Les oiseaux de passage

Birds of Paradise takes a familiar subject, the Colombian drug scene in the '60's and '70's, and makes it into a watchable Godfather saga. Family is the center of the action leading to, you guessed it, warring drug kingdoms. The cinematography is lush, the actors authentic, and the themes eternal.

The stuff that makes the world happy, weed, comes down from the mountains to the small airplanes, which fly north to the US, a pleased customer bringing prosperity to otherwise impoverished Colombians. Marriage promises families forever linked until capitalism, not communism, rends even the strongest familial ties.

The five "cantos" embrace happiness and misery in equal measure: wild grass, the graves, prosperity, the war, and limbo. The coming out party of gorgeous Zaida (Natalia Reyes) presages a bright future for her Wayuu tribe with a blazing-red silk dress and stunning face paint. However, the imposing mother Ursula (Carmina Martinez) demands an expensive dowry that suitor Rapayet (Jose Acosta) might have difficulty offering. This matriarch gives the lie to any theory that Latino culture is purely patriarchal.

Ambition leads to drug running, family feuding, and temporary wealth. The riches are embodied in the colorful fabrics that are flamboyant and garish at the same time. The dark downfalls could be written about anywhere.

Birds of Passage is an engaging and beautiful gloss on the effects of tribalism and the corruptions of wealth and power, exacerbated by the obsession with the belief in family to die for at all costs. It is a glowing and menacing reprise of the Colombian Corleone days set amongst the indigenous Wayuu, for whom only a few moments are in paradise.

Unlike any gangster/drug movie you've ever seen, Pájaros de verano (Birds of Passage) is from the same team that made the astonishing L'étreinte du serpent (2015), and presents a thematically similar narrative, looking at the disintegration of an ancient indigenous culture over a period of years; in this case, the Wayúu people of the Guajira Peninsula in northern Colombia, whose way of life is decimated by the marijuana trade during the 1970s. Written by Maria Camila Arias and Jacques Toulemonde Vidal from a story by Cristina Gallego, and directed by Gallego and Ciro Guerra, the film is thematically focused on the clash between ancient tradition and modern greed, and is deeply respectful of the Wayúu, with Gallego and Guerra clearly troubled by the cultural losses concomitant with monetary prosperity. Partly an ethnographic study and partly a genre film depicting the rise and fall of a drug kingpin á la Scarface (1983), Pájaros strikes a broadly successful balance, allowing genre to inform anthropology and anthropology to enrich genre. On paper, it could be dismissed as just another gangster film, and although their adherence to the genre template does occasionally work against the story they're trying to tell, Gallego and Guerra have made a beautifully nuanced, aesthetically exceptional, and deeply lamentative film.

Loosely based on a true story, and divided into five sections - "Canto I: Wild Grass" (1968), "Canto II: The Graves" (1971), "Canto III: Prosperity" (1979), "Canto IV: The War" (1980), and "Canto V: Limbo" (1981) - Pájaros opens in a Wayúu village in 1968, with a ceremony celebrating the coming of age of Zaida (Natalia Reyes), which doubles as a courtship ritual. When Rapayet (José Acosta) makes a claim on her, her mother Úrsula (Carmiña Martínez) is unimpressed, because as a small trader of coffee and liquor, he is Zaida's social inferior, and hoping to put him off, she assigns him a dowry far beyond his means. However, he seizes on something suggested by his business partner, Moisés (Jhon Narváez), who has pointed out that the local American Peace Corp are looking for someone from whom to buy weed to bring it back to the US. Selling them the marijuana they want, Rapayet is not especially bothered that such illegal trade is frowned upon by the Wayúu, and he quickly makes enough money to secure the dowry, marrying Zaida. By the time we reach Canto II in 1971, Rapayet and the increasingly hot-headed and reckless Moisés are flying planeloads of weed across the border, and making so much money they have to weigh it rather than count it. However, as time passes, and the business becomes bigger and bigger, Úrsula warns Rapayet to tread carefully, but as the profit continues to escalate, so too do the tensions between the various players, compounded by Úrsula's cruel and uncontrollable son Leonídas ([link=nm9820632).

That Pájaros is aiming for a grand, folkloric tale of national significance, along the same lines as more traditional Colombian myths such as La Llorona or El Mohan, is seen in the fact that it both begins and ends with a blind bard narrating the events. Taken directly from the Homeric tradition, the presence of this figure immediately indicates the kind of story this is.

Aesthetically, although not as striking as Embrace of the Serpent, Pájaros still looks fantastic. Cinematographer David Gallego does a fantastic job of capturing the vast openness of the desert, with exquisitely composed shots that make full use of the 2.35:1 format, often dwarfing the characters against the immensity of the desert background. In terms of performances, Carmiña Martínez is the standout, tapping into the similarities between Úrsula and the queen in any number of Greek tragedies, someone whose beliefs are grounded in ethics, but who is on a preordained path of tragedy from which she cannot escape. And just as the gods were indifferent to the suffering of Euripides's Medea and Sophocles's Electra, so too are the deities of the Wayúu.

Throughout the film, the economy of Gallego and Guerra's visual language is striking. For example, early on, Rapayet, Zaida, and Úrsula are all shown living in small thatched huts made of stone and wood. Later, however, they live in in a heavily guarded sprawling modernist mansion in the middle of the desert. Another example is that, initially, we see Rapayet and Moisés using only one plane to carry their weed, but later, they have a fleet of planes at their command, telling us in one shot how much the scale of their operation has increased.

Although they remain within the parameters of the crime drama, depicting the rise and fall of a gangster, Guerra and Gallego are more concerned with the impact of the drug trade on the Wayúu than the drug trade itself. Uninterested in going into detail about the logistics of Rapayet's operation, they instead use the genre template as a platform from which to examine the clash between the ancient local traditions of the Wayúu and the ubiquitous and corruptive nature of monetary accruement as found in the twentieth-century world at large. The Wayúu are proud of how deep their customs run and how long they have maintained them, but their nonconformist and isolationist ideology has never faced anything as insidious as the avarice introduced by Rapayet. Just how corruptive it is, is seen in Leonídas, a boy who has grown up amidst amorality, corruption, and crime, and whose soul is built on Mammonism and entitlement. In the film's most disturbing scene, to "prove" his manhood to his friends, he forces a man to eat dog faeces for a wad of cash. Nothing in Wayúu history has ever prepared them for this level of barbarism.

In this sense, Pájaros is fundamentally about the clash between tradition and modernity; codes of honour and reciprocity destroyed by greed, materialism, and mistrust. In depicting the society before the birth of the drug trade, however, Gallego and Guerra are trying to reclaim Colombia's history for Colombians. All a lot of people know about Colombia comes from films made almost exclusively by non-Colombians for non-Colombians (think of Americentrist films such as Blow (2001), Infiltrator (2016), and Barry Seal: American Traffic (2017)). The film thus has an anthropological basis, immersing us in Wayúu culture throughout. However, Gallego and Guerra don't need to go into detail about the ins and outs of dream analysis, the systems of hegemony and protocol, the exchange-based economy, or the specifics of why one necklace is sacred but another is not. We're shown enough to understand how these people live - the centrality of family, the respect for the natural world, the reverence for the dead, the significance of communal ritual, the importance of ancient customs and superstitions, and above all, honour in all things.

The film makes its intentions known in the opening scene, which is built around Zaida's ceremony, just as Le Parrain (1972) indicates its main focus with the opening depiction of a wedding. Without any dialogue, the scene establishes the socio-political centrality of ritual and introduces us to the hierarchies and spiritual beliefs. This opening scene is contrasted with a later scene depicting a "second burial"; a custom where a casket is unearthed and opened, and the bones of the deceased cleaned and reburied. Unlike in the opening, the ritual in this scene is surrounded by men with machine guns; a nice bit of cinematic shorthand to show us how much has changed. In another example, after doing something to anger a rival clan, Leonídas is hidden away in a hut, and Úrsula performs a protective incantation. Leonídas, however, is unimpressed, saying he'd be happier if he was protected by men with guns. Elsewhere, a motif running through the film is the threat of a locust infestation, and when violence inevitably erupts, it's presented like a plague on the land, something that cannot be contained and that will blight all it touches.

In terms of problems, there are a few. For one, Rapayet is an extremely stoic character and very vaguely defined. He doesn't really come across as a person with an interiority, so rather than being someone who pursues things, he is someone to whom things happen, a cypher at the mercy of what the writers need him to be at any given moment. Along these lines, Zaida fares even worse. Despite the opening scene suggesting her centrality to the narrative, once she and Rapayet are married, she essentially becomes a background extra.

These few issues notwithstanding, Pájaros de verano is an exceptional film about the clash between the old and new worlds. A melancholy corrective to films such as Escobar (2017) and shows such as Narcos (2015), it tells a story of a traditional culture decimated by greed. Making a powerful statement about what has been lost, by and large, Gallego and Guerra handle the integration of ethnographic study and genre film very well, with the movie as a whole serving as an excellent example of how talented filmmakers can use genre to serve their own thematic ends without necessarily making a genre film. Neither a thriller with some local details thrown on top nor a documentary with a manufactured dramatic structure, Pájaros is compelling and heartfelt throughout. The sense of detail, the cultural specificity, and the tragic inevitability of the story serve to fuse the socio-political, the ethnographic, and the thriller into a whole that is unlike any drug film you're likely to see.

This marvelous movie takes place in Colombia, within the Peninsula of the Guajirain, a sparsely populated and arid area, and mostly played with Wayuu autochthons. This timeless univers is characterized by a rather pronounced communitarianism, each village highlighting its differences with the surrounding ones, while the origin of these differences remains, as often, unexplained and obscure. Nevertheless, they share ancestral traditions, folklore and values such as honor and family bonds. Thus, during the first 30 minutes, we do not really know when the film takes place, until the informative and surprising appearance of cars. Thus, we may guess that we are in the 60s / 70s. A marriage proposal between a man and a woman from two neighboring tribes will be, by a strange combination of circumstances related to an exorbitant dowry, the opportunity to integrate the marijuana trafficking, which is a very lucrative universe while slowly distorting personalities. Like in a Greek tragedy, these families will ineluctably suffer a descent into hell, via the classical 'eye for eye, tooth for tooth' philosophy.

The film is visually sober and simple, but of an exacerbated aestheticism, with an unusual care about details, including birds. Moreover, the actors are excellent, especially the two main ones: José Acosta (Rapayet) and Carmiña Martínez (Úrsula).

This film was not what I expected. And I mean that in the most positive way possible. What I expected was another rehashing of the Colombian drug cartel wars / gun fights / Pablo Escobar type stuff, and while there is certainly some of that here, the film is so much more than that.

This film takes you to a remote and little known corner of northern Colombia and immediately immerses you in the local culture. I hope this is not a spoiler but I was left speechless by the simple fact that Spanish is not actually the language being spoken in most of the film - instead it's the regional native dialect of the tribes-people that the film follows. Being completely foreign to Colombia, this was all new and fascinating to me. The film does a wonderful job portraying these proud people and their culture, and how the larger Colombian "drug" culture seeps in with its temptations of money and power. The lesson of what happens when those two mix is a timeless one.

The landscapes of the film are stunning, and I particularly appreciated the cinematography. But perhaps my favourite thing about the film was it's heavy use of spirituality and what I can only describe as "magical realism" transposed into film. I thought it was brilliantly done.

This is one of my favourite films I've seen this year, hands down.

Guerra & Gallego's Wayuu crime epic is dense and beautiful, but a necessary part of its long maudlin descent is that it becomes a serious drag especially towards the end. It's not as transformatively psychedelic as Guerra's Embrace which I adore but it has some seriously brilliant sequences and the sprawling (mainly Wayuu) ensemble cast gives it a beautiful foundational weight. I felt like I learned a lot about this period and place as well as the dark ripples which a sudden influx of money can have on people's choices, on power and greed. It's harrowing because although it is set somewhere very specific, it feels like it could have happened anywhere.