Convergence: What you didn’t see in ‘Heneral Luna’: Patis Tesoro, piña, and a designer’s quiet triumph

In “Heneral Luna,” authenticity wasn’t just a goal—it was woven in piña. Production designer Ericson Navarro reveals how heritage lives through fabric.

The most striking moment in our interview with award-winning production designer Ericson Navarro—and the very reason this story deserves its place in radar’s three-section collab—came when he revealed a detail that turned a historical film into something deeply personal.

Several of the traditional baro’t saya pieces seen in the period film “Heneral Luna,” Navarro shared, were crafted from piña fabric and lent by none other than Patis Tesoro herself.

At the time, Navarro was also serving as the film’s line producer and had approached Tesoro with the hope of adding authenticity to the film’s visual world. The renowned designer graciously obliged, lending a few “limited edition ternos” woven from piña. For Navarro, having the film’s key characters wear them—if only briefly—was a quiet triumph, a rare moment where history and craftsmanship intertwined on screen.

It was also during this conversation that radar Entertainment discovered why most modern productions rarely use piña and other indigenous textiles. “Number one, because of economics—it’s a bit expensive. I think it’s around ₱300 a yard, and it’s only 36 inches wide. Sadly, we tend to avoid it,” Navarro explained.

Still, he has found ways to honor the material in his work. In theater, where audiences are closer, he occasionally uses piña for its distinct sheen and texture—though in film, he often substitutes it with husi, a fabric similar in appearance but more practical for long shoots. “In cinema, we can do all sorts of magic, like using husi. But of course, the composition of piña is so much better.”

Honoring the fabric

The conversation took a thoughtful turn as Navarro reflected on piña’s origins. “Another reason is that piña isn’t exactly cool on the body,” he said. “It was originally made when the climate in the Visayas was much cooler—before climate change. Piña weaving started in Aklan. The wealthy families back then would wear it, along with other natural fabrics that were abundant in their surroundings.”

Transforming piña into costumes, however, poses challenges for actors. “There’s a bit of discomfort because it absorbs perspiration,” Navarro noted. “That’s why, in modern filmmaking, practicality often wins out. But if I had my way, I’d still use it to promote our cultural heritage.”

Sense of heritage

As a production designer, Navarro has long championed the use of natural fabrics and dyes in costume design. “This is something I pushed when we did ‘GomBurZa’—the idea of using natural fabrics, natural dyes, and the traditional dyeing process,” he said. “But there’s also frustration, because as much as we want to use our own fabrics, we get stuck. Economics, time frame, and availability—these are the biggest hurdles. You can’t rush the making of these textiles. They’re not always readily available.”

Because of these limitations, production teams often resort to synthetic materials. “They’re unnatural but accessible,” Navarro said. “Still, if I had the chance, I would always go for piña—not just to honor our artisans, but to help preserve an industry that’s part of who we are.”

That sense of heritage, Navarro emphasized, is what gives piña its power. “The process of making piña is very labor-intensive,” he explained. “If I were to promote it, I’d highlight the artistry behind handmade weaving. The Aklanons still do the craft today—it’s their livelihood. Supporting piña helps their industry thrive. It’s a ripple effect: it sustains farmers, weavers, and small cottage industries. It’s all connected.”

He also pointed out how costume design affects characterization and storytelling. “There’s a big significance in using the actual material, especially piña,” Navarro said. “It enhances the actor’s portrayal and the social environment of the narrative. For example, if a rich character wears something that doesn’t look refined, it breaks authenticity. Fabric communicates class and culture.”

That authenticity, he added, deepens the film’s cultural identity. “When you see piña, you immediately know it’s Filipino. It carries pride, heritage, and a sense of luxury. It’s an heirloom material that elevates both the character and the story.”

Valuing the terno

By this point, Navarro smiled and said, “This interview has gone a bit deeper than I expected.” And indeed, it had. For him, piña isn’t just fabric but a statement. “It’s plant-based, biodegradable, and sustainable,” he said. “We’re not just showing the pride of our country, but also the talent of Filipino hands. Others can mass-produce cheaper alternatives, but ours is handmade, drawn from our own land. It’s Filipino through and through.”

Navarro fondly recalled a story once shared by the late Negrense filmmaker Peque Gallaga. “He told me that during his heyday, some doñas of Negros would lend their exquisite piña ternos for films—and they’d make sure to see those dresses onscreen,” Navarro recounted with a laugh. “That’s how proud they were. That’s how much they valued the terno.”

It’s a memory that mirrors Navarro’s own experience years later, when Patis Tesoro handed him several piña-made ternos for “Heneral Luna.” He still remembers how delicate the fabric felt in his hands—woven threads of history, artistry, and identity. “I felt so honored,” he said softly. “To have my actors wear them, even for just two shooting days—it was like holding a piece of history.”

 

 

There’s a big significance in using the actual material, especially piña. It enhances the actor’s portrayal and the social environment of the narrative. For example, if a rich character wears something that doesn’t look refined, it breaks authenticity. Fabric communicates class and culture.

Ericson Navarro

 

 

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