“I am not a ‘product.’ I am a single mother selling time.” Liza has worked the VIP circuit for six years. She distinguishes between the “masunurin” (obedient) and the “matigas” (tough). “Some women here are trafficked—you see it in their eyes. But some of us, like me, chose this floor because it pays for tuition faster than a call center.”

But critics and social workers argue that the “VIP room” concept is a loophole for exploitation. Without clear labor rights, without security cameras, without exits that lead to social services, these women operate in a legal void. To watch a film in the orchestra section of Mabuhay Cinema is to hear the faint rustle of the VIP curtain upstairs. It is a sound of economic desperation wrapped in red velvet.

Here, the pelikula (film) on screen is often just background noise. The real script is written in whispered transactions. The title “Mga Babae sa VIP Rooms” risks painting a monolithic picture, but the women we spoke to (anonymously, for safety) describe a spectrum of survival.

In this product feature, we step past the ticket boy and into the shadows to look at the complex reality of “Mga Babae sa VIP Rooms.” Mabuhay Cinema, known for its preservation of vintage film posters and continuous screenings of action-drama classics, hides a parallel economy upstairs. The VIP room is not built for cinematic clarity. The screens are smaller, the sound muffled. Instead, the architecture prioritizes privacy: high-backed swivel chairs, shadowed corners, and usherettes who move like ghosts.

A Mabuhay Cinema Feature

To the casual viewer, the VIP section of a classic Manila cinema is a relic—a dark labyrinth of velvet dividers and stale popcorn air. But to the women who work there, it is a stage, a negotiation table, and sometimes, a cage.

– The neon glow of Ermita’s heritage cinema district has dimmed over the decades, but inside the walls of the legendary Mabuhay Cinema, a specific, often misunderstood ecosystem still breathes. It is not found in the orchestra-level seats or the balcony. It is behind a second, heavier red curtain: The VIP Room.

“Mga Babae sa VIP Rooms” is not a celebration of vice. It is a documentary of necessity. These women are not the movie. They are the interval—the ten minutes of darkness between the first feature and the last bus home.

As one woman put it, fixing her lipstick in the flickering light of a faded Fernando Poe Jr. film: “Sa sinehan lang ako binibida. Paglabas ko, multo na naman ako.” (I’m only a star inside the cinema. Once I step out, I’m a ghost again.)