Say no ma to Roma
In the opening scenes of the Netflix original film Roma, we are treated to a black and white, disorienting, aerial and uninterrupted shot of water rushing over concrete for minutes and minutes and minutes. From there, the camera excitedly reveals that we are looking at a stout, pretty housemaid as she uses a hose to wash out dog poop amassed in an uncovered parking garage, belonging to a wealthy-sh Mexican family in the 1970s. Surprise! The movie is about the maid. Never before has a black and white, subtitled film aimed its laser focus at such ordinary, lowly domesticity. Did you like that very long shot of water draining? Get ready for more of the same.
I’m being an asshole but hear me out: Roma‘s a boring movie, brought to us by Alfonso Cuarón, the writer and director of Children of Men and Gravity, exciting movies both, and so the dullness here kind of doubly hurts my feelings. Critics claim to like this a lot: It’s getting early Oscar buzz for cinematography, best foreign film (a Golden Globe nom for best screenplay, are you kidding us) and heaven knows what else. There are indeed long, single-shot, well-orchestrated scenes of lots of characters doing things, but to what end? In Children of Men, the filmmakers are obviously showing off as they lead us through a post apocalyptic street fight, but at least the fate of humanity hangs in the balance. The long shots in Roma seem to me needlessly showy without excitement. (Does human tragedy count? Probably.)
My favorite long take in Roma dealt with a Christmas party unexpectedly putting out a fire. It looks cool, and there’s something cute and weird about little kids helping to douse flames with little kid size pails. It reminds me of a memory, but whose memory is it? Roma feels like the rememberings of a wealthy filmmaker graciously sharing his nanny’s life story in a film, like as a favor, like a garish $100 bill dropped in a beggar’s tin.