Just from reading the small blurp on the back of the DVD box, I had the impression that this was one of those “disease of the week Hallmark films.” The disease in this particular film was Alzheimer’s. The title of the film, Son of the Bride combined with the description of the plot, led me to believe that the film was about a man whose parents want to remarry–the plot complication was that the mother had Alzheimer’s. After watching and enjoying Nine Queens, I decided to give Son of the Bride a try–both films are from Argentina and both star Ricardo Darin.

Son of the Bride was a wonderful film, and the parents who want to remarry in spite of the Alzheimer problem is a sub-plot within the much larger, richer theme of the film. The subject of Alzheimer’s is handled with grace and dignity, and this film was not a voyeuristic tear jerker but rather a warm, funny intelligent view of how complicated life can become, and how solutions can be simpler than we first imagine.

Rafael(Ricardo Darin) is a restauranteur in Argentinia. He enjoys running the Belvedere restaurant is spite of the fact that owning the restaurant is extremely stressful and fraught with problems. Rafael seems to thrive under all the stress of juggling suppliers, employees and bills. He is good at his job–in fact, the Belvedere is the only thing that Rafael is proud of. Unfortunately, his relationships have suffered as a consequence of devoting himself to the restaurant. He’s divorced (and wishes he was a widower), hasn’t visited his mother in the nursing home for over a year (she has Alzheimer’s), takes his devoted girlfriend for granted, and has little time for his daughter. Everyone around Rafael can see that his relationships are problematic–everyone except Rafael, of course, who thinks things are fine as they are–and then a crisis occurs which forces Rafael to examine his relationships differently….

Ricardo Darin is simply a wonderful actor. Eduardo Blanco plays his friend, Juan Carlos–a man who has suffered through a crisis of his own and helps Rafael to see the possibilities of change. Blanco was great fun to watch. He really reminds me of Roberto Benigni. Rafael’s ex-wife was a great character too, and their scenes between Rafael and his ex wife are particularly good. From director Juan Jose Campanella

“Anyone who survives has to change.”

42-year-old Carmen (Cecilia Roth) leaves Madrid and returns home to her native Argentina to visit her dying father. She’s lived in Spain for the past twenty years with infrequent, brief trips home.

Carmen has arranged to rent an apartment during her two-week stay, and she’s also arranged for the services of a young male model Gustavo (Gael Garcia Bernal) and a female companion. While Gustavo wants to get to know Carmen better, she holds him and everyone else at a distance. Carmen clearly has emotional problems, but her family is very adept at hiding secrets. Younger sister Ana (Dolores Fonzi) is determined to extract Carmen’s secrets from her brother-in-law Dr Rossemberg (Luis Ziembrowsky).

Part kinkfest, Private Lives fails to adequately explore many issues dragged front and centre by the script. Several scenes cover Carmen’s erotic fetishes, but there’s little substance–beyond the moaning and the grinding–to explain Carmen’s past. Instead the emphasis is on kink–at least for the scenes in Carmen’s apartment. The film shifts focus between Carmen’s fetishes and Ana’s determination to discover the truth about Carmen’s past. The result is a film that addresses Carmen’s kinkiness, but fails to delve into Carmen’s political past. There’s so much here politically that could be explored, but it isn’t. The sense remains, however, that both Gustavo and Ana are amazingly ignorant about life in Argentina before they were born. Ultimately, the most interesting aspect of the film is Carmen’s need to recreate a cell-like structure for gratification. Private Lives is a tepid drama made a little steamier with Cecilia Roth’s charged sexuality. In Spanish with English subtitles.

 “Happiness is an undeniable condition.”

In Marie Luisa Bemberg’s film, I Don’t Want to Talk About It, by the time Carlotta is two years old, it’s obvious that she’s different. Her mother, well-to-do widow, Dona Leonor, refuses to discuss Carlotta’s dwarfism with anyone, and she even goes as far as destroying any dwarf figurines and burning any copies of Snow White she can find. Dona Leonor’s fierce protectiveness is only a form of denial, for in reality, Dona Leonor is ashamed of her daughter. Dona Leonor’s attempts to cover Carlotta’s dwarfism are especially transparent in social situations. Carlotta is raised with love and privilege in the small Argentinean town of San Jose de Los Altares during the 1930s. It’s a town full of gossips and organized social events. No one mentions Carlotta’s dwarfism, and she matures into an educated, accomplished young woman.

And then dapper bachelor and ladies’ man, Ludovico d’Andrea (Marcello Mastroianni) arrives in town. There’s an air of mystery about Ludovico, and he manages to combine charm and sophistication with a sort of sad grace. His daily visits to Dona Leonor’s shop seem to hint at an attraction to the handsome widow, but Ludovico is in love with Carlotta. We are told: “Love is strange. It only comes rarely, and even rarer are those it chooses.”

I Don’t Want to Talk About It isn’t a love story by any means–even though a romance unfolds. Bemberg’s story is far too sophisticated to be a mere love story. The key to the film’s core is found in the narrator’s final descriptions. We rely on the narrator to conclude the film for us, and to subtly add meaning with the final few sentences. Fundamentally, the film’s message is that courage is required to be oneself–especially if the elements of ‘difference’, unattractiveness, or unpopularity are present. Carlotta is very comfortable in her petite body, for example. It must occur to her that she’s different–but she never questions her mother because to Carlotta it simply doesn’t matter. Denying truths about oneself is a form of spiritual suicide. This is something that the shop boy, Mojamme must learn. Carlotta is never guilty of that. In fact, she embraces her dwarfism and turns her state into a celebration. There’s a mystical fairy tale quality to the film–and this is enhanced by the cinematographer’s use of lighting. There’s the blue light over the streets at dusk, and scenes with the sunlight and sunset on the sea–this is a beautiful, haunting, delightful and subtle film. Bemberg is one of my favourite directors, and I recommend all her films. Sadly too few are available.

“In questions of survival, there are no rules.”

In the Argentinean film Common Ground, the country’s failing economy provides the backdrop to the misfortunes of a middle class, middle-aged couple. Literature professor, Federico Luppi (Fernando Robles) and his wife, social worker Liliana (Mercedes Sampietro) live in Buenos Aires. One day they lose their jobs. Both victims of budget cuts, Federico is also selected for early retirement for his political views.

The couple takes a holiday in Madrid to see their only son Pedro (Carlos Santamaria) who, according to his father, has sold out for the nice middle class life–giving up dreams of becoming a novelist to work in computer technology. The holiday to Madrid proves to be a failure, and Federico and Lili return to Buenos Aires with their financial problems unsolved.

With the government not paying pensions immediately, Federico and Lili face imminent financial disaster, and they’re forced to sell their spacious modern apartment and move to the country where they hope to grow lavender for perfume.

Common Ground is a tepid, rather limp drama that fails to inspire on many levels. First, given the financial problems experienced by Federico and Lili, they talk about shrinking their lifestyle, and living on a budget. While Federico grows more depressed, their life really seems to change very little. There’s still wine, still cigarettes, and still plenty of food. A further blow to undermine the film’s power is the unrealistic and idealized move to the country. This move is supposed to be a step downwards which will enable the middle-aged couple to survive–at least they’ll have the ability to grow their own food and develop a preposterous business plan. Not one scene of toil is evident–Lili removes home made bread from a primitive, ancient oven and serves it hot with her home-made marmalade, and Federico delivers a final knock to a stake in the ground, but that’s it.

By glossing over the hardships of growing your own food, the film weakens the dilemma of this city couple. From the viewer’s position, Federico and Lili while worried about their future, were never exposed to the true meaning of poverty. With a sanitized version of country life, their downsizing–which is supposed to be a hardship–looks like an enviable, bucolic retirement.

The film also skirts the issue of Federico’s politics. The plot allows him one or two vague token discourses on the subject. There’s also an entirely gratuitous scene that takes place between Federico and a woman named Tutti, and this is all part of the cumbersome subplot about lavender farming. Ultimately, this well-acted film goes nowhere. While it tries to show how Argentina’s financial problems eroded the life of one nice couple, it fails to do more than scratch the surface. In Spanish with English subtitles.

“When you find your own place, you can’t desert it.”

A Place in the World–an Argentinean film–is a frame story. It begins with the adult Ernesto (Mariano Ortega) traveling back into the Argentinean countryside to his family’s former home, and then the story seeps back into Ernesto’s childhood.

The remainder of the story focuses on 12-year-old Ernesto’s (Gaston Batyi) life. He lives with his idealistic parents–his father, ex-professor Mario (Frederico Luppi) teaches the local children and his mother Ana (Cecilia Roth) is a doctor who is dependent on medical supplies sent by friends. Mario and Ana are clearly committed to helping others. Together they’ve formed a cooperative with the local shepherds, and they fight to maintain a united front against the wealthy landowners.

Hans (Jose Sacristan) a Spanish geologist arrives. He’s employed by one of the wealthiest landowners who believes there’s oil on his land. Hans–a lapsed anarchist–no longer feels strongly about anything. He left his belief system behind somewhere in his youth. Ernesto admires Hans, and the geologist soon becomes a frequent visitor to Mario and Ana’s home.

Many professional reviews tout A Place in the World as the best Argentinean film ever. It’s flagrant sentimentality and cliched script unfortunately renders it into mediocrity. 12-year-old Ernesto teaches the daughter of the richest, nastiest landowner how to read, for example. Sweet, touching … but also strikingly simplistic, unoriginal and maudlin. Instead of possessing unique, interesting characteristics, Hans, Mario, and Ana are two-dimensional and represent ‘types’ : Ana–the dedicated, self-sacrificing doctor, Hans–the stranger who learns to believe in something again, and Mario, the noble suffering teacher. Ultimately–given the rave reviews this film received–it was disappointing and dull. It’s passable, but nothing extraordinary–more like some sort of Hallmark Film of the Week. Directed by Adolfo Aristarin, A Place in the World is in Spanish with English subtitles.

“By preaching destabilization, they encourage subversive ideas.”

The film The Official Story wraps the politics of government-supported torture and the slaughter of thousands of Argentinians around the awakening of the social conscience of one woman. Alicia (Norma Aleandro) is a married, affluent history teacher who works in a boys’ school in Buenos Aires. She and her prominent husband, Roberto (Hector Alterio) have an adopted child, Gaby. When Alicia attends a reunion of school friends, she’s delighted to see Ana (Chunchuna Villafane)–a woman who abruptly left the country seven years earlier. The atmosphere at the reunion becomes a bit tense when one woman breezily mentions that someone they all knew only has one child left. When asked what happened to the other children, the woman says–”they were all subversives.” While everyone else seems to find this a perfectly reasonable explanation, Alicia is troubled, but there’s more troubling information in store.

Ana reveals to Alicia that she left Argentina after being horribly tortured by military government officials who were trying to extract information about a man she once knew. Ana was lucky to survive, but she tells Alicia that there were many who didn’t–including women who gave birth inside jail and had their babies stolen from them and given to the families of the privileged elite. While Alicia–who’s only been vaguely aware of past social unrest–would like to reject the horrific information of her friend’s treatment, prompted by her conscience she begins to question if her adopted daughter is a child of the Disappeared Ones (Los Desaparecidos).

Alicia’s brutish husband (who’s outraged Ana is back in Argentina) and frivolous friends believe that torture and disappearances only happen to those who “deserve” it in some fashion. It takes exposure to the brutalities conducted by the state to shake Alicia out of her nice, sanitized, perfect world. As a teacher of history, she believes “by understanding history, we understand the world,” but she fails to realize that history is all too often an “official” version. She’s never questioned authority or the “official” versions of the past, and at the beginning of the film, she’s flabbergasted when a student argues that, “history is written by assassins.” Slowly, she begins to connect with those around her–including a fellow teacher who explains that Alicia didn’t want to believe the horrific truth because to believe murders and tortures were really happening would be to acknowledge “complicity.”

The Official Story is a perfect film on every level. It’s incredible to realize that so many people just ‘disappeared’ in Argentina between 1976-1983, and the film brings home the pain and the horror while making this a very human, moving story. Directed by Luis Puenzo, The Official Story is in Spanish with English subtitles.

“You are as immoral as I am, but you don’t practice it.”

Martin (Hache) is a splendid character-driven drama from Argentinean director Adolfo Aristarain. The film focuses on the relationships between four diverse characters–Hache also known as ‘Jay’ (Juan Diego Botto), his emotionally remote, wealthy father Martin (Federico Luppi), actor Dante (Eusebio Poncela), and Martin’s girlfriend Alicia (Cecilia Roth). The film begins in Argentina with an upset Jay spending an evening in a club and carelessly taking a drug overdose. Martin flies to Argentina to see his son, and Jay’s mother, who is remarried and is expecting another child orders Martin to take Jay back to Spain. Martin agrees reluctantly. He’s busy working on a new screenplay, and he doesn’t try to hide his lack of interest in his son.

Martin seems to have little in common with his two main people in his life. There’s the bubbly, extrovert Alicia, who’s so outspoken, Martin seems embarrassed to be seen in her company. And actor Dante, is a self-professed Epicurean, and that basically seems to mean that he leads a no holds barred life of considerable excess. In contrast, Martin is quiet, withdrawn, cold and serious. He makes a study out of avoiding commitment, and when the confrontational Alicia drives a point of truth home to Martin, he simply backs her off with demeaning comments. Both Alicia and Dante don’t seem to expect much from their relationship with Martin, and that’s just as well because he’s cold and unapproachable.

Dante and Alicia befriend Jay, and even though they are both terminally irresponsible people, they are appalled by how Martin handles his son. Dante loves the anonymity of living in a hotel, but he makes room in his life for Jay, and Alicia, who has a drug habit that increases in proportion to her unhappiness, is ready to form some sort of unit together with Martin and Jay. While both Dante and Alicia chide Martin for his lack of emotional involvement towards his son, Martin remains stubbornly resistant to help and suggestions.

It’s the phenomenal acting from Roth and Poncela that make this film so memorable, and some of the best scenes occur in the discussions that take place between the four characters. The conversations reveal a great deal about the dynamics of the relationships (think Eric Rohmer–but not as cerebral), and the film’s focus is on acceptance of individuality–especially the acceptance necessary for a parent-child relationship. In Spanish with English subtitles.

And the moral of the tale is–once a fascist always a fascist.

The film The Lost Steps (Los Pasos Perdidos) from director Manane Rodriguez takes a long hard look at how the fate of one woman is connected to the disappearance of thousands of Argentineans in the 1970s-1980s. During this period, a military junta ruled in Argentina, and thousands of so-called ’subversives’ disappeared without trace. These people who became known collectively as The Disappeared were tortured and murdered by their captors. Although the Argentinean government announced a General Amnesty in 1990, this did not extend to the children of The Disappeared–children of ’subversives’ who were stolen and raised–often by influential families.

In The Lost Steps Monica (Irene Visedo) is the only child of doting parents Ernesto Erigaray (Luis Brandoni) and Ines Laroche (Concha Velasco). Monica’s parents, who relocated to Spain from Argentina, approve of her long-term boyfriend, Luis (Jesus Blanco), and she enjoys a caring loving relationship with her parents. But there are some discordant notes in this scenario–her parents keep a close eye on her–perhaps a little too close. Her father has employed someone to follow her around, and Monica finds this irksome. There are vague mentions made that an Argentinean writer, Bruno Leardi (Frederico Luppi), whose son and daughter-in-law “disappeared”, believes that Monica is his long-lost granddaughter, and a court case to determine Monica’s parentage looms on the horizon. To top it off, Monica’s mother nurses alcohol morning, noon, and night, and she seems nervous….

The Lost Steps begins slowly and then builds to its powerful and emotional ending. One of the film’s themes is identity, and Monica’s identity is at stake and in question, so her reaction to a threat against her identity becomes a major issue. I found Monica’s state of denial a bit implausible, and thought at least a degree of curiosity would make more sense. I watched the film with several people who disagreed, and they found Monica’s denial the most interesting element of the film. After digging around on the internet, I discovered that many children of The Disappeared didn’t want to know their real parentage, so I stand corrected. While The Lost Steps is a political film, the emphasis on the individual creates a much more intimate tale. In Spanish with subtitles. If you are interested in watching more on the subject, I highly recommend the film The Official Story.

“It’s all in the timing.”

In the Argentinean film, The Aura taxidermist Esteban Espinosa (Ricardo Darin) is a quiet solitary man who suffers from epilepsy. He describes the period that occurs before an epileptic fit begins, and notes that everything is calm and clear and “there’s nothing left to decide.” Watching Espinosa preparing the corpses of animals convinces the viewer of several things–he’s odd, and he’s meticulous. But then it’s revealed that Espinosa is obsessed with crime. It’s a hobby of sorts. He collects newspaper clippings of crimes, and he analyses the crucial stages at which the crimes went wrong. He’s convinced that the perfect crime is possible, and it’s a matter of timing and meticulous planning. But this is all speculation until Espinosa finds himself inadvertently mixed up in a heist.

After going on a hunting trip to a remote area of the country, Espinosa stays at a primitive resort owned by hunter Dietrich and his wife Diana (Dolores Fonzi). Events place a well-calculated crime at Espinosa’s feet. The question becomes: will he view this as an opportunity, or will he hesitate and back off? It’s one thing to be an armchair crime buff who nurses secret fantasies of the perfect crime, but it’s another thing indeed to leap into some sort of alter ego mode and hold one’s own with seasoned armed thugs. Espinosa’s incongruous fantasies about crime could just be a symptom of a desire for excitement and notoriety, yet excitement always brings the threat of a seizure. Espinosa, calm and introspective, is a peculiar man, full of contrasts. He is opposed to hunting and killing, yet is persuaded to do just that by a man he doesn’t particularly like. He’s different from most of the other brutish, bullying male characters in the film. But does he secretly wish to emulate their aggression? And in this case, a crime might provide the perfect opportunity. Or when push comes to shove will Espinosa cringe at deliberate, directed violence and discover the hard way that crime is more than just a matter of timing and planning?

Directed by Fabian Bielinsky (Nine Queens), The Aura is a moody, beautiful film. Colours are washed out, so Espinosa’s quiet, unemotional world is full of various shades of steely greys and blues. Ricardo Darin, who dominates the film, is a phenomenal mood actor, and this has to be one of his best performances. If you like neo-noir, heist films, or you are a fan of Ricardo Darin, then chances are that you’ll enjoy The Aura. Director Bielinsky died in 2006, and this is tragically, his last film. DVD extras include behind-the-scenes footage and the trailer. In Spanish with subtitles.