Before watching Daniel de la Vega's "Ataúd Blanco: El Juego Diabólico" (2016), my only glimpses were a fleeting trailer and a smattering of comments and critiques across various platforms and media outlets. Rather than anticipation, these snippets left me with a healthy dose of prejudice against the film. This stemmed from several mentions of 'Tarantino-esque' influences and nods to renowned directors like Sam Raimi, woven into the fresh premise of this hidden gem from the 'lands of silver.'
For some reason, I envisioned a kind of horror-comedy, a genre blend I typically steer clear of due to the dissonance it stirs in me (call me a puritan, if you will). It's not that I dismiss such creative endeavors - to me, they usually feel like spaghetti served with jam, an odd combination, though taste is subjective. However, I must admit enjoying titles like Sam Raimi's "The Evil Dead" (1982), Howard Storm's "Once Bitten" (1985), or Álex de la Iglesia's "The Day of the Beast" (1995), to name a few.
So, setting aside my preconceived notions, I decided to invest some time in a film I initially pegged as comedic, expecting something akin to a 'gincana', with protagonists racing a hearse Formula 1 style, reminiscent of Blake Edwards' "The Great Race" (1965) with its humorous touches.
Yet, the film takes a serious turn, and de la Vega crafts something as refreshing as it is ingenious, not so much for its thematic originality but for his ability to seamlessly blend a tapestry of influences.
The film imbibes and incorporates a plethora of tropes: 'road movie', 'slasher', satanic cults and rituals, gothic tales from beyond the grave - all adding a uniquely gothic seasoning, innovative in the Argentine landscape. The director skillfully recreates a narrative that not only entertains but also, to some extent, excites the viewer (and I'm speaking broadly here, not just to horror aficionados) in a genre showcase brimming with creative possibilities, yet so often underutilized due to either apathy, imposed interests, social demands, or budget and market constraints.
Featured at the 2016 Fantasia Festival in Montreal, "Ataúd Blanco: El Juego Diabólico" lives up to its subtitle in at least two ways. First, the seemingly convoluted plot woven by the García Bogliano brothers revolves around a mother fleeing from a suffocating, oppressive past (inevitably, a tyrannical husband from whom she escapes with her daughter in tow). She finds herself in a race against time, facing the daunting task of rescuing her child from a fate as relentless as it is merciless, concocted by a cult (pagan, malevolent, satanic - the exact nature of the sect remains unclear despite implications).
Herein lies a contextual shortfall, as well as in the underdevelopment of other vital aspects of the protagonists. We meet two other ladies entangled in this complex scheme. The film, just shy of 80 minutes, feels undercooked, its narrative setup briskly unfolding into a fast-paced, anxiety-inducing sequence of macabre scenes (without, mind you, overindulging in bloodshed). It demands the viewer's undivided attention, captivating not just the eyes and ears but all senses (best not to watch while dining), yet leaves certain aspects begging for deeper explanation or reflection.
Another dimension where the film mirrors a true 'diabolical game' is in its inversion or perversion of personal and social values of the 'contestants', along with the dilemmas they face while committing actions that, under normal circumstances, would contradict these values. Hence, there's a noticeable lack of a more thorough narrative development of the characters portrayed by Julieta Cardinali (Virginia) and her competitors: another mother played by Eleonora Wexler and a teacher brought to life by Verónica Intile. Interestingly, all three women, embodying archetypal images of protective motherhood deeply rooted in our collective consciousness (particularly Mediterranean, Latin, and Hispanic-American cultures), are tasked with fighting for the minors under their care.
This venture brings out the worst in each as a human being, and depending on our interpretation, might even cast a satirical or scornful light on the role of women as maternal guardians. Indeed, there's a transfer process at play, as Virginia finds her guardian angel in Rafael Ferro's character (Masón). The gender perspective here is tricky - beneath the 'heroic mom' facade lurks the portrayal of a being capable of ruthless determination. From early dialogues, we infer that the protagonist absconds with her daughter despite the father's legal custody.
Thus, we witness a macabre show akin to reality series like "Survivor," where multiple contestants (in this case, the women) vie for victory, showcasing their skills. Predictability sets in, given that Alejandro Giuliani's camera (masterfully executing shots, sequences, and framing with a chillingly mortuary color palette) adopts the subjective viewpoints of Virginia and her daughter Rebeca (Fiorela Duranda), the latter showing promise but still green in her craft. Perhaps a narrative structure featuring intersecting stories and a longer runtime could have amped up the tension for the audience and elucidated the plot more clearly and less cryptically.
The film's brief duration and frenetic script pacing, accelerated by Lucciano Onetti's score, hinder the absorption of its rich symbolism (the map on the priest's skull, the titular white coffin...) and clues (like the missing girl poster vanishing along with the truck that abducts Rebeca, prompting 'mommy Fitipaldi' to give chase). Consequently, the audience may struggle to grasp the process of Verónica's death and subsequent revival, which grants her eight hours to rescue her daughter. But who grants this, and why? The meaning of this eschatological metaphor, tied to the mysteries of intergenerational bonds and essential life cycle events (from incarnation and birth to death and beyond), remains enigmatic, intensifying the anxious uncertainty about what horrors might lurk in the afterlife, possibly worse than biological extinction.
This is the essence of terror that De la Vega seems keen on guiding us through, alongside the dramatic plight of Virginia. The film induces stress and palpitations, perhaps too much for a story whose journey, ambiance, and effects we would have preferred to savor more fully. The conclusion is as perplexing in content and form as in its rationale. Whether De la Vega was uncertain where to hit the brakes and how to resolve, or whether he had a clear vision but left us scant clues to fully buy into the finale's fit within the overall narrative, remains debatable. But then, in the Pampas, aside from the occasional irate llama, one hardly expects to find many signposts while navigating its tracks and roads.
In this context, it's illustrative to compare "Ataúd Blanco: El Juego Diabólico" with Mark Tonderai's "Panic (Hush)" (2009), as they present two distinct visions in the realm of horror cinema.
Both, through their 'road movie' format, share the theme of a protagonist on a desperate quest to rescue a loved one abducted on the highway. This core narrative propels the main characters to confront a series of intense and dangerous obstacles, testing not just their physical courage but their emotional and moral fortitude as well. The road becomes a stage for transformation and revelation. It's not just a place of physical danger but also a space highlighting solitude and despair as the battle for survival and freedom unfolds.
While De la Vega delves into gothic styles and supernatural elements to weave a dense, enigmatic narrative, Tonderai opts for a more linear approach to the terror thriller. De la Vega explores the psychological and cultural depths of his characters, using horror as a means to address deeper, existential themes, whereas Tonderai leans towards crafting an intense, visceral experience, focused more on direct action and immediate suspense. These differences not only reflect each director's unique style but also their personal interpretations of how a horror story should be told, whether as an exploration of internal fears and symbolism, or as a direct and tangible representation of danger and fear.
For some reason, I envisioned a kind of horror-comedy, a genre blend I typically steer clear of due to the dissonance it stirs in me (call me a puritan, if you will). It's not that I dismiss such creative endeavors - to me, they usually feel like spaghetti served with jam, an odd combination, though taste is subjective. However, I must admit enjoying titles like Sam Raimi's "The Evil Dead" (1982), Howard Storm's "Once Bitten" (1985), or Álex de la Iglesia's "The Day of the Beast" (1995), to name a few.
So, setting aside my preconceived notions, I decided to invest some time in a film I initially pegged as comedic, expecting something akin to a 'gincana', with protagonists racing a hearse Formula 1 style, reminiscent of Blake Edwards' "The Great Race" (1965) with its humorous touches.
Yet, the film takes a serious turn, and de la Vega crafts something as refreshing as it is ingenious, not so much for its thematic originality but for his ability to seamlessly blend a tapestry of influences.
The film imbibes and incorporates a plethora of tropes: 'road movie', 'slasher', satanic cults and rituals, gothic tales from beyond the grave - all adding a uniquely gothic seasoning, innovative in the Argentine landscape. The director skillfully recreates a narrative that not only entertains but also, to some extent, excites the viewer (and I'm speaking broadly here, not just to horror aficionados) in a genre showcase brimming with creative possibilities, yet so often underutilized due to either apathy, imposed interests, social demands, or budget and market constraints.
Featured at the 2016 Fantasia Festival in Montreal, "Ataúd Blanco: El Juego Diabólico" lives up to its subtitle in at least two ways. First, the seemingly convoluted plot woven by the García Bogliano brothers revolves around a mother fleeing from a suffocating, oppressive past (inevitably, a tyrannical husband from whom she escapes with her daughter in tow). She finds herself in a race against time, facing the daunting task of rescuing her child from a fate as relentless as it is merciless, concocted by a cult (pagan, malevolent, satanic - the exact nature of the sect remains unclear despite implications).
Herein lies a contextual shortfall, as well as in the underdevelopment of other vital aspects of the protagonists. We meet two other ladies entangled in this complex scheme. The film, just shy of 80 minutes, feels undercooked, its narrative setup briskly unfolding into a fast-paced, anxiety-inducing sequence of macabre scenes (without, mind you, overindulging in bloodshed). It demands the viewer's undivided attention, captivating not just the eyes and ears but all senses (best not to watch while dining), yet leaves certain aspects begging for deeper explanation or reflection.
Another dimension where the film mirrors a true 'diabolical game' is in its inversion or perversion of personal and social values of the 'contestants', along with the dilemmas they face while committing actions that, under normal circumstances, would contradict these values. Hence, there's a noticeable lack of a more thorough narrative development of the characters portrayed by Julieta Cardinali (Virginia) and her competitors: another mother played by Eleonora Wexler and a teacher brought to life by Verónica Intile. Interestingly, all three women, embodying archetypal images of protective motherhood deeply rooted in our collective consciousness (particularly Mediterranean, Latin, and Hispanic-American cultures), are tasked with fighting for the minors under their care.
This venture brings out the worst in each as a human being, and depending on our interpretation, might even cast a satirical or scornful light on the role of women as maternal guardians. Indeed, there's a transfer process at play, as Virginia finds her guardian angel in Rafael Ferro's character (Masón). The gender perspective here is tricky - beneath the 'heroic mom' facade lurks the portrayal of a being capable of ruthless determination. From early dialogues, we infer that the protagonist absconds with her daughter despite the father's legal custody.
Thus, we witness a macabre show akin to reality series like "Survivor," where multiple contestants (in this case, the women) vie for victory, showcasing their skills. Predictability sets in, given that Alejandro Giuliani's camera (masterfully executing shots, sequences, and framing with a chillingly mortuary color palette) adopts the subjective viewpoints of Virginia and her daughter Rebeca (Fiorela Duranda), the latter showing promise but still green in her craft. Perhaps a narrative structure featuring intersecting stories and a longer runtime could have amped up the tension for the audience and elucidated the plot more clearly and less cryptically.
The film's brief duration and frenetic script pacing, accelerated by Lucciano Onetti's score, hinder the absorption of its rich symbolism (the map on the priest's skull, the titular white coffin...) and clues (like the missing girl poster vanishing along with the truck that abducts Rebeca, prompting 'mommy Fitipaldi' to give chase). Consequently, the audience may struggle to grasp the process of Verónica's death and subsequent revival, which grants her eight hours to rescue her daughter. But who grants this, and why? The meaning of this eschatological metaphor, tied to the mysteries of intergenerational bonds and essential life cycle events (from incarnation and birth to death and beyond), remains enigmatic, intensifying the anxious uncertainty about what horrors might lurk in the afterlife, possibly worse than biological extinction.
This is the essence of terror that De la Vega seems keen on guiding us through, alongside the dramatic plight of Virginia. The film induces stress and palpitations, perhaps too much for a story whose journey, ambiance, and effects we would have preferred to savor more fully. The conclusion is as perplexing in content and form as in its rationale. Whether De la Vega was uncertain where to hit the brakes and how to resolve, or whether he had a clear vision but left us scant clues to fully buy into the finale's fit within the overall narrative, remains debatable. But then, in the Pampas, aside from the occasional irate llama, one hardly expects to find many signposts while navigating its tracks and roads.
In this context, it's illustrative to compare "Ataúd Blanco: El Juego Diabólico" with Mark Tonderai's "Panic (Hush)" (2009), as they present two distinct visions in the realm of horror cinema.
Both, through their 'road movie' format, share the theme of a protagonist on a desperate quest to rescue a loved one abducted on the highway. This core narrative propels the main characters to confront a series of intense and dangerous obstacles, testing not just their physical courage but their emotional and moral fortitude as well. The road becomes a stage for transformation and revelation. It's not just a place of physical danger but also a space highlighting solitude and despair as the battle for survival and freedom unfolds.
While De la Vega delves into gothic styles and supernatural elements to weave a dense, enigmatic narrative, Tonderai opts for a more linear approach to the terror thriller. De la Vega explores the psychological and cultural depths of his characters, using horror as a means to address deeper, existential themes, whereas Tonderai leans towards crafting an intense, visceral experience, focused more on direct action and immediate suspense. These differences not only reflect each director's unique style but also their personal interpretations of how a horror story should be told, whether as an exploration of internal fears and symbolism, or as a direct and tangible representation of danger and fear.