There’s a recurring trait found in too many local documentaries of the last few years: despite the rich material they focus on, the film itself doesn’t do full justice to its potential. In the case of Las aspas del molino, written and directed by Daniel Espinoza García, the main problem is a somewhat loose narrative which has a hard time at eliciting deep notions about its theme. That and a certain lack of dramatic progression turn it into a descriptive feature rather than an explorative one. It’s a film about the history and stories, past and present, associated to the traditional and once-thriving Confitería El Molino, a landmark in the cultural and architectural life of Buenos Aires, which was shut down in 1997, the same year it was declared a National Historic Monument and exactly 80 years after it was created by Italian architect Francisco Gianotti. Located on the corner of Callao and Rivadavia, in front of the National Congress, the Confitería El Molino is a superb example of the best Art Nouveau — its decorative windmill sails can be seen from a mile away. It used to be a very popular meeting point for highly renowned cultural and political figures. Among the many visitors were politician Lisandro de la Torre, actresses Niní Marshall and Libertad Lamarque, singer Madonna, tango legend Carlos Gardel and equally legendary Peronist leader Eva Perón too. Plus many ordinary porteños as well. Since it was shut down, both the building and the coffee shop have been in very bad shape. Neither the private owners nor any public administration have been truly interested in making it shine once again. Judging from the facts and testimonies in Las aspas del molino, the scenario would be the exact opposite. And even though it’s illegal, some apartments in the building are out for rent today. In fact, the filmmaker himself used to live in one when he first came to Buenos Aires from Chile to go to film school here. Now some other students live there with modest means. In stark contrast, a posh old lady in a very lavish apartment also inhabits the famous building. The filmmaker provides interesting testimonies, particularly those of an architect and a philosopher. To a certain degree, their takes on the matter are enlightening and help understand the many aspects involved. Other opinions, of the students who lived and live there, are also of some interest. Yet from a narrative point of view, there’s not much of a strong thesis about the material. For a panoramic view and for the purpose of learning the basics, Las aspas del molino does quite well indeed. It’s informative enough as it covers many fronts. Just bear in mind that what you see at first sight is basically all there is.
Within the current Argentine cinema production, documentaries have been taking centre stage for quite some time. And it’s easy to see why: the budgets are usually lower than those of fiction films, they can be filmed in less time and with a smaller crew, they don’t demand that much preproduction, don’t need actors, and allow for a degree of improvisation. In a sense, you don’t have to be a consummate filmmaker to make a somewhat decent documentary. As long as you know the basics, you should be fine. That’s why you’d think there should be a fair number of good ones. The truth is you couldn’t be more wrong. The bad news is that, because of the accessibility of documentaries, too many filmmakers seem to believe they can get away with making them with little effort. Even worse, without caring for a truly cinematic approach (be it conventional or avant-garde). Córtenla, una película sobre call centres, by Ale Cohen, which deals with the daily exploitation endured by telemarketers from different kinds of call centres. And there you have the first huge problem: unless you live in a parallel universe, you surely know capitalism exploits its workers. I gather you also know call centres are dreadful work places: long hours, little money, an insane amount of work, and plenty of unfulfilled promises of promotions and bonuses. Let alone the pressure to make money all the time. And that the unions betray their workers shouldn’t be a surprise either. So Ale Cohen’s feature does nothing but spell out what you already knew. And in a bad way: it arbitrarily mixes fictional reenactments (horrendous performances), with clips from real business meetings (predictably moronic), unexpected and uninventive animation, and redundant testimonies from telemarketers from different companies who pretend they are taking to one another over the phone (yes, a string of talking heads). Moreover, the cinematography, editing, sound design and production design couldn’t be any less inspired. Rather than cinema, Córtenla, una película sobre call centres feels like a mediocre TV show. It comes as a paradox that you are expected to side up with the workers, which you’d normally do considering how unfair and unlawful the scenario is, and yet Cohen’s film is so lame that you can’t side up with anything at all.
Luis Vega (Pablo Echarri) is a writer who hasn’t written a book in years. His personal life is in no better shape either: his wife (Mónica Antonópulos) seems to have lost interest in him, and he’s not doing much to make her feel special. In order to overcome his writer’s block, Luis decides he’s going to write a murder story based on real life events. That’s where the meaty stuff is, he says. Enter Laura Grotzky (Leticia Brédice), the wife of the murdered man, a hot looking blonde and mysterious femme fatale. He meets her to get some information about the murder, and she puts the moves on him right away. He pretends he’s not smitten. As their conversations develop, many disorienting facts about the murder surface. Can her word be trusted? Or is it the other way around: can he be trusted? The novel is published and almost immediately he becomes a suspect. The police start interrogating him because of the many coincidences between the murder story he wrote and the true crime. His book, which soon becomes a best seller, features some incidents the police never disclosed to the press. For reasons not to be revealed here, even his wife seems to be involved in dishonourable stuff. Of all things, what could happen next? Not that it matters that much, for Arrebato, the new film by Argentine filmmaker Sandra Gugliotta, is both a formulaic and uninspired thriller that offers almost no surprises at all. Half an hour into the film, you can already tell who the killer is. For starters, there aren’t that many options, and then it becomes all the more obvious because of how hard the film tries to confuse you with silly clichés. So you may think that perhaps it’s not about who did it, but why it was done and what’s to come of it. By the time you find out the truth (which is quite soon), nothing really changes. Because for a gripping drama, Arrebato lacks the bare essentials: characters with complex personalities, a somewhat original script, an insightful point of view, good performances, an unsettling atmosphere, and a sense of real pathos. Consider that suspenseful thrillers are hard to pull off for so many elements have to be nearly perfectly aligned to guarantee the necessary suspension of disbelief. Arrebato has such an over-trod premise that it starts on the wrong foot to begin with. From then on, it all goes downhill. I guess you could see it coming from the very beginning.
It’s pretty easy to summarize the story of Argentine filmmaker Pablo Fendrik’s El ardor, which was screened out of competition at Cannes, since nothing much happens for quite a long stretch of time, and by time the film ends there are not many redeeming qualities to make up for so much stillness. Not that is has to be an action-driven feature, but at least there should be something going on to make it as dramatic as its premise calls for. It goes like this: a young vagabond shaman (Gael García Bernal) who lives in the forest in Misiones arrives to a tobacco plantation where a father and his daughter (Alicia Braga) live. On the same day, a group of mercenaries also arrive to the place, and force the father into giving up his land. He does so, but they kill him anyway right in front of his daughter. Then they kidnap the young woman and flee, but the shaman witnesses it all — he was hidden in a shack — and soon embarks on a journey to rescue her. So it’s a local version of a western, a genre not often tackled by Argentine cinema at all. The film’s introduction takes place in no more than 15 minutes. From then on you get to see a very slow and uneventful chase that is prolonged for some 80 minutes, give or take. Granted, there are two or three incidents along the way, but that’s about it. The happy ending is somewhat action-filled. It does have some effective moments and some blood here and there. Period. That, and a very pronounced lack of pulse and brio make El ardor hard to sit through. It’s too contemplative, too motionless. And while the atmosphere of desolation and death has been skilfully accomplished (so you can sense the asphyxiating heat), the characters development is very poor. That’s why you can’t even care about them: they are just action figures, or entities, which perform the few actions the screenplay provides. We know almost nothing about the “good guys” and nothing at all about the “bad guys.” To top it all, there’s also a menacing tiger wandering about, meant to symbolize who knows what. Despite being professionally shot (the sound design is also a plus), El ardor fails to be both engaging or compelling. It looks good, but that doesn’t get you very far.
Back in January 1972, and during the dictatorship of General Lanusse, a group of revolutionary activists occupied the Banco Nacional de Desarrollo (BANADE) and expropriated some 450 million pesos (US$10 million today) for their revolutionary cause, not for personal gain. A decisive factor in achieving such a feat was the help from bank employees and activists Oscar Serrano and Ángel Abus, who had been preparing the strike for some two years. When the right time came, the finances of the dictatorship stored in the BANADE were taken away for good. It was the biggest bank robbery in the history of Argentina. Now, 40 years later, Oscar Serrano and Ángel Abus recreate the events in the shape of a chronicle (a documentary) and a “making of” a possible fiction film recreating the heist. Directed, written and edited by Omar Neri, Fernando Krichmar, and Mónica Simoncini, Seré millones features archive footage, photographs, newsreels, and interviews (on the documentary part), as well as rehearsals, screen tests, discussions and script readings (on the making of the fiction film). As soon as you start watching it, the first thing that comes to mind is that the history behind the robbery, its multiple elements and amazing facets are enormously appealing and thought-provoking. It’s not for nothing that they call it the biggest bank robbery in Argentine history. But when it comes to the assets in Seré millones (a story addressing history), there’s not much to write home about. It’s just that there are so many problems in each area of filmmaking that the promise of a different movie experience soon gives way to plain boredom. Made with the best intentions and with a commendable ideological point of view, Seré millones has few ideas as regards mise en scene, and not very good ones. Having actors talk to the mirror about how the film is deeply affecting them is not exactly subtle or enlightening. It feels contrived. The same lack of spontaneity is found in the dialogues between the protagonists and the actors. The cinematography is flat and the camerawork is dull, and they say nothing about the film’s content. For a conventional feature posing as an innovative one, or even for just a conventional one, it lacks a firm director’s hand, a smart screenplay, and a compelling sense of narrative and visual design. As for the documentary part, there’s nothing new under the sun. One thing is for sure: you’ll get to know quite a few facts about a most notable event. And that’s that.
The lead character is indeed a she- wolf serial killer who hunts down men along different stations in Buenos Aires’ subway tunnels. She seduces them with her bewitching looks, has wild sex with them, and then slays them. Too bad one of the men she’s trying to lure is a policeman investigating the murders. Not that he knows that she’s a she-wolf, of course. So on a frantic day, while trying to escape from the policeman, she meets a streetwise young dealer with whom she falls in love right away. Now her newborn feelings become an unexpected downside because she actually has three personalities: monster woman, sexual woman, and human still capable of loving. And because of her intense love, her personalities start to collide in a fierce death battle. Shot in eye-catching black and white, Mujer lobo is a rara avis in Argentine cinema. Doubtless, it’s Garateguy’s finest film to date. Her 2007 opera prima Upa!, una película argentina, co-directed with Santiago Giralt and Camila Toker, was an amusing and light weighted take on the scenario of Argentine indie cinema. Then came her solo début, Pompeya (2011), a gangster film set in Buenos Aires, and also a meditation on the process of screenwriting. And while Upa! and Pompeya had undeniably dexterous formal values, they tended to go somewhat overboard with flashy camerawork and too brisk editing. But not this time. Garateguy’s third feature is far more accomplished in the way form relates to content. For the action sequences, the camera is energetic and dazzling, and it truly captures and conveys the characters’ pulse and sensations. At nerve-wracking speed, it follows them wherever they go, and so a sense of sparkling spectacle is achieved. Let alone the intensely sexual and erotic scenes that are never gratuitous. Instead, they provide the raw power Mujer lobo is endowed with. As for the seduction scenes, the pace is relaxed and welcoming, as though trying to tempt viewers into familiarity with the sex-crazed, deadly she-wolf. Who, by the way, is played to great effect by Mónica Lairana, Guadalupe Docampo, and Luján Ariza, each of them a different kind of woman, all of them gorgeous. No wonder the men in this movie are so easily entrapped. The script’s most visible flaw is a certain lack of development to make the whole affair more compelling. These characters could have had more depth, more shades and perhaps even a background story. As it is, Mujer lobo sometimes does wear thin and becomes a bit repetitive, but for the most part it is quite enjoyable, entertaining, and very sensorial.
Previously screened at this year’s edition of Cinema Made in Italy and now commercially released, Italian filmmaker Roberto Ando’s Viva la libertá tackles the story of Enrico Oliveri (Tony Servillo), the leader of Italy’s opposition who abandons his duties in the midst of a severe crisis. Not only is he being heavily criticized, but he also fears an imminent defeat. So he hides in France at the house of former girlfriend, Danielle (Valeria Bruni Tedeschi), now married to a famed film director and raising a young daughter. Meanwhile, he’s replaced by his twin brother, Giovanni Ernani (Tony Servillo) a slightly schizoid philosopher who’s just out of a psychiatric hospital. The manoeuvre is meant to be only temporary and to play by the book, with Giovanni posing as Enrico and emulating his statements. He also becomes a lovable companion to Anna (Michela Cescon), Enrico’s unhappy and lonely wife (no sex included, though). But consider he’s a bit of a nutcase and a man with his own ideas too, so he soon discards all previously written speeches and starts his own discourse. This “new” leader of the opposition not only criticizes the mistakes his own party has made, but also calls for a strong alliance with the people, not with other parties. He becomes a modest revolutionary, if you will. And now people support him and the party may even win the elections. Having such a predictable, simplistic storyline for a dramatic comedy is not necessarily a downer. There may be some solutions. There can always be gradations and unexpected twists and turns in the formula, smart and sarcastic takes on the political class and its misery, new dramatic insights about opposing personalities, and perhaps the magic of great ensemble acting. There was also the challenge of choosing a consummate actor to play both Enrico and Giovanni. Tough, but not impossible to pull off. Unfortunately, none of these possibilities are found in Viva la libertá, which instead is too rudimentary and basic even for its formula (let alone having any innovations). It’s one of those films that feels old (not “classic”) as soon as you start watching it. And it gets older as it goes on. Granted, you have Tony Servillo, who excelled in Paolo Sorrentino’s wondrous La grande belleza, but in Andò’s feature he’s misused. He’s asked to do what any actor could do: play the politician as a cold and dull guy with somber expressions and a taciturn voice, as opposed to the easygoing and affective nutcase with great charm and an everlasting smile on his face. Clichéd as it sounds, this is exactly what it is. The rest of the roles are so underwritten that any hope of ensemble acting must be forgotten. So if the ideas are nothing new (and they are overexplained), the mechanics of the screenplay are unsurprising, the one great actor is misused, and so are the other formal values, from cinematography to sound design. Then, what’s left to see?
Damián Szifrón’s Relatos Salvajes is as good as it could be, and yet it isn’t. As a series of six autonomous stories, it runs into a common problem in films of this kind: not all the stories are equally interesting, or compelling, or well- executed, or ingenious. After having been a privileged entry in the international competition of the Cannes Film Festival, where it received some 10 minutes of standing ovation, Argentine filmmaker Damián Szifrón’s Relatos salvajes (Wild Tales) reaches local screens. So it’s no surprise that the first question that springs to mind is whether so much praise is indeed well deserved. Szifrón’s two previous films — El fondo del mar (2003) and Tiempo de valientes (2005) — were somewhat small in scope, definitively not what you’d call blockbusters. Now the scenario is totally different: Relatos salvajes is produced by the Almodóvar brothers and it’s being released in 288 theatres nationwide, a figure unmatched by any other local release. It features a top-notch cast, including celebs such as Ricardo Darín, Oscar Martínez, Leonardo Sbaraglia, Erica Rivas, Julieta Zylberberg, Rita Cortese, and Dario Grandinetti; it boasts impeccable production values; it’s clearly targeted to mass audiences (nothing wrong with that), and it’s had tons of non-stop publicity. Leaving these impressive facts aside, the question remains: how good is Relatos salvajes, after all? For starters, let’s say it’s as good as it could be, and yet at the same time it isn’t. Being a series of six autonomous stories — six short films, if you will — conceptually interconnected by themes of violence and revenge, it runs into a common problem in films of this kind: not all the stories are equally interesting, or compelling, or well executed, or imaginative. Usually, these movies have two or three great stories and the rest are fillers or failed attempts. And Szifrón’s film is no exception. Each story in Relatos salvajes deals with an individual that has had enough of other people’s nonsense, people who’ve pushed their buttons too many times. These individuals won’t take it any more — and like Michael Douglas’ character in Falling Down — they take justice into their own hands. So, one way or another, there’s nothing here you haven’t seen before in previous films. Should the lack of originality be considered a drawback is up to you to say. Considering Szifrón’s film somehow strives to be original, and it’s not, I find it to be a minor flaw. In narrative terms, there are two quite good stories that actually do have fully fleshed out characters as well as something to say. They do have a weight of their own and there are unexpected nuances within the formula. The other four, to a larger or lesser degree, are as predictable as they are safe and easy to like by a mass audience. And the characters are more action figures than anything else. It must be said, though, that all the stories are very accomplished as regards technique. From cinematography to art direction, from editing to sound design, real pros play the game here. The opening story, Pasternak, is anchored on absurd coincidences: nearly everybody on board of a plane seems to have met a loser named Pasternak in the past, and in different ways it appears that they all made his already unhappy existence even more miserable. If they only knew what they have coming for them. I won’t spoil the fun for you, so let’s just say that as the opening story, Pasternak is fine. It’s like a good joke with an inspired punch line, told with good timing and enough giddiness. And don’t ask for more. But being the introductory story, it paves the road for the rest to come in an amusing manner. Then there’s The Rats, where coincidence again plays a key role. This time, a waitress (Julieta Zilberberg) is given the opportunity to slay a usurer who drove her father to suicide. With the help of the cook (Rita Cortese) and rat poison, an unusual kind of justice will now prevail. But more than a short film, Rats is a good television skit that offers no surprise and no real drama. It’s played out by the book in quite a flat manner. It even feels too contrived to be as funny as it’s intended to be. Road to Hell is more elaborate, it has more interesting ups and downs, and an involving dramatic progression that leads to a good climax. The story is once again stereotypical: a smooth driver (Leonardo Sbaraglia) with a smooth car on a mountain road insults a slow driver who’s blocking the way. Too bad the yuppie’s car soon breaks down and the other driver’s doesn’t. Get ready for a fierce fight to the death. There are no problems from a technical standpoint, that’s for sure. But there’s no soul, no singular gaze, no personal mark. That is one of the structural problems of Relatos salvajes: the lack of a personal discourse. No matter how cinematically accomplished the stories are, some kind of point of view about the phenomenon of violence and revenge is necessary for good drama, even if it’s action driven drama. What is Szifrón trying to say? Other than the spectacle, what is there to see? Bombita, which deals with an engineer (Ricardo Darín) who’s way too tired of having his car unfairly towed by the City government and is forced to pay outrageous fines, runs into the same basic problem: it’s well narrated, it’s more than well acted, but it has very little, if anything, to say. When it ends, you may think: and so what? Or maybe you will enjoy it a lot because you won’t even worry about what lies beneath the spectacle. It’s pretty much up to you, actually. Enter the two good stories of the whole pack: The Bill and Til Death Do Us Part. The former is a true drama with no comedic hint at all. It concerns a wealthy man (Oscar Martínez) who pays an employee (Germán de Silva) to be the responsible party for a fatal hit-and-run accident caused by his son. There are real characters here, with personalities of their own, the conflict is well established in its own right — it’s not about any kind of display other than that of sleazy rich folks who won’t take the heat for having killed a pregnant woman and her baby. There’s strong stuff here and, to a certain extent, it’s well explored and has some insights. And what Szifrón seems to be saying may not be nice to hear, but it does ring true in the ruthless world we live in. Til Death Do Us Part, as the title suggests, is about a wedding: a Jewish one at that. And it’s about infidelity, broken hearts, betrayal, pain, humiliation and deep sorrow. But it’s also about mayhem, emotional outbursts, sweet revenge, unrestrained feelings, and hysteria — all in the name of that little crazy thing called love. Considering much of the appeal of these stories lies in the surprises — and in the stellar, riveting performance by Erica Rivas — you’d better not know anything at all. This time is not predictable, not formulaic, not schematic. Just like in The Bill, this time there are real characters who do real things born from real feelings. It’s not about executing a well-written screenplay step by step, but about saying something out of the script about a very dear subject: the pains and joys of love. Production notes Relatos salvajes (Wild Tales, Argentina, 2014). Directed and griten by: Damián Szifrón. With: Ricardo Darín, Oscar Martínez, Leonardo Sbaraglia, Erica Rivas, Rita Cortese, Julieta Zylberberg, Dario Grandinetti, María Onetto. Cinematography: Javier Julia. Edited by Damián Szifrón, Pablo Barbieri. Music: Gustavo Santaolalla. Running time: 122 minutes.
The documentary Amancio Williams, la película, by Argentine filmmaker Gerardo Panero, is an informative, very detailed, and quite engaging take on the life and work of the late Amancio Williams, a key figure in Argentine architecture and a member of the Movimiento Moderno Argentino. Widely regarded as one of the most important architects of the first half of the 20th century, Williams was also an influential theoretician who designed many groundbreaking projects. He’s probably most famous for having designed Casa sobre el arroyo for his father, composer Alberto Williams, in the resort town of Mar del Plata. Unlike many documentaries that focus solely on the artist’s work — and in so doing neglect the human side of it — Amancio Williams, la película goes for a more wide-ranging approach. At first, much of the film revolves around the celebrated Casa sobre el arroyo, which sadly turned into ruins as a fire destroyed it a long time after it was built, and then places its gaze on his many other projects, some of which never got to be built. Williams was such a perfectionist, so obsessive an artist that he demanded absolute excellence and nothing but. In the end, when it came to actually materializing his designs, not a lot of them were all that feasible — on the contrary. It may come as a paradox that such a gifted, avant-garde artist who really wanted his designs to become a reality could not compromise some of his principles, which ultimately became a prison of sorts. This and other aspects of his personality are explored by resorting to precious archive footage and to a series of carefully-selected interviews with the people who knew him best — that is to say next of kin, friends and those who have studied his oeuvre. Gerardo Panero’s insightful documentary also addresses Williams’ relationship with Le Corbusier, as well as his contributions to the Casa Curutchet. So as you get to be familiar with his work, you start to be aware of who the man behind the artist really was. But since he was such a complex individual, a full and definite picture is never drawn. Which is a good thing, because this way there’s always a layer of slight mystery as to why he made some decisions and took unexpected actions. So if you are acquainted with Williams and his work, this is a chance to know more interesting facts and opinions about him. Otherwise, it’s a good excuse as any to discover a unique individual who left indelible traces in the field of Argentine architecture.
“Alejandra is a friend of mine from high school. She wanted to teach the blind, but the school for teachers of the blind shut down, so she became a teacher of Sign Language instead. She just wanted to teach and help. She’s a teacher, a friend, a mother... You could say she’s the one who protects the deaf in Bell Ville, the city in the Córdoba Province where I was born and raised. Showing her work, her commitment, her devotion is what I’m trying to do with this documentary. Among other things, I hope this film can be useful to grant official recognition to the school she founded with a group of parents some twenty years ago,” says Argentine filmmaker Ada Frontini about Escuela de sordos, her sensitive, truly emotive yet never sentimental opera prima that received the Best Director award at the Argentine competition of the last Mar del Plata International Film Festival. Apart from a valuable document, Escuela de sordos is a smart film. There are so many things that could have gone wrong in this delicate enterprise, and yet there’s not a single misstep. To begin with, most documentaries that portray people with disabilities tend to be so politically correct that little is said apart from the official discourse we all know. They don’t address their singularities, they don’t see them as individuals. Most documentaries treat people with disabilities as though they were utterly needy and fragile by definition, and so they demand that a stronger voice speak out for them. Sometimes they even picture them as though they were babies in need of overprotective mothers. Fortunately, you won’t find any of this in Ada Frontini’s respectable and respectful film. What you have here is a detailed account of some of the many steps involved in teaching the deaf, as though you were watching a class. Energetic and tireless, Alejandra, the teacher, the friend, and also the mother, dedicates her time to show others how to send a text message, how to improve their Sign Language skills, how to start from scratch, and, most importantly, how to have fun while learning. Very lucidly, there’s no room for solemnity here. That’s why there’s plenty of smiles and laughs instead. There’s love, affection, understanding and communication. That’s exactly what happens when what matters most are the bonds between people. In a sense, this is also a film about fighting loneliness. In cinematic terms, it’s equally interesting. Spoken and subtitled in Spanish, and also spoken in Sign Language, Escuela de sordos explores the very nature of language. Viewers get to witness entire conversations where not a single word is spoken, and yet it’s impossible not to feel they are conversations just like the ones you see or overhear in your daily life. It’s quite a surprise: a film about teaching deaf people that is most talkative, and in a very good way. You will surely get to know a lot more about a world that surrounds you and yet you almost never see. PRODUCTION NOTES Escuela de sordos (Argentina, 2013). Directed by Ada Frontini. Written by Pablo Checchi and Ada Frontini. With Alejandra Agüero, Juan Druetta, Joaquín Ferrari, Ivo Palacios, Juan Pablo Maidana. Cinematography: Ada Frontini. Editing Lorena Moriconi, Pablo Checchi, Ada Frontini. Running time: 72 minutes. At Malba, Figueroa Alcorta 3415. Sundays at 6pm. @pablsuarez