The Best of Bolivian Cinema: Mortality & Inequality

The condor soars over the clay-colored valley, overlooking what remains of the elephants’ cemetery. There is a stillness to the air unlike anywhere else – a calm weighted by the souls of those who once roamed these lands. All move in unison to the rhythm of the earth. One looks toward the endless sierra and realizes that against the fatal hand of nature, he is truly helpless. That is the essence that emanates from Bolivian cinema. Defenceless subjects facing a gargantuan world that feels both lethal and beautiful. It is a cinema preoccupied with socioeconomic struggle, yet equally entranced by the power that nature and family values can withstand against them. Mortality and inequality are expressed in Bolivian cinema through the most gorgeous (and most intimidating) imagery of virgin natural landscapes, symbols that accentuate the sharp wealth and cultural divides across urban and rural communities, and the actions of characters as metaphors for social commentary.

The air of death is palpable across the images of Bolivian cinema, especially through their symbols and imagery. Prevalently, the condor recurs across Bolivian films as it is not only a staple of Bolivian nature but also a symbol of death and the power of nature in folklore. In the 2019 Alejandro Loayza Grisi film, Utama, the motif of the condor spies on the main character almost voyeuristically, becoming more and more present as his health declines. As Virginio, the protagonist, grows increasingly aware of his impending death, condors in the background and the sound of wings flapping becomes more recurrent. In a pivotal scene, Virginio explains to his grandson, Clever, that condors die once they feel useless; they go to the top of the mountain, hide their wings, and let themselves fall. So by the end of the film, when the condor and Virginio face off, the audience understands that this is a metaphor to him accepting that time has caught up to him. From just one image, we understand the futile struggle against the strength of nature. Further throughout the film, Clever attempts to convince Virginio to move to the city in order to get himself treated; however, Virginio repeatedly refuses in disgust. Looking through Virginio’s eyes, the city is a symbol of an ‘easy life’ and a loss of culture, revealing the pride he has toward his rural home. Almost all inhabitants of the nearby town where Virginio lives escape to the city after a water shortage, allowing the audience to view the idea of urban life as a haven for “better” opportunities and a “better” life. This couldn’t be in greater disparity with the 1969 Jorge Sanjinés film, Blood of the Condor. Here, the city is imposing, relentless, and unforgiving. In the film, the protagonist’s brother, Sixto, struggles to acquire blood and medicines in order to save his dying gun-shot brother. Sixto’s minimum wage salary doesn’t nearly cover the costs, and he is denied help everywhere he turns. Even those in a position to help refuse because, as a person of native descent, he is viewed as ‘lesser’ than the wealthy foreigners. The blood and the medicines then not only become a symbol of wealth, but also a symbol of helplessness the average hard-working Bolivian feels.

While the tension between rural and urban highlights the lack of health resources, Bolivian cinema also makes a point of making it a testament to the fierce cultural, economic, and social divide between the two communities. In Utama, Virginio clings to the pride he has toward his rural home, that he refuses to leave it even if it will cost him a much shorter life. This act of staying alludes to the struggle of the modern native Bolivian people as the country gradually globalizes and the minority cultures become increasingly less populated. Virginio is a symbol of the remaining native population who refuse to give up their heritage. This disdain for the city is shared to a greater extent in Blood of the Condor. By the end of the film, Sixto is unable to save his brother and therefore decides to get revenge, assumedly at the people who could’ve helped him but metaphorically to the people in Bolivian society who have sustained the wealth gap. There is a palpable hatred toward the city that is present in Utama as well, though to a much lesser extent, reflecting the ideological shift in the country’s ideology that occurred between Blood of the Condor’s release in 1966 and Utama’s release in 2019. Overall, Sixto’s and Virginio’s arcs are almost a distorted mirror of each other. Virginio becomes less hateful towards the city– evident in his increasing affection for his grandson– and eventually accepts his death as something natural and inevitable; on the other hand, Sixto learns to loathe the city, rejecting the death of his brother as fair and timely, eventually exploding with a call to revenge.

Two films, two divergent perspectives on mortality and inequality, framed through the same cinematic language of symbols and visual metaphors. It is tragic that these films remain hidden within the niche confines of underground third-world arthouse cinema. Beyond their emotional poignancy, they have a narrative and visual style that is deeply affecting and easy to connect with. What other films can speak so much about mortality through a simple shot of a condor, a man, and a mountain? What films can consist mostly of images of a man walking through a city and reveal volumes of the turbulent socioeconomic issues of an entire country?

This is cinematic language at its finest.