In 2000, first-time director Alejandro González Iñárritu caused quite a commotion with a little film called Amores Perros. He caused this stir not only in his native Mexico—where Perros swept the Ariel Awards for acting, directing, editing, cinematography, set design, make-up and sound—but across the globe. In Argentina Britain Denmark Cuba and Japan the film was acclaimed—and awarded—by each of those countries' most prestigious film critics and festival judges. At Cannes, Iñárritu took home the Critics Week Grand Prize, as well as the Young Critics Award. Among the honors the film received in America were Oscar and Golden Globe nods for Best Foreign Language Film and the Audience Award at AFI Fest.

More than just a breakout hit, Amores Perros heralded a new brand of independent moviemaking—an epoch that skipped the usual slick trappings and focused on translating the real-life struggles of everyday people to the screen. Much like the American independent cinema movements of the 1970s and 1990s, this one film promised a new era of cinema that dealt with truth—and had its foundation firmly planted in Mexican soil.

Cinematic innovation and Mexico are a duo that have long coexisted. Ever since moviemaking began in 1896 and sound moviemaking arrived in the early 1930s, the Mexican film industry has been considered one of the world's most vibrant and creative. Although there have been slow periods as a consequence of fluctuating economic and political factors, Mexican-made films have always appealed to large audiences—even without a large indigenous film production community.

Following the great social upheaval of the Revolution of 1910 (an upheaval that remained violent into the 1920s), the new national government regarded film as an enormously influential instrument for impacting public opinion—particularly as the Mexican Revolution became the first armed conflict to be extensively filmed. In a society still very much affected by illiteracy, film was enormously effective in transmitting ideologies.

In the post-Revolutionary government's attempt to create an official narrative of a unified Mexico film functioned in tandem with virtually all other art forms to promote a united cultural nationalism from which it was difficult for most artists to escape or oppose. No better example of this exists than Emilio Fernández's Río Escondido (1948), in which María Félix—already a star on her way to becoming a Mexican cinema legend—triumphed as a rural school teacher determined to make a difference, despite the village's feudal caudillo.

Luis Buñuel’s Los Olvidados (1950)

The moviemaking industry continued to grow, becoming increasingly dependent on the government for funding—and consequently more closely scrutinized. No matter how creative Mexican moviemakers succeeded at being, they could rarely run counter to the overarching imperatives of cultural nationalism. But rather than oppose the powers that be, Mexican moviemakers focused their energy on perfecting the art of movie­making—employing outstanding writers, energetic producers and directors, top-notch cinematographers and truly talented actors.

Mexico soon created a star system comparable to the one that was enjoying so much success north of the border. In fact, some of the country's most notable stars such as Dolores del Río and Ricardo Montalbán went on to star in Hollywood productions. (The greatest diva of all, María Félix, made a career ploy out of never being lured across the Río Bravo/Rio Grande.)

The country's early films were noted for their excellent sound and for the enormous artistry and precision with which they were edited. And just as they shared their stars with Hollywood, the country's close ties—both geographically and politically—to the United States also helped the industry to grow. Like Brazil Mexico enjoyed favored nation status during World War II, which kept the industry well-supplied with items such as film stock (at a time when it was being denied to non-supporters, like Argentina).

An Emerging Indie Movement

Because of the craft with which films were made, Mexican moviemakers were able to make their films about art rather than politics, and as a result they received very little direct, heavy-handed censorship. But Roberto Gavaldón's La Rosa Blanca (1961), concerning the appropriation of American oil interests by Mexico went over 10 years enlatada (left in the can), until Mexico's most leftist government in the 1970s decided it could be shown. When Spaniard Luis Buñuel was invited to the country in 1950 to make Los Olvidados, a film that presented a pitiful picture of abandoned children in a city undergoing significant capitalistic growth, the project did not sit well with official social policy. Though the film escaped being censored, Buñuel was roundly denounced as a foreign guest who dared to criticize Mexico's internal affairs.

Prior to the 1970s, a certain uniformity of theme could be found in most Mexican films. Generally they addressed the conflicts between the countryside and the city, between traditional values and evolving social roles, and between nationalism and foreign influence. But by the 1970s, Mexico was ready for some fairly important changes, beginning with the questioning of societal roles and the breakdown of the iron grip of the centralizing PRI (Institutional Revolutionary Party). By this time, there was a growing number of independent films—or films that were willing to go against the by-now weary formulas of moviemaking past.

Luis Alcoriza's National Mechanics (1972) parodied traditional Mexican family values, even recruiting famed actress Sara García to do a send-up of the dozens of “sainted grandmother” roles she had played. Arturo Ripstein's Castle of Purity (1973) dwelt on the hypocrisies of patriarchal concepts of moral purity. Jaime Humberto Hermosillo's Mary My Dearest (1979) became a cult classic, because it showed the continuing patriarchal threats to independent women (Nobel Prize-winner Gabriel García Márquez wrote the story). In 1985, Hermosillo released Doña Herlinda and her Son, Latin America's most famous gay film, a delightfully outrageous revision of the patriarchal order. Jorge Fons' Rojo Amanecer (1989) is the only narrative film to directly deal with the 1968 student massacre by the armed forces in Tlatelolco Square. Even though Fons was unable to do any direct filming in the Square, his film was kept from being shown for a number of years.

Maria Novaro’s Danzón (1991)

These titles are just a sampling of the early, emerging independent movement, which has now come to dominate Mexican moviemaking. The release of productions from a dependence on state support, in part through the cultivation of foreign funding sources (both private and institutional), has been a major contributing factor to the enormous output in the last decade and a half of Mexican film. And this is to say nothing of the impressive quality and originality with which these films are made.

Mexican films get attention

The actress maría Rojo is virtually an institution unto herself, functioning not only as an icon of independent moviemaking in Mexico today, but also as an important political voice in defense of the industry. Her film Danzón (1991), which showcases the danzón music and dance forms of the title, was directed by María Novaro, Mexico's most important feminist moviemaker. The film deals with the attempts of a middle-class working woman and single mother to survive in Mexico City, which she does in large measure through her commitment to escaping into the world of ballroom dancing. It is within this world that she achieves a measure of feminist assertion, and it is with the success of Novaro's film that one can say that Mexico attains a definitive body of films by and about women.

Fons' Midaq Alley (1995) went on to garner the largest number of prizes ever awarded to a Mexican film. Set in a rundown building and environs of an alley-like neighborhood within walking distance of the National Palace, Fons' film tells several interwoven stories of contemporary life in Mexico City, with a profound sense of the precarious and conflicting emotions of urban life. (María Rojo acted in this film, which also gave a strong boost to the budding career of actress Salma Hayek.)

Still, it is Iñárritu's tour-de-force, Amores Perros, that is destined to be recognized as the most important film of the decade—if not of the latter half of the 20th century. Certainly, it has received in short order all of the international attention that went to Buñuel's Los Olvidados 50 years previously. And like Los Olvidados, it is a great film of the city. In this case, three separate stories bound together by dogs (or, one dog in particular) serve to portray all of the alienating violence of Mexico City—now unquestionably a monstrous wasteland, where dogs are both the correlates of a brutalized existence, but also the hope for a renewed human dignity.

At 147 minutes long, the film presents real problems of political correctness in the representation of human violence toward animals—and the violence in animals bred by a nightmarish humanity. Amores Perros is also noteworthy for the demands it places on its audience, which cannot help but feel brutalized by the film. One can only hope it is a productive brutalization, in the struggle toward the rebirth of human commitment. The film at least looks toward such a possibility, but always against the grim Mexico City skyline.

Alejandro González Iñárritu’s Amores Perros

Consolidating the reputation of Mexican cinema in the U.S. and abroad, Amores Perros has ensured that, for the time being, new Mexican releases will receive at least a modicum of attention—as will their cast and crew. A quick rundown of the 2003 Oscar nominations solidifies the country's reputation as an international cinema powerhouse. Director Alfonso Cuarón and his brother Carlos received a nomination for their work on Y Tu Mamá También, a film which works through issues of Mexican masculinity and an undercurrent of queer desire. But rather than the expected Best Foreign Film nod, the Cuaróns were singled out for their writing work, with a nomination for Best Original Screenplay. Among the five Best Foreign Film nominees was Carlos Carrera's El Crimen del Padre Amaro. Julie Taymor's Frida, about the great Mexican bohemian artist Frida Kahlo, was shot in the country and starred Mexican-born actress Salma Hayek—who produced the film and picked up an Oscar nomination for her role. The film also scored nods—and a couple of wins—in the areas of art direction, costume design, make-up and music.

While Frida was officially an American production, its on-location shooting and participation by a number of local moviemakers accorded the film a measure of “Mexican-ness.” This, despite the controversies it provoked in the country, confirmed the broad-based enthusiasm for what may be perceived as Mexican moviemaking.

Scoring big with Amores Perros, Iñárritu re-teamed with writer Guillermo Arriaga and cinematographer Rodrigo Prieto (who shot Frida, as well as Curtis Hanson's 8 Mile and Spike Lee's The 25th Hour) to make 21 Grams for Focus Features, starring Sean Penn, Naomi Watts and Benicio del Toro. While he had dabbled in Hollywood before, with A Little Princess and Great Expectations, after the success of Y Tu Mamá También, Alfonso Cuarón was tapped to direct Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban for Warner Brothers.

As was the case in earlier days, the hope is that the cross-border movement of Mexican stars, both in front of and behind the camera, will further assert the importance of the Mexican moviemaking community on an international scale for future generations of movie lovers. MM