It’s the kind of film I wanted to make where you see social implications growing from a personal story. What made it very hard was the sadness of it and spending such a long time with such sadness. I wasn’t wrong when I decided to build these strong working collaborations because at some points I felt really crazy, especially when I was editing. It was tiring after all the struggle to make the film, but it was also because of the darkness. I was . . . the word is not depressed but out of balance, I guess, for a brief period of time.
* * *
Set during the height of political crisis, armed conflict, and hyperinflation in Peru in the 1980s, Melina León’s debut feature film, Canción sin nombre (Song Without a Name), focuses on the effects of such turmoil on the individual, following the grief of an indigenous mother searching for her newborn daughter. Based on a true account of child trafficking reported by her father in Peru’s La República, the film premiered at Cannes’ Director’s Fortnight last year, making León the first female Peruvian director in history to present at Cannes. Her first short film, El paraíso de Lili (Lily’s Paradise), had premiered at the New York Film Festival in 2009 and was selected at over 20 international festivals, winning 11 awards. León chose to shoot Canción sin nombre in black and white and using the 4:3 aspect ratio. The film’s subtlety and sophistication won acclaim from critics, with France’s Le Figaro calling it “significant, difficult, unsettling, but of immense formal beauty.”
Now, with cinemas reopening after lockdown, the film is due to be released in US and UK cinemas. Ahead of these releases, I talked to León about the film over Zoom, myself in Paris and León in Lima. Having spent many years studying film at Columbia University and working in New York, León is now back in Peru. We discussed the film’s conception, the importance of indigenous narratives in Peruvian cinema, how it felt to be the first female Peruvian director exhibiting at Cannes, and her projects for the future.
Sarah Moore: This is your first feature film – what made you want to become a director?
Melina León: My love for the arts in general. From an early age, I started to appreciate all kinds of arts like music, poetry, painting, theatre; and at some point, I realised that in film you can use all these arts and put them together. It’s also about discovering new worlds. Even though we’re doing fiction, I always thought that I would make films in real places. I didn’t know that people shoot films in studios, which is not my case and I don’t know if it will ever be. I thought it was a way of getting to know other ways of living by going there and filming. It was a personality choice to take the position of directing because I wanted to lead the circumstance – I wanted to have the idea.
Were there any films that inspired you as a child?
Unfortunately, most of the films that come to Peru are from Hollywood, but we sometimes get to watch films from other places. I suppose my answer is Amadeus because my parents took me to see it in Argentina. I was growing up in the ‘80s, in the middle of the worst financial crisis, but we were able to take vacations. My father was not doing well in his job and feeling really sad because of everything that was going on, so he took us on vacation to Argentina and there, I saw Amadeus. I was very young, seven or eight, and it was really impressive to me, also because of the circumstances of watching the film in a huge theatre in a beautiful city like Buenos Aires. It was very special to me. The work of Miloš Forman, of course. That also brought me many years later to apply to Columbia University because, although he wasn’t teaching there, he was one of the founders of that school. It was part of all these semi-conscious decisions that one makes.
Canción sin nombre is based on a true account of child trafficking that your father reported as a journalist. When did you first hear about this report?
I think I heard about it in the ‘90s because it was something very important for my father, but it was when I heard it for the second time that it really struck me. I was in New York studying film when he called me: “You’re not going to believe this. A woman just called me . . . remember that case of the children who were stolen . . . she’s one of the babies that got stolen.” It was incredible the way the story returned to us. It was really amazing, and a signal to me that it was something that I should explore.
How did you go about adapting it for the screenplay?
I decided to write it with a friend of mine, Michael, for a couple of reasons. First, I was going through difficult times in New York, deciding if I was going to stay or not, and it’s such an expensive city. I had no time to do anything, so I thought it better to collaborate. Also, the story is very harsh – so difficult that it would be good to have company.
You worked with Michael J. White?
Yes, exactly, with Michael, a friend who wasn’t doing film but was studying creative writing and had spent a few months in Peru. I saw him as somebody that’s suitable to write about a different culture because he always stays for a long time in other countries, learning, working, and being part of the other culture.
How did it feel to take a story that was equally so personal and political and to make it a creation of your own?
It’s the kind of film I wanted to make where you see social implications growing from a personal story. What made it very hard was the sadness of it and spending such a long time with such sadness. I wasn’t wrong when I decided to build these strong working collaborations because at some points I felt really crazy, especially when I was editing. It was tiring after all the struggle to make the film, but it was also because of the darkness. I was . . . the word is not depressed but out of balance, I guess, for a brief period of time.
The film is set in 1988 – what’s your memory of that period in Peru?
It was like living under Trump nowadays. I think you can compare both in the sense that when you hear Trump speaking, you feel like the country is led by a madman, someone who doesn’t know what he’s doing and who’s talking from a place of ego. Someone who is not concerned about people and the results are a consequence of that. The feeling that the pilot of your airplane is crazy, that the person who’s supposed to lead you and provide a bit of control and wisdom, is absolutely insane. That was the feeling. The result in reality was that the economy was out of control. It was the highest hyperinflation in our history. It was insane. More than one million people left Peru in those days. It felt like the country had no future, so you had to think where to go. That was one of the reasons why I left Peru for New York. I’m back now. But when I left it wasn’t only because I wanted to study abroad, it was like a late reaction to those years when leaving was common – you’ll find Peruvians everywhere and most of them left in the ‘80s.
The protagonist, Georgina, and her husband Leo are musicians. Why did you choose this focus on music?
There is a tendency in Peru to stereotype the Andean people as sad people. As if their sadness was intrinsic, something they were born with. But it’s a stereotype, a stupid stereotype. Because all this sadness (when it is present, because it’s not always present, as you can see in the beginning of the film) has a very specific reason: they have been discriminated against and they have been impoverished. When all this sadness is expressed, something out of their control has happened, they have been colonised. Picking artists means picking culture and showing all those beautiful things that we have. It allows me to show the tragedy, but to show that there is a contrast. Their moment of hope is brief. You see from the beginning that they are struggling, but there is hope. Then tragedy strikes. It was very important for me to show that this wasn’t from the very beginning. They were trying to build a new life in those most difficult of circumstances. In the beginning, you see that that they were doing something very spectacular.
You incorporate traditional Andean music and lullabies alongside compositions by Pauchi Sasaki. Could you talk about this collaboration?
Pauchi’s wonderful, a great friend of mine. I met her around the time that I heard the story again, in 2006, and we collaborated on a short film right after. We built up a huge trust, which was important when it was time to work on this movie. We worked from a place of intuition and trust. Still, some ideas were discarded. For example, she thought it would be appropriate for this film to have a cello because the lower tones would remind you of being in the womb. It was a great idea, but when we added the music, although it sounded fantastic, we realised it was like a comment from the outside and the film had to feel that it was coming from the earth, from Georgina’s life. So we had to discard it because there are no cellos in our music. We stayed with charangos and violins, which are not exactly indigenous but have been incorporated for centuries into indigenous music. Then there is the exception of the use of electronic music, but this music appears only when tragedy arrives, when violence strikes. That’s when you lack sound that comes from the earth and have to resort to electronic, technological expressions. Pauchi’s entire life has been about that, mixing the most traditional sounds with the most avant-garde. She’s Peruvian but her mother is Japanese and her father is a Japanese descendant. There is a lot of tradition in Peru and Japan, but the Japanese side is very avant-garde too, very important for electronic sounds. So she mixes it, it’s natural, and for every Peruvian the combination of things is in our DNA because we’re so mixed.
The title, Canción sin nombre, also refers to music. Why did you choose this title?
The title was Michael’s idea. We chose it because it’s mysterious but also alludes to something very specific in the film – the lullaby that Georgina sings to her daughter and that all mothers in the world sing for their babies. “Without” alludes to everyone who gets denied, disappears, and remains unknown. It alludes to this relationship, this love that gets lost and that never takes place. It has a lot to do with hidden identities, for the journalist too.
Why did you choose to focus on characters in the Quechua community?
I wanted to show this injustice that we live in – this constant injustice that you witness when you live in Peru. It’s a horrible status quo. The racist treatment that Quechua people, or any indigenous people, receive is present every day. You see it on TV, for example, in advertising, where people are always white. It’s really crazy and I wanted to express that craziness.
Do you think that this attitude is changing?
I do. A little bit, at least, coming from new generations that have a bit more access to education and technology, but changes are really slow. Our society is still deeply racist and discriminating. People don’t acknowledge their background. On the other hand, there are people doing things like teaching the Quechua language online. You can easily take a lesson nowadays – which our lead actress is doing; she was denied her language to avoid discrimination, but nowadays she feels encouraged to learn it and has easy access to it. Even her mom has changed her attitude and is now helping her with that.
Pamela Mendoza’s performance is incredible. How did you cast her in the role of Georgina?
I wanted someone new, somebody that would be close to the realities of being a poor immigrant in the city of Lima. Somebody that would have felt what it is like to be discriminated against in her own skin. I wasn’t going to find that person in a traditional casting place because, obviously, if you are discriminated against, you don’t have access to these worlds of mostly white people working in TV and films in Lima. There’s a neighborhood called Villa El Salvador that was built back in the ‘70s for those escaping poverty and war in the Andes. Luckily, it was run for many years by very progressive people who supported the arts, despite this poverty. If you go to Villa El Salvador, there are a number of theatres, called “popular theatres.” They use them for many things but mostly collective creations, where they tell their own stories. I learned about Arena y Esteras, one of the most important theatres in this neighborhood, and talked to the director. He understood right away, showed me Pamela’s photo on Facebook, and I thought, “Wow, I’m the luckiest person.” The rest is Pamela’s merit: her talent, effort, and also a lot of respect. In a way, she’s telling the story of her mother, her aunt, or the previous generation that arrived in Lima under these conditions. Her childhood has been as difficult as you see in the film. She grew up in one of these places, but as a second-generation immigrant in the city, she was able to go to university. She has a bachelor’s in anthropology, so that’s allowed her more opportunities than her mother had; that is why it was so important for her not to make it stereotypical or fake.
And she learned Quechua for the film?
Yes. Unfortunately, she belongs to this huge group of people that were not allowed to speak Quechua because their parents wanted to save them from the stigma of having an accent or not speaking the other language correctly. That happens in the US and in many places. Here, Spanish is the “official language,” and Quechua, Aymara, or any other indigenous language is stigmatised.
Is this stigma being addressed in Peruvian cinema?
Yeah, it is. There are two great recent films: Wiñaypacha and Retablo. Retablo is entirely in Quechua and Wiñaypacha is in Aymara. There is much more work now.
You were the first female Peruvian director to present a film at Cannes. How did this feel?
It’s unbelievable. Of course I enjoyed it a lot. But it was a big awakening to the fact that I’m a woman. There is machismo, of course, but I just wanted to take the opportunities that I had. That’s our survival instinct: we do what we can with the resources that we have. Then, at some point, you have to stop and reflect: “What has happened to me? How did I manage?” And the press were saying, “You’re the first female Peruvian,” In my mind, I was the fifth. There was Lombardi, who’s in his 70s now, Jorge Reyes, and two siblings that work together, the Vega brothers. So I thought, “Ok, I’m the fifth.” But the press kept saying, “No, you’re the first.” Wow, so I’m a woman. It allowed me to reflect a lot on how difficult it is, to acknowledge that it hasn’t been easy. I felt so often that my work wasn’t acknowledged. I always thought that it wasn’t good enough. But I came to terms with the fact that it was likely because I was a woman and that I wasn’t, in the minds of the men that run the culture, the face of the future or the face of someone that could be promising. They tend to see other men as the people they have to support and that are going to do something important. But it’s wonderful to take the time to reflect on things, and younger generations are now more outspoken. On the other hand, I think we should continue to listen to each other. It’s a very difficult process, and as you can see, the film I was able to make was not just made by me but also by many men. Of course, they were not machistas – they trusted a woman with their money and with their time, so we have to find a way to agree on something. I feel like women are sometimes just as violent as men, in shaming, for example. That worries me. It worries me a lot. Even though I understand there’s a need for reparation and a need to speak against all this abuse, even if it hasn’t been physical but mental abuse, structural abuse. We have to find ways during the process to change these structures but in a way that women don’t replicate the status quo. We can’t just take power to make it the way men have made it.
You thanked Béla Tarr in the credits. Did he influence the film in any way?
That was Inti Briones, the cinematographer’s idea because we watched many films and we both got a lot of inspiration from Béla Tarr. We loved Turin Horse, for example.
Why did you shoot the film in black and white?
The main reason was that newspapers in those days were printed in black and white so I thought it would have a nice echo because the story comes from the news. Also, having watched so many wonderful films in black and white, we wanted this first film to make a statement. Saying that image is important, extremely important. This is our language. Of course, there is sound as well, but, whilst many films are based in dialogue, we wanted to build this film from a place of silence. So, how are you going to say something? With image. Black and white is also the most honest choice. We felt that in those days there was no colour or horizon, which is also why we chose to shoot it in 4:3.
One of the things I loved about the film was its willingness to slow down. How did you approach the film in terms of rhythm?
Again we learned that from big masters like Béla Tarr or Tarkvosky: to respect time in films. Which is something that is getting lost because of a need for constant stimulation in contemporary films. We learned from those masters that a film’s heart is time. Therefore, you should express it and shouldn’t be afraid of time passing in your shot because you are somehow representing life. You cannot make life shorter or too short. Everything that happens, and all these long moments, need to be expressed. It’s a big part of film, if you want to be honest in your approach.
I found the relationship between Georgina and her husband Leo very interesting, very complex. How did you want to portray their relationship?
I definitely wanted to give it that complexity. Again, it’s this need to run away from stereotypes, so I create characters that are as complex as possible. Your feelings are more invested in Georgina, but we still wanted dignity for Leo. It’s difficult because Leo is a person that becomes a terrorist. Shining Path was a terrorist group; we don’t call it guerrilla because they acted as mass murderers. It didn’t matter if you were white, brown, poor, rich – in that way, they were democratic! It was very bloody, very violent. So it would have been easy to portray Leo as a machine because they were trained for that. They were trained to suppress their feelings and cut ties with their families – that was a requisite to belong to them. But there was a time right before their participation in the movement that I’m sure wasn’t easy. I wanted to explore that, and it’s one of the reasons why I picked Lucio Rojas, the dancer, for Leo because he’s a very kind, soft person, completely in love with his art and his culture. In a way, he’s the perfect anti-terrorist. The question I had in mind about him was: with everything that happens to him and Georgina, how does he really feel? If, even as a spectator, you feel so terribly angry? I think I would be like a bomb ready to explode. In his relationship with Georgina, for sure he was an absent man, but there are also these moments at the beginning where he dances with her, you see he doesn’t want to leave her, you feel he’s heavy-hearted. When he goes with Georgina to the police station, you see he’s lost in the way he looks at the camera. All these moments with Leo were very important to me. And, because he’s not an actor, it wasn’t easy. He struggled a lot to achieve this, so I’m particularly proud when speaking about Lucio.
Are you working on any projects now?
I’m working on a film that will take place in Cuzco among artisans. The protagonist is going to be a child or a teenager. It’s a story about the creation of a collection of virgins and saints for the Spanish crown and a child who becomes an artist in the process of helping her grandfather make the collection. This world of children is very intriguing to me, and I want to explore it more.
* * *
The film is scheduled to open in the United States on August 7 and in the United Kingdom on August 14. All images copyright Beatriz Torres, reproduced with permission of La Vida Misma Films and the director.
