Who in their right mind dares to make a new adaptation of Pedro Paramo? Juan Rulfo’s mythical novel has always been a challenge for cinema. In 1967, the Spanish Carlos Velo tried to bring it to the screen for the first time. The government financed the production and actors of the caliber of Pilar Pellicer (Susana San Juan), Ignacio López Tarso (Fulgor Sedano), Eric del Castillo, Narciso Busquets and Alfonso Arau were brought together. The photography was in charge of the legendary Gabriel Figueroa and the editing by the no less masterful Gloria Schoemann. The film even premiered at the Cannes festival. People poured out of the room. It was a terrible failure. López Tarso even said that, if it had not been so visible, the entire cast would have gone to the hotel to cry after the presentation.
The film had interesting aspects, but the complexity of the plot was too much for a director who had never made a solo film. Velo, later, would make great comedy classics much more accessible like 5 chocolate and 1 strawberry with Angelica María. After its defeat, every so often, some brave man tried another adaptation. In 1978, José Bolaños took the plunge. The film had colorful decorations and costumes, the entire plot was set in the oppressive setting of old estates, almost everything was filmed indoors. This version is even more disappointing than Velo’s. In ’81, Salvador Sánchez tried again, this time with the great Mexican actor, close to the Pánico group, Claudio Brook. This adaptation, practically disappeared, did not leave many echoes.
Why is it so complicated to adapt Rulfo’s masterpiece? The question is difficult. Perhaps it is the proximity to so many avatars of Mexican nationalism: the caciques and the haciendas, the dead who return, machismo, the revolution and the Cristeros, the vengeful priests and the festivals of souls in pain. These recognizable milestones of our culture are poorly translated to cinema: the only possible revolution on the big screen seems to have been exhausted by Indio Fernández. Perhaps it is so difficult to adapt this novel because of the unique environments that Rulfo summons. His spaces are atmospheric, dense, full of noises and sensations, difficult to translate into a visual medium that cannot use the same texture of words. Maybe we respect the novel too much. There is something sacrilegious about even trying to transfer it to another medium. With respect, without much risk, the adaptations end up being apologies in advance.
Rulfo’s new adaptation ventures with faith into the unexpected. The film, at times too literal, is a brave attempt that overflows talents and budgets. Is it enough to try? Is bravery enough? Is it the best movie made of Pedro Paramo Or does the curse of adaptations continue? That will be up to everyone to decide when they see it on Netflix, where it has been available since November 6.
Who was the brave one and why did he do it? Rodrigo Prieto, Scorsese’s great Mexican photographer, did it because… basically, because he could. Netflix gave him a juicy budget, creative freedom and free choice. Plus, the script was already there. Mateo Gil, the famous screenwriter of Amenábar who, 15 years ago, had tried to adapt the work without success, had it stored in the drawer. The Spanish writer does a solid job of translating, without falling into the voices in off banalities, the temporal complexity of the novel and Rulfo’s disenchanted and profound speech. Gustavo Santaolalla does the music; Eugenio Caballero, an old acquaintance of Mexican blockbusters, production designer and the great historian Ricardo Pérez Monfort serves as advisor. The cast is vast: Ilse Salas makes an incredibly seductive Susana San Juan, Manuel García Rulfo achieves a surprising Pedro Páramo (perhaps the best incarnation to date), Noé Hernández is a great echo of revenge and passivity in Abundio, Mayra Batalla represents to a stoic Damiana, and Dolores Heredia is the Charon of the Comala directions, Doña Eduviges.
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