Born in Argentina in 1966, Lucrecia Martel had a typically Catholic upbringing for the region, albeit such that she only enrolled in an ultra-Catholic school in order to study ancient languages. There she excelled in science and had intended further study in zoology, and even dabbled in farming, but was drawn into more practical studies in consideration of making a living, and bit by bit was drawn into filmmaking, in which occupation she was largely self-taught. She made short films and some documentaries for television during the 1990s, and has made only four feature films for cinema, but already in that time she has proven a keen eye for framing, and a laconic way of drawing out a story. Indeed, after bursting onto the international scene with La Ciénaga in 2001, she has been a model for successive Latin American women directors, if not for an entire strand of arthouse film production. Her films are not immediately accessible, and perhaps that explains her slow output (and the dizzying array of producers and sources of money her films sometimes list), but she also crafts them all very deliberately so perhaps the waits are worthwhile.
Perhaps going in with low expectations from some decidedly lukewarm reviews helped, but I ended up really rather liking this story of confused identity. It’s an emotive subject matter (mix-ups at birth have been the subject of several good films) but the film doesn’t wring it out for melodrama. That said, I found it affecting (in a low-key way) and the lead character Pierre’s clash with his new family to be quite moving. The gender fluid identity issues — specifically the believability of his emotional journey (and I use the masculine pronoun because that’s the one used in the film by the character, played by Naomi Nero) — aren’t an area I can really comment on, but although they do seem to be a reflection of deeper familial divisions being explored, it doesn’t feel like they are being deployed exploitatively, though of course I’d be keen to read some trans opinions. What I’m left with is the lead actor’s defiance of normative expectations about his behaviour, and the seething undertow of anger from his birth father, though the film ends with a touching moment of emotional openness.
Director/Writer Anna Muylaert; Cinematographer Barbara Alvarez; Starring Naomi Nero; Length 82 minutes.
Seen at BFI Southbank (NFT2), London, Friday 24 March 2017.
I don’t have much of a handle on Brazilian cinema, but the examples I’ve seen seem to promise a laidback outdoor-living lifestyle riven with poverty but hardly hopelessness. Maybe that’s the kind of thing that makes it to screens outside the country, but The Second Mother, while not contradicting this — it’s about a domestic servant — at least gives a bit more ground-level social context. It reminds me of the Colombian film Gente de bien, released earlier this year, in the way it subtly but brutally dissects class tensions. In that film the son of poor parents goes to live with a rich family over the summer and is gradually shunned (a swimming pool is again a key locus of tension), but here the effects of class are both more subtle and more damaging. Val (Regina Casé, quite a big star in her native country) is a live-in servant at the home of a rich São Paulo couple, introduced caring for their young son before we flash forward a decade to when he’s applying for university. In many ways, as the English title suggests, she’s more of a mother to him than his real one, Barbara (seen only as a harried professional woman, conducting TV interviews or hosting parties), and there’s a genuine tender fondness between them. But, it turns out, Val has a daughter, Jéssica (Camila Márdila), whom she’s not seen in a decade, who is coming to the big city to apply to become an architect. It’s when Jéssica arrives that things start to break apart, because she doesn’t have her mother’s internalised acceptance of their place in the pecking order, and after seeing the cramped basement conditions her mother is housed in, is happy to accept a spacious guest room from the family’s father Dr Carlos, and swim in their pool — lines which Val would never cross and which she gets increasingly agitated over, even as Barbara and Carlos remain polite (though in the mother’s case through ever more obviously gritted teeth).
All the drama really is in the little gestures, social faux pas, which become a series of small details that build — both for the viewer and, it turns out, for Val — into a damning indictment of privilege. Aside from the swimming pool, there’s also, for example, a set of coffee cups with coffee pot which Val gets for Barbara on her birthday, a present you get the sense Val can ill afford but feels compelled to give on such an important occasion (but also because she wants to ask if her daughter can come to stay for a short while, a question which is awkwardly brushed off initially). Immediately we sense that this gift is tacky in Barbara’s eyes and, though gracious, she quickly hides it away, even hustling Val back into the kitchen when she tries to use it at a dinner party, preferring something a bit more Scandinavian. The film is filled with this kind of observation, making it, in its small way, something of a domestic horror story, albeit one in which the most vicious thing that happens is that boundaries are enforced between the servants’ quarters and where Barbara spends her time. Or perhaps more vicious still is the way that a mother can grow up not even knowing her own daughter because of the work she does. The film’s original title translates as “What time will she come home?”, a plaintive plea to Val from the young son at the start about his mother, but which ends up applying just as much to Val’s relationship to Jéssica. It all makes you wonder about the feel-good angle of the film’s poster, though that does come after a fashion. And most welcome it is too.
Director/Writer Anna Muylaert; Cinematographer Bárbara Alvarez; Starring Regina Casé, Camila Márdila; Length 112 minutes.
Seen at Picturehouse Central, London, Wednesday 16 September 2015.