El perro que no calla (2021)

Directed by: Ana Katz | 73 minutes | drama | Actors: Daniel Katz, Raquel Bank, Valeria Lois, Marcos Montes, Elvira Onetto, Mirella Pascual, Carlos Portaluppi, Lide Uranga, Julieta Zylberberg

Few viewers will be able to imagine what awaits them in the rest of the film in the first fifteen minutes of the Argentinean ‘El Perro que no calla’ (‘The dog that would not shut up’). While the narration begins with a small life full of modest events, it degenerates into apocalyptic science fiction – only to end up small and human again.

It all starts with a seemingly insignificant incident in the life of Sebastian, in his thirties, or Seba (played by director Ana Katz’s brother, Daniel Katz), a modest thirty-something who works as an illustrator. Seba, a caring and sensitive type, perhaps a bit passive too, lives in a rented apartment with his rather restless dog. At least, if we are to believe Seba’s neighbors, the dog howls all day long when the owner is at work. The neighbors can no longer bear the whining and come to tell Seba carefully but in plain language: it is no longer like that. Sebastian seeks a middle ground and decides to take the dog to his office. But even there, the pet’s presence is not appreciated, and again he hears resignedly that there is no room for the two of them. The cringing office language of the women who tell him this is striking and unfortunately horribly recognizable (‘If we allow this, who knows what will follow: one takes his sick father with him and the other starts pole dancing at the office’). There is no other option than to quit his job and move with the dog to a cottage in the countryside. You feel in everything that this decision was coming longer; is finally an act to break through the oppressive (office) life.

In rural areas everything seems to be going better for a while. Seba enjoys the freedom, the outdoors, playing with the dog. But, as is often the case in Argentine films, the idyll is soon disrupted and the rural environment turns out to be cruel and unpredictable.

Back in town, Seba leads an errant existence; he hops from job to job until he comes across an agricultural collective on the street. A group of young people who sell vegetables in the neighborhoods – more or less clandestinely, it turns out. Seba finally finds a connection, we see him laughing widely for the first time.

This shows how ‘El perro que no calla’ is also about the opportunities that young people have in the (Argentine) economic system. What’s a sensitive man who’s out of place on a chilly office job to do? In this way, Katz also criticizes the system and the inequality that results from it. Does meaningful work still exist? What is the value of caring for others? And what are your options if you want to resist the throwaway culture, consumerism?

We know the combination of this serious underlying theme and the absurdist, tragicomic tone from other Argentine films. Katz has struck a particularly good balance between light-hearted, witty scenes, and the deeper themes underlying them. She asks questions about identity, humanity, the formation of society, about who makes the rules. But also about femininity and masculinity, people and animals. The film does not provide answers, that would also not fit with the choice of main character Seba. He is not a hero, not an anti-hero and hardly a ‘classic’ main character: he prefers to observe rather than speak, he undergoes rather than acts. He does not have a clear opinion, although as a viewer you can guess about his feelings of discomfort in the oppressive, capitalist society.

When, some time later, he meets a young woman (Julita Zylberberg) at his mother’s wedding, who is dancing just as clumsily as he is, life seems to take more shape. But when we understand a little later that she is – a leap in time – heavily pregnant, apocalyptic fate strikes. This creates a whole new world in which the air is toxic and people can only crawl on the ground or wear a glass helmet to breathe safely. The corona parallels are eerily accurate, with comments such as ‘We will go back to normal within a year’ and discussions about the sense and nonsense of the restrictive measures and protective equipment. Unfortunately, the sought-after protective helmet is only available to people who can afford it – those who are short on cash will have to prioritize.

In addition to this surprising plot, editing and the rhythm of the film often have an alienating effect: for example, a minimal action can take minutes – Seba cuts an aubergine, waters a plant, a girl gets off the subway and leaves her sandwich behind, after which Seba shyly settles into place and eats it – while several years can pass at the speed of one clipping.

Each of the five ‘chapters’ of the film, shot in beautiful black-and-white, ends with a wonderful illustration – Katz suggests that they may have come from Seba’s own hand. The images give the film an extra poetic charge, and they also say: not everything has to fit into one shape, be cast in a conventional mould. In this, form and content meet: Seba also searches for alternative ways of living in terms of content, against waste, against the ubiquitous bite-sized and throw-away culture. It appears that valuable lessons can still be learned from ‘El perro que no calla’.