A National Film Board of Canada production

From whirlwind romance to raising mixed-race children, for three Filipina–white couples, love unfolds alongside harder conversations about race, belonging and what it takes to stay.

It starts like every great love story: eyes lock, sparks fly and the music swells. The future seems written in the stars. But First Comes Love: Nakabingwit lingers after the meet-cute, when conversations about race, class and difference enter the picture. For three Filipina–white couples, modern love means real romance, real love — and real-world problems. In the tender, inventive ways they learn to listen, repair and speak more honestly to one another, they find a truth that is deeply contemporary and enduringly romantic: that love can grow stronger when it meets reality.

What if love isn’t the end of the story, but the start of a harder conversation? 

Your film clearly comes from a place of love for rom-coms. How did you think about honouring the pleasures of the genre while also making space for the realities it can leave out? 

As a child of the ’90s, popular culture—and rom-coms, more specifically—were my instruction manual for how relationships operated. I loved the idea of being whisked away and life’s troubles disappearing once you found your “one true love.” 

When I got older and got into romantic relationships, I realized that rom-coms really didn’t teach me much about how to navigate love. I was running into problems I never saw on screen. 

In making First Comes Love, I wanted to honour the genre by reimagining its possibilities. It was important to me to lovingly use rom-com tropes to tell my story before breaking it down. I want audiences to have to appreciate the genre for what it is before critiquing it and pointing out its shortcomings. 

I wanted to evoke the feelings of falling in love or making a connection with someone—you feel light and giddy and that anything is possible—and then to interrupt that feeling with real-life issues that can be painful and difficult. By redrawing the parameters of the genre, I saw an opportunity to show what repair and healing might look like in the midst of conflict.   

This might be the first time a documentary has shown Filipina–white couples navigating difficult conversations about their identities and if they truly belong with each other. It’s moving to hear their stories. What did you learn from the ways each couple approached intimacy, conflict and repair? 

In the film, one of our main subjects, Justine, says that one of the ways that colonialism and white supremacy play out in interracial relationships is how we reflexively “other” our partners. And what this does is that it flattens the people we love into symbols of their identities. It made me realize that I can bring racial stereotypes into a conflict without even realizing it, and miss the fact that my partner, for instance, is a nuanced, complex individual who is trying his best. Justine’s quote reminds me to be curious about other people, whether that’s my partner, my friends or even strangers I encounter. 

Another simple but powerful tool I learned for navigating conflict was to ask myself if my basic needs have been met: Have I drunk water? Have I eaten? Not being fed or properly hydrated can impact your capacity to receive your partner in distress and to recognize your own feelings in the moment and communicate them in a compassionate way. 

I’m eternally grateful to the participants in the film and the dozens of people I spoke to in the research phase, for being incredibly open and vulnerable with me about the tensions in their relationships and their approaches to repair and healing. I think it reflects a great need and opportunity to share wisdom and find kinship with other first- and second-generation Canadians.  

Your work often explores identity and relationships. What felt new, vulnerable or artistically challenging about turning your lens toward yourself in this way? 

When I initially pitched this film, my story wasn’t going to be front and centre. I was on camera in my first documentary, It Runs in the Family (2015), and I wasn’t interested in doing it again. It didn’t feel new or artistically challenging to me.  

But when I started development, my producer Teri Snelgrove encouraged me to reconsider my story as the main thread. I realized that the stories of the three main couples refracted my own story and that treating the scenes from my own life as a rom-com was a way for me to be on camera without being on camera. 

As someone who has primarily worked in non-fiction, writing a script and directing actors was a new process and I really loved it. We were able to do a deep dive into the dialogue and make it more natural or sting more deeply where the story needed. The writing gave me a little bit of distance where I felt safe to share and explore more of myself. 

As a Filipino Canadian, how has your experience of migration, diaspora and cultural belonging shaped the way you understand love and the kinds of love stories you feel called to tell? 

What a great question. You know, there’s a saying that’s stayed with me over the years: “Belonging beyond the nation.” I like to think about what identity, relationships and a sense of belonging could look like if dominant narratives and popular culture didn’t dictate what was appropriate or “normal.” Even within a single community or family unit, opinions and backgrounds are diverse. It’s important to honour those differences and to break this monolithic illusion of “sameness.” 

As a Filipino Canadian with immigrant roots, I’ve arrived at a place where I have decided for myself what feels true to me, and I’m looking for that same authenticity when I’m honouring people’s stories. What’s authentic to them might not align with my beliefs, but it’s true to them in that moment.  

In the stories I tell, I’m looking for the nuance that popular culture doesn’t make space for.  

The documentary is deeply personal, but it also speaks to wider social realities laid bare by the pandemic, the George Floyd protests and COVID-related anti-Asian violence. What was important to show in terms of how a larger historical and political context plays into our intimate lives? 

In that moment [after the protests], we could see what was happening in the public sphere and the conversation online. Organizations and business were making statements about their commitments to racial justice and the changes they were committed to making, but we really couldn’t see the changes that were happening at home. The truth is 2020 was a catalyst for many conversations, both public and private.  

I felt that the highest stakes were actually in people’s most intimate relationships because that’s where they had the most to lose. I mean, we don’t want to lose the people we love, and we also don’t want to lose ourselves.  

As much as we’d like to be sheltered or protected from outside forces within our most intimate relationships, we can’t help but be impacted by culture. Ultimately, I was curious about how other couples were navigating this very global reckoning with race, equity and justice.  

The term nakabingwit carries a complicated history—one shaped by pride, aspiration and colonialism. Was using the term in the title of the film a kind of reclamation? 

Yes! Nakabingwit is a fishing term in Tagalog, meaning you caught a big fish. But colloquially, it means you caught a rich white husband. 

When I talked to other Filipino Canadians, I discovered that this word carries both pride and shame. It’s a way to name this complex feeling. When I learned about the term nakabingwit, I felt like I finally had a name for what I had been feeling all those years after that fateful night when my friend told me I was “winning” because I was dating a white guy!   

In my research, I heard from first- and second-generation Filipino Canadians who wanted a rebrand of interracial relationships. Interracial relationships are an opportunity to learn from a different perspective. They’re an invitation to develop deeper empathy for your partner, and to grow and strengthen your connection. It was important to me to define and address nakabingwit on my own terms and from a perspective rooted in social justice.  

What do you hope lingers after viewers see First Comes Love? Is there a feeling, a question or an idea that feels the most salient for you? 

I hope people see themselves in this film and the possibilities of moving through difficult moments. I want audiences to feel light. I want them to have a sense of hope and possibility. Even though race, culture and identity are difficult topics, there are ways to talk about them with our loved ones. It doesn’t have to be destructive. It can be generative. 

Audiences can come away with insights on how to broach difficult topics, not only with a romantic partner, but with anyone they share a connection with, whether it’s their best friend, their colleague or even a stranger. So, in short, I hope the film offers ways into these conversations that are rooted in care, curiosity and a willingness to stay with each other. 

Poster Art Credits
Photo:  Angel Lynne Graphic Design: Haley Turnbull