QUICK AND DIRTY: LIVE FROM TALLINN

Twenty-year-old Corina is haunted by the thought, “How do five million people walk around, knowing they could die on any corner?” She lives in the city of Guadalajara, Mexico, but as the narrator tells us, her whole universe is limited to the Americana neighbourhood – four streets with everything she might need: her house, a friend’s grocery store and the offices of the book publisher she works at. Her finite world is opened up by her book collection, that transports her to other places and realities.

It’s difficult to overstate the delightful charm and quirky energy of Urzula Barba’s debut feature. We’re decidedly caught up in a breath of fresh air as Corina transports us from our reality to her small and intimate universe. Corina is the type of film and character an audience wants to love. From the beginning, it’s permeated by a sadness because we know that the experience is destined to end, and all too briefly.

An affectionate way to look at Corina is cinema embracing a child of literature. Barba has created a cinematic character whose colourful and quirky personality blossoms in front of the camera. And yet, her world is filled with books for work and pleasure. Cinema is no stranger to being a window onto the world of literary writers. A personal favourite has always been Curtis Hanson’s, Wonder Boys, adaptation of Michael Chabon’s novel of the same name. Full of good humour and offbeat characters it feels like a distant relation of Corina. Both films paint the literary and publishing world has an intensely emotional and dysfunctional one, which spurs on our affection for its characters.

We’re drawn to Corina because she’s mostly ignored by her colleagues, who identify her strangeness as reason to distance themselves. For the audience, however, it’s a reason to care about and connect with her, despite her strangeness. Out of cinema, and specifically films like Corina is borne empathy and compassion, kindness and the willingness to either understand or accept someone that is different. Barba isn’t only being playful and using the cinematic language to create a unique slice of life, but is telling a humanistic story. It’s from here that the film draws its emotional substance.

The story unfolds with a dysfunctional playfulness, where Corina against all odds, given that she’s ignored and devalued by her colleagues and employers, becomes the vital cog in the drama. Of course, it’s not really against all odds because this is a story. While many are shown to be the agents of bureaucratic dysfunction and bullshit, Corina shows herself to be incredibly competent. Her agoraphobia and other quirks may isolate her, but as the crisis with a difficult author unfolds, she shows her worth, even if it’s likely to lead to plenty of drama and risk more dysfunction.

Under Barba’s adept direction, the film reveals its meticulously constructed layers. The musical drumbeat motif is an extension of Corina, which is integral to the film’s quirky energy. More broadly, the music and sound design is full of life, and becomes its own character. Then there’s the poetic ideas that emerge, for example, are we more than the words we use to describe us? And, with Corina’s love of happy endings, the film itself is about whether she can discover her own.

Corina is deceptively understated first foray into feature filmmaking for Barba. She shows a love of the cinematic language that is both familiar and individual, and that is to be appreciated. It just premiered in the First Feature Competition of the 28th Tallinn Black Nights Film Festival.