Slow, methodic, contemplative cinema is hard work; this can be seen in Lisandro Alonso's (Jauja) offering from 2004. Meet Vargas a middle aged man in jail in provincial Argentina. Very naturally and methodically he goes about his daily routine, until finally he is unreleased. A free man he now wants to visit his now adult daughter, which we and Vargas discover is no short trip.
The opening sequence of the film is spellbinding. A camera slowly hovers through the brush of a dense forest. The viewer never feels that this is some sort of POV gag. Instead, the camera itself maneuvers as a spirit, only incidentally uncovering what the audience will soon uncover. Alonso's blending of the temporal and spatial aspects of his film's world in this scene and using the camera as a removed observer that floats about ethereally is reminiscent in ways of Apichatpong Weerasethakul in any of his jungle sequences—and is a usual tool used by most masters of the "slow" cinema. After a slow tracking shot through the forest, which allows for burst in natural light here and there, there is a small bloodied body, yet Alonso keeps the film understated and the camera keeps gliding along in an ever more haunting track natural light bursts through and then it's back to the dimly lit landscape, until in the distance, corner of the screen we see what appears to be another dead body, but the figure is out of focus and nearly out of frame, as the camera must make its way to the horror. This method has a particular way in building a natural suspense. Now we/the camera, see a partial figure. It is a man with a bloody machete and he stands only half framed as if he wants to escape but knows he is trapped. He moves toward us/the camera but there is no close-up, the man does not stop, the camera does not pan to follow the man, the man walks directly past the camera and that it is it: hold the shot, and then cut to the film's protagonists, Vargas. This sequence is done masterfully. Alonso flexes his muscles in showing us some of the raw power of "slow" cinema. The economics of this sequence for Alonso is nearly immaculate. He establishes the natural sensibility that the film will carry throughout. The use of natural light, longer tracking shots and medium framing rounds out the visual style of Los Muertos and lends itself to the mise-en-scene; the cinematography and direction is gritty, natural and real and so is the story that the audience views like the camera: slightly detached. And we quickly find out the murder was a flashback, allegedly committed by Vargas when he was younger—killing his two brothers with a machete.
Vargas appears to be a nice enough man. He communicates with the other men in the prison camp and even appears to have friendships, yet stays distant and at times introspective. Once outside of prison he lives and moves like a survivalist, a native who is wholly intertwined with nature. But what are the points of these observations? This is where the film begins to stumble. Vargas laboriously treks through forest, swamps, small villages which all seem to be unchanged in his many long years locked away. Okay, has he changed? Does it matter? We know he murdered his own brothers. We never know why. Yet, one never feels any suspense or unease in the possibility of Vargas relapsing into violence. Though one poignant and sad moment in the film is when Vargas stops in a small shop to buy his daughter a dress. The salesman talks about how the daughter will love the dress and asks what size and what does the daughter look like, but Vargas doesn't know and relates to the man that he doesn't know what she looks like. The scene is written and acted with poise and perfect pitch, never cheaply attempting a mad grab at the viewer's heartstrings. This scene is juxtaposed perfectly with the very visceral and matter-of-fact blowjob which he seeks out immediately after his release.
Outside of a few moments, Los Muertos seems to be as aimless as Vargas appears at times. As a viewer you want it to have that "pop," that "aha" moment, but it never materializes. "Muertos" is an interesting early work from Alonso and certainly worth the watch. It just misses in giving substance visually and thematically to the scene, failing to consistently inform the viewer with what is not just being stared at in the frame but outside the frame that the other slow cinematic masters of our time give us jammed packed in every scene like one would see by one of the meditative Taiwanese masters or even Alonso's own countrywoman, Lucrecia Martel. Will Vargas reach his daughter? Is there something to be discovered in his arduous journey? The main problem is Alonso trips up in not only keeping the viewer engaged but maintaining that the viewer care what happens to Vargas. He succeeds, I believe, in keeping the viewer's feelings about Vargas at the very least neutral even though we are aware of the double murder of his siblings. But Alonso takes this leverage with the audience nowhere and most of the film as a whole feels as loose, wild and unkempt as the swamps and forests that litter the film's provincial Argentinean landscape.
The opening sequence of the film is spellbinding. A camera slowly hovers through the brush of a dense forest. The viewer never feels that this is some sort of POV gag. Instead, the camera itself maneuvers as a spirit, only incidentally uncovering what the audience will soon uncover. Alonso's blending of the temporal and spatial aspects of his film's world in this scene and using the camera as a removed observer that floats about ethereally is reminiscent in ways of Apichatpong Weerasethakul in any of his jungle sequences—and is a usual tool used by most masters of the "slow" cinema. After a slow tracking shot through the forest, which allows for burst in natural light here and there, there is a small bloodied body, yet Alonso keeps the film understated and the camera keeps gliding along in an ever more haunting track natural light bursts through and then it's back to the dimly lit landscape, until in the distance, corner of the screen we see what appears to be another dead body, but the figure is out of focus and nearly out of frame, as the camera must make its way to the horror. This method has a particular way in building a natural suspense. Now we/the camera, see a partial figure. It is a man with a bloody machete and he stands only half framed as if he wants to escape but knows he is trapped. He moves toward us/the camera but there is no close-up, the man does not stop, the camera does not pan to follow the man, the man walks directly past the camera and that it is it: hold the shot, and then cut to the film's protagonists, Vargas. This sequence is done masterfully. Alonso flexes his muscles in showing us some of the raw power of "slow" cinema. The economics of this sequence for Alonso is nearly immaculate. He establishes the natural sensibility that the film will carry throughout. The use of natural light, longer tracking shots and medium framing rounds out the visual style of Los Muertos and lends itself to the mise-en-scene; the cinematography and direction is gritty, natural and real and so is the story that the audience views like the camera: slightly detached. And we quickly find out the murder was a flashback, allegedly committed by Vargas when he was younger—killing his two brothers with a machete.
Vargas appears to be a nice enough man. He communicates with the other men in the prison camp and even appears to have friendships, yet stays distant and at times introspective. Once outside of prison he lives and moves like a survivalist, a native who is wholly intertwined with nature. But what are the points of these observations? This is where the film begins to stumble. Vargas laboriously treks through forest, swamps, small villages which all seem to be unchanged in his many long years locked away. Okay, has he changed? Does it matter? We know he murdered his own brothers. We never know why. Yet, one never feels any suspense or unease in the possibility of Vargas relapsing into violence. Though one poignant and sad moment in the film is when Vargas stops in a small shop to buy his daughter a dress. The salesman talks about how the daughter will love the dress and asks what size and what does the daughter look like, but Vargas doesn't know and relates to the man that he doesn't know what she looks like. The scene is written and acted with poise and perfect pitch, never cheaply attempting a mad grab at the viewer's heartstrings. This scene is juxtaposed perfectly with the very visceral and matter-of-fact blowjob which he seeks out immediately after his release.
Outside of a few moments, Los Muertos seems to be as aimless as Vargas appears at times. As a viewer you want it to have that "pop," that "aha" moment, but it never materializes. "Muertos" is an interesting early work from Alonso and certainly worth the watch. It just misses in giving substance visually and thematically to the scene, failing to consistently inform the viewer with what is not just being stared at in the frame but outside the frame that the other slow cinematic masters of our time give us jammed packed in every scene like one would see by one of the meditative Taiwanese masters or even Alonso's own countrywoman, Lucrecia Martel. Will Vargas reach his daughter? Is there something to be discovered in his arduous journey? The main problem is Alonso trips up in not only keeping the viewer engaged but maintaining that the viewer care what happens to Vargas. He succeeds, I believe, in keeping the viewer's feelings about Vargas at the very least neutral even though we are aware of the double murder of his siblings. But Alonso takes this leverage with the audience nowhere and most of the film as a whole feels as loose, wild and unkempt as the swamps and forests that litter the film's provincial Argentinean landscape.