During the late 1990s and the early 2000s, Mexican film was propelled to the forefront
of international cinema, primarily through the work of three directors: Alfonso Cuaron,
Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu and Guillermo del Toro.
Along with their common team of collaborators, like cinematographer Emmanuel Luzbeki and
actor Gael Garcia Bernal, these directors are also known for their close working ties,
such as Cuaron producing del Toro’s film Pan’s Labyrinth.
Unlike many international filmmakers, the story of their rise to fame is inextricably
linked with Hollywood; it’s unsurprising then that their filmmaking is marked by a
tension between commercial, genre-led stories and political, subversive subtexts.
This is Nuevo Cine Mexicano.
Guillermo del Toro was the first to find commercial success, shooting his debut feature film Cronos
in 1993 following a string of successful shorts.
In Cronos, a kindly, elderly antique dealer comes across a bizarre artifact hidden in
the base of a statue.
On touching it, it activates, springing to life like a clockwork bug and stinging him.
Unbeknownst to him, the artifact was created by the dark rituals of an alchemist, and he
begins to undergo a remarkable transformation; at first rejuvenated, he begins to shun daylight,
and needs blood to sustain him.
For a first film, Cronos showed del Toro to be a remarkably assured filmmaker.
His trademark attention to detail and visual flair is instantly recognisable, particularly
in the cursed clockwork device itself.
Various sequences depict the inside of the device as a cavernous, cathedral-like space,
dominated by juddering machinery and a pulsating, slimy insect at its heart, a clear prototype
for the infernal machines of other del Toro films.
There’s also a clear political subtext to the movie, with the invasive, narcissistic
American Angel pursuing Gris, wanting to get his hands on the device at all costs; Angel
frequently reports back to his Howard Hughes-esque uncle, Dieter, whose sterile, hospital-like
room contrasts with the warm, cluttered space of Gris’ antique shop.
Perhaps the most subversive element of Cronos is its extensive re-interpretation of vampire
myth.
Although Gris’ transformation is initially glamorous, it soon takes a darker turn as
his addiction takes hold.
In one key scene, Gris and his family attend a party, only for his blood lust to take over.
Once he's alone, Gris immediately tries to lick his blood off the bathroom counter,
drawing a clever comparison between the blood addiction of vampires and drug use.
The degrading need for blood that Gris experiences in this scene also ties into the developing
problems with his new-found abilities; soon enough, it becomes apparent that immortality
will not protect him from injury, and the film crosses over into body horror in its
final act.
Altogether more grounded than Cronos, but with a similar vein of dark humour, Alejandro
Gonzalez Inarritu’s 2000 film Amores Perros follows three narratives connected by a car
crash: Octavio, who uses dogfighting as a way to win the affection of Susana, his abusive
brother’s wife; Valeria, a model whose career is put on hold when she is severely injured
in the accident, causing friction with her partner Daniel; and El Chivo, a mysterious
junk collector who secretly works as a hitman.
After a breathless opening scene that establishes the accident, the film moves back in time
to see Octavio and Susana’s story unfold, before moving back again to show Valeria’s
involvement in the accident and its aftermath, and finally El Chivo’s brief part in that
story.
These sections, separated by title cards featuring the names of the main characters, also feature
elements of each others’ stories.
The genre elements of the film, specifically crime and thriller, as well as the loose narrative
structure, allows Inarritu to draw comparisons between the heavily stratified classes of
Mexican society.
A range of perspectives are portrayed, from street-level dogfighting sequences to the
precarious business of high-powered executives.
As characters recur in each other’s stories, usually unaware of each others’ presence,
the film shows how isolated their worlds are.
This point is aided by the immersive, handheld camerawork and long takes, giving the film
a gritty, realistic tone; so much so that Inarritu had to convince censors that the
dogfighting in the film was fake.
In the world of Amores Perros, life is brutal, and can be snatched away in an instant; even
the privileged characters, such as Valeria, have their comforts taken away in a moment
due to a whim of fate.
As suggested by the title, dogs are a central presence; they reflect the characters in their
dispensable nature, sudden violence and shifting loyalties.
Alongside its brutal imagery, the film is full of satirical moments and dark humour.
When Valeria becomes more and more unstable after her accident, her partner Daniel – who
left his wife and children to be with her – is shown staring longingly at a billboard
of Valeria outside their apartment.
El Chivo is ignored by yuppie patrons of a teppanyaki bar, and shoots one moments later;
his blood sizzles on the grill, where his food was cooking shortly before.
Life in Mexico as seen through the eyes of Inarritu is chaotic and dangerous, but never
dull.
This contrast between political and social divisions, and a surprisingly humorous tone,
is also seen in Alfonso Cuaron’s 2001 film Y Tu Mama Tambien.
While del Toro was making Cronos and Inarritu was working on TV in Mexico, Cuaron was already
making moves in Hollywood – first on film noir throwback TV show Fallen Angels and then
period drama A Little Princess.
In 2001, he returned to Mexico with Y Tu Mama Tambien.
The film again features Gael Garcia Bernal, pairing him with teen idol Diego Luna as 17-year-old
best friends Julio and Tenoch, facing a summer of boredom while their girlfriends are holidaying
in Europe.
Tenoch is from a wealthy background; his father is a highly-placed government official, and
together with Julio he attends a family wedding that counts among its guests the president
of Mexico.
Here their paths cross with Luisa, a 28-year-old woman from Madrid; trying to impress her,
they invite her to an imaginary beach, and are surprised when she accepts, scrambling
to put together a road trip that will test their friendship.
With a surface plot that resembles a raucous sex comedy, Y Tu Mama Tambien uses a number
of devices to introduce a more profound tone.
This marks the beginning of Cuaron’s distinctive long-take style, with a number of extended
shots prefiguring his approach in later films Children of Men and Roma.
Y Tu Mama Tambien is also frequently interrupted by a seemingly omniscient narrator, who describes
past and future events that occur or will occur in the locations the trio visit and
affect the characters they meet.
This has the effect of cleverly undercutting the supposed fun of the film, situating it
in a longer and more politically conscious history of Mexico.
In between these sober moments, the raunchy sex comedy carries on to some extent; the
characters are kept at a remove from the bad events around them through a mix of luck and
privilege.
They even manage to pass an endless series of checkpoints without being searched for
the drugs they are carrying.
Here, as in Amores Perros, cheeky humour exists alongside political corruption and violence.
As these three directors rose to fame, they quickly switched to Hollywood productions,
including Cuaron directing the third instalment of the Harry Potter franchise, a darker take
on the boy wizard that redefined the series’ tone and visual style.
Now, all three directors have been recognised at the highest level for their work, receiving
multiple Oscars for Best Director.
Meanwhile, a new generation of filmmakers has taken up the mantle, making more genre-focused
films like The Untamed, alongside less commercial films like Post Tenebras Lux and Heli, a shift
in tone completed by Cuaron’s triumphant return to Mexican cinema with critical darling
Roma in 2018.