Friday, February 6, 2009

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The Empty Nest: fear, silence and tubers vaginal

Behind the fireworks and the blockbuster movie springs a shy, billed to the minute, which modestly puts his head between the tomes of the season and if there are fortunately able to swim in unexpected praise . From Latin America appreciable land titles scratch anonymous lives and give them artistic voice. These stories almost always minimal, not so much on the strength of their human traits (in this sense tend to be great) and the paucity of his handwriting. The little suggestive title of The Empty Nest concealed an attempt to dive to that way of films "real", posted in a naturalistic aesthetic fair correspondence with the peculiar dramatic excuse behind it.

Claudia Llosa-family caste, says the name, "revisits the legendary universe of her native Peru and has charged serving customs, mythology and magical realism packed to search for that stamp of authenticity. Get get into an environment of rural fable trimmed with touches of cultural heritage but fails to delve into the emotions that a tragic story could inspire. airtight film is strewn with symbolic references completely alien to the average viewer in these parts that could value the film. The metaphorical wake open to the sad story of the sick girl leaves mark on both sides by those who face it: as the anecdotal story of a young woman staring laconic gesture that affirms itself against the world "protecting" the vagina against male harassment. O in its anthropological dimension, using starting point to look out the weight of traditions, the emotional memory, the slab of past terror fell on the shoulders and a certain look obscurantist, widely popular tradition, the world.

In this split between the ancestral and contemporary, between the intimate and familiar, between the earthy and the spiritual, whose fringes of contact are at least questionable, lies the interest and also the confusion of this little work. languid tone, almost suffocated, bloating dramatic and localities do not allow notes to extend the streak of lyricism with which the director is determined to undermine the narrative. Could function -At times-as an allegory about the fears converted into walls of silence and solitude. Maybe send a melancholic attachment to a company that is not this insane capitalist world, but one driven by visceral impulses, mysterious, so inexplicable in words that only one worldview García Márquez style could bring his alleged charm. But the whole seems insufficient. The narrative meanders naked and without fanfare fail to revive, it exhilarating and bright, palpable, soon.

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