Summer 1993 | Little White Lies

Sum­mer 1993

09 Jul 2018 / Released: 13 Jul 2018

Two young children, a girl with blonde hair and a boy with curly hair, sitting on a log in a rural setting.
Two young children, a girl with blonde hair and a boy with curly hair, sitting on a log in a rural setting.
3

Anticipation.

A child-driven film can be a precarious project.

4

Enjoyment.

Once Laia Artigas finds her feet, she is a wonder to watch.

3

In Retrospect.

A slow-moving summer, but one worth seeing through.

The impact of the AIDS cri­sis in Cat­alo­nia told through the eyes of a six-year-old girl.

Noth­ing much hap­pens in Sum­mer 1993, and yet every­thing changes. Auto­bi­o­graph­i­cal films tend to race through life, high­light­ing sig­nif­i­cant moments of tragedy and joy with­out every­day banal­i­ty. In her fea­ture film debut, Cata­lan direc­tor Car­la Simón deliv­ers a micros­tudy of one such event from her child­hood in metic­u­lous detail. Rocked by the deaths of her par­ents from AIDS and her hes­i­tant adap­ta­tion to a new fam­i­ly, it large­ly jus­ti­fies her intri­cate meditation.

Simón’s cam­era hones in on her fic­tion­alised self, renamed Fri­da (Laia Arti­gas), and it is through her haunt­ed per­spec­tive that the sun-drenched world is explored. The premise is sim­i­lar to Sean Baker’s The Flori­da Project, which focus­es on the abil­i­ty of chil­dren to trans­form the mun­dane into the mag­i­cal. There are few­er moments of juve­nile friv­o­li­ty in Sum­mer 1993, for Fri­da has a far stronger grasp of her sit­u­a­tion than the effer­ves­cent Moonee (Brook­lynn Prince) in Baker’s film. The con­trast between tones here is thus less jar­ring, some­what under­min­ing its emo­tive power.

Nev­er­the­less, 10-year old Arti­gas por­trays Fri­da with a strik­ing igno­rance of her deep dis­tur­bances, allow­ing the audi­ence to derive their own analy­sis of her behav­iour. In a game of dress-up, we see a ver­sion of her moth­er in role-play, smear­ing bright lip­stick on her cheeks and lug­ging on a twig-cig­a­rette. Her bright-eyed cousin, Anna, rep­re­sents the good-natured foil to this spoiled amoral­i­ty, the prod­uct of atten­tive love from the aunt and uncle who have adopt­ed Fri­da. Watch­ing them devel­op an entire­ly con­vinc­ing famil­ial bond con­verts the sedate­ness of the film into melan­cholic pleasure.

Occa­sion­al­ly the slow­ness caus­es the mind to wan­der, and it is not until an hour in that sparks of affec­tion are ful­ly observed in the cen­tral char­ac­ters. Arti­gas’ per­for­mance becomes more nat­ur­al as the film pro­gress­es, her con­fi­dence as an actor blos­som­ing in the final heart­break­ing scenes. Their poignan­cy sim­i­lar­ly relies on the grad­ual break­down of her aunt’s hos­til­i­ty to her niece, with Bruna Cusí skil­ful­ly play­ing to her fre­quent mood swings (a refresh­ing­ly real­is­tic por­tray­al of the men­stru­al cycle all-too-sel­dom seen in cinema).

Rather than rev­el­ling in blind nos­tal­gia, Simón rem­i­nisces in atmos­pheres and moods – that which is per­cep­ti­ble to a child. She presents a hum­bled reflec­tion on the impact of the AIDS cri­sis in Cat­alo­nia, and fur­ther on the extent to which youth pre­de­ter­mines the rest of our lives. In the case of Simón, we are sure to expect won­der­ful things.

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