I am someone who believes that art is enhanced by the context that it is made. Even if a story becomes dated to the point that its relevance is nonexistent, I am fascinated by the idea that this was once considered an important narrative. Given the transparent ways that film reflects a moment in overtly literal ways, I enjoy seeing how certain ideals have changed over the decades, where a downtown skyline can look very different between the start and end of a century. Time changes so much, and the way that art preserves the moment is invaluable, giving us a permanent glimpse into something that we can’t actually witness in person.
A certain question that I’ve continually come back to is how the past five years will be depicted. Even before 2020 when a pandemic ruptured societal normal almost entirely, there was something to be said about how different this era feels. With so many news stories overwhelming a single 24 hour period, where that truth isn’t always as universally accepted, how do you depict this divide in The United States? I personally do not hold the answers, but watching films like Feels Good Man (2020) provides an insight that I hope future generations will witness, having a sliver of understanding as to what it meant to be alive at this time.
One perspective that I’m especially curious to see grow is one that isn’t organic to Hollywood grandstanding. It comes from the one that glamorizes the idea of “The American Dream” and actually has something to gain from pursuing it. I’m not talking about the capitalist or the middle class. I’m talking about those who have been largely vilified for simply wanting freedoms that we take for granted. In recent years, pictures have emerged of border security spraying them with tear gas, separating kids from families. Even citizens who have a passing resemblance have been brutalized from profiling, told to “go back to your country.” These are all experiences that I haven’t personally faced, but wonder if there’s cinema that could capture it with intimate, passionate detail.
I’ve been a fan of Isabel Sandoval since I watched Apparition (2012) earlier this year. As a lapsed Catholic, themes of religion have always interested me in context to the human condition. For some, it’s more aligned in comforting ways, but the cinema that suggests a divide have their own spirituality. The quietness is supposed to be a chance for meditation, but what if there’s only silence? Sandoval captured the horror of isolation so perfectly that I became intrigued to see her other work. Given her presence online has included strong defenses for sensual cinema, she has continually become more interesting to me, and I’m happy to report that her latest is easily her most successful.
Lingua Franca (2019) in some ways feels reminiscent of her debut feature Senorita (2011), reflecting personal divides between the self and society. In Senorita, there was an emphasis on a trans woman’s relationship to a local Manilla politician, her own identity putting his career at risk. While the themes were audacious, I found them to be messy. It was a woman still finding her voice, and it made me curious to see how she’d evolve. By the time of Lingua Franca, she returned to acting for a different kind of political story, this time in New York and focusing on themes that I feel are more geared to the moment. By transplanting the themes of identity and society to a country that has grappled with it greatly over the past five years, she has unlocked something even stronger.
By her very identity, Sandoval knows what it means to be seen as an outsider. As a trans Filipino woman, there are several aspects that could easily make for a compelling story on their own. Given how many conversations emerged, she likely has a lot of thoughts on everything going on. It shines through in her performance as Olivia, which finds the simple task of surviving in New York to be much more difficult. It isn’t just the simple task of going to work and coming home to a loving family. Even in a state that overlooks The Statue of Liberty, promoting the idea of freedom for all who step ashore, she must face a series of conflicts that ask if she truly belongs here.
Before diving into Olivia, it feels interesting to explore how Sandoval creates New York. On a geographic scale, she takes us inside local neighborhoods, touring communities where she passes the days meeting with friends and taking care of an elderly woman. Even then, there is a disconnect over the towering buildings, so impersonal in design, almost collapsing over her head. Everyone passes each other while in their own worlds, not taking moment to stop and consider what’s going on around them.
The only cues of a bigger world come in the form of TV and radios playing dissuading messages. Even in a time where Olivia should feel like she’s welcomed, hearing The 45th President spouting anti-immigration rhetoric as she prepares for another day of work paints a target on her back. She is the enemy, the person who could wind up dead in an alleyway. She is also the one who finds the most value in being in America, desiring to have freedoms that were rejected in her homeland. When listening to Joe Rogan share his viewpoints, there is more evidence of how messages spread, existing somewhere in the ether. No visible character says these words, and yet it feels so tense to think that they’re just out of view, maybe existing as a boogeyman in the back of Olivia’s mind.
What is America but a land of opportunity? To those who grew up in the school system, they’re likely familiar with the melting pot theory, that people came to this country to escape oppression. If one has lived especially in the 21st century, it’s become increasingly complex to determine what makes someone a citizen or even patriotic. It’s become worse in the past decade, in an age of “illegal aliens” where the immigration system needs reform.
This is reflected in Olivia’s green card, itself a document in need of a few changes. As a trans woman, her identity is still listed under her dead name and without any sponsorship, she cannot be considered “legal.” All of this effort to do good weighs on her, feeling invalidated with every part of her identity. How could she ever hope to feel secure, able to form roots, and build a life in this country? When does a good deed go to being a desperate attempt to belong? So much exists in her soul, desiring a push towards any sense of normalcy. When her green card is taken away, she’ll do anything to get it back. So much of her safety exists in these flimsy forms of identity.
By simply existing, Olivia has so much weighing on her mind. When the film shifts to something more intimate, as her guard is allowed to be put down, it becomes clear that even romance is a complicated proposition. Will they accept her, or is it seen as some plea to get sponsorship? In the moments where Sandoval allows Olivia to be vulnerable, in the throes of lust, there is an exhilaration. She feels those joys that feel rejected by her at other times throughout the film. It’s the sense of freedom she wants in her own life but never can quite achieve. The question becomes whether this qualifies as real love, or if she is being used, about to be rejected again when the tables turn, and she needs a few favors.
What the film does very well is capturing a sense of urgency, a need to have rights that most people around her have taken for granted. She is trying to climb out of the proverbial hole, desperately hiding any insecurity behind a grimace. When she’s on the phone with her mother, she hides her conflicts. The camera pans around scenery like a scene from Chantal Akerman’s News From Home (1976), reflecting these landscapes as places that could be full of life but often feel empty, looming with an absence that maybe reflects Olivia’s inner self. Does she really want to be an American? After seeing everything she has gone through, it’s difficult to see why anyone would but at the same time option two is much, much worse.
What does The American Dream look like in 2019 when Lingua Franca was released? I’d argue that Sandoval is one of the few that feels close to an idea. The country is in a perpetual state of reinvention and assessment right now, and it’s likely that certain values may tragically be in jeopardy. Still, for the time being, having Sandoval comment so empathetically about immigration with such artful detail only reflects how many perspectives deserve to be heard. People often turn to Hollywood for answers as to what an era should look like, but I think sometimes it takes outsiders to best understand just what matters most. The people with the most to lose often understand value better, and Lingua Franca does so with very little but a mediocre job and a green card, voices overwhelming the urge to just jump ship at every possible moment.
I am curious to see where Sandoval goes from here. It’s clear that over three movies she has a powerful way of exploring the insular life of characters while commenting on bigger social matters. For her, there’s something more complex and spiritual about walking down the street, finding these odd details that inform how we see the world. Many people have captured New York, often those exact same streets, but nobody will ever walk them like Sandoval. She’s able to see the place as a refuge, as a chance to start anew and maybe find meaning. It’s the only way to really build empathy, to potentially better the world into something where simple struggles don’t have to feel hostile. Until those days happen, she continues to push for understanding, hoping that anyone will stop and listen.
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