Straight from Venice, The Distinguished Citizen is a metaphor for smalltown Argentina in a comedic key POINTS: 7 Released locally just a few days after its Venice premiere, El ciudadano ilustre (“The Distinguished Citizen”), the new film by Mariano Cohn and Gastón Duprat (The Man Next Door, The Artist), is an odd combination of dead-pan comedy and mordant satire about a Nobel Prize-winning Argentine author based in Barcelona who returns to spend three days in his small hometown of Salas, some six hours away from Buenos Aires, after a 40-year-absence as he has been named Distinguished Citizen and is to receive a medal. But El ciudadano ilustre is not only a matter of mere comedy. It’s also a portrayal of a country, a metaphor, if you will, as seen through the prism of a small provincial town. It works quite well when it comes to the laughs and the gibberish, but then it becomes too thin and trite when it goes for ideological queries. However, it’s largely entertaining, and even with its flaws, it does pay off mainly thanks to finely calibrated performances, very well written dialogue and inspired comedic situations. In the brilliant first scene of the film, which is divided in five chapters, you see Daniel Mantovani (Oscar Martínez, from Inseparable, Wild Tales, and Paulina, in another stellar performance filled with nuances) while he’s receiving the Nobel Prize for Literature in rather unfriendly terms. In the presence of the king and queen, he vehemently states that receiving such a prize equals his artistic death — for if the establishment feels he’s so remarkably outstanding, then his work is no longer revolutionary or groundbreaking. His worst fears have come true: he’s become a comfortable artist. Despite his fierce criticism, he accepts the prize. Five years go by and he hasn’t written a single page. He’s now resting at his posh, modern home. Aided by his secretary (Nora Navas) he peruses many invitations and says no to all — except to the letter from the mayor of Salas, his hometown, who invites him to receive the honour of Distinguished Citizen. Perhaps out of curiosity or boredom, or who knows why, he decides to fly over to BA. And as soon as he’s picked up at the airport by a rather dumb driver with a lousy car, you know you’re in for a comedic tour de force. Soon enough, a tyre blows up as they travel on a deserted country road. While waiting for help, it gets cold and so pages of his novels are used to light a fire — which is a fine gag. Then more pages are used as toilet paper — which is a lame gag. Fortunately, as the film unfolds, the good and very good gags are cleverly scattered with precise timing, whereas the not-so-good are just few and far between. After a tiring car ride, they arrive in town and lots of welcoming events meant to make him feel happy and at home have been planned. Too bad that the words “happy” and “at home” don’t go well together that often. Among the townspeople, there’s Antonio (played by the always reliable Dady Brieva), Mantovani’s best friend in high school; his wife Irene (Andrea Frigerio), who was once Mantovani’s girl friend; a young, hot and stereotyped groupie (Belén Chavanne); an aspiring writer (Julián Larquier), who works at the front desk of the hotel where Mantovani stays — which, according to the author, looks “like the set of a Romanian film.” Finally, there’s Florencio Romero (Marcelo D’Andrea), a bully who harasses Mantovani, and the town’s mayor (Manuel Vicente). What ensues is Mantovani’s confrontation with the townspeople, who first welcome him with open arms, but upon realizing he’s not an object to be placed wherever they want, they just don’t like him that much. They are proud of him for being born in Salas, but they also despise him for writing about the miserable, pathetic people of Salas — yet Cohn and Duprat are smart enough not to let viewers find out what Mantovani actually wrote so you can never know how much of a cynic or a misanthrope Mantovani actually is. But you do know he can be pedantic, patronizing, and haughty. Small town jealousy, craving for success, unfulfilled longings, an artist’s relationship with his oeuvre, clashes between the European literate and backwards townspeople, conformism versus evolution, chauvinism and mediocrity, and demagogues utilizing artists are arguably the main themes El ciudadano ilustre embraces lightly yet with enough ability to keep the story flowing at ease. With such a busy agenda, it’s no wonder there may be not enough depth, some conceptual redundancy, and unnecessary plot digressions — i.e. the rekindling of the love affair between Mantovani and Irene. Or the groupie herself, who feels forced into the story in order to open up an equally forced subplot. And the two last chapters are not that organic either. Aesthetically speaking, nothing is particularly notable; on the contrary, though the overall worn down look of the town by production designer María Eugenia Suerio is a plus. On the other hand, the hilarious art contest, the interview at the tacky TV station, the local beauty queen, the open talk, they all superbly represent an absurdly pathetic scenario with multiple shades, which proves to be very appealing for all the wrong reasons. What’s best is the carefully constructed tone that’s become a trademark for Duprat and Cohn. They make you feel uncomfortable because you are not sure whether you should laugh or feel pity, get angry or simply cry over these characters — writer included — when you think what a bunch of losers they can be, how obnoxious they can get, how needy they act, and how fragile they get. It’s just that they are so human. So Duprat and Cohn don’t need to worry like Mantovani does. For sure, they’re far from being dead artists as their film is often uncomfortable — but in a good way. That should come as a compliment. Production notes El ciudadano ilustre (2016). Directed by Mariano Cohn, Gastón Duprat. Written by Andrés Duprat. With Oscar Martínez, Dady Brieva, Andrea Frigerio, Manuel Vicente, Julián Larquier, Belén Chavanne, Marcelo D’Andrea. Cinematography: Mariano Cohn, Gastón Duprat. Running time: 118 minutes. @pablsuarez
Director Gustavo Fontán navigates the complexities of an intricate literary style POINTS: 8 “An adaptation is always a task that involves many tensions. One appropriates something to think it over in a different manner, to resignify it,” stated Argentine filmmaker Gustavo Fontán about his new film El limonero real, based on Juan José Saer’s novel of the same name, in an interview to film critic Diego Brodersen in Página 12. In addition, El limonero real is the third installment in the Trilogy of the river, which started with La orilla que se abisma (2008) and then El rostro (2014), two emblematic, most accomplished works in the oeuvre of one of Argentina’s most personal auteurs. To a large degree, the storyline of the film is the same as the plot of the novel. So this is Fontán’s first wise decision: not to introduce any significant changes for they are not necessary. We are then dealing with a family that lives on the riverbanks of the Paraná River, in the province of Santa Fe, which gathers to celebrate New Year’s Eve. They’re three sisters with their husbands and children living in three ranches in the wilds, in a very calm milieu. Wenceslao (Germán de Silva) attempts, time and again, to get his wife (who’s referred to as “she” and is played by Patricia Sánchez) to attend the celebration. But she won’t. And she has a reason: she’s mourning the death of their young and only son. But this tragic event happened no less than six years ago. Her sisters and nieces try to convince her too, but to no avail. She’s mourning, she’s been mourning for a long time, she will go on mourning. And that’s that. So if to adapt a novel into a film is to resignify it, that should mean to come up with something new. But certainly not with something that totally belies the novel. It’s common sense that the film should then preserve something, or a lot, of the source material. And Fontán faces a difficult job because Saer’s novel is considered to be impossible to be filmed because of its intricate literary style. Consider that the carefully articulated prose is highly descriptive to the tiniest of details, there are utterly long paragraphs with seemingly endless sentences that provide a unique sense of atmosphere, narrators and tenses switch and sometimes overlap, and there are also sudden interior monologues, which added to all the above create a very complex narrative. How do you film that? Here comes Fontán’s second wise decision: to try to capture and convey what’s usually referred to as the soul, the guts, the heart of the novel. And not to do it literally. Here you have the grief and the mourning, always unspeakable, unfathomable, and unfinished. And instead of going for cinematic experimental stylistic flourishes, Fontán chooses to film the scenario, meaning the people and the surroundings, in quite a realistic manner, yet with a profound poetic edge. By creating an enthralling atmosphere thanks to a pristine cinematography and the resonance of eloquent ambient sound, the beautiful melancholy of nature is smoothly brought to the fore. The everlasting river, the light reflections, the shades and nuances of wilds, the slow passage of time, all of it acquire an existence of their own. They are characters as important as the people themselves. In terms of the drama, there’s the aching impossibility of closure. A dead son, an absence, takes centre stage at all times and so is more alive than all existing beings. A wife and mother who’s not dead, but at the same time she refuses to live. A sad, moribund state of things that feels it will last forever. “Feel” is the key word here, for Fontán’s movies are first and foremost about feelings, sentiments and emotions. Then, on a second instance, comes the understanding and elaboration of what is felt. For nothing is prosaic in this universe. Even the everyday — or precisely the everyday — is always startlingly lyrical, without a single mannerism and with enormous emotional truth. Production notes: El limonero real (Argentina, 2016). Written and directed by Gustavo Fontán. With Germán de Silva, Patricia Sánchez, Rosendo Ruiz, Eva Bianco, Gastón Ceballos, Rocío Acosta. Cinematography: Diego Poleri. Sound: Abel Tortorelli. Editing: Mario Bocchicchio. Running time: 77 minutes. @pablsuarez
PONTS: 6 Featured in the Argentine competition of this year’s BAFICI and now commercially released, Primavera (Spring) is the new film by Santiago Giralt (Jess & James, Anagramas, Antes del Estreno, Upa! Una película Argentina). It’s a very unusual and amusingly irreverent ensemble comedy that tells the story of Leopoldo (Angelo Mutti Spinetta), an 11-year-old kid who has grown up surrounded by artists of different sorts. When spring begins, he falls for a pretty girl, a poetry classmate, and thus a coming of age experience begins — heartbreak included. Being around so many free-spirited relatives and friends, you can imagine how inventive and open-minded Leopoldo is. Primavera is narrated from his point of view, with the use of a voiceover, so it makes sense that it’s equally unbiased in its outlook. And it puts into play an assorted array of colourful characters. First and foremost, there’s Leopoldo’s mother, Greta (Catarina Spinetta), who’s pregnant yet doesn’t know who the father of her baby is; José (Nahuel Mutti), her ex-husband and Leopoldo’s dad, who fathered him before coming out of the closet; Edgar (Esteban Meloni), José’s boyfriend and future husband; Ramiro (Mike Amigorena), Greta’s current better half; Mecha (Luisa Kuliok), a high-and-mighty diva; and last but not least, Reina, played by showwoman Moria Casán. The one and only. These and other histrionic characters — who can be as overwhelming as they are affectionate — mingle among rehearsals for a much desired play, while the arguments, secrets and lies all families have explode time and again, all of it laced with the sense of humour and outrageousness of late period Almodóvar — one of Giralt’s favourite filmmakers. On the one hand, you have the chief assets of Primavera which lie on Giralt’s handling of some key aspects of the language of cinema. A carefully constructed mise-en-scene, spotless camerawork, glamorous and attention-grabbing art direction, and a very neat sense of editing make up a cohesive film from the first frame to the last. Long takes and dolly shots convey the ongoing, feverish pulse of the film while the director’s finely tuned gaze focuses on both the big picture and the tiny details. On the negative side, when it comes to the coaching of his actors, the panorama is sometimes uneven: some excel in their roles while others are over the top — and I’m not sure this is intentional. It’s hard to accomplish good ensemble acting and you can see Giralt does his best, which in some parts of the film pays off whereas in others doesn’t. And as regards the screenplay, it’s fair to say it’s well oiled and keeps the story moving forward in many stretches, but it’s equally true that when it gets too digressive some narrative focus is lost. All in all, Primavera deserves enough credit for its ambitions and mostly for what it gets right. Its festive and exuberant tone is contagious and speaks of a good dose of healthy creative freedom. Considering this type of comedy is rare in local cinema and is not easy to pull off, Primavera is more than a good place to start experimenting. Production notes: Primavera (Argentina, 2016) Written and directed by Santiago Giralt. With Catarina Spinetta, Nahuel Mutti, Angelo Mutti Spinetta, Mike Amigorena, Chino Darín, Luisa Kuliok, Moria Casán. Cinematography: Tincho Velasco. Editing: Eliane Katz, Andrés Tambornino. Running time: 76 minutes. @pablsuarez
Erica Rivas dazzles as a 1960s widow struggling to absorb her loss while the world spurs her on POINTS 8 Set in Buenos Aires in the mid-1960s, La luz incidente (“Incident Light”), the new film by Argentine filmmaker Ariel Rotter (Solo por hoy, El otro) tells the story of Luisa (Erica Rivas), a woman in her late 30s who has recently suffered tremendous losses, including her husband. Ever since it happened, she finds it impossible to move on — in fact, she can barely take care of her two little daughters. Her mum (Susana Pampín) does her best to ease her pain, but her best sometimes is not what Luisa needs. The older woman believes — as does Luisa’s mother-in-law — that a young widow cannot, or should not, raise her kids alone. Or even be alone at all, with or without kids. It makes sense: it’s Latin America and women’s lib hasn’t yet emerged. So when Luisa meets a man about her age at a party, Ernesto (Marcelo Subiotto), her mum insists that she get to know him. She says he seems a serious man, although he’s perhaps too vehement, too resolute, even a bit pushy. It if it were up to him, they could get married in a few months. He says he’s in love with her, and in his own way he probably is. If only someone asked Luisa what she wants to do with her life. From then on, a meticulous, perceptive exploration of the mourning process of a grief-stricken woman unfolds. Better said, La luz incidente is more about how grief can live forever when it’s not drained out of your system. Luisa is in dire need of time, both chronologically and existentially, and it is this lack of time that Rotter examines with a great eye for detail. More to the point, it’s the collision between Ernesto’s urgency and Luisa’s lethargy that drives the narrative. How is she supposed to overcome her terrible loss if she’s not even allowed the time to do so? There are, in fact, two paths that converge to build up the drama: on the one hand, you have Luisa’s personal difficulty to move on. She can’t help being anguish-ridden and melancholic, and she has never experienced a trauma like this before. On the other hand, there’s the social pressure, the idiosyncrasy of these not-so-happy 1960s that deem women as unfit to live alone or without a man. Without a single misstep, La luz incidente strikes a perfect balance between these two dimensions of the conflict. In fact, you can’t think of one of them without the other. And you could add a huge and unspoken fear of pain that everybody shares. A character study like this one needs more than fine acting, and fortunately Rotter has always had a knack for coaching his actors and La luz incidente boasts finely tuned performances from the entire cast. A consummate actress, Rivas plays Luisa with admirable restraint, with the tiniest gestures and glances that speak of an inner journey which extends far beyond what viewers can see. She is, in fact, the living embodiment of deeply underlying sorrow. The always outstanding Pampín is equally admirable and brings surprising nuances as Luisa’s mother, a woman who cares so much for her daughter that she’s on the verge of suffocating her with the desire to see her get better. And Subiotto hits all the right notes as the gentleman caller who’s well meaning, extroverted, yet quite annoying in his persistence. The film’s production values are equally riveting, from the eye-catching, lustrous black and white cinematography with endless shades of grey by seasoned director of photography Bill Nieto to the accomplished visuals, it’s not only a matter of technical proficiency, but mostly of aesthetics. The same goes for the impeccable art direction by Ailí Chen, which makes you feel not only that the film is set in the 1960s, but also that it could have been filmed in that time. Costumes by Mónica Toschi are just as remarkable. For that matter, there’s not a single element of the language of cinema that has not been meaningfully designed. Talk about a striking period piece. Considering the storyline is akin to melodrama fare, you’d think that its tone would be accordingly overemotional. But Rotter deliberately crafts the drama without an inch of exaggeration or sentimentalism. This is not about bringing emotions out in the open — which is just fine. Nonetheless, this degree of restraint does have a strange effect since, more often than not, the overall tone may feel too detached. You witness what’s happening, yet it may be not that easy to be that emotionally engaged. Then again, this is a highly subjective matter so it’s up to each single viewer to see how they relate to the drama. The same goes for the film’s somewhat sluggish pace (although by design), which may rightly mirror Luisa’s sense of living in a suspended time, but sometimes might slow down the general emotional impact. La luz incidente is a welcome rare bird on the current scene of Argentine cinema. Not only because of its extremely accomplished production values and admirable aesthetics, but chiefly because it’s superb at drawing an accurate portrayal of a woman in profound pain while tracing at the same time a bigger picture of a time when social mandates could deepen open wounds. Production notes La luz incidente (Argentina, Uruguay, France, 2015) Written and directed by Ariel Rotter. With Erica Rivas, Susana Pampín, Marcelo Subiotto, Elvira Onetto, Rosana Vezzoni, Roberto Suárez, Great and Lupe Cura. Cinematography: Guillermo Nieto. Editing: Eliane D. Katz. Running time: 95 minutes. @pablsuarez
Nacido para morir mixes action with sheer parody and an energetic display of martial arts POINTS: 7 Argentine filmmaker Andrés Borghi is probably best known so far for his brilliant horror short film Alexia, which had a record figure of over one million views since it was uploaded on YouTube early this year. Featured at the scream fests of Sitges and Fantaspoa and winner of the Best Short Film Award at Buenos Aires Rojo Sangre, Alexia turned to social networks for a ghostly tale of bitter exes who literally haunt you to death. Prior to Alexia, and among other short films, Borghi made the short Otakus, which was also a big hit on YouTube, a comedy/action film that displayed his fixation with Japanese cartoons. Another singular work is Working Day, made in New Zealand and lauded by famous LOTR and Hobbit director Peter Jackson. Now comes the time for the commercial release of his entertaining full length feature Nacido para morir (“Born to Die”), previously featured in a number of international film festivals, chief among which Buenos Aires Rojo Sangre, where it won four awards, including Best Director and the Audience Award. It follows special agent Marcelo Riesgo, who faces a new mission in his continuous fight against terrorism. This time he’s after Poker Face, a malevolent villain who has kidnapped Doctor Pupete, a famed expert in spicy sauces. Thing is, Doctor Pupete has discovered a precious and very powerful formula that could eventually replace all fuels used worldwide — literally. So it’s easy to see that whoever has the formula will rule the world — which will translate into a catastrophe of huge proportions. With little time to accomplish his mission, agent Riesgo will risk his life to defeat Poker Face. Nacido para morir is, first and foremost, a fine example of genre crossbreeding as it mixes many characteristics from action films — think James Bond — with effective comedic visual and verbal gags alongside an ingenious touch of the fantastique. At the same time, there’s also room for a tongue-in-cheek tone, sheer parody and an energetic display of martial arts. It’s a challenging bet that could have easily gone awry, but that’s not case here, as it all amounts to an amusingly bizarre cinematic experience, as surprising as it is refreshing. But don’t get me wrong: Nacido para morir is not a perfect film by any means, as it also has its flaws. Though it starts in a very organic manner, as it unfolds it tends to become overplotted and the impact of the story is occasionally lessened. Then, it could have used less dialogue, all the more considering the visuals are so attractive. And not all the gags work to the same extent — and when they don’t, it shows. Last and not least, it runs 100 minutes, which is somewhat overlong. On the other hand, Borghi shows considerable talent in taking very good advantage of every single element of the language of cinema. Camera placement is not an easy task, but cinematographer Christian Barrozo finds the best possible angles and points of view for each scene. Let alone the inventive use of a palette that goes hand in hand with the atmosphere of different zones in the narrative. Simply put: you see the whole scenario under the best possible light. Likewise, the tight editing and the notable VFX by Andrés Borghi — who also plays a key character, Guadalajara Man, to great effect — are aesthetically alluring and technically impeccable. One of the best accomplishments for a filmmaker is to create a world of their own, and in this regard Borghi excels. Because despite the many stylistic influences, Nacido para morir is never a derivative piece of work. In fact, it’s a very free film that ventures into different terrains and refuses to be formulaic. In the end, it’s the work of a very promising auteur who has already shown outstanding credentials. Limited release BAMA Movie Theatre (Av. Pres. Roque Sáenz Peña 1145) at 10.30pm. Production notes Nacido para Morir (Argentina, 2014). Written and directed by Andrés Borghi. With Leandro Cóccaro, Vanina Balena, Nicolás Stilman, Juan Mingrone, Andrés Borghi. Cinematography: Cristian Barrozo. Editing and VFX: Andrés Borghi. Running time: 100 minutes. @pablsuarez
By Pablo Suárez For the Herald Points: 5 La del Chango, the debut feature of Argentine filmmaker Milton Rodríguez, is a documentary that focuses on Chango Farías Gómez, one of Argentina’s most important musicians ever. His professional musical career started in 1960 when he created the legendary group Los Huanca Huá, which back then was very innovative within the scenario of Argentine folk music. A few years later he founded the Grupo Vocal Argentino, regarded by some critics as the best vocal group of Argentina’s musical history. With the arrival of the infamous military dictatorship in Argentina in 1976, and just as was the case with so many other artists persecuted because of their ideologies, Chango Farías Gómez, a devoted Peronist, had to exile in Spain. But he returned to Argentina in 1982, right before the end of the dictatorship. Soon enough, in 1985, he created Músicos Populares Argentinos, and while serving as National Director of Music under the administration of former president Carlos Menem, he founded the renowned Ballet Folklórico Nacional. Last but not least, during the 1990’s he created yet another group, La Manija, which particularly explored the African and Hispanic roots to be found in Argentine music. And this is only a small part of a large universe. Through a string of testimonies given by journalists and relatives as well as artists such as Jaime Torres, Oscar Alem, Peteco Carbajal, Verónica Condomí, Antonio Tarragó Ros, the Koky Brothers and Pajarín Saavedra, the documentary La del Chango draws a multifaceted, informative and detailed portrayal of its subject, both in terms of his persona and his music. That much is achieved. Unfortunately, and unlike its content, the documentary’s film form is not what you’d call appealing. Usually referred to as "talking heads documentaries", these films’ entire narrative is articulated through a series of snippets of interviews of people talking endlessly to the camera — usually in close-ups or medium shots. Though there are some zones in Milton Rodríguez’s opus that feature music sessions, those are the exceptions to the rule. So after a while, and regardless of how interesting their words are, you are listening to the film rather than watching it. And it gets tedious in a matter of minutes. Including archive footage, audio recordings, TV clips, or centrefolds from magazines from the time would’ve been very conventional too, but at least the film would’ve been considerably more dynamic and slightly more cinematic. As it is, the overall cinematography or sound design are merely functional, they don’t express any feelings or notions at all either. It’s too bad that the formulaic La del Chango doesn’t do justice to the extraordinary Chango Farías Gómez. Production notes La del Chango (Argentina, 2016) Directed by Milton Rodríguez. Cinematography: Victoria Pereda. Editing: Florencia Gómez García, Sebastián Mega Díaz. Sound: Nicolás Payueta. Running time: 98 minutes. Limited release: Gaumont. @pablsuarez
Young man’s struggle gives way to unexpected hardships typical of absurd comedy Points: 8 How hard is it to break free from the Catholic Church? And I mean literally. How hard is it to excommunicate yourself from an unyielding Church that has less and less worshippers? Considering it’s an archaic institution that still exerts power on many countries, it’s not hard to guess that it must be quite difficult. And according to El apóstata (“The Apostate”), the new film by Uruguayan filmmaker Federico Veiroj, who delighted demanding moviegoers with the melancholic and subtly understated Una vida útil (“A Useful Life”), the truth is that erasing all your records from the Catholic Church can also give way to a series of hardships typical of the theatre of the absurd. And that’s only the beginning. El apóstata is set in today’s Spain and is loosely based on the story of Álvaro Ogalla, a friend of Veiroj’s who plays himself and also co-scripted the film. And while it’s been fictionalized for narrative purposes, you can feel it boasts a great deal of truth. Like An Useful Life, Veiroj’s new film is superbly restrained and it states its ideas in a very appropriate low-key manner. Which does wonders for the performances — among other things. The mould of comedy with an occasional touch of Luis Buñuel is ideal to prevent the film from becoming solemn about its promise. Which doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be taken seriously; on the contrary: it should, but from a lighter approach — even if that sounds as a contradiction. Gonzalo Tamayo (Ogalla) is a philosophy student who’s always about to graduate but actually never does. He doesn’t commit to any long-term plans and it doesn’t look like he’s passionate about anything in particular. But he sure wants to apostatize himself from the Church. And for a number of reasons, all of them valid. He didn’t choose to be baptized, and he feels no connection whatsoever with any of the essential truisms of the Catholic faith. He feels he’s not represented by it at all and also disagrees with how the Church deals with the teachings of Christ — like if priests and the Vatican are meant to be austere, how come they have so much money? What he didn’t anticipate is that he’d be so frustrated in his attempt to have his name removed from the baptismal records, thanks to the Church’s bureaucracy and impediments. Bishop Jorge (Juan Calot) is the man who tries to persuade him to abide by his faith, by basically saying a lot of nonsense that he intends to disguise as wisdom. Here the absurd begins to surface. And to think that Bishop Jorge is only the first obstacle Gonzalo finds in his way. Besides playing Don Quixote, during his free time our anti-hero also tutors Antonio (Kaiet Rodríguez), the son of Maite (Barbara Lennie), an attractive woman who lives next door and with whom he talks sometimes. Then there’s also his cousin Pilar (Marta Larralde), with whom he’s been fascinated since childhood. And, of course, there’s his mother (Vicky Pena), an overbearing, bossy woman who never leaves him alone. Talk about breaking free from higher powers. So his need to apostatize from the Church can also be seen as a need to free himself from a dull life that brings no surprises whatsoever. Perhaps he fantasizes that by not being Catholic anymore, he could start over from scratch in all regards. While Veiroj never makes a strong point of it, symbolically speaking, it may not be the weight of religion that’s most overwhelming. It’s a good thing that there’s a degree of ambiguity at the roots of Gonzalo being such a slacker. Plus the overall carefully constructed languid atmosphere, with splashes of dead-pan humour, adds up to a layered depiction of this young man in crisis. Also, there’s a dream sequence where Gonzalo is to attend a meeting of wannabe apostates which suddenly turns into some sort of nudist colony that leaves him very disoriented — the sequence plays in a down-to-earth way, as master of surrealism Buñuel used to do. Performances are top-notch, with Ogalla heading the list. What’s most amazing is how the director fluently elicits the most natural reactions from the entire cast. As regards cinematic technique, there’s nothing to complain about. The cinematography is always unobtrusive and articulate. One possible flaw is that the narrative does drag a bit from time to time. While the deliberate slowness of the pace is right for the general mood of the drama, it also feels somehow lethargic, which is more noticeable since some notions are repeated more than necessary. That’s when you may feel the film loses momentum. Then again, since this is clearly voluntary, it’s actually up to viewers to decide how it works for them. Production notes El apóstata (2015). Directed by Federico Veiroj. Written by Federico Veiroj, Gonzalo Delgado, Nicolas Saad, Alvaro Ogalla. With Alvaro Ogalla, Marta Larralde, Barbara Lennie, Vicky Pena, Kaiet Rodriguez, Juan Calot. Cinematography: Arauco Hernandez. Editing: Fernando Franco. Running time: 80 minutes. @pablsuarez
Ramón Alvia (Leonardo Sbaraglia) is at odds with his life. He’s a professional boxer about to turn 40, and though he’s won many international championships that have given him a rewarding advantage in his profession, it’s easy to see that he’s now at the end of his career. And he’s having a very hard time accepting it. He may well pretend he’s satisfied, but you can tell he’s not. Case in point: his family wants him to retire for good and work at a store his wife wishes to open and he couldn’t care less. One day at the gym where he trains, Ramón spots a new boxer: a young woman of striking looks named Deborah (Eva de Dominici) who wants to learn all there is to learn in order to become a great boxer. Of course, it doesn’t take her long to notice Ramón as well. First they engage in small talk and do some training together. But soon enough they fall for each other, which ultimately gives way to a tempestuous romance where love and hate are the two sides of the same coin. And it makes sense: Ramón feels he’s still quite young and can’t deal with the fact he’s not. So having Deborah in his life makes him feel he’s recovered all the strength he needs to fight for yet another world championship. In his eyes, being unfaithful to his wife and neglecting his duties as a family man is not that high a price to pay. If he only knew what was to come next. Sangre en la boca is Argentine filmmaker Hernán Belón’s second fiction film, El campo (2011) being the first one, also starring Leonardo Sbaraglia in the leading role. And whereas El campo had a great sense of atmosphere and finely calibrated performances but a rather sluggish and minimalist narrative, Sangre en la boca is narrated with brio and effectiveness; it also features remarkable acting and the scenario it portrays does feel quite real for the most part. But make no mistake, Sangre en la boca is not strictly a boxing film, but rather a passionate love story between two boxers, which at times verges on melodrama — and rightly so. In this sense, one of the film’s assets is the hot sex scenes between Sbaraglia and De Dominici, shot with plenty of eros and good taste by famed cinematographer Bill Nieto, who also does a very good job in depicting the pulse and frenzy of the boxing scenes in the ring. By the way, the meticulous sound design by Hernán Gerard and the well-paced editing by Natalie Cristiani are also essential for creating the gripping atmosphere. Sbaraglia and De Dominici deliver believable performances and sensibly add layers to characters that are otherwise somewhat underwritten. But, most importantly, they have great chemistry together, so it’s easy to believe how deeply and madly in love and lust they are. What’s not that easy to buy is the relationship Ramón has with his wife, a truly underdeveloped character who is more of a script tool than anything else. The process of their breaking-up is merely sketched, it needs more scenes to be properly told, and it shouldn’t be taken so lightly. There’s a lot of drama there that’s left unexplored. In this sense, the relationship between Ramón and Deborah also has some very visible narrative flaws that lessen its impact, but not to that large a degree. For instance, the transitions from love to hate, and hate to love, and back to love to hate, are not too well oiled. The changes come about too abruptly even for two lovers whose moods swing quickly. And some scenes — such as the violent fight the couple has at a restaurant — are just too trite. Despite its narrative unevenness, Sangre en la boca is accomplished in formal terms and production values, and it’s entertaining for the most part. It could have used some more depth into such rich dramatic potential, but that would have been a different movie. As is, its achievements effortlessly overcome its flaws. Production notes Sangre en la boca (Argentina, 2015). Directed by Hernán Belón. Written by Hernán Belón and Marcelo Pitrola, based on the short story of the same name by Milagros Socorro. With Leonardo Sbaraglia, Eva De Dominici, Erica Bianchi, Claudio Rissi, Osmar Nuñez, Cinematography: Bill Nieto. Editing: Natalie Cristiani. Running time: 97 minutes.
POINTS: 5 The Argentine documentary Pegar la vuelta (Turnaround), written and directed by Nacho Garassino, tells the story of Argentine blues singer María Luz Carballo, who as a teenager left Buenos Aires to pursue her dream of becoming a music star no less than in Chicago, the world’s capital of blues. She spoke no English at all and all she had was her one guitar and the phone number of an important musician whom she’d met in Argentina in a mythical bar in La Boca. He’d told her to look him up if she ever went to the US. So she did, but the musician never returned her call. Stranded in a foreign country, with no money for a plane ticket return to Argentina, Carballo decided she’d make it anyway — one way or another. So she heads to New York, where she finds shelter in the homes of lower class Latin families while she scrapes a living playing the guitar on the streets. Yet time goes by and her dream is far from coming true, so fed up with such a discouraging scenario, she goes back to Chicago to give it another try. Sooner rather than later, she manages to meet an assorted array of local characters ranging from the humblest blues musicians to already accomplishe artists with a strong following. As she gets to be known and her music is appreciated, her career starts to take shape, not without a great deal of effort. But, at least, her dream is on the way. Pegar la vuelta is a documentary that has both some undisputable virtues and undeniable flaws. It has a great potential that’s never nearly fully developed, and yet it’s never treated in a shallow manner either. It’s honest, down-to-earth, unpretentious and, at times, even touching. But from a strictly narrative point of view, it’s sort of chaotic (and not in a good way), it lacks a true dramatic structure, and it’s not as gripping as it could’ve been. Not by a long shot. Like so many conventional documentaries, it features some archive material of different types, snippets of interviews with those familiar with María Luz and her singing, but mostly it follows its subject around the streets of Chicago. Considering María Luz is so outspoken, witty in a streetwise manner, and very eloquent, then the film’s spirit is lively and, for some time, it’s also entertaining. Many of her interviews’ snippets are very, very enjoyable. But the almost nonexistent dramatic progression begins to take its toll way too early into the film. So not because of its content but of its form, Pegar la vuelta drags and becomes somewhat tedious too often. And it shouldn’t. Think that Carballo was once the girlfriend of famed Argentine rock star Pappo — and they lived a passionate affair — she played with Argentine musicians such as Luis Salinas, Lito Epumer, and Botafogo (Epumer and Botafogo are featured in the documentary as well), and she played in the US alongside Billy Tranch, Big Ray, Rodney Brown, Chico Banks, and Malvin Taylor. But it’s not only her professional career what’s alluring, it’s also her persona that’s so attractive. Bottom line: considering the great subject and the potential it held, Pegar la vuelta is rather half-baked and so it misses out on becoming something bigger. Unlike Carballo herself, who made the most starting with very little. Production notes Pegar la vuelta (Argentina, 2015) Written and directed by Nacho Garassino. With Pablo "Sarcofago" Cano, Miguel Vilanova (Botafogo), Lito Epumer, Machi Rufino, Cristian Judurcha, Lindsay Alexander, Ronald Simmons, Nick Charles. Cinematography and editing: Santiago Podestá, Nacho Garassino. Music: María Luz Carballo. Sound: Paula Ramirez. Running time: 70 minutes. @pablsuarez
Alex Ross Perry’s Listen Up, Philip is verbally exuberant, utterly talkative — but never boring POINTS: 8 It’s very hard to like Philip. I mean he’s narcissistic beyond belief, self-centred, misanthropic to the extreme, self-destructive and destructive to others, totally out of touch with his feelings, as grouchy as a vicious old man, and treats others like objects. For that matter, he treats himself like an object too. You don’t want to hang out with him because he’s the sort of person who thinks things are always bad, it’s just that you have different levels of bad. To top of it all, he’s not seductive, or even remotely good looking, or sexy in any sort of way. And don’t get me started on how he dresses. Come to think of it, it’s impossible to like Philip. Which makes you wonder what his girlfriends see in him other than he’s a young published author on the rise. Since he’s also self-loathing, he doesn’t give himself enough credit, but it seems he’s really good and not just a fad. Perhaps he’s the type of guy who at first shows care and affection for his object of desire, treats it accordingly, and once he’s got it for sure, then the abuse begins. Maybe he’s good in bed — people who repress their feelings so deep tend to be sexually voracious — but how long can that pay off? OK, don’t answer that. In any case, he doesn’t look like Casanova. Not by a long shot. Winner of the Special Jury Prize at Locarno, Listen Up, Philip, the third outing by Alex Ross Perry (Impolex, The Color Wheel), features Jason Schwartzman playing Philip to obnoxious perfection together with Elisabeth Moss beautifully playing his photographer girlfriend, who’s cute, caring, and affectionate. There’s also Jonathan Pryce, marvelously filling in the shoes of Ike Zimmerman, an antisocial and revered older writer who digs his work and eventually befriends him. Like Philip, Ike also destroys his own life and those of his loved ones — mainly that of his daughter Melanie, played to aching precision by Krysten Ritter. And there are other women who will pop up along the way, all of them first smitten or disgusted by Philip. Then, they sort of like him. And in the very end, they are just plainly sick of him. Listen Up Philip is verbally exuberant, utterly talkative, but never boring at that. Not in the least. In fact, it’s a feast of carefully chosen words, telling expressions, very snappy one-liners, and rapid fired dialogue that often mirrors the creative writing games of sophisticate authors — add to that an assured, sometimes sardonic voice-over narration by Eric Bogosian. Yes, of course, you’re thinking of Woody Allen and perhaps of Richard Linklater as well. Personally, the dialogue here may have a sense rhythm and musicality akin to that of Linkater’s, but it has none of its sentimental luminosity, melancholy or hope. As for Allen, well, yes, you’d be right and not only in how the dialogue is written and spoken, but also in much of its dark humour and negativism. Furthermore, not even 10 seconds into the film you’ll be reminded of Husband and Wives’ faux cinema verité style, with its hectic hand held camera following the characters up and close to the point of being right under their noses with invasive close-ups. Better said, you have a long and agile string of close ups where the continuous bouncing of shots and reaction shots make you feel you’re watching a ping pong game. Incredibly enough, this goes on, to a larger or lesser degree, for the whole 108 minutes the film lasts, and the pace does not drag at all ever. Talk about great editing. And just like Listen Up, Philip’s cinematographer Sean Price Williams has explicitly acknowledged the influence of Husband and Wives in his own camerawork, Alex Ross Perry himself could say that the likes of Robert Altman, Hal Ashby, and John Cassavetes (think Faces, mainly) have influenced his own personal universe. Which in a sense is true and then it’s not. Because the many narrative games, the twists and turns in the conversations, the scenes that end abruptly and start even more abruptly, or the use of a voice over that stands in for dialogue, are legitimate plays that he uses in similar ways to how these grand filmmakers did, but nonetheless always searching and finding his own path. In short: Listen Up, Philip is not derivative. It’s accumulative, creative, and personal. Production notes Analizando a Philip / Listen Up, Philip (US, 2014) Written and directed by Alex Ross Perry. With Jason Schwartzman, Elisabeth Moss, Jonathan Pryce. Cinematography Sean Price Williams. Production design: Scott Kuzio. Editing: Robert Greene. Music: Keegan DeWitt. Running time: 108 minutes.