow them to accept such a life. Whether drawn from observation, imagination or something closer to reality, the explanation feels convincing.

That is one of the film’s great strengths. For all its comic outrageousness, it remains believable.

There are lengthy moments that could perhaps have been trimmed, including the overstretched dancing scene near the end. But these are minor distractions from a film whose central achievement is its ability to turn political disgust into comedy without removing the disgust.

Celestino clearly understands the absurdity of the political world he depicts. More importantly, he knows how to put that absurdity into words.

A.ni.mál is ultimately a satire about people who possess money, power and influence—and about what happens when the private lives of such people become as grotesque as the public systems they control.

It is funny. It is provocative. At times, it is genuinely disturbing. And beneath all the jokes is an uncomfortable recognition: the circus on screen is not very far from the circus outside it.

4.5 out of 5 stars

Cinemalaya 22 runs until 18 August at Red Carpet Cinemas in Shangri-La Plaza, Gateway Cineplex 18 and select Ayala Malls Cinemas.