J ueteng, the local numbers game, is always a visceral subject in Philippine politics. It is arguably the issue that best encapsulates the enormous rifts and contradictions within Filipino society. The government periodically announces crackdowns on illegal gambling operations, and yet politicians are routinely accused of running jueteng in their provinces. The police declare that jueteng no longer exists, but the daily draws are held as usual. The Church condemns jueteng as a social evil, but accepts contributions from jueteng operators for its charitable projects. Meanwhile, the predominantly Roman Catholic masses continue to lay their bets.

Former president Joseph Estrada was impeached then ousted in a popular revolt over allegations that he had received 500 million pesos (HK$77 million) in jueteng payoffs. His successor, President Gloria Macapagal Arroyo, has also been accused of taking jueteng money. The Senate holds inquiries into illegal gambling, and there are all sorts of sensational media exposes, but it's apparently business as usual for the gambling lords. All the sound and fury tends to overlook one basic truth: to the Filipino masses, jueteng is a fact of life.

Kubrador (The Bet Collector), the new film from director Jeffrey Jeturian, takes a look at the numbers game from the perspective of those who actually play it: the poor, the unemployed, the people just trying to get by from one day to the next. The film follows Amy (Gina Pareo), the bet collector, as she does her daily rounds in a Quezon City slum. She picks up the neighborhood news and gossip, listens to people's stories and translates them into two-number bets (jueteng has its own numerology: earth = 1, couple = 2, ants = 3 and so on), and also collects alms for the dead. Shot on Sony HD for 5.5 million pesos, Kubrador has an in-your-face documentary quality; as a critic put it, "You're not watching a movie, you're watching a life." One gets a sense of why jueteng thrives in poor communities: it is built on a culture of trust, camaraderie, and palabra de honor (word of honor). The bettor who puts in two pesos knows that if he hits the jackpot, he will surely get his 800 pesos (the rate of return is about 400 per cent). Above all it represents a little hope, a quantity that is missing from their lives.

"We are not condoning jueteng, we are presenting it as a social reality," Jeturian says. "We set out to make a movie about jueteng, but what viewers remember is the poverty and desperation. I want to say, `This is your country. Open your eyes."'

Kubrador screenwriter Ralston Jover adds: "The poor are often criticized for being lazy and shiftless, but when you see the conditions they live in, you begin to understand that there is no motivation - they don't see the possibility of a better life."

Like many middle and upper class Filipinos, Jover's knowledge of jueteng was limited to what he'd read in news reports. It was only when he was looking for possible screenplay material that his interest was sparked.

"I found out that the daily jueteng lottery was held in a neighbor's house," he recalls. "I wasn't aware of this because I don't gamble. But everyone else knew about it, and they knew who the bet collector's police protector was. It struck me as a very Filipino story. I wanted to say something about our attitude towards luck, good and bad."

For his research, Jover accompanied the bet collector as she went about her daily business. She's also the village gossipmonger, so she knows everyone's story, he says. Each day, the collector visits her regulars, who bet anywhere from one peso to 2,000 pesos. These regulars usually bet on the same pair of numbers everyday, because they know that by doing so they will hit the jackpot eventually. The worst thing that can happen is that they fail to place a bet on the day their numbers are drawn. It's really all about chance. They're not betting their life savings because they haven't got life savings. The casual bettor is not counting on jueteng to change his life. If he wins, he wins; if he doesn't, he can try again.

"The rules of jueteng change from place to place," Jover notes. Some collectors accept bets through cellphone text messages. Some draws are held in moving vans. In some places, no draws are held and the combination that garners the least amount in bets is the winner, or the operator decides on the winning pair of numbers. "The masses don't view jueteng as evil. Their awareness of the system is only up to the level of kabo or supervisor, the person the collector reports to. They are not aware that they're being exploited."

The gulf between the socioeconomic classes may be summed up by their perception of jueteng. To the middle and upper classes, jueteng is the most visible example of corruption in the system, Jeturian points out. To the poor, it's a harmless game. They see an elitist bias against jueteng: the rich can gamble in their casinos, but the poor can't bet their two pesos on the street.

"With Kubrador we want to show the rottenness at the heart of the system. It is so pervasive that the poor can't even articulate their own helplessness. What and where are the alternatives to jueteng?" Jeturian asks.

Before Kubrador opened in Metro Manila cinemas, it was screened for the Catholic Bishops Conference of the Philippines. Archbishop Oscar Cruz of Dagupan, head of the anti-gambling group Krusadang Bayan Laban sa Sugal (People's Crusade Against Gambling) and a critic of Arroyo, praised the film for presenting the "shameful and detestable truth" that jueteng bet collectors are exploited by jueteng syndicates and that "they are not altogether to blame (being) twice victims of poverty and exploitation." However, he was not altogether convinced that the compassionate and sympathetic character as portrayed was the real picture of all kubrador.

The film has already won Best Picture and Best Actress prizes at the New Delhi Film Festival, and the FIPRESCI International Critics Prize at the Moscow filmfest. It will be shown at festivals in Pusan, London, Valladolid, Thessaloniki, Toronto and other cities.

"This is the only film I've done so far where I was not confident about my grasp of the material," Jeturian notes. "It was an education for me. I think we've done the right thing."

But if the poor do not regard jueteng as evil, why was Estrada, who was held up as a champion of the masses, kicked out of office for taking jueteng kickbacks?

"Because," Jeturian laughs darkly, "he got caught."