This is what Alfonso Cuaron does best -- craft films that feel epic with very intimate emotionality at its center.
Think Children of Men, which dealt with the fate of humanity but ultimately is a journey of just a handful of characters. Gravity only has two people at its core, but it is never anything less than riveting throughout.
In Roma, the film is really about one person, albeit someone who is overlooked and taken for granted by virtually everyone in her life -- a domestic worker named Cleo played by a remarkable first-time actor Yalitza Aparicio. Although she is an incredibly quiet, observant character -- her human drama becomes profound amid a backdrop of political unrest in 1970s Mexico and domestic unrest in the home where she works.
Apparently, the film is semi-autobiographical, which makes perfect sense, since the film feel's incredibly personal (there is even a very funny film within a film moment which recalls Gravity). And beyond the human story there are also some breathtaking visual sequences that rival David Lean in terms of composition and scale.
Cuaron is one of the few filmmakers today who can have his cake and eat it too when it comes to virtuoso camera-work and filmmaking (Ryan Coogler also falls in this category). He stages several seamless, realistic single take sequences which feel so immerse and visceral.
The effect is you feel like you're watching some lost great documentary from 45 years ago and was just unearthed today. It's an odd fit for Netflix, since the visual splendor of this nearly three hour, black and white drama so lends itself to the big screen, and yet with this film and The Coen Brothers' The Ballad of Buster Scruggs, the streaming service has really staked out a claim to be considered as major prestige player alongside all the other major, traditional studios.
As far as Cuaron goes, I feel like he has proven he can do everything -- a sexy road movie, a franchise kids picture, a post apocalyptic action film, a sci-fi drama and now a heartbreaking slice of life tale from an omniscient perspective.
It features two of the most harrowing scenes I've seen in a film all year -- with one in particular so upsetting it's hard to watch. And yet, it is also teeming with joy and energy that feels both genuine and believable.
Perhaps, it'll get a bigger audience than it ever would have through a normal release, by being made so widely available through Netflix. I still have mixed feels about what projects like this will have on the theater business, in which I am deeply invested.
But if this is the kind of work that may soon be consistently available on streaming services, perhaps I am willing to embrace a brave new world of cinema in our living rooms.
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