Año Uña

The photos and the people in them are real, only the story is fiction. So begins Año Uña, a film featured in Montreal’s annual Spanish film festival that marks the directorial debut for Jonas Cuarón. The young filmmaker, son of Alfonso Cuarón (director of Vanilla Sky, Harry Potter and Children of Men) informs his audience early on that his movie is composed entirely of photographs that he took of his family and friends throughout the year of 2004. To translate for those not fluent in the language of cinematic euphemism: this is essentially a 90 minute slide show with running dialogue. Sufficiently artsy for a film festival? Yes. A twenty-something’s obvious attempt to escape his father’s shadow and do something defiantly un-Hollywood? Maybe so. But don’t be turned off by what looks like a contrived style and all too familiar storyline, Año Uña may surprise even the cynics among us.

Molly, an NYU student bored and frustrated with her parochial college life, travels to Mexico in a study abroad program where she stays with the family of Diego. Diego is a 14-year-old whose defining feature is his impressive horniness, which, until the arrival of Molly, is channeled into numerous sexual fantasies involving his cousin. Needless to say, the boy develops a borderline obsessive crush on Molly and we spend most of the movie watching as he does just about everything to win her heart.

The trials and tribulations of poor Diego are amusing, but what really makes the film enjoyable is the depth with which Cuarón develops the personality of his protagonists. Of course, given the relative simplicity of Diego’s character, the portrayal of his typically hormonal, halfheartedly predatory persona was less impressive. I’ll grant Cuarón credit for orchestrating various perfectly timed interruptions of the boy’s masturbation sessions, and even for the juxtaposition of Diego’s sweet facial expressions with the narration of his explicit thoughts; but teenage sexual frustration can only be so enlightening. Our affection for Diego is essentially based on a superficial appreciation of the humor he adds to the story.

The audience’s relationship to Molly, however, is distinct. In the coexistence of her quintessentially American qualities and her anxieties over appearing too “gringa,” Molly represents the challenge many students in the U.S. face when they go abroad: how to temper one’s embarrassingly American tendencies in order to bridge cultural boundaries. This is no easy feat, especially for Molly who is actually inclined to engage in very touristy behavior and would rather not experience Mexican culture passively, as a native would. Instead of lounging in Diego’s grandmother’s house she would prefer to visit the famous basilica, Our Lady of Guadalupe, explore Mayan temples, and take copious amounts of “pictures of people.” At the same time though, she seems dead set on concealing any telltale signs of her Americanness, insisting on speaking Spanish with her blonde-haired, blue-eyed, barely bilingual friend whenever they’re in public. Molly’s endearing way of dealing with her inner conflict draws the viewers very close to her character, despite the fact that she is only depicted in still frames and voice over dialogue. It this aspect of the film that allows it to transcend the limitations of its unique style and that conveys the true potential of Mexico’s youngest Cuarón.—Natalie Kitroeff