è una scelta estetica interessante, immagino che sia per comunicare meglio con gli spettatori, per segnalare che i loro non sono i film di Hollywood, ma corpi e sudore e soprusi sono gli stessi della vita di tutti i giorni e tutti lo possono capire ed essere coinvolti.
i ritmi sono lenti, questo è un film dove si cammina a piedi, al massimo in autobus.
un film che merita, provateci - Ismaele
QUI il film completo in
spagnolo
Es la historia de Vicente, un joven granjero
que vive con su abuela en un pequeño pueblo. Cuando sus tíos vuelven de Estados
Unidos y amenazan con vender el terreno de la abuela, él viaja a la Ciudad de
México en busca de justicia. Allí se queda con su madre, a quien no ha visto
desde niño. Tiene que enfrentar la realidad de no saber nada acerca de ella ni
de un sistema de justicia que parece impenetrable.
Nicolas Pereda’s “Where Are Their Stories?” is a
bold, confident and formally radical first feature that confirms Mexico’s
position as a home to a major wave of talented young filmmakers. Pic hangs on a
slender tale of a young man’s efforts to help his grandmother keep her home
away from prying relatives fresh from the States, but haunts the memory as a
mesmerizing contemplation of family members in isolation and Mexican city and
country life in general. Plum pick for any self-respecting fest won’t sell
much, but will launch a notable international career.
Perhaps
because he’s also Mexican, the name of Carlos Reygadas has been mentioned more
than once — incorrectly — as the key influence on Pereda’s film, completed as
his grad project at Toronto’s York U. film department. As with Lance Hammer’s
Sundance prize-winning “Ballast,” films by the Dardenne brothers and Bresson
are absorbed into pic’s fabric, along with some direct tips of the cap to
Thailand’s Apichatpong Weerasethakul (including a 20-minute delay in the
appearance of credits). Yet like many rising cineastes of his generation,
Pereda adapts and molds these outside voices to fit his local circumstances.
The film
begins on a note of misdirection: Vicente (Gabino Rodriguez), a young cattle
wrangler in Zicatlan in Puebla state, appears to be waiting for his grandmother
(Juana Rodriguez) to die. Instead, it’s just a momentary relapse from which the
sturdy old gal soon recovers. But, anticipating her immediate demise, Vicente’s
relatives have rushed back from their Stateside work to wrest ownership of her
property. Pereda’s effective and ironic visual symbol for this is a fence the
relatives erect around her home.
After
lengthy sections devoted to Vicente’s rural life, pic suddenly shifts to Mexico
City, where Vicente has thumbed a ride to find an attorney to defend his
grandmother’s claim to her land. The complicated family situation reaches
unexpected levels of tension, even dread, when Vicente stays in the home where
his mother Teresa (Teresa Sanchez) works as a full-time maid.
Class
conflicts burn just under the surface as Vicente is suspected of stealing a
videocamera, lawyers look upon him
with barely disguised bemusement and Teresa is asked to perform duties far
beyond her pay grade.
Latter
drama is staged with such restraint that inattentive viewers may miss it, but
in fact is made more terrifying by the power of suggestion. Once he manages to
lay out the narrative basics and no more, Pereda shows he’s a true student of
Bresson, a trust in trusting the images and silences to convey his story’s
concerns.
Making
no extreme demands on his cast of theater-trained thesps and nonpros, Pereda
elicits perfs in the same low key he imposes on his camera (Alejandro Coronado
did the solid vid lensing). Gabino Rodriguez is especially good at suggesting
the willpower of a humble guy who refuses to be pushed around.
Reportedly
made in the ultra-low four figures, pic is a fine example of super-indie Latin
American filmmaking combining aesthetic class with extremely limited resources.
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