ROVIN' AND RAVIN' WITH MIKE

Copyright  © 2001 by Michael Segers,  All rights reserved 

          Some authors are associated in my memory with certain words.  Herman Melville, besides introducing me to the white whale, the wild ravin's of Mardi, and so much more, is always the author who also introduced me to the word callypygian, that is, "having a beautiful rear end."  (If you want to stop a cocktail party in its tracks….)

     Similarly, William Faulkner is the effluvium guy, with better cause because although Melville used callypygian only once, Faulkner's writing is full of effluvia, literally and metaphorically, and as I sat in the dark, spellbound by La Ciénaga (The Swamp), a dark, steamy Argentine film, I could feel Faulkner's word of choice almost suffocating me.  The truth is, this film almost suffocates me, and that may not be such a good thing, at least in terms of its popularity.

     As far as I can remember, La Ciénaga  is the first foreign language film I've reviewed for this series.  La Ciénaga, despite its setting in provincial Argentina, is a pretty Faulknerian affair, a tale (if that is not too strong a word for this rambling observation) of a family so thoroughly in decline that I wonder if the family could be taken as a symbol of Argentina, a proud, magnificent country that has been so afflicted by the national equivalent of family disfunction.  

     I remember envying Argentines that I saw sitting for hours in the little cafes that dot Buenos Aires.  I would bring a notebook, a couple of newspapers, and even a friend, and I could not make a cafecito last as long as a solitary Argentine with no equipment.   Of course, someone later told me that they sat there because it was cheaper to pay for a cup of coffee than to heat their drafty apartments.  There is some of that sad languid irony about this film, except instead of cold, the feeling here is heat.  Humid, energy-draining heat, where the rattling old fans just move hot air from one hot space to another. 

     Instead of an urban coffee shop, the Argentines of La Ciénaga while away their time around a dirty swimming pool, drinking too much, sometimes falling, getting cut. There are children, children everywhere, and, like some crazy holiday gathering at some distant cousin's house, you have no idea who belongs to whom. One child is missing an eye, another needs some dental surgery. But, otherwise, they are just part of the whole swamp; La Ciénaga, by the way, is actually the name of a nearby town, which I'm sure delights its Chamber of Commerce.

     Mecha (Graciela Borges) is the matriarch of the family, and--showing an unpleasant strain of Argentina's national character--she is almost crippled by racism, her mistrust of the Indians who work in her house.  Ironically, her daughter (Sofia Bertolotto) seems to have a crush on the maid Isabel (Andrea Lopez), a crush, by the way, which like everything else in this languid, sometimes frustrating meditation on frustration, goes nowhere. 

     Theirs is not a very attractive family.  There are wounds which it seems nobody feels, and there are scars; there is alcoholism, there is adultery, there is at times not even enough energy to commit adultery or to hunt up bargains in school supplies.

     Gee, this all sounds pretty dreadful, but that indefinite dread is the strength of this film.  There is no beginning or end, hardly a shred of anything you can call a plot.  But, like so many modern artists, director-writer Lucrecia Martel is interested in those shredded plots in our lives that go nowhere, about the times between the beginnings and the ends, when we don't know where it all will end or where it all began.  In some ways, such a film makes a lot of demands upon us.  Yet, in other ways, it doesn't.  We simply have to be with the film, let it be with us, and let whatever happens or doesn't happen, happen... or not.

     Even though I never made it to the provinces of Argentina, this film brought back memories of that memorable country.  One night in Buenos Aires, I heard a street musician's sad tangos.  (Tango is the soul music of Argentina, the music of the country's soul.)  I followed the sound, almost breaking into a dance myself.  (At least one gringo visited Argentina without making a fool of himself by dancing tango.)  When I came around the statue where the musician was sitting, I froze.  He had no legs.

    POPCORN

      I have raved about rovin' through the world's newspapers online and I want to do so again.  Let me point out one special treat, The Buenos  Aires Herald, an English-language daily that has been published in Buenos Aires since 1876.  Targeted to the sizable Anglo-Argentine community, in its online version, it gives a local glimpse into Argentina for folks around the world who read English but not Spanish.

      Update: January 2, 2002 - Headlines today read that Argentina has its fifth president in two weeks.  Once again, this great country, rich in so many resources, including a diverse population of hard-working, intelligent people, just, somehow, doesn’t work.  As much a fan as I am of Argentina and its people, I feel very sad about the situation in the country.

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