Review: "Roma" Finds Cuaron Getting Personal in a Beautiful, Nostalgic Way

Scene from Roma

In 2013, director Alfonso Cuaron created what is considered one of the most groundbreaking technical achievements of the decade with the Oscar-winning Gravity. It wasn't just a film, but an experience that needed to be seen on the big screen and, in a very rare instance, warranted a 3D treatment. He is one of the most essential directors of the moment, managing to convey human emotion while testing the limits of what a camera can film. It's why there's something to be said for the power of Roma: a film that is almost entirely antithetical to Gravity from its length (Roma is approximately 45 minutes longer) to its personal portrait of a woman whose life is undervalued by those around her. It's by no means a thrill ride, but instead a meditative journey into Mexico City in the 1970's as Cleo (Yalitza Aparicio) goes about her days as a maid and an unexpected mother. It may be among Cuaron's least flashy plots in his entire career, but that only helps the film to be rich with subtle detail, feeling like a personal love letter to his own childhood with a perspective not often caught on film.

If there is one fault to be had with seeing this outside of a cineplex, it's the immersion factor. In an era where constant distraction makes it hard to watch films via Netflix, Roma will prove to be a challenge. Its opening is slight, capturing Cleo in the midst of cleaning a floor. It's unspectacular, sure, but in that water is our first glimpse into her world, where airplanes fly over ever five minutes and the family who hired her can be heard running around off camera. It's an interpretive shot, but one that is important to Cuaron's vision. There is a need to look into the details and find something deeper about the mundane. It's also a moment to create a unified sympathy with Cleo, whose life in this house is far from the thrill ride of the world outside. She mops floors, takes out trash, and all for cheap rent in an apartment adjacent to the property. There's a lot of time to meditate, and that's what the director has done. He's forced the audience to slow down, pull themselves away from distraction, and see the world of a simpler time, interpreting Cleo's hopes and dreams as they unfold before her.

It's also a moment to be introduced to the Mexico of the 1970's, which appears in one of the most aesthetically pleasing pieces of cinematography this year. It goes beyond the house, which Cuaron's camera expertly navigates in long takes and slight camera work that hides his challenging technique. We see Cleo go about a failing relationship that threatens to ruin her life. We see her evolve from a third party resident to someone embraced by the family as they hang out in restaurants or in open fields. What Cuaron has done is strip away the tropes in favor of a Mexico that he knows best. It's where the mountains are layered with beautiful textures and everything from the background to the foreground is intricately placed in a way suggestive of a painting. Cleo stands on a hill overlooking a stampeding herd, and there's some awe to the simple framing that Cuaron gives this moment. The same could be said for the city streets, which comes through impressively in one of the best sound designs of the year. In some instances, it would be easy to mistake a conversation on screen for someone sitting behind you. Cuaron has brought Mexico into the theater, and by the end he makes it feel like a part of you.

As mentioned, the story is heavy on subtlety. While there's overlying arcs, there's not a clear plot that drives the plot. It is unconventional, choosing to rely on a dreamlike realism where Cleo floats through a life that is searching for purpose. There's plenty to enjoy in Aparicio's performance, which is the beating heart of the film. She is often times more of an observer of the family's various conflicts, but her ability to strive gives the film a sense of hope. She sees the good in this world, even if she's questioning the Job-like hurdles that are thrown her way. They're sad and sometimes even heartbreaking, but they never feel cruel towards Cleo. This is her story, presented with enough details familiar to Cuaron that a genuine humanity shines through. There's plenty of charm to the supporting cast, and by the end there's a sense that this mundane life, where nothing exceptional initially happens, has a lot to offer. This person who never would be considered a celebrity has lived a life that's, for lack of a better word, interesting. 

Cuaron has proven himself to be an incredible director since his breakout 2001 film Y Tu Mama Tambien and has only become more interesting as he tackled studio films from Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban to the deservedly acclaimed Children of Men. However, this is only his second Spanish language film in the 21st century and his first grounded drama in quite some time. There's no sparks flying nor any mass appeal. What is there is something that most of his other films lacked: the personal. In making this an authentic Spanish-language film when other markets would be more viable, he has found a way to evolve his narrative with the experience he has acquired over the years. He has learned to use the camera in ways that aren't showy, but become wholeheartedly more impressive the more you consider how he used it. He has made a drama that's small but feels big at heart. It's hard seeing a younger, less experienced director pulling off a film like this, if just because of how strong the cinematography is at creating nostalgia. There's power to every frame, and it's hopefully the start of Cuaron using his Hollywood clout to finance movies that mean something to him again. Roma is beautiful and provocative in its meditative approach, and hopefully it will get deserved recognition for how artful the whole experience is.

If there is any fault to be had with Roma, it's the Netflix distribution model. In a year that has seen the popular streaming service get Oscar nominations (Mudbound) and has pushed forward collaborations with prestigious auteurs, it's disappointing to know that their work on theatrical distribution is still abysmal. Roma is a film whose details feel lost on the small screen, whether it's the simple ring of a phone or the fact that the layered cinematography becomes smashed together and the sound design projected in mono. The film will still play for those wanting to be patient enough to appreciate its execution, though Netflix's lack of wide release hurts the film's appeal, making what should be one of the year's most triumphant achievements in art house cinema feel like another average Netflix release like the forgetful The Christmas Chronicles. This film deserves better than what it will get, and that's a shame.

Roma is once again Cuaron managing to use the art form of cinema in meaningful ways. By using his technical craft invisibly, he manages to convey the story of one woman's life in ways that are exemplary. It's in the way that the camera pans around a house full of activity, or how Cleo mops the floors from a great distance. The director knows when to make characters feel small, forcing the audience to look in awe at the scenery around them. As much as Mexico has a booming industry of cinema, Cuaron is one of those few with the technical craft to make its history into something greater and more perplexing, even accessible. By finding the meditative qualities of a maid, he manages to convey familiar struggles that are largely personal and humanize characters not often seen on screen. Even the way that the family watches TV together feels cinematic. While a lot arguably doesn't happen, Roma is a film with a lot to say. What that is just has to be interpreted by the viewer.