Yana-Wara
Tito Catacora, Oscar Catacora
2024, 104 mins.
Till death do me part
Some films are hard to watch (much of this is, especially the results of an abortion). Nonetheless, most of them say what needs to be said and, the best of the lot, lets the viewer decide just what is just or not.
In this instance, an 80-year-old grandfather, (full disclosure, I am a 72-year-old grandfather), played by Cecilio Quispe (as determinedly stoic as they come), is accused by the Peruvian small town council of murder. It’s a fact he cannot deny, then sets up the film’s full narrative by filling the background to his accusers.
Almost totally mute, a burgeoning teenager, Yana-Wara (Luz Diana Mamani appropriately steals every scene she’s in), is “held” after class by Professor Santiago (José D. Calisaya readily exudes his Trump-like evilness in every move), has his way with the frightened charge, then before you can say “of course, there’s no birth control”, she’s suddenly with child, much to the forever shame of her “loving” family (similarly, the town council urges all members to judge this murder case, but never let it go beyond their deliberations—no social media back then…).
The rest of this production is largely a series of past reenactments, culminating in a failed exorcism before the “devoted” (to what, really—false prophets?) grandpa sends—in his mind—a very troubled soul to eternal rest.
There’s a wee bit of comeuppance for the council’s president and a few scoldings from truthsayer Mama T’alla (Irma D. Percca), but by journey’s/trial’s end the only one who really/honestly had the courage of his religious convictions (whether well-founded or not) must accept his punishment as an exile—that is the strongest irony of the purposely black-and-white production, proving yet again that blind belief in a higher being too frequently makes life on Earth either deadly or unbearable.
I expect that is not what the filmmakers wanted to say, but from these long-suffering eyes and ears, it’s the entire point. JWR
Wicked
John Chu
2024, 160 mins.
All of the ingredients, none of the pizzazz
What a shame. Bringing the very successful stage version (written by Winnie Holzman, based on Gregory Maguire’s novel) to the big screen (Holzman and Dana Fox crafting the screenplay) promised to dazzle but merely entertained.
The music—all so important in any musical—here by Stephen Schwarz and John Powell is—to these seasoned ears (more than 20 years conducting and writing songs for a wide variety of productions)—lacks both an unforgettable song (far too many bits and pieces of sung dialogue) or a vrai showstopper (music and movement—where’s Donna Feore when we need her?—cross-reference below) to move the entire, overly long production from adequate to must-see.
It does cover many contemporary bases: scorned, green-skinned Elphaba—Cynthia Erivo, aka Wicked Witch of the West), wheel-chair bound Nessarose (Marissa Bode a veritable highlight of the cast), a Trump stand-in (Jeff Goldblum convincingly playing the despot of Oz whose bluster is most certainly greater than his bite) and Madame Morrible (Michelle Yeoh a true model of unscrupulous cynicism), MAGA to the core in defending her dear leader, well aware that uttering the truth is his and hers kryptonite.
Overall, the singing is largely good, with just a few uncomfortable pitch-uncertain and more diaphragm support wanting from the principals.
No worries, the dreaded closing, “To Be Continued”, still offers hope that volume II will soar rather than merely play. JWR