Lobo e Cão

I saw this film at a festival this week. It's a very beautiful film, well shot with fabulous actors in every role, perfectly cast. The island is a little fantasy in itself, and it's not entirely clear if what we are seeing is a fable rather than anything meant to be realistic. Ana lives with her mother and brothers and parties with her gay friends, one of whom is having issues with his dad. Much glitter and whale cries later, she explores her own sexuality. The film suffers from being in love with Ana's face at times, and many scenes need a trim by maybe 5 or 10 seconds, outstaying their welcome. I would have liked to have it explained how there were so many gay teenagers on this one island, as it seemed disproportionate. I wonder if we were meant to assume you could take a train off the island by a bridge or something, or if there is another part of the island that's a city, or if they took a boat, so that was really confusing given the introduction said this was an island blah blah with no mention of this city part they travel to near the end. If there was a city, then nobody would leave? I dunno, that part was misty, and we all talked about it after and were mixed up about that, but I suppose the director assumed incorrectly we all knew where this place was. But it was a relaxing and beautiful film to watch, and strikes a chord for any queer person who grew up in a Catholic country.

Cláudia Varejão crafts a work of contrasts, where the chromatic splendour of the Azorean landscapes intertwines with the rigidity of the traditions and customs that shape everyday life in São Miguel. The director summons a palette reminiscent of Almodóvar, yet places it in tension with the melancholic greyness of insularity.

Ana and Luís, the young protagonists, embody this yearning for transcendence: both dream of something greater than what the island can offer them. One embraces this impulse openly, while the other reveals it in more veiled ways, particularly through his sexuality. The fascination with what comes from beyond the island runs through the film like a guiding thread, marking every gesture and every silence.

Varejão does not seek subtlety, nor does she make interpretation easy. She compels the viewer to dive into the emotional density of the characters and, above all, into the melancholy that permeates the narrative, so that the power of colour can be truly felt. The result is a demanding yet profoundly accomplished film, one that does not merely depict an island but conveys the very feeling of insularity in all its complexity.