I say it again: as with anything about the Marcoses, there is the nearly overwhelming desire for the long-awaited confessions, apologies, acts of contrition. After all, they were the Marcoses. And Imelda was certainly more than just a fascinating subject as far as Filipinos are concerned.

But the way Diaz offered up Imelda was exactly how it would have been, I imagine, if we were invited to her Leyte retreat, judiciously interspersed with select footage and newsreels from the day she became Muse of Manila to the day she left Malacanang. Seeing Imelda disarm you with her elegance, then recall her days as the First Lady and Governor of Manila, as a diplomat brokering a ceasefire with Khaddafi, and reveal her vulnerability as she melts into tears while looking at her dead unburied husband. It was all too candid, maybe too sympathetic.

Yet it is exactly what Imelda wants one to think of her: that she is this beautiful butterfly. That she is, excuse me, Imeldific. The star of her people. Diaz tames these episodes with nuggets from Marcos detractors as well as never before seen footage of their personal belongings as they entered Hawaii. There she was, saying all she could pick up were diapers and milk (and leaving behind all the money stashed under her bed), then suddenly boxes were opened with neatly stacked cakes of cash in different denominations, tiaras, icons, art, and "jewelry galore".

One of the most defining moment -- eerie still in the fact that Imelda must have agreed to it -- is the "pahangin" of all her present-day gowns outside her beachfront house presumably in Leyte. One by one, well-dressed maids took finely-beaded gowns off their hangers and slung them over the bannisters. And to each one, the camera allowed you enough time to appreciate each garment.

And the camera took its time as well with Imelda, many times waiting to see whether she would suddenly burst into laughter after, say, denying they had political detainees, or denying they had left dozens buried in the Film Center. Or, even after saying there was nothing to gain from having Ninoy killed.

In fact, the answer "Imelda" offers best is this: there are no answers at all. At least not from Imelda. When you are done rolling your eyes from her Seven Portals picturegrams (kudos to Imelda for namechecking our favorite OS, Apple's Mac OS) you realize that this woman has become so gut-wrenchingly self-absorbed, there is clearly no way to tell the truth from the lies. Her belief and understanding of her world, strange as it seems for us, is true to her. After all, this is Imelda's world we are now in.

Everything is personal about her, they say. She may be a shrewd politician, but what does it take to succeed in Philippine politics anyway? Well, you need to be a "rockstar" and, according to Diaz who was there to answer questions after the screening, Imelda is a "like a rockstar". Anywhere she goes, people know she's coming. And people will stand by the roadside to catch a glimpse of their "star". More fodder to feed her delusions, I suppose.

In its entirety, the documentary does leave a perplexing issue: something a Martial Law Baby will take for granted, but an average American viewer might miss. When you see footage of present-day Imelda, looming large with her maids in her plush apartments and mansions, getting priests to kiss HER hand and say mass in her name, and getting bumrushed for photo ops, you ask: how popular is Imelda now in the Philippines? One member of the audience asked: "Isn't there a part of the Philippine population that sees all of this as wrong?"

Diaz answers (something like): "Of course, of course. Only in the provinces, in Marcos country, is she popular. If you go outside those areas, she is disliked."

Leaving her mansion was like seeing her in her element. In Marcos country. I'm happy to be back on the outside. With or without answers.