CineM Review: Diecisiete (Seventeen) 2019

 As the number of characters go, the film ‘Diecisiete’ or ‘Seventeen’ in English is sparsely populated but it manages to showcase an amazing depth of the human condition through the lean cast. What the film seems to depict lies so apparently on the surface but once you invest time in the tale, you get to see innumerable little twerks in the details. The ‘road trip’ genre of films is characterized by the fact that it brings together a disparate set of characters who while seemingly tugged by different motivations, are nevertheless welded together by some common element. Another feature of this genre is that somewhere along the way, the story transcends into something more elevated than the destination – it becomes a parable about the journey itself. In all these, this small Spanish gem, Diecisiete, stays true to the beaten path but where it diverges, and diverges so eloquently, is the sincere way in which the characters are etched out and the honesty which lies behind their actions.

There is not much of a back story; we are presented with the basic details. There are 2 brothers - the younger Hector, is smart, focused and given to petty delinquencies; the construct of his mind is portrayed as controlled yet fragile and his single-mindedness but utter guilelessness, seems to hint at autism but is never made explicit. The older brother, Esma, is nervous and acts in measured tones which suggest at a weariness and a resignation towards readily accepting the hand dealt out. They are attached to their grandmother who is now old and is housed in a care home.

As the film opens, Hector is up to another petty crime but he is caught and interred in a juvenile home where his peculiarities are in stark contrast with the other inmates. A paperback of the country’s penal codes as a constant companion and his introverted demeanor does not win him many friends there, and his multiple unsuccessful attempts at breakouts are something of an establishment joke. Yet, when he is introduced to a rescued dog as part of his rehabilitation program, Hector undergoes a change. He readily accepts and quickly relishes the job of training the mutt whom he plainly names ‘Oveja’ (or ‘sheep’ in English) on account of his raggedy, wool-like coat. Hector who has trouble relating to people nevertheless finds it quite easy to communicate with and assume charge of Oveja and the dog too, reciprocates the affection. His fragile world shatters when he is informed that his efforts in training and socializing with Oveja have yielded fruit in securing him a forever home. Unable to reconcile himself to this forced separation, Hector makes yet another and now successful, breakout and the real story unfolds from this point.

The tale finds the 2 principal characters together by their grandmother’s bedside where the brothers clash over going back to the juvenile home; Hector proclaiming that he will initiate search for his beloved Oveja while Esma argues about returning in time by Hector’s 18^th birthday which is just 2 days away (once he turns an adult, any crimes committed subsequently would be judged in a far harsher light). Grudgingly, Esma agrees to Hector’s idea if it results in him getting back Oveja and returning to the home to serve the rest of his sentence which is only a couple of months from being over. With their grandmother in tow and in Esma’s RV, the brothers embark on their journey to retrieve Oveja from his new owner and restore their lives to the earlier equilibrium, or so they think.

Their search leads them through the canine rescue shelter where Hector ‘adopts’ a 3-legged dog, bucolic villages, long-lost relatives, an ancestral cemetery, et al. where the director and co-writer Daniel Sanchez Arevalo slowly explores the myriad nuances in the brothers’ characters. There is quiet, unobtrusive humor which emerges out of the milieu of hidden intentions and thoughts of the brothers. The grandmother perpetually attached to her life-support paraphernalia acts as a silent foil to the brothers’ shenanigans and despite her character’s senility and approaching death restricting her dialogues to the Spanish phrase ‘tarapara’ or ‘we will see’ in English, provides one of the true motivations of what lies at the heart of the brothers’ actions.

The story takes them through the mountainous and coastal region of Cantabria and the beautiful photography seems to elevate the geography into a side character almost. I feel the film is replete with images as metaphors – the juvenile home which abounds in bullies, Esma’s RV which is his flimsy excuse of a home, grandmother’s burial plot which is both lost and within grasp at the same time – and the wonderfully rugged and at times, peaceful Cantabria countryside serve to propel this unlikely tale forward. The RV passes along road bordering deep ravines which seemingly evoke the yawning differences in the brothers’ personalities and later, the pristine coast fringed by cliffs symbolize the emerging calmness in their loves. In a way, the towering cliffs are emblematic of the leap of faith which both characters are required to take in order to embrace their true destinies.

This is a wonderfully evocative film which ultimately surmounts the limitations of what we see as characters to portray a thoroughly enjoyable tale of human nature, change and ultimately, hope.

I like to think of the three-legged dog who becomes an unlikely companion on the road trip as you and I. Tired and beleaguered, we all think we have lost an important appendage of ourselves on the journey of life and are happy to clutch at any chance at a ‘safe’ existence only to discover that there is apparently, a whole world of possibilities that we can strive for and accomplish. And that thought urges me forward.

Cycling Away

 

When I was in school, I pestered my father to get me a cycle, but I could not close the argument with him. Beyond the plain metal frame and two wheels, my vision of a cycle was unshakably tied to the notion of ‘freedom’, a devil-may-care attitude and the capability to simply pedal away from life’s problems. Unfortunately for me, my father too must have arrived at the same calculations as I and forcefully shot down this puerile and feeble attempt at a rebellion. Added to my father’s reluctance, was the very real problem of terrible traffic and road conditions with so many vehicles jostling for space, absence of cyclist lanes, and a general insensitivity towards cyclists on the road. So ended my initial attempt at cycling.

Now, two decades later and with the wind ruffling through my hair, the sunlight on my face, the steady roll of the twin wheels under me accompanied by the satisfied sound of rubber on asphalt and gravel, I am living out my cycling fascinations of yore.

Working from home for the past many months, stuck to a seat and rivetted on the computer screen for hours at end with only a small window to look out of, I was starving for any real interaction with the outside world. Being in a new country was becoming a strange, exciting but ultimately, unfulfilling experience with the global pandemic raging outside and multiple lockdowns coming into effect. As winter descended into spring, I could start seeing the natural beauty of my newly adopted town but could not touch and feel it. I could not walk over the great distances in this vast, open landscape; neither could I drive anywhere since I have no car presently. It seemed I was consigned to the prospect of looking at the blossoming spring beauty through a window.

Then, I got me a cycle – a used one – with a crude silver paint job, iffy brakes, a hard-as-stone (it seems!) seat, a paralyzed side-stand and non-functioning shock absorbers which deliver a truly tactile experience.

So, after my daily shift ends, I cycle out into the unknown streets and lanes of my town, sometimes using my phone navigation but mostly, just venturing out with no destination in mind. In this way, I have acquainted myself with some pretty parks and trails nearby which offer the joy of being under great trees, passing over bubbling brooks or sitting on the newly-sprout green grass. Dandelions with their bright yellow faces are growing all over like weeds, birds noisily chirp from their nests among dense shrubs and thickets, squirrels and hares happily trot everywhere. It is like a symphony of nature and my cycle affords me a ringside view like nothing else. I stop wherever I feel like for however long I feel like; I rest my cycle alongside a tree or just lay it over the grass while I contemplate my place in these surroundings. I have started to take out my cycle for grocery trips too, though there is the constraint of riding back fully weighed down by my purchases which does not make for very smooth or enjoyable riding. Sometimes I also ride through quiet neighborhoods with kids playing or cycling outside while their parents engage in more mundane tasks of mowing the lawn, clearing out deadfall or planting new bulbs out in the garden. My cycle is helping me in slowly exploring the place I call home now.

My experience is also aided immensely by the conscientious and generous attitude of people here on the road. Pedestrians and cyclist have right of way on most crossings, there are designated cycle lanes, sidewalks and pavements are well-maintained – all these go a long way in making my ride easy and pleasurable. I can imagine how if I were growing up in this country and my younger self would have asked my father for a cycle, I hear my father happily saying ‘yes’.