Watching Hele is like being in an eight-hour dream. Maybe that explains the film's lack of a clear narrative that the audiences can follow. You are inside a dream. You don't know what happens next. You get transported from place to place. Your stories get mixed up. Jose Rizal is dead. Andres Bonifacio has been murdered. Crisostomo Ibarra is Simoun, vengeful. Oryang is at the verge of madness. Caesaria Belarmino can make an empire fall on its knees. Isagani is hopeless. There is no Bernardo Carpio. Wake up, Filipinas. Bernardo Carpio won't save you. The tikbalangs are at play. A cult of the Holy Voice worships a kidnapped Visayan woman. The artist sings his songs on the battlefield. The artist gets ambushed. The artist gets killed, the bloodied guitar in his embrace. That is Hele sa Hiwagang Hapis. And more.