Review: Duck Season

Fernando Eimbcke's Duck Season is on the surface such a simple film that I keep forgetting how much of it I enjoyed. There are some personally relative morsels that remain vividly in my consciousness, but above all it plays out with such a soothing, leisurely calm, its resonating effects easily go unnoticed. Though filled with ideas, it hardly sparks reflection let alone discussion. Instead it affects a negligibly warm sensation, not like a feel-good movie does, but like an afternoon with friends or a piece of candy taken for granted in their accessibility.

Yet it appears to be significant to some, enough to sweep Mexico's Ariel Awards (their equivalent to our Oscars), win the Grand Jury Prize at The AFI Fest, contend for the best foreign film at this year's Independent Spirit Awards, and find a gracious fan in director Alfonso Cuarón (Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban), who secured its American distribution by presenting it under his new Esperanto Filmoj banner. Not bad for a glorified student film, black and white and all, about two pals in an apartment with nothing to do. With its inordinately stylish direction Duck Season would work best as a calling card, but surprisingly it has served Eimbcke as an all-out initiation into the club.

Thanks to our obsession with classifying things into trends, it would seem that now is a good time for aspiring filmmakers to come from or move to Mexico, where there is apparently a new wave of cinema. Never mind that this wave has been in discussion for six years, since Alejandro González Iñárritu allegedly spearheaded the movement with his film Amorres perros, or that attention given to it already peaked in 2003 when Cuarón's Y tu mamá también and Carlos Carrera's El Crimen del padre Amaro were spotlighted at the Academy Awards. At a recent roundtable discussion Cuarón addressed the surge of Mexican cinema and credited its manifestation on the "end of dictatorship," referring to the country's significant political change in 2000 after being ruled by the same party more than 70 years.

It would seem the vogue of Mexican cinema and that election year coincide accordingly, though the wave's cause could just as easily be attributed to, among other things, America's love for Gael García Bernal, an actor who has starred in a majority of Mexico's successes here. When one considers the pros and cons of either a state-run film industry or a more democratic free market of privatized production, there is really no answer to which might turn out a greater number of movies (in the '30s and '40s, cinema was Mexico's third largest export) or which might effectuate stronger talent (Carlos Salinas de Gortari, President of Mexico from 1988 to 1994, was actually very instrumental in raising the quality of his nation's films in time of "dictatorship"). All that can be believed is that filmmakers may now have more artistic freedom than once had.

Duck Season doesn't seem to have needed much freedom, however, as it likely could have been produced in any political era. The film features no taboo or controversial material. It is an innocent lark, passively satisfying and universally acceptable. The basic plot involves Flama and Moko (Daniel Miranda and Diego Cataño), teenaged best friends left home alone one sunday afternoon to play video games until a power outtage ruins their fun. Without even contemplating the idea of venturing outside for physical activity, they first sit back, expressionless and motionless, incapable of even starting up a dialogue. Soon they are joined by Flama's neighbor Rita (Danny Perea), a slightly older girl in need of a working oven, and Ulises (Enrique Arreola), a pizza delivery guy who refuses to leave until he is paid the money the boys owe him. Between the four of them, the ensuing frivolity consists of first kisses, pot brownies, and questions of self-identity.

Although there is little activity, there seems to be too much for the story being told. Over-the-top shenanigans are sprinkled here and there as if forced upon a need to have something entertaining going on. But many of them aren't believable let alone interesting and they take away from the more compelling verbal parts of the script. These heartfelt, talky parts include discussion about the confusions of youth (and for Ulises, youthful adulthood); adoption, sexuality, career and life paths are all dealt with in serious dialogue, and they don't balance well with the ridiculous indoor target practice nor the drug-induced bathtub scenes, for example. Not that the film ever gets too heavy or emotional, but there is a carefulness imbedded within that occasionally loses out to complete apathy.

Eimbcke's characters are cute and loveable and it isn't that surprising that their film has been embraced, despite the doldrums. At the same time, without the sexiness (no Gael García Bernal here) or heavy issues of most of Mexico's current output, Duck Season comes off like the adorable little brother film, lifted upon the shoulders of its elders in their attempt to support and show off the endearing charm of a precious, young newbie (never mind that Eimbcke is actually ten years older than he looks). Having the kinship of Cuarón, Iñárritu, Guillermo del Toro, and others, Eimbcke brings into discussion a new reason for his country's cinematic swell: Mexican filmmakers are so darn friendly, and they follow each other's careers. Duck Season would have been seen by many people without the help of Esperanto Filmoj and its deal with Warner Independent Pictures, but possibly not in the United States, or more importantly in Hollywood. As usual, it pays most to have pals in high places, and with his visionary ability for shots that are stunning, if not always pertinent, he is likely being wooed towards the blockbuster fantasy film path followed by his new mentors.

What I would suggest to the studios and to Eimbcke is that he stick with the black and white. Sure, sci-fi and fantasy films are now almost dependent on their colorful art direction and their attractive kaleidoscope of imagery, but lately computer effects are muddied by their lack of contrast, and there are plenty of stories in those genres that could easily be lent to a noir aesthetic (Blade Runner, Constantine and I-Robot, for example). Eimbcke's greatest talent exhibited with Duck Season is his ability to make the audience visualize the missing colors by addressing them. Flama's red hair, for instance, is brought up during a conversation about the boy's parentage. Later, a game is played with candies called Freskas, which are distinguished by their colorful centers. It is hard to imagine that Nestlé would ever advertise the product so monochromatically themselves, but their attention given in the film will have viewers in the States wishing the candies were available here (I have been searching the local bodegas and online dealers since the end credits started rolling). 

Duck Season is definitely worth seeing, but mostly it is worth seeing past, into the future of a promising new filmmaker. Perhaps when Eimbcke is well-established he will continue the cycle by befriending and endorsing the next generation of Mexican cinema.