volveréis (w&d jonás trueba, w. itsaso arana y vito sanz)

Trueba’s film La virgen de agosto was a sleeper hit in the Hispanic universe. Its tone was laconic, neo-romantic and far more hippy than anything by Madrid’s most famous filmmaker. It was also a love letter to Madrid, his native city, as is Volveréis (You’ll Be Back). The lead characters are Madrileño bohos, a filmmaker and an actor who have decided to end their fifteen year personal relationship, without rancour. They might work together in the future or they might not. Or indeed, they might be working together now, as Alex crops up in the film Ale has directed and is now editing. Or is that actually the film we are now watching? The meta-element of Volveréis is not shied away from. At the same time this is a film about love, about splitting up, about subsisting as artists in the capital. The only other filmmaker I know who lived in Madrid had to move out because rents were unaffordable, which is something the couple realise as they go looking for two new places to live. (One each.) The Maguffin is a party which they plan to hold to celebrate their separation, taking their inspiration from Ale’s father (played by Trueba’s actual father),  who gives his daughter Kierkegaard to read. As the film progress the storyline becomes less and less linear. It’s not clear if scenes are happening in the future after they have split up, or after they have decided not to split up, or in the present as they continue to debate the idea of splitting up. Or indeed whether the scenes are occurring within the matrix of Ale’s film itself, which might or might not be the film we are watching. The edit becomes more jagged and the film teeters somewhere between genius and tedium. The lead actors, Itsaso Arana and Vito Sanz are given screenwriting credits, and it’s hard to tell how far the film’s confusion is a result of precision or chaos in the process of its creation. It would be intriguing to see a script and find out how much of the second half of the film was finalised in the edit. There’s something both gratingly bourgeois about all this and yet radically, formally exciting. 

perdita durango (w&d álex de la Iglesia, w. jorge guerricaechevarría, david trueba, barry gifford)

Emerging from de la Iglesia’s bombastic movie, I was told that it went down a storm in Mexico when it came out, back in the twentieth century. It would be worth analysing why that would be, given that the Mexican lead, Romeo, played by an over-the-top Javier Bardem (is it cosplaying when a Spaniard plays a Mexican bandido as a psychotic?) fits a stereotype of the kind of deranged, amoral killer which US governments warn are exactly the type of people they need to keep out. Much of the action takes place on or near the border itself, which Flavio Martínez Labiano’s flamboyant camera work depicts with swooping helicopter shots, pre-drone. As Romeo and Rosie Perez’ Perdita criss-cross across this border, wreaking havoc, they tread a fine line between charismatic anti-heroes and sadistic monsters. I guess if one identifies as an anti-hero, something which the us-and-them of the border encourages, then it’s not that hard a leap to identify with Perdita and Romeo. It’s an interesting contrast with other border fictions. In McCarthy, the gringos are the good guys, crossing into a biblical world whose protean mores they grapple with. In Villeneuve’s lurid Sicario, the Mexicans are just as amoral and sadistic as Romeo and Perdita, but with none of the charm. So in a sense, de la Iglesia’s operatic tale can be seen as a vindication of those who are usually vilified, and their arbitrary vengeful abuse of two young kids is a turning of the tables. On the other hand, a film which glorifies a rapist, (or rapists, because Rosie also gets in on the act), is perhaps harder to like in this day and age, even if this might be termed a film which clearly comes from another era and the kids seem to get off on it.

In many ways Perdita Durango feels like one of those macho films with a female lead that got given budgets back in the day. Perdita is second cousin to Betty Blue or Thelma and Louise or La Femme Nikita, even Run Lola Run, eponymous avatars of a kind of kick-ass femininity which still feels a long way from feminism.