I’ve felt moved by many films; they are perhaps one of my favorite things in the world. I always love to feel that they have left something new in who I am. Roma by Alfonso Cuarón wasn’t the exception.
The film is a black and white love portrait for the women who raised Cuarón, and an ode to his country and his childhood. We see the story of Cleo and Sofía as if we were a ghost within the film, following every step and every secret they tell us.
It’s curious how something as big as a movie can become so intimate. We’re able to discover the collapse of a family; the loss and the reencounter with love. It’s like seeing your neighbors, your friends or even your own family through a window. I wanted to hug Cleo and Sofia a lot of times, or even the grandmother and children.
Roma is, perhaps, a memory for many. Although it is biographical; based on, and dedicated to Libo Rodríguez -The Cleo in Cuaron’s childhood-, we all have that someone that takes care of us; we all had that person who, without our knowing, formed us; we all collapsed for something and got up; we have all suffered and loved.
I don’t see it as a film for everyone. Roma is for the lovers of the beyond of every day; for those who are caught in the cinema in an instant. As I see it, it is a gift from Cuarón to the world of cinema: a small reminder of the power of a story, and the urgency we all felt to let go and tell experiences and emotions.
“We are alone. No matter what they tell you, we women are always alone.”
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