Crónica de un comité, Chronicle of a Committee

At the end of this film, the police charge at a carnival comparsa for no apparent reason. A few moments earlier, we see the troupe singing and dancing in front of posters demanding justice for Manuel Gutiérrez, a 16-year-old boy beaten by a police officer during the August 2011 nationwide strike in Chile. The police officer was convicted by a military court, but freed two months later. Relatives and friends of Manuel, who formed a committee to protest against the impunity of the crime, are the film’s protagonists. 

The film’s originality has often been put down to it fearlessly showing the contradictions and weaknesses of the committee. According to this reading, ambiguities, internal divisions, and occasional meanness end up tainting any political stance it might have in a society as poisoned as the Chilean one. And yet, the film does not oppose these contradictions; rather, it sides with them.  The camera is entrusted to the six committee members, which gives rise to a complex profusion of contradictions, disorder, reversals and masks: in short, a carnival. Is this the carnival that the police repress at the end of the film? Does the true strength of a committee lie in these contradictions?

Rarely shown outside of Latin America, the films of Chilean duo Carolina Adriazola and José Luis Sepúlveda form one of the most stimulating and difficult to classify oeuvres in contemporary cinema. From the visceral El pejesapo (2007) to the wildly virtuosic Cuadro negro (winner of the Grand Prize at the 2025 Punto de Vista Festival), the FID is pleased to present the very first major European retrospective of their work. 

Adriazola and Sepúlveda’s first films, belonging neither strictly to fiction or documentary, can be seen as detailed studies of the sense of malaise that gave rise to the 2011 protests and 2019 uprising in Chile, a country where stark social inequalities have persisted since the military dictatorship of 1973-1990. Aligned with social movements that over the last decades have given tangible form to popular discontent, resisting the pressures of one of the most violent examples of neoliberalism in the world, Adriazola and Sepúlveda have always worked independently of the film industry. They have instead established self-managed, horizontal production and distribution processes, such as FECISO-Festival de Cine Social y Antisocial, which has brought cinema to outlying communities since 2007, or the Escuela Popular de Cine (Popular Film School), which has fostered collaboration and creation in the heart of communities, free of charge, for the last 15 years.  

The work of Adriazola and Sepúlveda ventures onto slippery ground and into obscure areas where fiction rarely dares to tread. It develops unorthodox performative practices and confronts—with rage and humour—the supposed hierarchies on both sides of the camera as well as the immutability of social and cultural roles. As the Chilean researcher Iván Pinto points out, it is not so different to the metadiscursive corrosion of political cinema as seen in the early work of Raúl Ruiz, or the Colombian Luis Ospina and Carlos Mayolo’s critique of pornomiseria. A recurring gesture in several of Adriazola and Sepúlveda’s films is to hand the camera to those being filmed: a way of highlighting the impossibility of painting a complete or definitive portrait of a community that is never viewed without ambiguity. This is also a way of breaking down the boundaries between inside and outside, and with it, any comfortable distance. The unique political force of Adriazola and Sepúlveda’s films, their resistance to any ideological crystallisation, and aversion to any kind of paternalism, might only be equalled by Glauber Rocha, whom they admire, and who, perhaps in anticipation of such films, once called for a cinema that would dare to be “imprecise, vague, barbarous, irrational.”

Manuel Asín