Post Tenebras Lux

‘Beyond the Light’ is at times a delicate drama film with some really poignant scenes, and elsewhere an exercise in baffling surrealism. Carlos Reygadas is considered by many to be one of the most unpredictable directors around at the moment, and Post Tenebras Lux certainly lives up to that reputation.

Reygadas himself said in an interview with the New York Times that accompanied the film’s distribution that Post Tenebras Lux is a semi auto-biographical work that blurs the boundary between events that actually occurred in his life and the fantasies he entertained during those experiences. This is an aspect that simply isn’t at all obvious to any audience member outside of Reygadas’ head – it is neither explored nor explained by any narrative or cinematographic technique, but left to stew behind a thick allegorical veil. And so what we are left with is just a groundless juxtaposing stream of sometimes provocative, sometimes comical images. Naturally this led to some confusion at its premiere in Cannes last year, and succinctly explains the booing that accompanied its premiere.

Although the concept of reality and fantasy can be deliberately hazy in an artistically progressive way, Post Tenebras Lux jumps from alternate universes and time frames, completely messing with chronology with no indication of why and what it is supposed to symbolise – or indeed if it is meant to symbolise anything at all. In many ways it is an abstract exploration of Reygadas’ creative mind, and how his own life may have affected, or been affected by, the types of movies he makes. And that’s fine. But he doesn’t seem entirely convinced that those ideas are in themselves enough to sustain the film, because many of the scenes actually play out in a conventional way – the life of a wealthy family and how they communicate with the poorer local population in pastoral Mexico. There are some very interesting aspects of social commentary here, but they are hidden beneath the layers of absurdist psychosis as if the director is intentionally trying to draw his audience’s eye away from anything that could be construed as substantial. That is a shame because a study on Mexican rural class divide would have been something far more appealing to me.

Nevertheless there are some startlingly brilliant scenes, handled with emotional care and refined subtlety. The Neil Young/piano bit is certainly one of the most memorable, saturated with melancholia, sadness and childhood naivety. It’s all the more touching because Nathalia Acevedo’s (who’s admirable performance is charged with talent and gumption) cover is so badly sung, choked and garbled on tears. There are also wads of Malickian and Sokurov-esque cinematographic flair – and I’m a complete sucker for it. A mesmerising distortion effect is employed almost throughout the film, smudging the edges of the picture and leaving the middle untainted, a technique that Reygadas attributes to Impressionist painters of the late nineteenth century.

This is such a peculiar picture, completely impossible to pin down, perching inconveniently (for the critic at least) between a multitude of different genres – which is in no way a bad thing. It’s filled with so many thematic and stylistic elements, and yet it is such a personal film for Reygadas (his own children feature heavily, and his wife is credited as the films editor) because it makes sense only to him.