WEASEL’S TALE Film Review — No Cliché Left Unturned

Forty years after their career heyday, Martín and Norberto are walking in their front yard to dispose of the weasel they’ve just killed.

“They’re not vermin, they’re little critters,” Norberto philosophizes.

“One critter eats another, which eats another, and so on… and one meal at a time, you have the history of the world.”

“How philosophical of you,” smirks Martín, the screenwriter who penned several of the dysfunctional group’s films during their golden years. Martín wrote, Norberto directed, Pedro acted, and Mara starred. Mara is the centrifugal force that holds the group together—and the owner of the house in which they all live, along with her Oscar that sits on a podium in the foyer. Surrounding the award, the house is infested with “critters,” the electricity is spotty, and the humor is dry. Antique furniture clutters each room, bathed in warm, colorful light and shot at alternatingly off-kilter and strikingly symmetrical angles. Nestled in the countryside outside of Buenos Aires, the mansion is an artist’s refuge, a sort of time capsule, a gilded cage whose inhabitants are making no attempt at escape. The only exception is Mara, who finds herself forever on the opposing team in the group’s constant game of verbal swordplay.

Mara’s languish in her lost greatness is satirized by her housemates, and her retorts feel more bitter than anyone’s. But, as Norberto notes, their life is good.

“In movies there are no lives like ours, without problems…. It’s too boring, right? In a movie there has to be danger, a threat, a villain.”

“Who comes along just when everything seems fine,” finishes Martín.

“Exactly.” And right on cue, a car pulls into the deserted front lawn.