Our Time | Little White Lies

Our Time

10 Jul 2019 / Released: 12 Jul 2019

A person riding a horse across a grassy field with a small dog nearby. The field is surrounded by trees and there are clouds in the blue sky.
A person riding a horse across a grassy field with a small dog nearby. The field is surrounded by trees and there are clouds in the blue sky.
3

Anticipation.

Reygadas’ previous film, Post Tenebras Lux, was a meandering misfire.

4

Enjoyment.

Got trashed at its Venice premiere. Entirely unjustly, it transpires.

4

In Retrospect.

A unnerving, bold and subtly complex dissection of male ego and aggression.

Mex­i­can mav­er­ick Car­los Rey­gadas directs and stars in this lyri­cal, uncon­ven­tion­al rela­tion­ship drama.

There’s no real way to start a review of Car­los Rey­gadas’ remark­able Our Time with­out resort­ing to the Span­ish term cajones”. It could refer to numer­ous aspects of this lan­guorous, bucol­ic dra­ma which bris­tles with sex­u­al ten­sion and leans hard on raw emo­tion­al pres­sure points. The key aspect, how­ev­er, is that Rey­gadas has stunt cast him­self as a char­ac­ter who is so abject­ly pathet­ic, so unremit­ting­ly fee­ble, that he gives Jack Lem­mon in Glen­gar­ry Glen Ross a run for his mea­gre purse.

It’s invig­o­rat­ing to watch an artist who is so con­tent to project and embrace weak­ness, and to use cin­e­ma as a fan­ta­sy play­ground to express the most destruc­tive impuls­es of the human heart. His Juan is a super chill poet war­rior, stet­son tilt­ed over his brow as he can­ters around his vast grounds on horse­back while his wife, Esther (played by his edi­tor and actu­al wife, Natalia López), takes care of all the phys­i­cal labour of over­see­ing livestock.

His down­fall is slow and mag­nif­i­cent, catal­ysed by Esther choos­ing to con­duct a sex­u­al rela­tion­ship with an Amer­i­can horse break­er named Phil, but which tight­ly adheres to the stric­tures of their open mar­riage. They have two chil­dren (played by their own off­spring, Eleazar and Rut) and main­tain an anaemic illu­sion of the nuclear family.

For Juan, it’s a case of ultra lib­er­al swing­ing guy on the streets, semi-psy­chot­ic con­ser­v­a­tive patri­arch in the sheets. All three prin­ci­ples wield an amus­ing line in shit-eat­ing grins, as they nod along to the psy­chob­a­b­ble bull­shit and cut­ting micro-aggres­sions while inter­nal­ly for­mu­lat­ing an equal­ly with­er­ing, faux-cor­dial retort. Dur­ing the mid­dle sec­tion of the film, all signs point to a gigan­tic mano-a-mano dust-up out there on the Mex­i­can grass­lands, as Juan final­ly decides to pri­vate­ly con­front his rival Phil about his not-so-clan­des­tine canoodling.

A person wearing a beige raincoat and cowboy hat riding a grey horse in a hilly, grassy landscape with dark clouds in the background.

Yet this is a thor­ough­ly mod­ern fight which man­i­fests as a series of strong­ly word­ed emails. Juan par­lays his vast intel­lect into his prose (he is a root­sy lit­er­ary celebri­ty who shuns the lime­light), even draw­ing on his own ready-to-wear def­i­n­i­tion of love to nab the advan­tage. Yet Phil doesn’t bri­dle, par­ry­ing Juan’s crooked log­ic in a way which only caus­es fur­ther infuriation.

It’s an inti­mate film about the ten­der­ness of van­i­ty, inter­est­ed main­ly in sub­tle body lan­guage and obscure nuance. Scenes are stretched to break­ing point and beyond for max­i­mum dis­com­fort. Yet the sto­ry unfurls on a grand can­vas which includes tim­pani con­cer­tos, sweaty hate-sex, scenes of a bull gor­ing a don­key, and the advan­tages of hav­ing some Gen­e­sis albums loaded up on the stereo of your Range Rover. Its sys­tem­at­ic dec­i­ma­tion of the male ego lends the mate­r­i­al a con­tem­po­rary feel, even though it’s clear Rey­gadas is some­one who nev­er wants or feels he needs to pig­gy back on exist­ing con­ver­sa­tions about gen­der and relationships.

There’s some­thing ele­men­tal and frag­ile about the film, and his per­for­mance as the cuck­old to end all cuck­colds fluc­tu­ates between unal­loyed evil and dither­ing, holy fool. Inter­ludes of bulls lock­ing horns in the twi­light are a blunt visu­al metaphor which seem a lit­tle crass for this light-fin­gered direc­tor, but this is oth­er­wise his most dra­mat­i­cal­ly terse and con­ven­tion­al work. And def­i­nite­ly not in a bad way.

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