Carmen: The Movement of a Collective Body

By Elida Silvey

Most films about the Mexican-United States border feel to me like films for Americans — Films about Sicario shootouts, trucks full of drugs passing the border in an elaborate plan to make millions or border patrolmen as lone rangers in the scarcity of the desert. Carmen, on the other hand, feels different. The musical drama is directed by French director and choreographer Benjamin Milliepied starring Melissa Barrera (Carmen) and Paul Mescal (Aiden) and was adapted from an opera of the same name, co-written by Alexander Dinelaris Jr and Loïc Barrère. 

Photo courtesy of Sony Picture Classics

While the main character, Carmen, and her search for freedom remain consistent from the original screen story, Milliepied chose to highlight a story closer to his home in Los Angeles: A story of Mexican grief, resilience and love highlighted within the indistinguishable thread of movement. The film starts in silence, devoid of a score, the sounds of fabric oscillating in the wind, of shoes pounding rhythmically into chipped wood and the flicker of a flame compose the poetic soundscapes that establish the tone for the rest of the film. 

I’m not really one for musicals. However, the brilliant score by Nicholas Brittel (Succession) and Julieta Venegas (Maria Full of Grace) made me second guess my aversion to them as they orchestrated pieces that captured both the vastness of the desert and the closeness of our communities. Music, and dance by proximity, are incredibly important in Hispanic and Latine culture, serving as the metronome we pace our lives by. Milliepied, who served as choreographer for the heart-rending film Black Swan, utilizes this fact to deliver a sense of authenticity to the musical scenes — A feeling of reality that can often be lost in the glitz and glamour of a production. 

Barrera’s performance as Carmen helped drive this delivery forward by delicately supplying her movements with gentleness and emotion that allowed the narrative of her scenes to shine through, instantly recognizable even in the curvature of her hands. Likewise, Mescal, with his meticulous ability to provide contextual clues to the inner workings of his character's mind in the musculature of his face, expands this technique onto the rest of his body, imbuing some of the most difficult dance scenes with emotion, believability and bravado. This isn’t to say every scene was a success however, as there are some that fall short of credibility due to their timing in the trajectory of the story and their setting. 

The film redeems these mishaps by imparting the scenes with an underlying symbolism reminiscent of Mexican culture’s unique attitude and outlook on death. At the center of the film lies Carmen’s grief, having lost her mother Zilah at the hands of two gunmen, which is represented in the captivating flicker of a flame. In Mexican culture, grief and loss are processed through celebration and remembrance, where an altar can serve as a reminder that those we’ve lost are never far from us. Candles and fire then serve as Zilah’s dialogue throughout the film, where she formulates an inseparable connection between Carmen and Aiden by branding it into the desert. 

The desert itself adds another layer of underlying commentary and symbolism to the film, serving as the great equalizer between The United States and Mexico. I found it incredibly poignant that the landscape was unrecognizable, just as easily existing as either of the two countries, until the moment they reach Los Angeles where the towering crisscross of the I-10 and SR 110 freeways shift the film into the second act. This shift is also mirrored by the internal turmoil of the main characters as the ideas of freedom and imprisonment moved freely between Carmen and Aiden as they become more involved with one another. 

It’s easy to see how Millipied was influenced by Pedro Almodovar. This is reflected in his casting choice of Rossy De Palma as Masilda, Carmen’s adoptive mother figure, but is also reflected in the depth of his female characters. Where an understanding of women as mothers, as sisters and as incredibly complex characters shines through in the dialogue. While the original screenplay presented Carmen for the male gaze, Millipied shifts this narrative by centering Aiden as the object, fit for the female gaze. His choice of Mescal as Aiden then serves to reinforce this (I mean, we all remember necklace-gate). The freedom from which the Spanish language is employed also feels reminiscent of European filmmakers, which allow a language other than English to take center stage, not shying away from the use of subtitles. 

The poetic techniques and meticulously crafted characters choreographed and directed by Milliepied in this film shed light on the reality many immigrants — Mexican immigrants in particular — have. This film then is for those who have ever been adopted by a community of people, who have felt grief and despite its weight carried it with love, and for those whose form of expression exists in the sweat shed in between songs. While I don’t believe Carmen to be a major box office hit, I do feel it has the ability to allow us, as immigrants, to feel seen. This makes it worthwhile. ♦