Sebastian Molina and his fellow students at the Mexican film school C.C.C. (Centro de Capacitación Cinematográfica) made the harrowing doc The Hostilities (Las hostilidades) as part of their graduation year exercises. It unflinchingly reflects the painful violence that many poverty-stricken Mexicans suffer, causing them to flee from their communities, or pushing them to find work with the army or local drug cartels. It can be painful to watch, but it will stand as an important testimony to troubled times and serve as a warning to policymakers who claim to want to eradicate violence, but often ignore the root causes behind criminal behavior. It won the Best Mexican Documentary Award at the Morelia Film Festival and will soon segue to IDFA. The C.C.C. has trained other accomplished alumni like Carlos Carrera and Rodrigo Plá, both of whom are credited as advisors on this film, and whose ranks Molina now joins with a new generation of talented Mexican filmmakers.
Molina filmed his own relatives in the town of Santa Lucia, and their voices can be heard in candid off-screen comments throughout the film. A poetic, scripted narration is also used sparingly and effectively. The language is spoken by the main characters at a speed resembling bursts of machine gun rounds and is sprinkled with foul and cryptic street slang that will be incomprehensible even to most Spanish speakers. In a few scenes, we see echoes of the lost peacefulness of the countryside, with skinny horses and bleating sheep herded along the dusty streets. Children improvise games with old car tires, and they wander about as aimlessly as the stray dogs that mingle with them in the barren landscape.
The cinematography conveys the desolation of the environment and the routines of the unemployed youth. Molina’s camera shoots in the twilight or in nocturnal scenes, when we see boys lighting fireworks for fun or fleeing from the police. In domestic locations, the camera is jerky or out of focus, imitating a homemade video as it captures spontaneous scenes of affection and playfulness among family members. One of the truly happy scenes shows brightly colored balls floating in a backyard inflatable swimming pool, where the family celebrates having earned–and just as quickly spent–some cash.
The music used at transition points is mostly rap with the usual braggadocio and misogyny. Women are in fact almost invisible, except for a teenage girl dancing and a grandmother’s voice, or some little girls playing at home. Nobody seems to be studying or engaging in anything resembling productive labor. This reflects the grim reality of the Mexican poor, driven to join gangs or the army out of frustration and boredom. Even their entertainment projects a menacing machismo, as men bet on cockfights that mirror the prevalent male culture of aggression. There is scant mercy for the wounded, bleeding birds–or boys–that lose these fights.
It is difficult to empathize with or, indeed, even identify the characters, as their faces are mostly kept off-camera, perhaps out of security concerns. We see their tattooed bodies, or their hands handling spray cans while they paint graffiti on the town walls. Nevertheless, the documentary has a polished, emotionally compelling allure and is an important chronicle of present-day degradation not only in Mexico, but anywhere youth have no viable options for survival. At one point, a boy wonders how many years he is likely to survive if he joins a cartel: “one, two, perhaps even three” is his bleak and telling estimate.
Director, Screenplay, Cinematography, Editing: M. Sebastian Molina
Characters: Molina family and neighbors of Santa Lucia, Mexico state
Producers: M. Sebastian Molina, Tanya Alvarez, Carolina Caballero
Texts: Karen Plata, Sebastian Molina
Music: Paulina Lozano, Pedro Antonio Padilla, Ollie Viceraz, Freinzer, Coga Omar
Sound: Carlos Pedraza, Cosme Alvarez
Production companies: Centro de Capacitación Cinematográfica (C.C.C., Mexico)
World sales: Divulgacion@elccc.com.mx
Venue: Morelia Film Festival (Mexican Documentary)
In Spanish
70 minutes
