It is the social and moral point of view of director Santiago Mitre’s award-winning film La patota what turns the protagonist, a victim of rape, into someone who goes beyond commonly established notions of crime and justice. In spite of having suffered an enormous degree of violence, Mitre’s strong heroine believes that said violence should not be used as a response to crime. Paulina (Dolores Fonzi) is a socially aware young lawyer with a flourishing practice and an even more promising law career. Her father, Fernando (Oscar Martínez) is a renowned judge who cares deeply for her and wants her to have a highly-rank position in the law profession. It would seem that father and daughter had always agreed on how she was to develop her career, but now an unexpected change of plans has taken place. Paulina wants to quit both the Ph.D. she’s pursuing and her practice in order to become a rural school teacher in the outskirts of Posadas, the city where she was born, near the Paraguay-Brazil border in the province of Misiones. To her, teaching destitute students would mean making a true commitment in a manner she finds more tangible and down to earth. However, her father finds it to be a rather naive hippie-like fantasy and tries to convince her through any means not to do so. Even so, Paulina’s strong wilfulness and self-assurance prevail. So she travels to Posadas to take up the position as rural teacher and starts with her lessons on citizenship issues and politics right away — despite her students’ hostility and apathy. But she won’t give up easily. Eventually, she befriends a colleague, Laura (Laura López Moyano) with whom she spends time after work. One night, after meeting Laura, Paulina returns home on a motorbike and, all of a sudden, she’s ambushed and attacked by a gang of five youths. And one of them rapes her. From then on, La patota unfolds in an unsettling and daring manner that will surely prove very thought-provoking to viewers. For starters, Paulina turns into the exact opposite of the usual victim of an assault, because not long after the rape, she resolutely goes back to work — although her father and an old boyfriend don’t want her to — and ultimately starts to realize that her attackers, whom she actually didn’t see that clearly, might actually be students in her class — except for the one who actually raped her. Furthermore, she also decides not to identify them once the police have arrested them thanks to her father’s somewhat unlawful intervention. As is well known, Santiago Mitre’s La patota is a remake of the 1960 Argentine classic of the same name, directed by Daniel Tinayre and starring local diva Mirtha Legrand. And while a number of elements have been changed, you could say that this new version has preserved quite a bit of the essence of the original. More to the point, Mitre’s film set tongues wagging during its presentation at the Cannes Film Festival earlier this year, where it snatched the top prize of the Critics Week sidebar and a FIPRESCI award for the parallel sections. The lead character in Mitre’s remake, now embodied in a riveting performance by Dolores Fonzi, comes across as a very singular person that would rather seek the truth — meaning perhaps why she was raped — and deal with the attack in a way that is perplexing to those around her. She’s not to hand them to forces of law and order. As she puts it: “When the poor are involved, justice would rather look for the guilty parties than for the truth”, to which she adds: “What happened to me is the result of a world that creates nothing but violence.” And it’s not that she’s a liberal bleeding heart, for her convictions come out of a far more profound place. Following Paulina’s line of thought, just because the attackers are poor and outcasts, they have almost no chance of getting a fair trial — in fact, when she’s asked to identify them, it is plainly clear they had already been beaten up by the police. And this is when La patota is to be understood more in allegorical terms than literal ones. As is the case with Les fils, by the Dardenne brothers — which, according to Mitre, is one of the films he took as a reference to approach Paulina’s ordeal — La patota doesn’t ask viewers to empathize or necessarily understand the reasons why she does what she does. In allegorical terms, their decisions can be representative of a human understanding of conflicts that are rooted in far more complex stances where politics, social injustice, a biased legal system and brutality mingle to ill-fated effect. It’s not about forgiveness and redemption either — as the original version was. That would’ve been too easy to digest. In fact, some of Paulina’s thoughts and beliefs are clearly enunciated, but most of what goes on inside her remains inscrutable. That’s why La patota is the type of film that doesn’t give any answers, but instead poses questions that are hard to answer — and I mean that in a good way. Like Mitre’s previous films, El estudiante and Los posibles, his new outing is extremely well shot in all regards, from cinematography to sound design, from the mise-en-scene to the editing. And the narrative structure that goes back and forth in time as it alternates points of view is an achievement that surely adds to the overall intrigue of one compelling feature. Production notes La patota / Paulina (Argentina, 2015). Directed by Santiago Mitre. Written by Santiago Mitre, Mariano Llinás, based on the film La Patota, written by Eduardo Borras, directed by Daniel Tinayre. With Dolores Fonzi, Cristian Salguero, Esteban Lamothe, Oscar Martínez, Verónica Llinás, Laura Lopez Moyano. Cinematography: Gustavo Biazzi. Editing: Delfina Castagnino, Leandro Aste, Joana Collier. Running time: 103 minutes.
“The Michel-Sarrazin home hosts people with terminal cancer. The access and care are free for all. The death of the patient generally takes place within three weeks of admission,” read these three succinct sentences written in white letters on a black frame at the beginning of Des Adieux (The Goodbyes), a most sensitive documentary directed by renowned Canadian filmmaker Carole Laganière and produced and photographed by Argentine documentary maker/cinematographer Franca González. After reading the introductory statements, you might think you are going to see a depressing feature that will expose suffering and death in equal doses. And whereas both suffering and death are, of course, present in the film, nothing could be farther from your guess. First and foremost, Des Adieux is a serene, luminous film despite the harshness of the reality it depicts. It’s the kind of respectful work that stays in your heart in a very profound way. Yes, it’s a painful film to watch. However, it’s not about pain. Instead, it’s about loving care and accompanying your loved ones in their last days before the long goodbye. Because the Michel-Sarrazin home is a place where people go to die. As simple — and as complex — as that. In order to eschew the iciness and automatism of a hospital or the loneliness of a home with no people in it, patients go to Michel-Sarrazin to die in a dignified way. That is to say, with their loved ones surrounding them, with the kind attention of compassionate nurses, in a peaceful environment. But make no mistake: this is certainly not about turning death into a trauma-free experience (which is impossible by all accounts), but about making it less excruciating, as simple — and as complex — as that. Above all, it means not being alone at the end of the line. The experience of watching Des Adieux is not an easy one. It shouldn’t be. But since Laganière’s perceptive gaze is focused on the last rites of life before death arrives, then you won’t find a gloomy work here either. In a very intimate and almost invisible manner, González’s insightful camera observers some moments in the days and nights of a handful of patients. It records some apparently unimportant instants — a woman has her hair done by a kind hairdresser, another one smokes some cigarettes as she talks to relatives out in the garden, an old man confesses he feels quite lonely at home so he’d rather be with his ill wife at all times — which are indeed quite significant for they are imbued with absolute affection for each other. With neither a single blow below the belt nor a hint of melodrama (this is not Hollywood, after all), narrated along a meditative and introspective tone, with enough restraint yet also with much feelings, Des Adieux is a film to be remembered for its unusual mix of intelligence and sensitivity in addressing a most delicate issue for us all. Production notes Des Adieux (Canada, Argentina, 2015). Directed by Carole Laganière. Cinematography: Franca González. Editing: Aube Foglia, Arianne Petel-Despots. Running time: 63 minutes.
Based on the bestselling book by Lars Saabye Christensen, Beatles, by Swedish director Peter Flinth, is the kind of film that, as soon as you start watching, you feel you’ve seen it many times before. It tells the story of four teens growing up in Oslo in the 1960s who are, of course, spellbound by the Beatles. So much so that they are crazy about starting a band that will give them an identity as well as a tribute to the English musicians — or something like that, it’s never quite clear. One of them, Kim, bears a slight resemblance to Paul McCartney and is also struggling to find his own voice — and I don’t mean in musical terms, but rather in existential ones. Paradoxically enough, the search for an identity that both the kids’ band and Kim long for is also what the film doesn’t have. That is to say, a personality. Beatles is a generic movie from beginning to end, and it relies on a screenplay that never breaks new ground — actually it doesn’t even try to do so. Worst of all, director Flinth can’t get the formula right either — and it’s not a hard formula to pull off. So what you get is a gallery of underwritten characters involved in just another coming of age story. To be fair, Kim is the only one who is sketched to a certain degree whereas the others simply have no distinguishing traits of any kind. They are just there, executing trite actions provided in the screenplay. And whereas the actors are charismatic, there’s only so much they can do. Of course, there’s a love story between Kim and a pretty girl, a carnal affair between another one of the kids and a much older woman, occasional vignettes depicting the everyday episodes youngsters go through at home and at school, and some confrontations here and there. On second thought, the well-executed musical score and the somewhat atmospheric cinematography maybe the only alluring elements. Now, why films that are so predictable from the very moment the screenplay is written are then made still eludes me. In this particular case, there could only be one good reason to make it: to render a film version of an extremely popular book. So you could say that as it happens with many literary adaptations, the result is nothing to write home about. Production notes Beatles (Norway, 2014). Directed by Peter Flinth. Written by Axel Hellstenius, based on the novel by Lars Saabie Christensen. With Louis Williams, Håvard Jackwitz, Ole Nicolai Mylold Jorgensen, Havor Tangen Schultz. Cinematography: Philippe Kress. Editing: Vidar Flataukan. Music: Magne Furuholmen. Running time: 107 minutes.
Yun Jin (Yunseon Kim) is a cute Korean girl with a dominant and conservative father who has arranged her imminent marriage to a friend’s son. Little does he know that Yun Jin is flirting with an Argentine young man behind his back, even if she has to marry someone she’s not in love with. Huang (Ignacio Huang) is a Taiwanese young man who lives on his own and works the nightshift making bootleg movie DVDs. Bruno (Limbert Ticona) is a 17-year-old Bolivian teen who’s just arrived in Argentina and is going to work alongside his uncle (Percy Jiménez) as a waiter at a two-bit restaurant. These three distinctive characters are the protagonists of minimal stories anchored in the everyday life and taking place in a common setting: La Salada, the world’s largest street market on the outskirts of Buenos Aires, and, most importantly, a place where immigrants of different nationalities trade all kinds of goods at very affordable prices, mainly because most of the merchandise is counterfeit. Winner of the Film in Progress award at the San Sebastián Film Festival, La Salada, written and directed by Juan Martín Hsu, an Argentine born into a family of Taiwanese immigrants, is neither a documentary nor a fiction film, but a smart work that blurs the frontiers dividing both formats — a rich trend explored by different filmmakers in this last decade. So except for a few supporting characters, the rest of the roles are most convincingly performed by non-professional actors who indeed work at La Salada, but do not necessarily play themselves at all. In fact, the vignettes that make up their respective stories are directly drawn from real life, but from other people’s experiences. The chief merit of La Salada, the film, is not only candidly exposing a multicoloured panorama with its many diverse singularities, but to capture and convey the atmosphere of uprooting, melancholy and loneliness that the characters inhabit. Even if they are not physically alone, as is the case with Yun Jin — who’s accompanied by her businessman father — they seem to have nobody to share their deepest emotions with. In a very existential sense, they seem to drift through life rather than sink their teeth into it. In fact, Yun Jin hides her feelings for the Argentine guy from her own father, and sometimes even from herself — and so goes ahead with the arranged marriage. Huang’s telephone conversations with his mother who lives in Taiwan are limited to exchanging a couple of sentences, one of the woman’s questions always being: “Have you found a girlfriend yet?” He hasn’t, despite how much he tries. And he won’t tell his mother how lonely he feels. In turn, Bruno has better luck at making contact with another Latin American girl at a local dance. This time, there are warm caresses and sweet kisses. Yet he is estranged from his family and is a clumsy waiter soon disliked by his boss. With no stridence, in a low-key manner, slices of life transpire here and there, and you get to observe it all as an unobtrusive, fortunate witness. Because the kind of camerawork displayed in La Salada is both crystal clear and inconspicuous, it follows the characters from the right distance, neither too close to overwhelm viewers nor too distant to make them feel detached. A discreet distance with a good deal of sentiment, if you will. Production notes La salada (Argentina, 2014). Written and directed by Juan Martín Hsu. With Ignacio Huang, Yunseon Kim, Chang Sun Kim, Nicolás Mateo, Mimí Ardú. Cinematography: Tebbe Schoening. Editing: Ana Remón. Running time: 92 minutes.
Cielo (Eugenia Suárez) is a gorgeous 17-year-old girl who shares some common traits with other teens of her age: she doesn’t get along with her parents (Gloria Carrá and Rafael Spregelburd), she’s not what you’d call outgoing, she only has one friend at school, and most recently she’s been spending a lot time on Internet chat rooms. On a given night, she meets Alejo (Esteban Lamothe), who is 10 years older and a smooth talker. No wonder Cielo falls for him almost instantly. He is also very drawn to her, but actually never falls in love. To him, it’s just another pleasurable affair — with an expiration date. So when he stops answering the phone and dodges her calls, or when he shows up only to spend very little time with her, Cielo starts stalking him day and night, by phone but also in person. Since she doesn’t get as much attention as she craves, the teenager becomes more and more obsessive and it doesn’t take long until she stops eating. Or better said, she eats as little as possible and then secretly throws up. Yes, she’s turned into a true anorexic, which she sees as a proud identity. She firmly believes that now Alejo will come back to her. However, the sad truth is it’s only a matter of time until she hits rock bottom. One of the most notable traits of Abzurdah, the new film by Argentine filmmaker Daniela Goggi (Vísperas), is that is has a ring of truth to the material it presents, which is by no means easy stuff. And I don’t mean only the events associated directly with anorexia — the progressive resistance to eat, the secret escapes, the web profile to contact other proud (and not so proud) anorexic girls — but the entire love affair, both fanatical and compulsive, as well as the different facets of Cielo’s conflictive personality. Given the overall scenario, which of course includes a huge need of approval, it’s not hard to see why to Cielo you can’t ever be skinny enough. Suárez, a newcomer to the film arena, does quite a good job as Cielo, which sometimes overshadows seasoned Lamothe — or perhaps it is that his character, unlike hers, needs a bit more development. In any case, the two lovers as a couple still work out. As for the girl’s suffering, sometimes it’s almost tangible. Smartly enough, Goggi has opted not to create a charismatic, saintly character, but one that can be aggressive, aloof, and certainly unkind. Fortunately, she’s not your usual damsel in distress, but an average teen in deep trouble. Narrated as a confessional personal diary, Abzurdah covers plenty of ground in little time, which sometimes results in too panoramic a view. Perhaps a stronger focus on some key issues would have made it more gripping. But the biggest drawback is the speedy, uplifting ending which feels as a way to comfort viewers instead of exposing them to the hardships and pain of recovery. An abrupt ending that takes away much of the anguish felt throughout most of the film is not the best of choices. Production notes Abzurdah (Argentina, 2015). Directed by Daniela Goggi. Written by Alberto Rojas Apel based upon the novel of the same name by Cielo Latini. With Eugenia Suárez, Esteban Lamothe, Gloria Carrá, Rafael Spregelburd, Paula Kohan. Cinematography: Sol Lopatín. Editing: Alberto Ponce. Running time: 90 minutes.
Kevin Greutert’s Jessabelle tells the story of a luminous 26-year-old woman, in love and pregnant, who suffers a horrifying car accident in which her unborn child and boyfriend die whereas she becomes momentarily wheelchair-bound. Alone and flat-broke, Jessabelle (Sarah Snook) returns to her childhood home in Louisiana, to live with her father (David Andrews), whom she hasn’t seen in years. He is an emotionally detached drunkard with whom the sweet natured Jessabelle fails to connect, yet she cares deeply for him. After all, the man had a tough life: his wife was diagnosed with cancer while pregnant with Jessabelle, and died in agony right after giving birth. In the lonely nights in her old Victorian home, Jessabelle discovers a box with her name that has VHS tapes from 1987 where her long-deceased mother (Joelle Carter) gives her some creepy Tarot readings and warns her about an unwanted dangerous female presence in the house. Worse even: she predicts her death too. Editor of five Saw films and director of part 6 and part 7, Kevin Greutert is certainly not dealing with torture porn here, but with good old classical tension and suspense in the vein of the supernatural. He doesn’t rely on brutal shocks, but on eerie atmosphere. But he doesn’t get it quite right on any level. To be honest, Saw 6 and Saw 7 excel more on their own right than Jessabelle in its category. Granted, it doesn’t take much to pull off a decent Saw movie, but still. On the one hand, the characters are meant to have some dramatic weight and genuine relevance, but as it’s the case with so many recent horror movies (take Poltergeist or Ouija), the characters in Jessabelle are nothing but lazily revived clichés. We are asked to care for Jessabelle and her suffering and despite the somewhat convincing performance by Aussie Sarah Snook, she amounts to little more than being a generic scream queen chased and attacked by one tireless ghost. Plus the scary parts are not that scary at all. After all, a deafening sound design doesn’t necessarily provoke fear. And a menacing ambiance means more than a nervous camera among shadows and silhouettes. On the other hand, Jessabelle’s story relies almost solely on a common narrative gimmick: as more and more occurrences and episodes take place almost throughout the entire movie, you think you are getting to see the whole picture, that is, little by little. But just at the very, very end, essential facts are hastily and conveniently tossed into play, and now you realize you were a fool because you were reading the story wrong from the start. For Jessabelle wants to leave you speechless. But if you’ve seen your fair number of horror movies, it just won’t do the trick. In fact, if the story of Jessabelle, the girl, had been properly fleshed out with meaty characters and an overall truly ominous atmosphere, and the effect of the last-minute-turn-of-the-screw had been downplayed, then the film would have stood a chance at being both frightening and ghostly. As is, it’s just more of the same. Production notes: Jessabelle (US, 2014). Directed by Kevin Greutert. Written by Robert Ben Garant. With Sarah Snook, Mark Webber, David Andrews, Joelle Carter. Cinematography: Michael Fimognari. Editing: Kevin Greutert. Running time: 90 min
Norwegian cinematographer and director Erik Poppe's fourth feature film, A Thousand Times Goodnight, is inspired by his personal experiences as a war photographer, and this is his first English-language film. Shot on locations in Morocco, Ireland, Kenya and Afghanistan, it spins the tale of Rebecca (J uliette Binoche), a famous war photographer who lives in Ireland with her husband, Marcus (Nikolaj Coster-Waldau), a marine biologist, and their two daughters, Steph (Lauryn Canny) and Lisa (Adrianna Cramer Curtis). As you'd expect, being a war-photographer, Rebecca's life is constantly endangered, and her everlasting commitment to show the world what’s happening to the poor, the war victims and their grieving makes her job all the more dangerous. After an assignment gone awry in Kabul, Afghanistan, where she photographed female suicide bombers, Rebecca comes back home with more than a couple of injuries. Rightfully so, Marcus feels he can’t take it any longer. It’s not only a matter of her safety — she's also neglecting her maternal duties. What is Rebecca to do? Will she choose family over work? Such a decision is surely bound to tear her apart. When a socially and politically conscious feature is filled with overwhelmingly sentimental incidental music, pristine and glossy cinematography, one-dimensional characters, trite shocking imagery, enlightened verbal exchanges on the nature of power and war, and a downright didactic gaze from beginning to end, you are entitled to fear the worst. Let alone a melodramatic sugarcoat to touch very undemanding viewers when showing the pain of others. So let's just say it: A Thousand Times Goodnight is one dumb movie. It may be annoying to some, but I just found it bluntly stupid. It's only fair to point out that Juliette Binoche doesn’t do a bad job as the heroic photographer, but there’s only so much an actor can do when a character is so predictably overworked. After all, actors are not miracle workers. As for the remaining actors’ performances, they are simply forgettable, just like their characters. As is the case with the recently released Trash, by Stephen Daldry, A Thousand Times Goodnight addresses excruciatingly complex issues in such a reductionist way that you cannot but feel a little insulted. That is, if your intention was to take it seriously.
Argentine director Luis Fontal’s Congreso is, first and foremost, a half-cooked film. It hinges on a very simple premise: three male friends invite women friends to the apartment they share in the BA neighbourhood of Congreso to a small party meant to turn into a night to remember. Which it does, but for the wrong reasons. Nicolás (Ezequiel Tronconi), his cousin Gonzalo (Matías Dinardo), and Germán (Maximiliano Zago), a friend of Nicolás’ who has just split up with his girlfriend, decorate the flat in Mexican style to welcome three beauties who just want to have fun. But they forget to play it fair, as agreed and expected. By the time the party is over, things have certainly changed, and not for the better. What basically makes Congreso a half-cooked film is mostly its underwritten script, let alone the thin female characters. Whereas it’s perfectly fine to rely on types rather than fleshed out characters — many successful dramatic comedies go for it — it’s equally true that types have to be somewhat singular in a few respects. Otherwise, they just won’t stand out from the crowd. And in Congreso they don’t. On the other hand, what transpires in this meant-to-be steamy night is also as generic as it gets — a friend hooks up with the girl his friend likes, inhibited personalities become extroverted, initial rejection turns into attraction — so no matter how much fun the characters are supposed to be having, it doesn’t come across as authentic but rather rehearsed for the camera. Even though a couple of the performances — particularly those of Ezequiel Tronconi and Matías Dinardo — feel believable enough. It all pretty much boils down to the fact that even safe and sound formula calls for a degree of innovation and surprise in order to avoid delivering a feature that may have some assets — an affable sense of humour, for instance. Yet it ultimately fails to get right the meaty parts as you’d expect. Undoubtedly made with the best intentions, Congreso is in need of more heavy work, and some polishing as well. Limited release Thursday, Friday and Sunday at 8pm. Saturday at 10pm. At Centro Cultural San Martín (Sarmiento 1551). Production notes Congreso (Argentina, 2014). Directed by Luis Fontal. Written by Luis Fontal and Ezequiel Tronconi. With Ezequiel Tronconi, Matías Dinardo, Sabrina Macchi, Maximiliano Zago, Florencia Benítez, Agustina Quinci. Cinematography: Camilo Marzano. Editing: Lourdes Miere. Running time: 85 minutes.
Juan Schnitman’s El Incendio offers a mature look at the destructive nature of love The dynamics of young couples have always been rich material for filmmakers interested in the connections made and missed between lovers, in what pushes them together and what pulls them apart. And just like finding your soul mate can often be a blessing, saying goodbye to love is always painful. As a perfect case in point, El incendio (The Fire), the first solo feature by Argentine Juan Schnitman (co-director of El amor primera parte), chronicles 24 hours in the life of Lucía (Pilar Gamboa) and Marcelo (Juan Barberini), both in their thirties and painfully falling out of love. At the exact time when Lucía and Marcelo intend to move from the apartment they rent to the one they are about to buy, the business transaction has to be postponed due to an unforeseen complication. So the money they’d taken out of the bank must now be hidden in the rented apartment until the next day. Needless to say, this unusual situation brews a lot of tension and anxiety, which in a matter of a few hours will end up revealing how much discontent and unsolved conflicts the young couple had managed to bury for a long time — which they can’t do any longer. A strong dramatic pillar in El incendio is how seasoned actors Pilar Gamboa and Juan Barberini play the two lovers with enormous confidence, as they eschew clichés, utilize precise body language, and go for emotional truth rather than empty dramatical tricks. Each of them swiftly embodies the explosive traits of their characters, who once were understanding but are now hostile, very kind in the past but quite unreceptive today. But it’s not only that their individual performances are true to life (Gamboa’s, is in fact, stunning), but most importantly they look and sound like a real life couple sunk into a deep crisis. As this intimate drama unfolds, its unseen layers, escalating aggressions and verbal darts, open up old wounds and create new ones. Lucía and Marcelo know how to hurt each other and they do so, but they have no clue how to recover their lost love and if such a feat were even possible. And there’s also a ferocious sex scene that works efficiently as yet another way these lovers have to inflict pain on each other. Or perhaps it’s just blinding lust, the kind they hadn’t experienced in years. With an austere mise-en-scene with nothing but the bare essentials, perfectly executed editing to express the nerve-wracking chaos, and long takes with an unobtrusive hand-held camera capturing the unbearable tension, Juan Schnitman creates a recognizable, most unfriendly environment for his couple to live in during 24 long hours. A mature look at how fragile and destructive sentimental liaisons are, El incendio is the work a young auteur who knows what he’s doing — and better yet, who knows how to do it right. Production notes El incendio (Argentina, 2015). Directed by Juan Schnitman. Written by Agustina Liendo, based on a story by Juan Schnitman. With Pilar Gamboa, Juan Barberini. Cinematography: Soledad Rodríguez. Editing: Andrés Pepe Estrada. Running time: 95 minutes.
Veteran Carlos Saura’s foray into the work of local artists merely a recording with little insight You will probably like Carlos Sauras’ new film Zonda, folclore argentino just as much as you like Argentine folklore. It’s advertised as a musical, but it would more accurate to think of it as a showcase of high profile folklore musical numbers executed by renowned local dancers and musicians, from Soledad Pastorutti, Lito Vitale and Pedro Aznar to Liliana Herrero, Luis Salinas and Jairo, from the Ballet Nuevo Arte Nativo de Koki & Pajarín Saavedra, Jaime Torres, and Juan Falú, to Chaqueño Palavecino, Peteco Carabajal and the Orquesta Popular los Amigos del Chango — among many others. And, of course, all the musical numbers are deftly executed, no matter who the artist is. So you will get more than just a sample of assorted pieces: baguala, zamba, chacarera doble, chacarera with piano, zamba alegre, peña cuyana, and so forth. Each presentation takes place on a stage with minimum set design — if any. For the most part, the camera is static and placed right in front of the stage, so you get to see it all as though you were sitting in a theatre. Medium shots and close-ups are used to film the musicians and dancers, and to a lesser degree, large shots give you an idea of the overall picture. There are also back projection panels, in which, for instance, there are photographs and clips of Mercedes Sosa at a concert. As regards the lighting, most of the times it is functional to the spectacle, that is to say it allows viewers to see the artists with no shadows and highlights, but rather under the same overall lighting. There are, of course, some exceptions. But all in all, all numbers look pretty much the same. So Zonda is, first and foremost, a filmed version of a showcase of top notch folklore numbers. But it’s hardly a cinematic piece. Saura has chosen to do exactly the opposite of what other filmmakers have done when faced with a similar undertaking: think of Argentine Santiago Mitre and his film Los posibles, which focused on musical numbers choreographed by Juan Onofri Barbato and executed by a group of dancers from Casa Joven La Salle; or Win Wenders’ Pina, where the veteran director filmed the dance of legendary Pina Bausch; or Argentine Leonardo Favio with his ballet in Aniceto, a remake of one of his most popular films, El romance del Aniceto y la Francisca. In the cases of Mitre, Favio and Wenders, true cinematic gems emerged. Camerawork as well as photography were used in narrative ways to express the nature of the dance and the music — they are in constant dialogue with the material, they become a part of the spectacle and modify it through their active presence. In these cases, it’s never about just filming the show, but about recreating it and reshaping it. Thanks to these directors’ cinematic approaches, the art of dance is resignified. But Zonda never attempts to do so. Because it’s easier — and far less appealing — to just record the show in a somewhat largely formulaic manner that allows for no insights. Just like he did with Tango and Flamenco, Saura is no longer interested in making films, but rather in merely filming artistic presentations in the same way any somewhat competent director without a trademark would. And that’s about it. Production notes Zonda, folclore argentino (Argentina/Spain/France, 2015). Directed by Carlos Saura. With Soledad Pastorutti, Lito Vitale, Pedro Aznar, Liliana Herrero, Luis Salinas, Jairo, Ballet Nuevo Arte Nativo de Koki & Pajarín Saavedra, Jaime Torres, Juan Falú, Chaqueño Palavecino. Cinematography: Felix "Chango" Monti. Editing: César Custodio, Iara Rodriguez Vilardebó. Running time: 85 minutes.