The Milk of Sorrow

The Milk of Sorrow
Directed by Claudia Llosa
At Cinema Village
Runtime: 100 min.

Fausta, the young working-class Peruvian girl in The Milk of Sorrow, dreams
by singing to herself, a habit she inherited from her mother whose
dying moments—singing of either horrible memories or angry
fantasies—begin the film. This routine looks neurotic, perhaps the
result of social constraint and cultural naiveté, but director-writer
Claudia Llosa perceives it sensitively and humorously as a gift: a
quality of endurance and fascination which makes Milk of Sorrow surprisingly lovely.

Latino
imports frequently boast obvious political complaint, then throw in
some damned magic realism to profess “art.” But Llosa does no more than
hint at the impact of political oppression and sexual stress; she
conveys Fausta’s gentleness and fortitude. Her understanding of Fausta
is apparent in her camera rapport with the actress Magaly solier, whose
alert eyes keep Fausta’s meekness interesting. she’s not a pathetic peon
but a girl of imagination, feeling and beauty like a brown-skinned
Elpidia Carrillo.

Llosa,
who is the niece of Peru’s novelist-politician Mario Vargas Llosa, is
primarily a maker of images. With cinematographer Natasha Braier, Llosa
looks at Fausta’s life with fascination in every detail: preparing her
mother’s funeral, seeking a doctor’s help for a feminine ailment,
joining a neighbor’s wedding party, commuting from her village to work
in an upper-class urban home. If you accurately described each scene,
you’d have a book of poetry. That’s how detailed and vivid are The Milk of Sorrow’s rhythms.
scenes of Fausta and her mistress Aida (susi sánchez) picking pearls
off a blue floor, shards of a stainedglass window resembling candies, a
street march of domestic wedding gifts contain wonderful local
color—like an awed, non-condescending Carlos Reygadas. some are
conventional poetic images, but poetry nonetheless.

The original spanish title, La Teta Asustada, “the
frightened breast,” indicates Llosa’s feminine perspective on
experience, a particular social response. Fausta’s condition, derived
from her Andean ancestry, may be temperamental as much as physical or
political; Llosa isn’t afraid to combine her stress and aspiration. This
is also a rare gift—like the American director Charles stone III showed
in the masculine realms of Paid in Full, Drumline and Mr. 3000. These filmmakers have the gift of turning class, sex or ethnic identity into poetry.

That’s what’s missing from big- and low-budget pretenses like Eat Pray Love and Winter’s Bone—neither had
moments of intense discovery, as when Fausta paces her workday boredom
by singing. Her rhythmic improvisation and impudent made-up lyrics show
strength and intelligence. she first sings to herself (an interior
voice), then aloud. Her songs are monologues, a second narration
articulating loneliness, fear, inequality and yearning. “Make it up
again but exactly the same,” her mistress demands. Llosa frames the
women to create a visual pantomime, expressing their shared feelings
ventriloquistically. How Fausta’s song gets transformed into a concert
hall recital isn’t the story you expect. The irony doesn’t detract from
her resilience or optimism. It’s a social lesson that is also a life
lesson.