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kestonnhorst
Reviews
La teta asustada (2009)
Obviously Vague, but Rightfully So
La teta asustada is less of an imitation of any known cinematic style or mode of storytelling and more of an evocation of the feelings of helplessness, confusion, and injustice stemming from Peru's turbulent period of violence between the 1980s and 2000s as El Sendero Luminoso clashed with the government. An understanding of this history is necessary to appreciate and grasp the meaning of Fausta's sickness, la teta asustada, especially where the film provokes memories of that period through Fausta's struggles as a member of an indigenous Peruvian culture.
There's a lot of raw, suppressed emotion just barely revealed through each scene's subtleties, often played against the forthrightness of Fausta's mother singing about her rape and hope for a better life, and Fausta herself recites songs from her culture in the face of a modern oppressor, hearkening back to Peru's violent past. Those injustices are reevoked by Fausta's employer, to whom she is a servant, by her promising Fausta pearls if she sings—though this seems more like coercion—and she then steals her cultural songs.
Audiences might find some distaste or a strong sense of confusion at hearing about Fausta's method of preventing rape using a potato—forced on her by a neighbor when she was a child, no less. The anxiety of this being the reality haunts the viewer in the same way that la teta asustada haunts Fausta. Remorse and tension also arise when it's clear that Fausta's mother's mummified remains have been kept in the house in lieu of a proper burial. Though belief that the significance lies again with Peru's history, the film leaves much more to interpretation. In truth, it could have very little to do with El Sendero Luminoso, but the fact that Fausta is cursed by la teta asustada suggests otherwise.
La teta asustada is not clear about its own meaning, and perhaps that's for the better. To be indirect about an obvious fact may emphasize the directness of the commentary on it, so the director's decision to keep things vague yet well-established in a world of social inequity may entice viewers to recognize past happenings that were once kept secret. Being aesthetically pleasing—though in an off-putting way—but not very plot-driven, it is enjoyable with the expectation that it will, essentially, not be enjoyable or exciting.
Liz en Septiembre (2014)
Emotionally Impactful and Heart-Opening
Liz en septiembre is an important film not for being early in the industry when it comes to portraying LGBTQ relations, but for portraying them honestly, believably, and not as a form of eye candy. While the wager contesting whether Liz will be able to seduce Eva within three days would normally make their relationship seem more forced, it's the polarity between Liz and Eva—as well as their shared solace over cancer—that cultivates a sort of oppositional bonding and makes possible the relationship between a lesbian and "buga". The resulting love is not always so mutual, but it's fostered by respect and adoration, and therefore it translates into a natural one, one that is not played for male viewership but rather for emotional inclusion with the audience.
One of the more enjoyable aspects of the film is its use of music. One should never underestimate a good soundtrack, and Liz en septiembre's selective application of non-flashy songs really complements some of the more emotional or thoughtful scenes. Even when there is little going on, we can collectively experience Liz and Eva's feelings by listening to their internal playlist. Without getting too philosophical, music and audio are some of the most affecting qualities of filmmaking and, in my opinion, make movies more memorable than any imagery.
This film is also commendable for how it handles the acceptance of mortality and the grieving process, for all parties before and after Liz dies. While cancer is universally a shock to its victims and their friends and family, the truth that Liz will die of cancer is not an emotional gut-punch; it induces a slow, burning dread that not only are her days numbered (let not that phrasing go unrecognized as Liz counts how long she can hold her breath underwater) but that we, perhaps against our better judgment, will miss her, that we have rooted ourselves in Eva and the other women's attachments to her. It's not a fear that we will lose her, but that we will suffer at having been there with her and her friends as she passes, ripping out the ties we have to her as she leaves. It's not sadness over death. It is grieving over experiencing someone's life with them, yet not experiencing enough. For that reason, the bonds are as real for us as they are for everyone around Liz.
A profoundly moving and involving movie, the waters of Liz en septiembre are worth braving to learn and feel like in no other film.
XXY (2007)
Hard to Walk Away from
There's little that hasn't already been said about the portrayal of hermaphroditism and the confusing life of being intersex (and it's worth objectively recognizing these topics which the film addresses as directly and unapologetically as possible), so I'd prefer to highlight some of the film's impressionistic impacts: first off, it may well be an uncomfortable watch. The discomfort stems less from co-experiencing struggles like relationships, sex, social mistreatment, and rape. It's more of an innate recognition that anatomical sex—something definite enough to systemically base sociological gender norms and identities on—is being muddled and entirely overturned, that a biological mishap produces social ramifications that chisel away at our security in the human identity. Much of the distress hints at internal presumptions about sex and gender identity; it is unsettling to have your beliefs revealed or challenged in such a way. By this personal reaction we can judge how well-reinforced our social indoctrinations to sex and gender are, and how deeply we associate external rules on such to define what is and isn't prototypically human.
With regard to cinematography, qualities like lighting and color are executed meticulously to achieve yet more subconscious effect. Near overuse of darkness and the color blue paint the movie in dismal tone, while the rare touch of orange—especially during scenes depicting Kraken's unwavering love for Alex or the close friendship she shares with very few other teenagers—adds warmth and feeling to the pervasive numbness.
The film's mood haunts the audience throughout as it calls into question the once-solid notions of a clean division between male and female, something played off of for contrast by the film's own language and symbolism, such as Kraken sexing a sea turtle in one of the movie's earliest scenes and the marine study tags turned into necklaces by Alex. XXY pseudo-establishes and later mocks definition of its subject matter; Alex and Álvaro's fathers practice surgery and would normally have their own concrete understandings for sex and gender; Álvaro is revealed to be gay despite his earlier openness toward sex with Alex (whom he had thought to be a girl) only for her to penetrate him.
XXY is not a fun watch, nor is it a light or trivial one. It attacks one's own beliefs and presumptions about sex and gender, and its cinematographic direction should not be brushed off as overly-dramatic. While it might not earn everyone's appreciation, it without a doubt demands everyone's attention.
Ixcanul (2015)
Attractive on the Outside
Ixcanul has stunning cinematography and is brimming with passion and originality, but it might not be the best choice in terms of cultural accuracy. While it is impressive that native Kaqchikel speakers were cast to give it an authentic, indigenous feel, the representation of the Kaqchikel people is not its best. I will not claim to be an expert on the topic, but after speaking with and reading a paper about the film written by a Kaqchikel woman, Ixcanul provides the in-depth view from an obvious outsider, one who hasn't done enough research. According to her, the Kaqchikel view all life as sacred and worthy of respect, so moments when María uses a tree as a sort of dildo and when she attempts to abort her fetus are wildly unrepresentative of the culture.
Looking beyond these shortcomings, it is still a good tool for a superficial observation of Kaqchikel culture. While the baby kidnapping, arranged marriages, and belief in magic and superstition may be stereotypical, they still portray real aspects of some indigenous Central Americans' lives. The manipulation of Kaqchikel individuals because of their language barrier is indisputable, as is indigenous people's poverty and often impecunious plantation life. This may be the film's message—that we are treating cultures like the Kaqchikel unfairly, and perhaps the film's own inaccuracies reinforce that thought.
These high and low points aside, the film is still attractive, with expert parallel framing with María and her mother in the bath, and again with María and el Pepe before they have sex. Its long, sweeping takes of María descending the volcano balance with the stills of locals hanging at a bar or with family (these scenes themselves seem almost like neoclassical paintings). The movie is masterfully executed and naturally aesthetically-pleasing in terms of camera-work and scenery, but as a means of storytelling it falls behind somewhat because of its imperfect perception of its own subject matter.
La otra conquista (1998)
Conflict between Religion and Culture
La otra conquista is culturally and historically steeped in the conflict between Spain and the indigenous Aztec population of present day Mexico in the sixteenth century subjugation of the New World by Europe. Taking place in and around Tenochtitlan in the year 1520, the film portrays the illegitimate son of Emperor Moctezuma, Topiltzin, as he resists the Spaniards' religious institutionalization that seeks to replace the Aztec pantheon—particularly the Mother Goddess to whom Topiltzin is a scribe and ardent devotee—with the recognition of Christianity, chiefly through coercing the natives to worship depictions of the Virgin Mary.
While this sets up distinct religious persecution, the movie also has much to say about cultural intolerance and the irreconcilability of different peoples who cannot respect or coexist with one another. Despite being forced to speak Spanish at a mission, Topiltzin speaks with his sister, Tecuichpo, in native Mexican when not monitored; despite being forced to live among Spaniards, Topiltzin remains loyal to his own people and culture; and despite being forced to worship a foreign idol, Topiltzin does not accept the Virgin Mary, but rather he returns to his pre-conquest self and embraces a statue of her as another culture's depiction of his own Mother Goddess. Though religion is the film's focus, Topiltzin resists his new life in every way he can, and to parallel how the Spanish destroy the 'fetishes' of his culture in belief that Christianity and Europeanism are superior, he secretly maintains the Aztec way of life and only comes to terms with his obsession over the Virgin Mary when understanding it as a spiritually-lesser people's interpretation and attempt to represent the Mother Goddess. The Spanish have failed at assimilating Topiltzin, and in doing so proved that mutually opposed ideologies and cultures cannot be combined or exchanged the way personalities can.
Though bursting with symbolism and meaning, the film is an aesthetic vacuum with only the first and last scenes (the Alpha and the Omega) being artistically memorable.
Y tu mamá también (2001)
A Look at Sex, Youth, and Friendship
"Y tu mamá también" is a movie that focuses heavily on time, friendship, and sex, how they correspond to one another, and how far each of them can stretch before one breaks. A significant portion of the movie is dedicated to how far Tenoch and Julio would go to have sex with Luisa, but much of this is background sexual tension; the real development is when the characters reach their breaking points in relation to sex—such as when Tenoch refuses to continue driving while Luisa and Julio have sex in the back—and friendship—such as Tenoch and Julio's progressive falling out due to scandalous confessions and a journey to a nonexistent destination for a mutual goal that sparks rivalry between them.
The narrator specifically is the agent by which we look at youth and time; he observes in the present and describes how it is shaped by the past, but he also divulges information about the future that goes un-filmed and un-shown. This omnipotent knowledge feels secretive, and though he reveals through telling that Luisa had cancer, he chooses to describe and show Tenoch and Julio's last meeting, describing it so. The audience can infer that the narrator has been the camera all along, but that his eye also sees things that the audience doesn't, so he must speak to the viewers. In this way, much of this knowledge seems forbidden, something we aren't allowed to see but which we may hear rumors of, and that feeling (by no accident) seeps into the final scene with Tenoch and Julio.
The meaning of the film is more like a puzzle for which we don't have all the pieces. The themes of time, friendship, and sex all intermix into what is essentially—at least in terms of plot—a meaningless journey for a goal that was realized halfway through. The audience must choose if these are the film's significance or if there is something more, some hidden knowledge that, like the narrator, we may know but cannot point out.
All told, it's a well put together film with deep insights into young life, though it may often be hard to look at.