The Mysterious Gaze of the Flamingo

It has its moments. This has been one of those strange experiences that never quite settles into a clear judgment. It’s Diego Céspedes’ feature film debut, and you can sense a voice trying to carve its path from a deeply personal place. I have an ambivalent relationship with this movie from the start: there are sections I find interesting, and others where I completely check out. It’s not a work that flows naturally or consistently; it moves in pulses, alternating moments of lucidity with scattered pauses. The first thing that grabs me — and probably what keeps me most engaged throughout — is its visual language. The 4:3 format is a way of seeing films that I love. Here, it works to enclose the characters, placing them within an almost oppressive frame. The cinematography itself is what I like most about the film, and almost the only thing that truly fascinates me. There are beautiful compositions, colors that breathe intention, lighting that turns simple scenes into tiny, contemplative paintings. At times, I find myself more absorbed by the texture of the image than by the narrative itself. A visual delight that invites me to linger, and one I happily accept. The music is barely noticeable, almost unconscious. It simply accompanies when needed. This subtlety reinforces the film’s sensory character, which seems more interested in creating atmospheres than in explaining things. And here lies one of my main conflicts with the work: its narrative. The synopsis is confusing to me, even after reading it several times, and during the screening, several questions accumulate. Certain concepts within the story remain enigmatic. There are undoubtedly potent ideas, but to me, it all feels a bit too abstract. I manage to find some clarity upon reflecting after the film ends. Still, I find the way it addresses society’s gaze on **** people interesting. The latent discrimination is shown from an uncomfortable angle, illustrating how guilt is constructed around those who simply exist outside the societal norm. It’s profoundly sad to see someone pursued for their nature, for how they dress, for how they feel. The film doesn’t offer explicit speeches, but it makes clear that much of what seems like rejection is, in reality, fear: fear of the different, fear of recognizing oneself in the other, fear of the supposed “contagion.” In that sense, the movie works as a political and social statement through sensory and almost experimental means. It prefers to unsettle, to suggest, letting the viewer connect the dots. Tamara Cortés, in her debut, demonstrates evident potential in front of the camera, with a presence that feels natural and promising. I’d like to see her more often. The rest of the cast fulfills their roles within the general mechanism: no one dominates, but everyone maintains the tone of the proposal. They are pieces that make the machine work, though without major emotional peaks. Paula Dinamarca also works, but doesn’t stand out. Her character has importance, but beyond her moment in the story, there’s nothing remarkable. Everything manages to keep me at a moderate level of engagement until the final stretch, where I personally start to disengage. The last half hour feels heavy, my attention wanes, and the experience begins to turn into a struggle. That’s where the wear sets in. My final conclusion is that the film leaves me in an almost complete state of indifference. I can’t say it was a bad experience, but I also don’t leave fully satisfied. I take away its visual beauty, its social intent… but also the sense that something never fully comes together. It doesn’t captivate me, nor does it leave me reflecting.