In Defense of Neorealism and Choral Drama

There's a part of Carla Simón that never left the countryside. There’s another that keeps coming back to it every chance she gets. That was the case for her feature film debut Summer 1993, and also for her Golden Bear winning film Alcarràs. In Alcarràs, with its brush-strokes of documentary filmmaking, we follow the Solé family in a hot summer when they learn they will soon have to leave their house and land behind. It is a delicate portrait of simple but striking daily moments: from sharing a meal and table talk to kids playing with anything in their reach to battle boredom to that slow pace and silence that lingers through summer days.

While Summer 1993 was a quiet exploration of a single character during a transitional time in her life, Alcarràs is all about community in the present. Only an ardent spectator of their surroundings could make such a statement of the hardships a family endures to make a living in rural Catalonia, with modern life lurking impatiently in the shadows. It soaks through every frame of the film and turns the audience into another member of the Solé family. It is impossible to not feel the connections between home and house. It is impossible to not fall in love with the bonds between generations these characters have. It is impossible to not empathize with the struggle to defend the dignity of their jobs. The film juxtaposes external threats with the family’s inner concerns, like the hopeless future for the upcoming generations, the greed and selfishness of each member when they see the end coming, and their desperation to escape unscathed.

Simón forges her style and takes it one step beyond with her sophomore film as she gives each family member their own voice, reconciles the range of ages of the whole family, and keeps the naiveness of the kids at bay from the adult’s wisdom. The film presents a wide range of individual perspectives connected by the invisible thread of family bonds, and it never loses focus of that quintessential core. Daniela Cajías, the film’s director of photography, lets the countryside speak for itself with voluminous clarity. But above all, the film could not work without the enchanting chemistry of the cast that portrays the Solé family. Composed of nonprofessional actors, it adds another layer of realism that would be otherwise impossible to replicate. It took Jordi Pujol Dolcet (who plays Quimet) one month to shed a tear, but when he does cry in this film, it’s heartachingly authentic. What adds to this film’s heartbreaking realism is the fact that everyone has experienced something at least somewhat similar to what one of these characters is going through. This blurs the limits of fiction and helps to bring the conversation to light. Through this, Alcarràs is able to make a statement that vindicates how lonely and forgotten country people can feel.

Alcarràs is a story of resilience, resistance, and rebellion. It is an ode to miracles, a rework of Spanish Costumbrismo, and a defense of tradition. Alcarràs fights for the identity of the community against the ever so changing threat of modernity. Carla Simón proves that one doesn’t need a grand premise to make a great film. As long as you have either the sensitivity and delicacy to treat the art with the hands of a craftsman, or the tenderly weary hands of a farmer planting a seed and watering the soil, you can create a masterful film. There are no layered metaphors, no bigger stories to tell, and no personal discoveries other than our own. And that is the magic of Alcarràs.

10/10