Mitómana, Mitómana

Farces are meant to be performed on dirty stages, in front of painted sets of faded landscapes and vague slogans. This is the setting for the film’s opening sequence, when the fake clown Tilusa is unmasked by the character Nora Díaz (Yani Escobar), a real actress. Yet the real setting of this film isn’t the stage but rather the street. If what unfolds there resembles theatre, it’s perhaps because we have come to confuse what is sacred and true with what is false.

Mythomania, an unlikely professional failing of an actor or actress, involves believing one’s own lies. Is this suspension of disbelief inherent in the theatrical pact? Or a Faustian contract that we all sign when we come into the world? The journey of the character of a second actress (Paola Lattus) tells of a slow, painful, sometimes hilarious—albeit with a cold laugh—metamorphosis. A woman who, like the police, stops at nothing, no matter what she has to steal or what doors she has to force open to enter into her role. But she eventually realises—guided by a little girl carrying a gun and an angel playing a trumpet—that, whether one lies or not, acting also means putting oneself in another’s shoes.

Manuel Asín

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