Mar del Plata contender attempts to be insightful but only manages to get it all wrong MAR DEL PLATA — First, the facts. Shortly after Eva Perón’s death in 1952 at age 33, her body was embalmed by Dr. Pedro Ara Sarria. It was to be placed later in a memorial that was being built in her honour, so in the meantime it was displayed at the CGT building for almost two years. But, in 1955, president Juan Perón was overthrown in a military coup by the Revolución Libertadora. Perón fled the country and couldn’t make the necessary arrangements to secure Evita’s body, which was stolen by the military on the night of November 22, 1955. From then on, the whereabouts of the body remained a mystery for 16 years — although it’s known that in 1957 it was buried in Milan, Italy, under the name of María Maggi. Then, during 1971-1973 military dictatorship, General Lanusse ordered that Evita’s body be exhumed and given to Perón in Puerta de Hierro, Madrid, in September 1971. Afterwards, in November, 1974, President María Estela Martínez de Perón brought it to Argentina and placed it in the Olivos presidential residence. And with the advent of the last military dictatorship in 1976, Evita’s body was given to her family, the Duartes, who buried it in the Cemetery of Recoleta, where it has remained until today. Based on those facts, there’s an outstanding short story by disappeared Argentine writer Rodolfo Walsh called Esa mujer; there’s Evita. La tumba sin paz, a successful and inspired documentary directed by Tristán Bauer and scripted by Miguel Bonasso that also exposes the history of Peronism; and Santa Evita, a remarkable book by Argentine writer Tomás Eloy Martínez, which imagines new stories regarding the corpse. And now there’s Eva no duerme (Eva Doesn’t Sleep), a pitiful fiction film by Pablo Agüero, currently running in the international competition of the Mar del Plata Film Festival and also commercially released today throughout the country. Agüero’s outing features archive footage and is divided into three episodes: El embalsamador (The Embalmer), El transportador (The Transporter) and El dictador (The Dictator), respectively devoted to Spanish anatomist Pedro Aria Sarria, Colonel Moori Koenig, and General Aramburu. Admiral Massera is the narrator of the overall film and is played by Gael García Bernal. Other members of the cast include Daniel Fanego, Denis Lavant, Imanol Arias, Ailin Salas, and Miguel Angel Solá — all of them good actors in a movie gone awry. For Eva Doesn’t Sleep attempts to be an insightful, aesthetically daring cinematic piece that reconstructs and re-imagines possible scenarios centred on Evita’s corpse. And it gets it all wrong. For starters, there’s an unbearably solemn tone that wants to be transcendental and yet it only sinks the film into dreadful monotony and artificiality — as an example, the voice over by Gael García Bernal, whom we only see in a few close-ups and nothing but, is a pain in the ears. Likewise, the pretentious dialogue accompanied by wooden acting enhances the general lack of verisimilitude. It’s true that the register is not meant to be realistic, but it’s not formally challenging or avant-garde either. In fact, it’s plainly risible and far from any kind of poetry. Let alone the deliberate heavily theatrical mise-en-scene that wants to be appealing and modern and only makes matters worse — we are certainly not talking about Derek Jarman’s Edward II, for instance. As far as the archive footage goes, let’s say there’s nothing new under the sun. This material is well known and does nothing for the sake of the story, neither in informative terms nor in stylistic ones — in fact, it crashes big time against the fictional stories. So why include it? To give the film an air of the time? To provide a historical context? Either way, it doesn’t make any sense. And then there’s the pacing. It wouldn’t be an overstatement to say that during Eva Doesn’t Sleep, you are bound to fall into a heavy stupor not long after the movie starts. And to think that the real life events have some much potential for a good movie, but for that you need a good script and a good director, two factors that are obviously missing here.
Gripping acting that steers clear of the artificial helps give realistic edge to Los hongos Points: 8 “To most people, the film title Los hongos (The Mushrooms) evokes a psychedelic imagery, filled with drugs and pleasure. But instead it’s a metaphor that literally refers to mushrooms: living beings that appear in extremely rotting contexts and decay. The mushrooms are the life that is born amidst death,” says filmmaker Oscar Ruiz Navia (El vuelco del cangrejo) about his second opus, a sensitive urban tale about youngsters for whom graffiti culture is both a means of expression and a place of belonging. In spite of the harsh environment they live in, these kids in their teens and 20s manage to grow as mushrooms do. Set in Cali, Colombia, Los hongos concerns Ras (Jovan Alexis Marquinez Angulo), a working-class black teen, and Calvin (Calvin Buenaventura Tascon), a middle-class fine arts student, who are two close friends who not only share a passion for graffiti culture but also a good dose of heartache. Ras has a prosaic and underpaid day job as a construction worker with less than friendly workmates, lives in near poverty with his mother and his only escape is painting graffiti at nights around Cali. As for Calvin, he’s having a hard time coping with his parents’ divorce, he may break up with his girlfriend and his grandmother has cancer. Nonetheless, they are both life-affirming, socially-aware fellows who dare struggle for their social and political ideals regardless of their often grim scenario. If the storyline sounds like the stuff depressing, downbeat drama is made of, fear no more. Los hongos is nothing like that. To begin with, it examines the daily routine of these two friends in a documentary-like style that strongly evokes realism. At the same time, it has a more impressionistic, poetic edge that takes the whole scenario to a different level. Such combination is hard to pull off, but for the most part Ruiz Navia manages to mix them seamlessly, in quite an organic manner. So you get to see spontaneous, enticing slices of life that make up minimal stories. But Los hongos is no fairy tale either. I’d say its tone lies somewhere between harsh realism and moderate optimism, depending on the sides of the story. Among other things, it’s the gripping performances, never picturesque or artificial, that make the film so dramatically assured. Likewise, the special, intimate moments captured by an alluring cinematography have an emotional resonance that goes beyond words and into the realm of the senses. Which doesn’t necessarily mean that you have a profound, existential work here. At times, Los hongos feels as if it just scratches the surface of its many possible topics. But I find that to be a minor drawback, if that, considering how many other things are well done. Production notes: Los hongos (Colombia/ Argentina/ France/ Germany, 2014) . Directed by Oscar Ruiz Navia. Written by Oscar Ruiz Navia, César Augusto Acevedo. With: Jovan Alexis Marquinez Angulo, Calvin Buenaventura Tascon, Gustavo Ruiz Montoya, Atala Estrada, Maria Elvira Solis, Dominique Tonnelier. Cinematography: Sofia Oggioni Hatty. Editing: Felipe Guerrero. Running time: 103 minutes.
Within the genocide perpetrated during the 1976-1983 military dictatorship, the Argentine Armed Forces carried out a systematic plan for the appropriation of minors, which pivoted on the implementation of improvised maternity wards inside clandestine detention centres. With barely the minimum medical assistance and facilities — and sometimes not even that — hundreds of babies were born and then illegally adopted by couples connected with the military. In this way, the babies’ true identity was erased and, in turn, the kidnapped mothers were disappeared. For they were no longer necessary: the war booty had already been snatched. The unflinching Argentine documentary La parte por el todo, written and directed by Gato Martínez Cantó, Santiago Nacif Cabrera and Roberto Persano, focuses on the stories of two grown-up men and one woman who, not that long ago, recovered their true identity. Like so many others, they were too snatched at birth and never met their parents. And today they speak-up to give their valuable testimonies and keep memory alive. This assured documentary mainly aims at raising awareness and making visible that which once was invisible. The dark stories of the past now turn into luminous experiences as the film’s protagonists share what they know, think and feel with courage and humbleness. Through these individual stories, Martínez Cantó, Cabrera and Persano deftly paint a canvas of larger dimensions, as is usually the case with this type of documentaries. It’s not only the particular case what matters, but also the universal. So the narrative smoothly switches back and forth between the two poles and such overlapping provides new angles to examine the whole scenario. Unlike so many other similar documentaries, La parte por el todo maintains a calm, reflexive tone from beginning to end and never becomes a belligerent piece of agit-prop. Though painful and harrowing, it doesn’t want to depress viewers and it never wallows in the pain it portrays. Think that some of the most anguishing scenes take place inside the real places where the infamous child birth and kidnappings took place. In addition, there are also fragments of the trials to the military, in which you can feel the ominous reality of it all. And no blows below the belt and no sentimentalism truly pay off for they stimulate viewers to think deeply about what they’re seeing instead of just experiencing a liberating catharsis. On the downside, La parte por el todo could have been more cinematic, meaning it could have taken advantage of the expressive quality of editing, cinematography and sound to create a personal set of aesthetics and to not rely so much on the spoken word or in conventionally predetermined molds. It could have gone some extra miles in search of a personal sense of style. But it’s also true that drawings and graphics used to illustrate parts of the stories are an asset and that what matters the most, that is to say the people’s stories, is effectively conveyed. Production notes La parte por el todo. Argentina, 2015. Written and directed by Gato Martínez Cantó , Santiago Nacif Cabrera, Roberto Persano. Cinematography: Emiliano Penelas. Editing: Omar Neri. Sound: Lucho Corti. Music: Teresa Parodi. Musical score and arrangements: Nora Sarmoria. Drawings and graphic design: Maxi Bearzi. Produced by Martínez Cantó - Nacif Cabrera – Persano. Running time: 72 minutes. Limited release.
There's something wrong with Paraguayan audiences if Luna de cigarras truly is the third most-seen local movie in the history of that country. Of course, you can blame it on the fact that Paraguay's film production is very, very scarce. There are quite a few auteur films, such as Paz Encina's remarkable Hamaca paraguaya (2006), but this type of films doesn't attract many viewers. Or perhaps it’s that the success of 7 cajas (2013), a rather well-crafted mainstream feature, has led viewers to believe that Luna de cigarras could do the trick again. But it doesn’t. For the truth is that Luna de cigarras is a flawed film from beginning to end — to say the least. The story goes pretty much like this: JD Flitner (Nathan Christopher Haase) is an US young man who arrives in Asunción to seal a dubious deal with El Brasiguayo, a powerful mobster. Yet Gatillo (Javier Enciso), El Brasiguayo’s righthand man, sees an opportunity to cashin on some money for himself and so he cheats both his boss and the US guy. Sooner rather than later, other local mobsters and thugs join the party and all hell breaks loose, as there’s always a high price to pay for betraying your comrades. First of all, Luna de cigarras intends to be several things at once and fails in every regard. It wants to be a black comedy mixed with a mobster movie with traces of situation comedy with wacky characters in offbeat situations. The characters are not even sketched and the actors overact all the time, as if that would help flesh out their roles — but some can barely act. Secondly, as regards the comedic parts, things don’t get any better. The black comedy edge is not black enough at all — it's actually not even grey. And the situation sequences are both predictable and little entertaining. So forget about laughing. To make matters worse, there’s an opening scene possibly meant to evoke the opening scene in Reservoir Dogs, but then it pales in comparison. And as this is also a mobster movie (a bad one), there are scattered action scenes with some shootouts that fail to turn violence into spectacle — lame FXs are not much help either. It’s as if the filmmaker had thought of making a movie with traits from these genres but forgot to actually create a gripping story. That's why you don’t care about the characters, what happens to them and where they end up in. As regards the plot itself, it’s very inconsequential too. So in the simplest terms: Luna de cigarras may be a well intentioned film seeking a place in an almost non-existent industry, but in spite of its box office gross intake it will certainly make no difference at all. Production notes: Luna de cigarras. Paraguay, 2014. Directed: by Jorge de Bedoya. Written by: Nathan Christopher Haase, Jorge de Bedoya. With: Lali Gonzalez, Nathan Christopher Haase, Andrea Quattrocchi, Víctor Sosa, Nico García, Hugo Cataldo, Nathalie Lange. Editing: Rodrigo Salomón. Cinematography: Nahuel Varela. Art direction: Osvaldo Ortiz Faiman. Produced by: Koreko Gua, Oima Films. Running time: 86 minutes. Limited release : BAMA, Arteplex Belgrano.
After endless years of fierce struggle against the Iranian government because of what his films show and say about Iran, award-winning director Jafar Panahi was arrested in 2010 and then charged with conspiring to create anti- Islamic propaganda. He was sentenced to six years in jail and a 20-year-ban on making cinema in any regard, giving interviews or leaving the country. However, while awaiting the result of an appeal, under house arrest and defying the prohibition, Panahi has already made three films. First came This Is Not a Film (2011), a thought-provoking video diary shot on a mobile-phone camera that turned censorship into art and was smuggled in a flash drive inside a cake from Iran to the Cannes Film Festival, where Panahi won the Carrosse d’Or. Then came Closed Curtain (2013), an angry blow for creative freedom and a wise mediation on fiction versus reality, which won the Silver Bear for Best Script at Berlin. And now it’s the turn of Taxi, a very clever move against Iranian censorship, an inspired take on the art of filmmaking, and the proud winner of the Golden Bear at this year’s Berlinale. You could say that Taxi portrays a simple day with a cab driver in Tehran. But the driver is no less than Panahi himself, supposedly disguised as a regular cabbie. He’s cleverly affixed many cameras inside the vehicle, the main one mounted on the dashboard, as he drives through the hot city streets. As the day goes by, this peculiar cabbie picks up different passengers: some of them seem to be strangers who instantly turn into non-professional actors, whiles others appear to be friends and relatives playing versions of themselves. Or perhaps the strangers play versions of themselves too and the friends and relatives play scripted characters. Or maybe there are some low-key professional actors too. Likewise, what they say many times sounds unscripted because of its spontaneity and naturality. Yet other times it sounds too to the point, that is to say written to be spoken — even if colloquially. In any case, you can never be that sure for once again Panahi masterfully toys with the boundary between what’s real and what’s not, between making a documentary and a fiction film, between reality and fiction at large. And once again he’s made one riveting movie that blends both realms seamlessly. Driving across Tehran as he tries to find his way around (he’s not what you’d call an experienced cabbie), Panahi talks about this and that with his passengers and other times they just talk among themselves. Yet soon small talk gives way to more relevant affairs. That is to say, Panahi cleverly engages his passengers into conversations about the issues he explored in previous movies for which he’s been convicted. But he’s not the one who does the talking, the passengers are. A man and a woman argue about the death penalty and political prisoners as the name of Ghoncheh Ghavami, the woman imprisoned for attending a volleyball game, comes up in a fiery conversation. Then a motorcycle accident victim is brought into the car by his weeping wife, and he has his last will filmed with a smart-phone so that his wife inherits his properties and won’t become an indigent in case he dies. Both segments are highly accomplished in dramatic terms. Video is brought to the fore again when an old friend of Panahi’s shows him a security video where a crime committed against him was recorded — and here comes a selfless intervention on the meaning of theft considering the context, which comes full circle at the brilliant ending of the film. Each tiny story in Taxi could account for a separate movie and so each hints with subtle and not so subtle references to previous works, be it The Circle, Crimson Gold, The White Balloon, Offside, or The Mirror. And this is when you feel like watching these movies all over again. The most elaborate and eloquent tale is that of Panahi’s niece Hana school project. A witty, talky and belligerent girl, Hana has to make a short film following some very specific guidelines that handed out by the teacher. Of course, such guidelines are nothing but mirrors of the government’s censorship rules. Yet she must make her movie no matter what and doesn’t want to flunk, so her uncle can’t help her. I mean, most of his films get banned. It’s best to not disclose here how she gets it done, so suffice to say that this is when a film within a film comes into being and distorting reality becomes an everyday exercise. With a reflexive tone and a mordant sense of humour, a relaxed attitude and a playful tone, but also with moments of despair, outrage and grief, Taxi is the kind of film bound to become an instant classic. Not only because of its astute and furious fight against censorship or its shrewd political and social commentary — though that alone would be more than enough — but also because its deceptively simple structure does actually contain many layers that speak of uncanny cinematic artistry. In this day and age of too many vacuous movies, that’s to be celebrated big time . Production notes Taxi. Iran, 2015. Written and directed by: Jafar Panahi. Cinematography, editing and sound: Jafar Panahi. Produced by Jafar Panahi Film Productions. Distributed by: CDI Films. Running time: 82 minutes. General release.
Let’s say it from the start: Salgán & Salgán is a beautiful film. You fully realize how honest, heart-warming and profound it is in the last 15 minutes. Up until then, you were probably seduced and enthralled by the music of Horacio Salgán, one of Argentina’s most accomplished musicians, who turned 99 years old last June. A pianist, composer, orchestra director, and arranger specializing in tango music, Horacio Salgán is nominally the protagonist of Caroline Neal’s documentary. And yet there are two Salgáns in the title, and that’s because the film is also about Horacio’s son César Salgán. Better said, it’s about their father-and-son bond, which was once interrupted for 18 years when they weren’t even on speaking terms. Horacio said it was because of “something” that to other people wouldn’t be that important — yet he doesn’t say what that “something” is. And the filmmaker doesn’t ask. In fact, Neal’s voice-over is only heard three or four times in the entire documentary and her words provide an insightful point of view on what’s on the screen. During the remaining screen time, what you notice is her assured, never intrusive direction displayed in the precious snippets of time and space her camera has captured. That is to say the moments that matter in the life of both Horacio and César. It wouldn’t be unfair to say that the father-and-son bond Horacio and César share has been built not without a good dose of conflict. César met his father as a child and saw him on TV. César’s parents were separated by then and once he grew up, he’d visit his father and listen to what he had to teach him about music. As César himself puts it, theirs was not the typical father-and-son relationship. If César had expected his father to take him for a walk in the park, then he would have waited in vain: as Horacio himself says, his is the world of music. He lives in the world of music and the other world, the real world, is left aside as much as possible. Which is not to say that Horacio is an extravagant man, an uncaring father, or an aloof individual. Quite the contrary: you can see that as he expresses his love to César in diverse ways that, at a glance, may not even be noticed. You can see how joyous he is as the filmmaker’s camera brings him forward in expressive close ups. You can see he is, in some ways, just a man with his share of flaws and virtues. As for César, he also had another life besides that of being a seasoned musician himself. He used to be into car racing: he loved the danger, the feeling of being on the edge. Just like his father’s, the son’s life has had much to be enriched with. As a musician, he sees himself as some kind of follower of his father. Perhaps he still needs to find out on his own how valuable he is as well, regardless his father. What Salgán & Salgán does best is creating a tale that first exists in the subtext of the most visible storyline, meaning that of Salgán the musician, and then it’s brought to the fore in an almost uncanny manner. So the underlying story that ends up becoming the main story, the one that matters and may move you to tears at the very end, has to do with no less than feeling that your father’s gaze has been placed on you for good. That your father sees you. That your father will be with you. And as for that father and son: divided they fall, united they stand. Moreover, Neal’s documentary eschews all traces of solemnity and desire for objectivity in favour of a nonchalant stance and trust in the subjectivity of deep feelings and contagious emotions. It doesn’t get much better than that. Production notes Salgán & Salgán (Argentina, 2015) Directed by Caroline Neal. Written by Alberto Muñoz y Caroline Neal. Cinematography: Caroline Neal, Sebastian Martinez, Diego Olmos. Editing: Caroline Neal. Music: Horacio y César Salgán, El Quinteto Real, La Gran Orquesta TangoVia Buenos Aires directed by César Salgán. Running time: 86 minutes.
“I wanted to explore her relationship with tango, an art from the past. I also wanted to draw a portrait of what being an independent artist means, which in her case implies not only self-management, but also choosing her own repertoire. And I also thought it was important to reflect upon the relations between the domestic and the professional, between money and art, between the public and the private,” says Juan Villegas (Sábado, Los suicidas, Ocio) about his new opus Victoria, a serene documentary on a poignant tango singer with an unforgettable voice. Victoria Morán is a 36-year-old tango singer (also a caring mother and a housekeeper) who’s chosen to put distance between her career and the spotlights of the media for over two decades now. As she says, she’s always been more of a bohemian in love with singing itself. Nonetheless, she’s released several albums and critics regard her as one of today’s most remarkable figures in popular music. Needless to say, she has a gorgeous voice that makes you tremble with mixed emotions from tip to toes. Yet now she needs and wants to have more exposure and more gigs — and for many reasons. She could certainly use the money, perhaps even a steady income, so that she can launch her albums with less difficulty. Or she could even fulfil one of her dreams: to open a tango bar. Under the precise eye of Juan Villegas, Victoria becomes an observational documentary that asks viewers to contemplate and listen carefully, not only to her unique singing but also to what she says about her longings, hardships, joys, and hopes for the future. Sometimes with an air of melancholy and a certain disguised sadness, other times with confidence and delight, Victoria allows her feelings to flow freely in her daily life. You see her as devoted singing teacher, or performing at a retirement home, or cooking meals in her homey kitchen, or just talking to her friends and neighbours. Since Victoria is not your usual documentary about a singer talking about her career, Victoria, the woman, soon becomes a nuanced persona — and Villegas surely knows how to elicit the best from her. With no explanatory voice over or journalistic questions and answers, little by little, you get to see Victoria in her daily life as is. On the minus side, the film deliberately lacks a strong dramatic drive, so to some viewers it may feel flat every now and then. Granted, there’s subtlety in the details apprehended, but don’t expect high and low points for there are few. Think of Victoria as a character study that goes for a low profile rather than big gestures.
Alejandro González Iñarritu’s Oscar-winning Birdman was most recently the film that grabbed all the attention for having been filmed in a single take (to be precise, there were a couple of digital tricks involved) and the gimmick proved to be successful, since the film’s value is not only in its form. Prior to that, you surely remember the impressive Russian Ark, which is an even better example considering Aleksandr Sokurov is the helmer of such elaborate piece. And way before that, Hitchcock was the father of movies in real time with his legendary The Rope (with its own tricks as well). And now there’s the German film Victoria, by Sebastian Schipper, which is not only a technical marvel but also a rather entertaining genre piece. Shot in a single take in real time, Schipper’s engaging film follows Victoria (Laia Acosta), a Spanish girl living in Berlin who has a penchant for electronic music and heavy partying. After dancing like crazy for hours at a hectic club, Victoria decides to go home but by chance she meets three friendly and tipsy German guys at the club’s exit. Out of the blue, they ask her to go have some more fun since, they say, the night is still young. To Victoria, who besides being a young spirit is also a cute flirt, the proposal seems interesting enough to give it a try. But little did she know that their night out held a secret: the four guys owe someone something and paying the debt is nothing short of dangerous. And that’s only the tip of the iceberg. Since Victoria pretty much hinges on surprise, the less you know about how the events unfold, the better it is for you to enjoy a highly kinetic cinematic experience that follows the title character at all times (literally) for 138 minutes and spanning across 22 locations across Berlin. And this time, no digital tricks are used at any time and the camera does not cut once — or so they claim. So suffice it to say that Schipper’s opus first goes for an apparently banal take on four guys and a girl who just want to have fun, but somewhere in the middle of the film, things take an abrupt change and you enter the realm of crime, thieves and police so expect robberies, chases, shoot-outs — the works. The impression of realism is well-achieved: it’s not difficult to feel you are there and to be impressed by the accumulation of unexpected events. More importantly, the performances are quite convincing, with the talented Acosta as Victoria in the first place. Needless to say, Victoria is the type of film that owes a lot to its cinematographer, Sturla Brandth Grøvlen, who certainly knows how to take full advantage, in narrative terms, of a technical experiment that could have just been a meaningless gimmick. Not that the story itself is extremely remarkable, but it’s more than decent enough to provide over two hours of solid entertainment. Production notes: Victoria (Germany, 2015). Directed by Sebastian Schipper. Written by Olivia Neergaard-Holm, Sebastian Schipper, Eike Frederik Schulz. With Laia Costa, Frederick Lau, Franz Rogowski, Burak Yigit, Max Mauff, André Hennicke, Anna Lena Klenke. Cinematography: Sturla Brandth Grøvlen. Editing: Olivia Neergaard-Holm. Running time: 140 minutes.
It’s amazing how little people know about the gypsy community, and yet there’s much prejudice. A great deal of the effort put in making this film went into gaining their trust, which is quite damaged due to centuries of persecution and slander. But once they understood my work was going to respectful, the doors to the house of the Campos family kindly opened up to me. So my film tries to be an intimate glimpse into an unknown reality,” says documentary maker Tomás Lipgot (Fortalezas, Ricardo Becher recta final, Moacir, El árbol de la muralla) about his new opus Vergüenza y respeto, a close look at the gypsy community in Argentina. As the Campos family speaks about its cultural traditions, laws, rules and principles, little by little a picture of them widens and comes into focus. Through the prism of that family, Lipgot projects a social panorama that is as attractive as it is colourful. Just like in Lipgot’s previous documentaries, the interviewees speak candidly to the camera, with a lot of spontaneity and also self-assurance. Lipgot has always succeeded in instilling a feeling of immediacy between his subjects and viewers, and Vergüenza y respeto is no exception. Nothing ever feels staged, nobody ever seems to be posing for the camera. Vergüenza y respeto is also very informative as it not only addresses general questions regarding how the gypsy community is organized and functions, but also more particular ones that have to do with private matters. And while Lipgot doesn’t question or judge the nature of the community in any of its traits, some of their contradictions and resulting conflicts arise by themselves. And so you get a more nuanced portrayal. On the minus side, the narrative itself runs into trouble more often than not. It needs a stronger focus and some kind of dramatic structure to tell the tale. It’s not what it is told, but how it is told. As is, you have a long series of testimonies and daily life scenes that fail to gain momentum, many times eclipsing one another, and tending to feel disjointed. It’s too much material and it needs to be sorted out — more editing would be a plus — in a more articulate manner. If not, tediousness due to accumulation takes over the film from time to time. Production notes Vergüenza y respeto (Argentina, 2015). Written and directed by Tomás Lipgot. Cinematography: Nicolás Richat. Editing: Leandro Tolchinsky. Running time: 81 minutes.
Truman, the new film by Spanish filmmaker Cesc Gay (Una pistola en cada mano, Ficció, En la ciudad) tells a far from original story, the kind of story that, with some variations, has been told endless times by filmmakers from all over. Yet, what makes Gay's feature singularly enticing is the sensibility and care he uses to approach the main issues. Handled by less talented directors, Truman would have certainly been just one more tearjerker. And while there's nothing wrong with a good tearjerker, truth is, not many melodramas excel as such. So moving away from the terrain of melodrama and venturing into that of drama filled with genuine sentiment, Truman tells the story of Julián (Ricardo Darín) an Argentine stage actor in his mid fifties who has been living in Madrid for a long time. He’s been diagnosed with cancer and while at first the illness is somehow controlled, it then spreads and becomes terminal. But Julián is not the depressive type, so you won’t see him crying and cursing desperately all day long. At the same time, he's not willing to wait for the disease to finish him off in the worst possible way. He decides to quit all medical treatments, go on with his life as best as he can until the arrival of death, to make it as painless as possible under the circumstances. He seems to have only one chief worry: finding a new master for Truman, an old dog he's lived with for years. In fact, he loves him so much that the prospect of leaving him with new people is sometimes too painful to endure. He is aided by Tomás (Javier Cámara), his best friend, a university lecturer living in Canada. Tomás flies to Madrid to spend time with Julián. To be more precise, Tomás wants to convince Julián to not give up the medical treatment, which is very unlikely to happen. So what first strikes one the most about Truman, the film, is the restrained, non-manipulative tone with which the story is narrated. Which doesn’t mean that Gay’s film is aloof and detached. After all, an upcoming death is both visceral and stirring. Instead, emotions and feelings do take centre stage, all the more so when they seem to be contradictory, and you are bound to be moved by every single thing that transpires on the road before the long goodbye. But you will be moved in a legitimate, humanistic way, with no unnecessary punches. At times, restrained feelings give way to emotional outbursts and heated conversations, which not always end that well. However, it's all part of the rites of passage involved in an unsolvable conflict. In this regard, Truman, the dog, can be seen as a symbol of letting go. No wonder why no prospective new owners seem suitable to Julián. He has to find the right person to bestow one of the beings he loves the most. A minor subplot involves Julián’s son, and this also proves quite relevant, smartly intertwined in the whole affair. By the way, there's also room for humour and even comic relief. For Truman is not a film that relies on solemnity, but on dignity and humanism. production notesTruman. Argentina / Spain, 2015. Written by: Cesc Gay and Tomás Aragay.Directed: by Cesc Gay. With: Ricardo Darín, Javier Cámara, Dolores Fonzi, Eduard Fernández, Pedro Casablanc, José Luis Gómez. Cinematography: Andreu Rebés. Editing: Pablo Barbieri. Sound : Jesica Suárez. Produced by BDCine and K&S. NR. Running time: 108 minutes. Production notes Truman. Argentina / Spain, 2015. Written by: Cesc Gay and Tomás Aragay.Directed: by Cesc Gay. With: Ricardo Darín, Javier Cámara, Dolores Fonzi, Eduard Fernández, Pedro Casablanc, José Luis Gómez. Cinematography: Andreu Rebés. Editing: Pablo Barbieri. Sound : Jesica Suárez. Produced by BDCine and K&S. NR. Running time: 108 minutes.