Someone -- either the novelist or the scriptwriters -- tried very hard to come up with a viable interpretation of an episode in history that, like so many others of its kind, offers no easy narrative. The horrors of war, genocide, class conflict, and other human excesses suggest many scenarios that translate easily into dramatic versions, but few result in successful or satisfying exposition. This one is no exception.
So while I award it points for intent, I cannot regard it with the same awe and appreciation that some others have expressed. Mistaking the subject for the production is a common error.
The production is flawed here by departing from actual representation of events in order to magnify them through the prism of artistic pretense. Remembering evil and savoring the courage of those who oppose it imparts more dramatic impact when it is underplayed, when it emphasizes the banality of that evil (a phrase I borrow often from, I think, Hannah Arendt). One reviewer has made a very good point by suggesting that, rather than showing an unconvincing Banderas clairvoyancy, this story could have relied on demonstrating the suffering and ultimate resolution of character as lived by its survivors.
Another problem with the production (and I confess this is another of my pet peeves) is that it panders to a primarily Anglophone audience. Like its companion Banderas opus Of Love and Shadows, it fails to appreciate the intelligence of the Spanish language in its own voice. Subtitles are not so bad, after all, and surely Emma Thompson has enough work coming her way to have given her some pause before taking on this odd piece of acting.
Still, the sentiment is true. But how I wish other commentators would get off their soapboxes on the issue of scapegoating the USA for everything bad that happens in the world and concentrate instead on homegrown villains. Argentina and the rest of Latin America have their own duplicity to answer for.
So while I award it points for intent, I cannot regard it with the same awe and appreciation that some others have expressed. Mistaking the subject for the production is a common error.
The production is flawed here by departing from actual representation of events in order to magnify them through the prism of artistic pretense. Remembering evil and savoring the courage of those who oppose it imparts more dramatic impact when it is underplayed, when it emphasizes the banality of that evil (a phrase I borrow often from, I think, Hannah Arendt). One reviewer has made a very good point by suggesting that, rather than showing an unconvincing Banderas clairvoyancy, this story could have relied on demonstrating the suffering and ultimate resolution of character as lived by its survivors.
Another problem with the production (and I confess this is another of my pet peeves) is that it panders to a primarily Anglophone audience. Like its companion Banderas opus Of Love and Shadows, it fails to appreciate the intelligence of the Spanish language in its own voice. Subtitles are not so bad, after all, and surely Emma Thompson has enough work coming her way to have given her some pause before taking on this odd piece of acting.
Still, the sentiment is true. But how I wish other commentators would get off their soapboxes on the issue of scapegoating the USA for everything bad that happens in the world and concentrate instead on homegrown villains. Argentina and the rest of Latin America have their own duplicity to answer for.