The Senate as Shakespearean farce
The hallowed chambers of the Senate of the Philippines have lately become a national embarrassment, so spectacular, one imagines Claro M. Recto, Jovito Salonga, and Raul Roco turning furiously in their graves like electric fans on maximum speed. Once upon a time, the Senate produced speeches that sharpened the mind. Today it produces viral clips, wounded macho posturing, and the occasional spectacle of grown men behaving as though they were auditioning for a gangster sequel no producer had the courage to reject. The Senate now resembles less a legislative chamber than a Shakespearean theater company trapped in an endless provincial tour, each senator hopelessly committed to his assigned role.
Sen. Ronald “Bato” dela Rosa naturally casts himself as Coriolanus, Shakespeare’s iron warrior from “Coriolanus.” Dela Rosa cultivated the image well: the hardened general, the stern enforcer, the man who spoke in the language of force rather than reflection. He carried himself with the swagger of someone who believed criticism was for civilians and accountability an inconvenience reserved for weaker men. But Coriolanus possessed tragic valor; Dela Rosa merely borrowed the costume.
For months, the senator appeared to be avoiding danger with the caution of a debtor dodging collection agents. Then came the unforgettable image of him reportedly running and stumbling from would-be arresting officers along the Senate stairs, transforming what should have been Roman tragedy into pure Filipino slapstick. Most revealing was his own line afterward: that he could tolerate being called cowardly, but not “t*nga.”
A genuine Coriolanus would have chosen death before cowardice. Dela Rosa instead negotiated terms and conditions for bravery. Shakespeare’s warrior marched toward battle; ours apparently checks first where the nearest exit is located.
Then enters Sen. Robinhood Padilla, the Senate’s magnificent Falstaff from “Henry IV,” except with less wit and more glaring. Padilla performs politics the way action stars perform hostage scenes: loudly, emotionally, and with the permanent suspicion that someone nearby deserves a punch. During hearings, he confronts detractors with full “kanto boy” energy, glaring theatrically across the chamber as though every disagreement might suddenly become a street rumble outside a billiard hall. He threatens in Tagalog, fumes in Tagalog, and appears deeply offended whenever parliamentary procedure intrudes upon his cinematic instincts.
English, after all, is foreign territory to him in much the same way logic occasionally is. Which perhaps explains his bill seeking equal use of Filipino and English in government documents, not so much a nationalist crusade as a legislative cry for subtitles.
Falstaff was Shakespeare’s lovable fraud: boastful, indulgent, shamelessly theatrical. Padilla inhabits the role perfectly. One suspects he still believes dramatic background music follows him through Senate corridors. If he ever becomes chair of basic education, the country may suffer an educational calamity unseen since the invention of group projects. Though perhaps there is one silver lining: proximity to schools might finally expose the chair himself to sustained reading.
Then there is Senate President Alan Peter Cayetano, who resembles Cassius from “Julius Caesar”: intelligent, calculating, polished, and forever attentive to the movements of power. Unlike Dela Rosa and Padilla, Cayetano possesses genuine legal skill and political experience. He understands institutions well enough to maneuver through them elegantly.
Which makes his ambitions all the more obvious. Cayetano gives the impression of a man permanently auditioning for higher office even while occupying the current one. Every alliance appears strategic, every speech measured for future usefulness. Around powerful figures, he carries himself with the caution and devotion of a courtier who knows exactly where the throne is located at all times.
And here lies the common denominator among them all. Beyond the warrior pose, the clown act, and the courtly maneuvering, their politics revolve around one gravitational force: loyalty to former President Rodrigo Duterte and the Duterte family.
The political philosopher Niccolò Machiavelli once observed that rulers inspire loyalties so deep that followers eventually mistake obedience for virtue itself. Watching these senators, one realizes Machiavelli understood politics long before modern democracies turned themselves into television dramas.
These men do not merely defend policies. They perform devotion. They act not like legislators serving a republic but like retainers preserving a royal household. The Senate chamber becomes a stage where true colors slowly emerge beneath the costumes: the warrior afraid of appearing foolish, the clown mistaking swagger for statesmanship, the courtier worshipping proximity to power.
The perfect epitaph already exists, spoken by Macbeth, in Act 5 Scene 5: “It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”
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