It is uncomfortable and touching to be witnesses in the cinema (and in life) of the chronicles about extreme and inconsolable suffering, helplessness, loneliness that strangles, those ungrateful things. On the condition that you believe them, that they are really for you, that they can get involved. And it is particularly poignant when children suffer from it; they represent helplessness, you can not identify them with any kind of guilt. And masterpieces have been made about it. My favorite is The boy,a medium-length film that has the signature of Chaplin, its unique comedy, its sentimentality, its poetic, its immense capacity to transmit all kinds of sensations.
Few sequences in the history of cinema as heartbreaking as the police trying to separate the child from the vagabond. Not as hilarious as that of the creature shattering glass with stones so that later his adoptive father appears offering his services of reparation to the victims. And the secret and hypersensitive breeding of The spirit of the hive, his relationship with the monster of Frankenstein, his fears, his intimate intemperie. Or the urban odyssey of the child of The four hundred hits. And these can also be ladinos, liars and manipulators, condemn to the gallows a pirate honored in the disturbing Wind in the candles.
Capernaum, Directed by Nadine Labaki, famed author of the caramelized Caramel, It is one of the most anguishing portraits from a cornered childhood that I have seen in a long time. You have a hard time seeing her and remembering her. The boot is unusual. A child of the Beirut more lumpen, depressed and ruthless denunciation before a judge to his parents for having fathered him. They condemned him to hell, to the harshest survival on the street, to feeling despised, used and crushed since he was aware of reality. She left that miserable roof and the scanty food that came to her plate when her vain parents, as unhappy as he was, but who do not cut themselves by giving birth to children, sold their 12-year-old sister to marry her to a merchant. The camera of Nadine Labaki films the perpetual flight of the protagonist with aesthetic pretensions, often accompanied by music. And they accuse her of this tarnishing the atrocious reality. Also that the angry kid is precious. Apparently, to be truthful the misfortune should have the face of King Kong. And the camera and the sounds that recreate that ordeal should play experimentation. Idiocy has no limits.
For my part, I appreciate having a hard time, living closely that tragedy that seems far in the images that make the news. The image of that desperate child wandering to nowhere, caring for and protecting the black baby coveted by childhood traffickers and dragged into an improvised tin cradle, stealing and trickery, who endures by pure instinct the crushing cruelty of the whore street towards the pariahs, it leaves a painful mark on my memory.
To be happy, viewers can turn to other options, such as Green Book, that product so calculated, predictable and effective. I would not be surprised if the Oscar granted him his supreme blessing.