To Fight Memory We Have Oblivion
What is reality and what is fiction? What kind of exchanges take place between these two fields, and how do they nurture one another? Few filmmakers have conducted such a judicious examination of the relationships between these two concepts as Isaki Lacuesta. His filmography agglutinates several possibilities. Some faux documentaries are built on the foundations of the genre as established by the Brothers Lumiére, although they still turn out to be highly ingenious fakes. There are also films which, despite being based on fictional premises, have been produced in such a way that improvisation lends the images a seductive tension, similar to that found in real life. From his collaborations with one of the most interesting filmmakers today, Joaquim Jordá, to his recent documentary, Los condenados [The Condemned], Lacuesta has always questioned the assumptions which most directors and reviewers, and therefore viewers as well, take completely for granted.
The fact that this film was initially a documentary project but eventually became a piece of fiction should not be a surprise to anyone. In fact, far from being an obstacle, by moving from one genre to another, the director has come up with an improved final result. Los condenados is a film whose every shot has been planned meticulously, as has the final edit. Evidence of this can be seen everywhere, from the complex tracking shot which opens the film, conveying the oppressive context in which the film is set, to the surprising dialogue between Martín and Silvia, which, by simply turning off the sound of Martín’s speech, becomes an intense monologue in which the actress Bárbara Lennie carries out an exhausting performance made up of words, silence and her gaze. There is more, however. The dialogue scenes have been planned to an obsessive degree, as have the movements of the characters in the various settings. There comes a time, however, when they seem to have been designed by a stage director working on a play rather than a film. All of this, rather than distracting from the film’s discourse, serves to further intensify it. From the beginning, Lacuesta is keen to reveal the artificial nature of film, to make us aware of the fact that what we are watching is not real, but something designed for a specific purpose.
The result is certainly suggestive. On the one hand, despite being a highly political film, which could be seen as yet another piece examining the debate regarding historic memory and reconciliation and oblivion, it does not explicitly support a specific interpretation of reality. It presents the facts, analyses them and questions the arguments which are systematically wielded. On the other hand, because it is narrated from a symbolic perspective which uses ellipsis and concealment, it is highly effective. Almost everything the director puts in front of his camera lens is full of allusive meaning, but, at the same time, what we see is simply what it is, which gives rise to an even more overwhelming narrative.
Ultimately, all that is left is to ask a question: who are the condemned? They could be the dead, or the forgotten, but also those who have always lived in memory, or those who are forced to keep their memory alive. Or those who have not been able to let themselves give in to memory. All of these are logical, and correct, answers to the question, and, keeping all of them in his grasp and in his mind, Lacuesta has produced this film, whose combination of subtlety and bluntness reveals the talent and concerns of one of the most interesting directors working today.
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