Reviews

I would certainly agree with the previous comment that this film is worth watching due to the poignant camera work of Paul Strand and the score of Silvestre Revueltas that intensifies the emotional power evoked by Strand's cinematography (that Strand seems not cut out to be a cinematographer is hardly surprising - he was actually a prominent US photographer commissioned by Narcisso Bassols, then Mexican Minister of Education to make this revolutionary film).

I'll also add that as a film this is an important socio-political moment as it marks the emergence of a Revolutionary national cinema very much in the collectivist spirit of Eisenstein's Battleship Potemkin. The editing mimicks the Russian director's use of separate cell blocks (shots) to translate the Marxist social dialectic of thesis + antithesis = synthesis into a filmic language labelled Soviet Montage. The film's clearest example of this is the juxtaposition of 'photographic' images when the politician shoots Miro. Eisenstein's influence permeates Redes (for example, real people acted in the film, replacing hired actors (except Miro), coping Eisenstein's use of typage), as it did Mexican film in general during this Revolutionary era, due largely to his philosophy and the fact he actually went to Mexico and shot a film, 'Que Viva Mexico!' in 1932. For those interested in things Eisenstein, I would recommend Potemkin, Strike, and Oktober, the latter contains a barrel-of-gun scene which surely inspired the aforementioned murder of Miro.

To analyse this film as a Revolutionary piece of art would be to give its best interpretation, therefore the cinematography of Strand ought to be compared to the photography of Edward Weston and Tina Modotti, other important contributors to the visual arts element of the revolutionary movement. Indeed the doctrines of Eisenstein are reflected in the fact both Modotti and Strand were members of the Communist party, alongside such notables as Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo. Strand's portrayal of weighing scales shot as to evoke the scythe, the symbol of the Communist Party, could easily be a Modotti still.

As an example of revolutionary art, beautiful cinematography, and emotive music, this film is a worthwhile watch, especially for those familiar with the work of Eisenstein, Modotti, and Weston.

For the umpteenth time in recent years I find myself rejuvenated after watching a film from Latin America, although 'de eso no se habla' has little clear references of being Argentine, as perhaps 'y tu mama tambien' displays its Mexican-ness, and 'cidade de deus' is clearly located in Brazil. Indeed, were it not for the musical Argentine accents, and the use of the 'vos' form in the second person exclusive to Argentina, Paraguay and Uruguay, one would struggle to locate the quiet provincial village San Jose de los Aldanes on a map of the Spanish speaking world. Unlike the more recent 'Nueve Reinas', which bursts at the seams with Buenos Aires slang - 'voludo,' pelotudo,' etc - this subtle emotional picture questions Argentine society from the peripheries, also making several allegorical references to influential global film-makers.

The film hinges on the dual between the Doctor and Ludovico, a well travelled man now retired in this quiet society. The wound the latter receives places him in a hospital ward, where he is visited by Leonor and her precocious daughter, the midget Charlotte. The dual scene is symbolic, as it recalls a tradition in Argentine society that displays manhood, and is common in the works of Jorge Luis Borges, also recalling the cowboy-esque tradition of the 'barbaric', uncivilized gaucho figure. It seems to be this moment in which Ludovico makes his decision to ask for the hand of Charlotte in marriage, a decision that seems crazy. Why would a man, already confirmed by the upper-class ladies of the village to be able to have any women he wants, and idolised by the working women in the local brothel, choose this deformed fifteen year-old sheltered from society by her protective mother over all the other possible ladies? Madness surely. However, as the women leave his hospital room, the camera focuses on them, before panning back to the bed where Ludovico had received his visitors. It is empty, and the blowing curtains betray the open window, his escape. This allusion to One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest instantly reveals it not to be Ludovico who is crazy, but the society that may condemn him for his marriage to the musically gifted Charlotte, as Kesey's society condemned the 'mute' Indian Chief. (The reference is a motif in the film's narrative, as Ludovico accuses the Doctor of being a cuckoo before the dual takes place.)

Indeed, this marriage becomes the axis on which the film pivots, turning the society around towards modernisation through Charlotte's influence. Firstly she civilises the errant Ludovico, ending his regular trips to the brothel, and the marriage coincides with the death of the town mayor, Saturnino, who cannot speak properly and symbolises the backwards of society and the fact that no-one seems to understand what comes from the mouth of those in society's positions of power. He seems in charge of this world, and seems to live in the brothel. His death promotes Ludovico to mayor, and the civilising influence of Charlotte leads to progress and modernity.

This echoes the message presented by David Lynch in the 'Elephant Man'. Society must learn form those who are different. Charlotte, at first a sheltered freak comparable to the gnomes her mother buries at the film's start, is an object of beauty and regeneration, from whom we can learn and use their inner strength and morality for a model we can only try to replica. The allusions to Lynch are cemented by the arrival of a circus, and the focusing upon the face of the Elephant, juxtaposed with shots of the Lion. This reveals the Elephant, the freak-like character - Charlotte - to be the King of the society, a role model and a leader. However, unlike the caged Lion, Charlotte is free to leave, and join the circus. Unlike Lynch's film, which begins with the 'freak' John Merrick in a circus and uses his death as an escape for a cruel society which held no position for a man like him, the circus frees Charlotte from a society that doesn't deserve her. When the caged bird is released, she chooses to sing her song, then fly away and leave behind those who had imprisoned her in the first place. Without her, Ludovico and her beautiful mother are nothing, and the society can crumble into the corrupt decay it was in before her marriage broke the spell.

The message is clear. Instead of condemning those who are different, they must be treated as human beings who have qualities like or superior to ourselves. This understanding harmonises society and creates a better place for everyone. This is especially resonant in Argentina, where physical beauty is regarded as the barometer of social status in many people's eyes. Furthermore, the fact that Charlotte is a fifteen year old girl, reveals the director Bemberg's message that the hope for the future does not lie in corrupt old men like Saturnino (are you watching Carlos Menem?!), but in the other, the young female, the artist (it is her playing of Schumann that is the film's emotional high point). Female artists, such as the director herself, are the hope for a better future. It becomes a film that places hope in the nation's youth, when the narrative voice is revealed to be Mohame, a young boy. Argentines must try to understand those who are different, and not put people like Charlotte in circuses so they can stand and point and laugh at them. This message is at once local and universal, and becomes an example of great art in the process.

This was the first, but definately not the last Bemberg film, I've seen. I hope the others are as poignant, as clever, and as enjoyable as 'de eso no se habla'.

This is a great movie and truely representative of a boom in Latin American film. Check out some of the stuff coming out of Chile if you get a chance - especially Sexo Con Amor. Heres some ideas from someone who studies Mexican history and a bit of film criticism.

What do people think of the significance of Ana, la Espanola? I find it a motif in the two most successful recent Mexican films (Amores Perros being the other) that it is a beautiful woman idolised by Mexican males who plays the tragic heroine. Ana's marriage collapses and the film concludes by revealing to the viewer that her make-every-minute-count attitude towards life - the essence of the mexicanidad represented by the boys - is born out of her imminent death due to cancer. Likewise, Goya Toledo's stunning model Valeria is the victim of the car crash around which Amores Perros' three plots weave their narrative. Instead of death she lives to lament her misfortune as a crippled shadow of her former self. I sympathised most with the actresses playing the role of the foreigner, the european, over the Mexican actresses who suffered loss, because in the brutality of a Mexican society dominated by machismo they saw their beauty taken, they became fucked by the harsh reality of life. This recalled the theme of La Chingada (the fucked/violated one) in Mexican history. She is La Malinche - the conquistador Hernan Cortes' lover and translator, who facilitated the conquest of the ancient Aztec civilization for the colonising Spanish troops. To this day 'La Chingada' remains an insult in Mexican spanish - hijo de la chingada, 'son of the f**ked one' or 'son of a bitch', and 'chinga tu madre' - 'motherf**ker' remain some of the vilest insults in mexican street slang.

what does this history lesson have to do with film you ask? well, my theory is that in these films, the directors are subverting the nationality of La Chingada - the f**ked one is la espanola in each case, not the mexican women as it the time of the conquest - and in doing so reclaiming a mexican identity through the medium of film. The Spanish women are 'conquered' by Mexican men, and live in Mexico migrating from their homeland. Their destiny is tragic, as is that of the Aztec civiliztion following the Spanish invasion. In each film, they become La Chingada figure.

As well as subverting nationality to reclaim identity for the Mexicans, the narrative surrounding las espanolas highlights problems blighting Mexican society. The global invasion of materialistic consumer culture is documented by Valeria. Indeed it is exactly because she is the beautiful model that her injury in the car crash seems so tragic. Until the tragic revelation of Ana's cancer adds extra significance to her character, it appears as if marital infidelity is the tragic element, revealing the breakdown of the traditional family unit in the Catholic conservative Mexican society. Furthermore, it rises as almost a side issue yet the liberation of Ana allows Julio and Tenoch to discover their homosexual side, an issue still largely taboo in the world of teenage Mexican men.

What do other people think about the roles of Ana and Valeria? Am I reading too much into them?

An intriguingly bold film weaves the seemingly effortless camerawork with some superb casting and an explosive soundtrack to plot the damaging effects of the crime and corruption of the Santiago underworld on 2 naive young brothers from the southern city of Temuco.

Film debutant Daniella Rios is the seductive erotic dancer Gracia, working in the nightclub owned by the face of the new mini-wave in Chilean film production, Alejandro Trejo. The elder brother, played maturely by Nestor Cantillana, is easily convinced to become Trejo's lead henchman, after a night at the stripclub to celebrate younger brother Victor's (Juan Pablo Miranda) seventeenth birthday. From the establishing shot of this opening scene, the film explodes into neo-noir exploration of everything the outside world doesn't usually expect to see in this country so stereotypically conservative and catholic.

Gracia's charms of seduction attract the three men like bees to honey, although the circular narrative of the three-way fantasy romance revolves around the linear portrayal of major international drug deals between Trejo's men and the 'Gringo', Eduardo Barril. Power relations become a vital theme, as society's outsiders merge in a mini-family. The prostitute holds an exotic spell over all the chilean men in the film, emerging from her ambiguous position in the periphery of society, and is seen as holding the key to all three men's futures. The relationships between Trejo and Cantillana become important, as the boys' parents are conspicious by their absence (one assumes they still live in Temuco). Therefore it is Trejo, el padrino, who 'adopts' Cantillana, and effectively 'makes him' as a man in the city. Miranda rapidly becomes the desperate outsider, as his dependency on his 'father figure', Cantillana, becomes increasingly strained by jealousy over the beautiful Gracia. However, Miranda remains trapped by the constraint of still being in school - he is dependent on Cantillana, who is dependent on Trejo, for the money to survive. Trejo, in turn, is under the thumb of the 'Gringo', and his wealth has been accumulated through drug deals and well as his strip clubs. The figure of Gracia acts as a time bomb viewed as a beautiful firework, she wraps a web of beauty inside the patriarchy but the strain can only lead to one climax.

As the tensions of these power relations come to head, Gracia remains ambiguously elusive. The viewer is never sure which male figure she will commit to. The film concludes tragically and explosively in a shoot out which realigns power relations and erases half the major male protanganists. The final shot of Miranda's beaten face speeding down the PanAmericano highway is despairingly powerful. The boy has been sucked in by the lure of the city's underworld, yet has lost his only visible family, and his woman, who is his only friend in the film. He has nothing. The overriding metaphors are bold and brave. This is a gangster film in Chile. The notions of family, no sex before marriage etc, are abolished, and instead the harsh realities of the other side of Santiago's coin are displayed in all their savage glory. Trejo beats Rios brutally, Rios and Miranda make love in a cinema reel room - a whore having sex with a minor she barely knows. The 'gringos' are seen to have a financial hold over this small Latin American nation, but not through the copper mines, through the illegal path of drugs.

Waissbluth's triumph is in his presentation of this dark underworld, which raises so many social questions, more perhaps than the record-breakingly successful Sexo Con Amor, within a slick, smooth firecracker of a film, which place this film firmly alongside Sexo Con Amor, Taxi Para Tres, and El chacotero Sentimental, as cinematic evidence that Chile is well and truly artistically alive and kicking in the post-transition period 15 years after the censorship of the Military Regime.