A new vital work by Patricio Guzmán sees the documentary veteran turn his gaze towards a new generation of Chilean revolutionaries.
The cinema of Patricio Guzmán has one historical moment which remains at the forefront of its overarching political agenda: the 1973 military coup d’état and the long shadow that was cast over Chile’s modern history by General Augusto Pinochet. My Imaginary Country – a title that fittingly attests to the fragile fiction of the neoliberal nation-state – arrives at a different political moment for Chile, and compared to Guzmán’s wider opus, assumes an entirely distinct mood and style in offering a snapshot of a new social revolution against a vast history of repression.
Demonstrations in Chile first began in October 2019 when a hike in transport fares took the price of a ticket to 30 pesos. Mass fare evasions and student-led demonstrations followed, and soon enough, the slogan of the estallido social (social outburst) became, “It’s not about 30 pesos; it’s about 30 years”. These demonstrations would culminate in the biggest ever march in Chile, where over a million people took to the streets and ground the capital to a halt. Guzmán’s film celebrates the momentum of this spontaneous grassroots movement which led to a historic vote, in which 78 percent of Chileans voted to scrap the illegitimate dictatorial constitution in favour of drafting an entirely new, egalitarian constitution (that, since the film’s completion, has sadly been rejected).
When Guzmán arrives in Santiago a year after the first sparks of revolt, he turns his camera to the primary subjects of his previous film, The Cordillera of Dreams: the rocks of the Andean mountain range. As military vehicles spray tear gas and launch rubber bullets, these rocks, pulled from the capital’s cobblestone streets by protesters, become the most prominent instrument and signifier of dissent as they are hurled against riot police and banged against the three-metre-tall metal fence surrounding the landmark statue of Manuel Baquedano – a monument that imprints its colonial and patriarchal presence over central Santiago, in a square which protesters have renamed Plaza de la Dignidad (Dignity Square).
The unrest was sparked from economic frustrations, but as these are inseparable from the structural patterns of patriarchal abuse and exploitation, Guzmán focuses on those whose political participation to this largely leaderless revolution was key. The testimonies of predominantly younger women – photographers, first-aid workers, political scientists, single mothers, feminist activists – are placed front and centre, forming the film’s stirring emotional core. Guzmán’s narration retains its usual airy, incantatory allure, but here the filmmaker shifts into hopeful resignation.
We remain fairly close to the surface, and the reportage plus talking-heads formula not only goes against the filmmaker’s penchant for poetic interplay and philosophical inquiry, but also prevents the film from examining the impact of the changes it observes. Nonetheless, all the ingredients here are invaluable, and the film’s vision comes alive with a real sense of hope about the soul of Chile and its thirst for change that’s palpable, not imaginary.
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Published 8 Jun 2023
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