What Our Homes Teach Us About Authority: Revisiting Kisapmata

Have you ever experienced asking your parents about a certain thing and getting replied with, “This is an adult matter,” or “You’ll know once you’re older”?

Or maybe getting reprimanded the moment you “talk back” during an argument.

And finally, have you ever stopped to ask yourself: When does respect become unquestioning obedience?

Respect for elders is a cornerstone of Filipino culture. As children, we are taught to say “po” and “opo” when speaking to those older than us. We enter school learning to follow the rules set by our teachers and administrators. Eventually, we step into the workplace where we are expected to respect our superiors and follow instructions. “It’s basic respect,” we are told.

And perhaps the first place we learn all of this is at home. Home is where we are guided, disciplined, and shaped by the values passed down to us. Most of the time, this is a good thing. Parents teach responsibility, compassion, and right from wrong. But every value has a point where it can be taken too far.

What happens when respect turns into silence? When discipline turns into fear? When authority no longer welcomes questions? What if the way we learn to obey inside our own homes also shapes the way we respond to power outside of them?

These were the questions I found myself asking after watching Kisapmata, Mike de Leon’s 1981 psychological thriller based on Nick Joaquin’s true-crime reportage, The House on Zapote Street.

The film follows Dadong, a retired police officer who controls almost every part of his family’s life, especially his daughter Mila. In their home, his decisions are final. Disagreement is treated as disrespect. A place that should have provided comfort slowly becomes a place where everyone must be careful with what they say and do.

But Kisapmata is not simply a story about one abusive father. It asks a much bigger question: Where do we first learn what authority looks like? In analyzing this film, I want to focus on three main ideas: the architecture of the house itself, the historical period when the film was created and its relevance today, and the darker aspects of Filipino culture that the story exposes, especially because this tragedy was based on a real case.

When you think of totalitarian architecture, what do you usually think of? Your mind may probably jump to massive concrete structures, brutalist monuments, or government buildings designed to make ordinary people feel small. The Philippines has its own examples of these.

We rarely think about a normal-looking Filipino house.

At first glance, the house in Kisapmata appears to be an ordinary middle-class Filipino home of its time. Nothing about it immediately suggests danger. A foyer welcomes visitors before opening into the living room on the right. Moving forward leads to the dining area, with the kitchen beside it. A staircase near the entrance leads upstairs to two bedrooms separated by a shared bathroom, kind of like a loft. There is even a garage, although it remains hidden from us until later in the film, when Mila dreams of her husband and herself being consumed by fire (a disturbing foreshadowing of the tragedy that awaits them).

Nothing about it immediately tells us that something terrible will happen there, but as the film progresses, the house slowly reveals another role. The film begins in the living room, where Mila tells her father that she is pregnant and plans to marry Noel. What should have been a happy announcement quickly becomes a confrontation. Mila is making a decision about her own future, but inside Dadong’s house, even that decision feels like something he must approve of.

The layout of the house quietly supports him. From the ground floor, the staircase leading to the bedrooms is visible. Movement inside the house is difficult to hide. Even the bedroom, a place where people are supposed to have privacy, does not provide Mila with safety.

From this moment, the house reveals itself as more than a family home. It becomes an extension of Dadong’s power.

Later in the film, when Dadong has guests over, their laughter from the living room reaches Mila’s bedroom. The walls separate the rooms, but they do not truly protect her from what is happening outside. Even sound becomes a reminder that she is still under his control.

The same thing happens when Noel is left outside the house. Dadong watches from inside and decides whether he will be allowed to enter. Even the telephone, Mila’s only connection to the outside world, remains something that passes through him. Every path in and out of the house is controlled by Dadong.

And the result is a mother and daughter who must tiptoe through their own home.

This reflects what French philosopher Michel Foucault described through the idea of the Panopticon: the idea that people begin controlling their own actions when they feel like they are always being watched.

The meaning of the house becomes even more interesting when we look at the time Kisapmata was created.

Released in 1981, the film came out during the final years of Ferdinand Marcos Sr.’s rule. Although Martial Law was officially lifted that same year, the country was still dealing with the effects of years of strict control, censorship, and limited freedom of expression.

In this historical context, Dadong becomes more than just an abusive father. He represents a familiar pattern of power: the figure who claims control because he believes he knows what is best for those under him.

Dadong does not see himself as the villain of his own story. In his mind, he is protecting his family. He is the father, the provider, and the person who believes he has the final say. His position alone becomes his reason for being obeyed.

And that is what makes him frightening. Because the most dangerous forms of power are not always presented as cruelty. Sometimes, they present themselves as care.

This idea of the powerful figure as a “father” is not unfamiliar in Philippine politics. Throughout history, there have been 2 prominent Filipino leaders who have often been portrayed through familial language, as protectors of the nation, as figures who will bring order, guide, and provide. Ferdinand Marcos Sr. cultivated an image of himself as a fatherly figure who would lead the nation toward progress and stability. Decades later, Rodrigo Duterte also built much of his public image around being a strong protector who would solve problems through decisive action.

The point is not that these leaders are the same as Dadong, or that every person who supports strong leadership accepts abuse.

Rather, Kisapmata raises a question:

Why does the image of the powerful father continue to hold such influence?

Perhaps it is because many Filipinos first encounter authority through the family.

Parents provide for us. They guide us. They make decisions for us when we are still learning how to make our own. This is why respect for parents and elders is such an important part of Filipino culture.

However, Kisapmata explores what happens when this respect becomes inseparable from fear, when protection becomes control, and when obedience becomes the only acceptable expression of love.

The disturbing part is that Kisapmata was not created from pure imagination. The story was based on Nick Joaquin’s The House on Zapote Street, a true crime case. Knowing this changes the way we look at the film.

Dadong is not frightening because he is an unrealistic monster. He is frightening because his behavior came from a real situation that happened inside a Filipino household.

And that is where the film’s darkest reflection lies. The problem is not only the person who abuses power. It is also the environment that allows that power to continue. It is the silence of people who are afraid to speak. It is the pressure to protect family reputation instead of confronting what is wrong. It is the belief that someone should be obeyed simply because they are older, stronger, or placed above us.

The tragedy in Kisapmata does not happen because Dadong suddenly becomes powerful. He already has power. The tragedy happens because everyone around him has learned to live with it.

It forces us to look at the difference between respect and submission, between guidance and control, and between a protector and someone who demands obedience in the name of protection. Because sometimes, the most dangerous forms of power do not arrive looking like enemies. Sometimes, they arrive looking like someone who says they are doing everything for your own good.

And maybe that is why Kisapmata remains timeless. The film is not only about one family. It is about the way people learn to understand authority.

Long before we participate in elections, enter workplaces, or interact with governments, we already have experiences with power. We learn who gets to decide, who gets to speak, and whether questioning someone is considered disrespectful.

This does not mean that Filipino families create authoritarian societies. Parents raise their children with love, sacrifice, and the hope that they will have better lives.

But the film reminds us of something important: any relationship can become harmful when one person’s authority becomes impossible to question. The lesson does not stay inside the home. It follows us into classrooms where students hesitate to ask questions.

It follows us into workplaces where people stay silent despite unfair treatment. It follows us into society when citizens stop holding leaders accountable.

Authoritarianism rarely appears overnight. It grows wherever people become accustomed to believing that those in power should never be questioned. The film reminds us that the struggle against abuse of power does not begin only in government buildings or political institutions.

We can honor our parents without accepting abuse. We can respect our teachers while still asking questions. We can support leaders while still holding them accountable.

Maybe that is the lesson Kisapmata leaves us with: Democracy is not protected only by constitutions or elections. It is also protected by citizens who understand that true respect is not blind obedience, but the courage to question power when something feels wrong.