Despair and Longing in Mexico City

Originally posted April 22, 2007

Joaquin (Jorge Zarate) and Laura (Ximena Sariñana) embrace on a street corner in Mexico City.

Dos Abrazos (Two Embraces)
Directed by Enrique Begne
Starring: Giovanni Florido, Maya Zapata, Jorge Zarate, and Ximena Sariñಅನ

By Robert Rosen

Mexican films aren’t like Hollywood films, and that’s good for a lot of reasons. For one thing, the people in them tend to look real. Sometimes they have bad skin, and the directors don’t shy away from showing it in extreme Wayne’s World-like close-ups, in such a way as to make an acne-scarred complexion look almost sensual. For another, women with small, imperfect breasts are permitted to do nude scenes, and “minors” are allowed to have sex, without fear of running afoul of constantly shifting and ever more repressive American anti-pornography laws, which go so far as to prohibit adult actors from portraying children in sexual situations. And even if the characters being depicted are ostensibly middle-class, most of them seem to live in cramped, unappealing apartments, in an unrelentingly gritty modern-day Mexico City—or DF (Distrito Federal), as it’s known to locals—which they cruise through in old cars and taxi cabs, often at high speed, and frequently crashing.

These are some of the distinctly Mexican elements on display in Dos Abrazos, which, in a manner similar to Alejandro González Iñárritu’s Amores Perros, is really two separate films linked by themes of longing, despair, and social isolation that the characters ultimately overcome with a simple embrace.

In the first story, 12-year-old Paco (Giovanni Florido), is dealing with a younger brother suffering from metastasizing lung cancer, a mother in a state of acute despair, a musician father behind on his child-support payments, and failing marks at school. In the midst of this, Paco becomes infatuated with Silvina (Maya Zapata), a gorgeous teenage supermarket cashier who’s estranged from life itself—“If I hadn’t been born, what difference would it make?” she wonders—and who’s having an affair with her sleazeball boss, the store manager, who bears a disturbing physical resemblance to Attorney General Alberto Gonzales.

Mostly, Paco and Silvina hang out, smoke cigarettes, and talk about life. Silvina, at one point, mentions that she’s had sex with 16 men, including her boss, who, she says, is a “son of a bitch” because he told her that she doesn’t wear enough deodorant, and “only a son of a bitch would say that.” Later, they search Mexico City for Silvina’s mother, whom she hasn’t seen in years and who doesn’t recognize Silvina when they find her. But the most electrifying scene takes place in the back room of the supermarket, as the unnamed manager bends Silvina over a pile of boxes for some dog-style intercourse as, unbeknownst to them, a hidden and appalled Paco looks on.

The second story, one of mistaken identity, begins as a laconic, introverted cab driver, Joaquin (Jorge Zarate)—he of the pocked complexion—sees Paco and Silvina embracing on a street corner (which is the last we see of them). The next day, Joaquin gets into an argument with a nasty passenger, who promptly keels over from a stroke. When Joaquin takes him to the hospital, he is mistaken for a relative and is given the passenger’s keys and possessions, which he takes back to the man’s apartment. Since it’s far nicer than his own grim hovel, Joaquin moves into the apartment. Soon, his passenger’s estranged daughter, Laura (Ximena Sariñana)—she of the imperfect breasts—shows up, and assumes that Joaquin is one of her father’s gambling cronies. She accuses him of being just like her father, who’s apparently a professional gambler, deep in debt and with a taste for pornography. Laura also moves into the apartment; Joaquin cooks for her, cleans for her, and listens to her stories about her father.

The night that her father dies, Laura, half naked, walks into the kitchen where Joaquin is cleaning up, and tells him that she doesn’t want to sleep alone. The scene is shocking because it feels so real—a beautiful underage girl unashamedly offering herself to a pockmarked middle-aged man, who, out of decency, refuses. You’d never see such a thing in a Hollywood movie, not only because movie stars aren’t permitted to have bad skin or “undersize” breasts, but also because Alberto Gonzales would feel compelled to order one of his “loyal Bushie” prosecutors to have the actors and filmmakers arrested on obscenity charges—for the sake of the children, of course.

Most other Mexicans, however, have a very different definition of obscenity—the policies of George Bush, for example—and that’s one reason why more Americans are looking to the uninhibited filmmakers in el Distrito Federal, rather than Hollywood, for provocative cinematic fare.