Having recorded this film from the television as many as four months ago, it'd been waiting in my to-watch pile for an achingly long time. Something about its premise put me off from watching it for so long; foolish considering that no premise could accurately sell La Antena.
In a big city of voiceless denizens in a time unspecified, television has a unique control over the masses, the soothing singing of the uniquely gifted "La Voz" (The Voice) fascinating them. The be-hooded singer does so under the employ of the evil Señor TV in order to earn eyes for her blind son, who—through a mistaken address—befriends Anna, the daughter of a recently dismissed television technician.
The summary I have just composed is both entirely accurate and completely irrelevant. Such is the nature of La Antena, a film which immediately announces itself as rather more than just a narrative—wild, wacky, and wholly original though that narrative may be. Firstly, the film is aesthetically stunning: composed in a beautiful monochrome; effulgently photographed; and composed of a miasma of fantastic effects which hearken back to cinema's earliest days. The references to the cinema of days gone by are many and frequent, in both the visuals, the lighting, the camera angles, and of course a replication of the moon itself from Méliès' Le Voyage dans la Lune. The film is completely packed with tips of the hat to German Expressionism, Film Noir, and—I'm reliably informed, having yet to see it myself—Lang's Metropolis. It is undoubtedly a film for cinephiles, the throwbacks to the silent era a delight to witness, and mixed expertly with the aforementioned early techniques. Double exposures are commonplace, used to delightful effect, especially toward the end of the film. What is modern and innovative about the film, however, is its abandonment of the classic silent film inter-title in favour of words given physical, interactive form on-screen. The words mouthed by the silent characters appear before them, echoing an earlier statement along the lines of "we still have our words". These objects are manipulatable, lending the film an odd but undeniably unique quality which furthers its memorability. As a (largely) silent film, it relies heavily upon its soundtrack, which does a solid job, often mixing with the actions on-screen in a slightly comical way. The bizarre arrangement of characters adds to the humour which runs throughout the film, a largely situational humour engendered through the oddity of this world and those occupying it. Large parts of the narrative are, unsurprisingly, unfathomable, the film much more about allegory than it is storyline. Save for two particularly detractive and diminutive pieces of symbolism in the film's final act, it functions as an inquisitive social commentary, gently criticising the manipulation of the masses by the mainstream media, and suggesting that perhaps we need a saviour of sorts from the brainless garbage which attempts to control us—a role it jokingly suggests it might itself fulfil.
Bookended by particularly wonderful sequences of a typewriter's words translating to music, La Antena is quite, quite unlike anything else you are ever likely to see. Originality is this film's forté; reference and fond recreation its cornerstone. Though its message is perhaps a little too gentle to be of any significant effect, it is the kind of film that ought to be enjoyed by all who love cinema.
In a big city of voiceless denizens in a time unspecified, television has a unique control over the masses, the soothing singing of the uniquely gifted "La Voz" (The Voice) fascinating them. The be-hooded singer does so under the employ of the evil Señor TV in order to earn eyes for her blind son, who—through a mistaken address—befriends Anna, the daughter of a recently dismissed television technician.
The summary I have just composed is both entirely accurate and completely irrelevant. Such is the nature of La Antena, a film which immediately announces itself as rather more than just a narrative—wild, wacky, and wholly original though that narrative may be. Firstly, the film is aesthetically stunning: composed in a beautiful monochrome; effulgently photographed; and composed of a miasma of fantastic effects which hearken back to cinema's earliest days. The references to the cinema of days gone by are many and frequent, in both the visuals, the lighting, the camera angles, and of course a replication of the moon itself from Méliès' Le Voyage dans la Lune. The film is completely packed with tips of the hat to German Expressionism, Film Noir, and—I'm reliably informed, having yet to see it myself—Lang's Metropolis. It is undoubtedly a film for cinephiles, the throwbacks to the silent era a delight to witness, and mixed expertly with the aforementioned early techniques. Double exposures are commonplace, used to delightful effect, especially toward the end of the film. What is modern and innovative about the film, however, is its abandonment of the classic silent film inter-title in favour of words given physical, interactive form on-screen. The words mouthed by the silent characters appear before them, echoing an earlier statement along the lines of "we still have our words". These objects are manipulatable, lending the film an odd but undeniably unique quality which furthers its memorability. As a (largely) silent film, it relies heavily upon its soundtrack, which does a solid job, often mixing with the actions on-screen in a slightly comical way. The bizarre arrangement of characters adds to the humour which runs throughout the film, a largely situational humour engendered through the oddity of this world and those occupying it. Large parts of the narrative are, unsurprisingly, unfathomable, the film much more about allegory than it is storyline. Save for two particularly detractive and diminutive pieces of symbolism in the film's final act, it functions as an inquisitive social commentary, gently criticising the manipulation of the masses by the mainstream media, and suggesting that perhaps we need a saviour of sorts from the brainless garbage which attempts to control us—a role it jokingly suggests it might itself fulfil.
Bookended by particularly wonderful sequences of a typewriter's words translating to music, La Antena is quite, quite unlike anything else you are ever likely to see. Originality is this film's forté; reference and fond recreation its cornerstone. Though its message is perhaps a little too gentle to be of any significant effect, it is the kind of film that ought to be enjoyed by all who love cinema.