Review #1723: Los Olvidados.
Cast:
Stella Inda (Pedro's mother), Miguel Inclán (Don Carmelo), Alfonso Mejía (Pedro), Roberto Cobo ("El Jaibo"), Alma Delia Fuentes (Meche), Francisco Jambrina (The principal of the rural school), Jesús Navarro (Julián's father), Efraín Arauz ("Cacarizo"), Jorge Pérez ("Pelón"), Javier Amézcua (Julián), Mário Ramírez ("Ojitos"), and Ernesto Alonso (Narrator) Directed by Luis Buñuel (#1383 - Él)
Review:
“[The cinema] is an instrument of poetry, with all that that word can imply of the sense of liberation, of subversion of reality, of the threshold of the marvelous world of the subconscious, of nonconformity with the limited society that surrounds us.”
If you think about it, no one really wants to see the truth displayed on the film screen. Sure, we can proclaim much as we want about our desire to see real life come out in film with no lingering artifice. Of course, it is also possible that this could apply to Luis Buñuel when it refers to which of his films have endured most in international perspectives. Most know of his shocking debut with the surrealist short Un Chien Andalou (1929), but just as important to mention is L'Age d'Or (1930), his feature debut that generated umbrage and curiosity over its place within surrealist cinema (a classic. After this, he made a pseudo-documentary with Land Without Bread [Las Hurdes: Tierra Sin Pan] (1933), which generated a few years of furor upon release in Spain for its "defamation" (of course, asking certain folks from Las Hurdes wouldn't generate universal praise). After this, he worked a few years at Filmófono as an executive director in Spain's attempts at commercial filmmaking, which resulted in four features before the Spanish Civil War began in 1936. He moved to the United States before the war ended in 1939, but he could not make a mark in the Hollywood system despite his intense attraction to "American naturalness and sociability"; he worked instead in dubbing while also working with the Museum of Modern Art. The seeds to his return came because an old friend wanted to adapt a play into a film in Paris, with a stopover in Mexico City; the play adaptation went by the wayside, but they attracted interest to make a feature in the country, which was in the throes of what is referred to (the Golden Age in its cinema. At any rate, Buñuel made his return with Gran Casino (1947). Of course, we are not here to talk about that feature, because it isn't particularly remembered (his most notable feature done in Mexico. Los Olvidados (which translates to The Forgotten Ones, but it was known in the States as The Young and the Damned) is undoubtedly the most famous of the films he made in the country along with being the first film he did in his busiest decade as a director (he would make fourteen films in Mexico before he found opportunities to make films abroad in 1954 and 1956, although he did make a few more films in the country until 1965). Although he found his previous feature (El Gran Calavera, released the previous year) banal, its success meant that Buñuel was sought out exclusively by producer Oscar Dancigers. Buñuel first thought of a film about a lottery ticket seller kid, but Dancigers aimed to seek a more realistic depiction of struggling children living in the slums of Mexico City. Luis Alcoriza and Bunuel were credited with the screenplay, while dialogue collaborators left un-credited included Max Aub, Juan Larrea, and Pedro de Urdimalas; sure, one could think about neorealism when it comes to this film, because Bunuel was noted for his admiration of Vittorio De Sica's Shoeshine [Sciuscià] (1946).
Did I mention that this film did not receive immediate acceptance at the time? It didn't even take a week for the producer to pull the film, which received negativity because...yeah, I suppose one really can't just watch a movie about poverty without a little bit of fantasy. Imagine stoking the anger of not only the public but also the government as well, because having a narrator say that behind every beautiful city are poor children is probably too honest, as if country morale is going to decrease because of a movie. I guess having a character throw an egg at the camera is just too shocking to go alongside a slo-mo nightmare and a gut-punching finale (of course, there was an alternative ending shot, but it was lost for a few decades). Of course, when the film was shown at the Cannes Film Festival, it received better notices, to where Buñuel won the festival prize for directing; awards really do seem to improve reputations (as opposed to the inverse effect), and the film is quite respected in its native country now. There are no moments to mount a sermon for easy solutions to preach here, which I suppose some could interpret as uncompromising. But that is the point, and it is the fact that we can still recognize the depravity that humanity can go when hope has flickered away like a dying wind that makes the film so striking and so memorable today. We may not like to see it, but we can still find someone like the folks depicted in this film, one that has endured for seven decades because of how it exposes the depravity that comes from the bottom without a plug to contain it, as if growing progress will always somehow leave someone behind. Rot is the center of what we see in the characters, played by a mix of actors and others that proves harrowing. Mejia and Cobo each lead the film with their own degree of rot that seems quite shocking when you see it from a child, which obviously means that it is quite effective, since you can see the distinct differences and similarities between them in how they face the dark world at large (i.e whether to try and run with the wave or to try and not become swept up by it). Inda represents rotted love of the most heartbreaking kind: a mother and her son; it reflects on society and its easy response to a cycle of depravity in which rejection is easier than confronting the afflicted. No one is spared in the cycle of poverty and rot, extending all the way down to Inclan and his portrayal of a blind man (of course, the actor was noted for his villainous roles within the country, so perhaps this wasn't as much a surprise), or a withering Fuentes, encased in the rot of youths. For a 76 minute film, it moves quite well for itself in maintaining its perspective on what it shows about poverty without becoming just a movie that says things about poverty, one that confronts the viewer without turning any blatant tricks, keeping the nightmare firmly on check - realism never looked so haunting with actors like these. Buñuel would have likely smirked at the idea of this being termed a comeback movie, but he certainly dared to keep making movies in his own distinct image because of the success that came from this one, which had their own varying levels of surreal or satirical edges that made him a true curiosity for the world stage.
Overall, I give it 9 out of 10 stars.
Review #1372: Fort Apache.