“Cinema Ought to Function as a Gateway to the Transcendent”: Nino Martínez Sosa Discusses Liborio

      Through the narrative of the religious figure Papá Liborio, Nino Martínez Sosa's 2021 film *Liborio* skillfully navigates the cultural, spiritual, and political dynamics of a colonized Dominican Republic. After establishing an autonomous Black community in the rural hills of the San Juan province, Liborio and his followers faced pressure and resistance from both the government and the invading U.S. Marine forces. The significant transformations occurring in the Dominican Republic during the early twentieth century are tied to the struggle for independence and power.

      In advance of the film’s showing from February 24 to 28 at NYC’s Mishkin Gallery, I had a conversation with Sosa about his research and filming experiences in the remote mountain villages where Liborism is still observed today, the impact of colonialism across the Caribbean, and how cinema can inspire empathy and initiate change.

      **The Film Stage:** Let’s begin with how you got into filmmaking. What drew you to this art form?

      **Nino Martínez Sosa:** I have always been drawn to various forms of artistic expression. From a young age, I engaged with music through the guitar, wrote poetry, and participated in the school theater group. I saw cinema as a means to unify all these interests and develop them further. It’s a comprehensive medium that allows exploration of what it means to be human and, through that, seek societal change––even if it’s just a small shift, I believe that should be one of art's roles.

      What films influenced you while growing up, and who are some significant figures, be they in film or other artistic expressions?

      As a kid, I watched Hollywood films from the 1970s and 1980s. I remember classics like *Star Wars*, *E.T.*, *The Goonies*, and *Indiana Jones*. However, during my teenage years, as my passion for cinema solidified, I started exploring different genres––especially films that I hadn’t had the chance to see before. Working at a video rental store gave me access to hundreds of titles, where I discovered the works of Buñuel, Pasolini, Bergman, Glauber Rocha, Tomás Gutiérrez Alea, the French New Wave, silent films, and Italian neorealism. I found myself especially attracted to films that I didn’t quite understand at first. Watching them again sometimes led to even more confusion.

      I was captivated by that quality some films possess––how they continue to evolve in a viewer's mind. It felt like an oracle that needed interpreting for meaning to be extracted. From then on, I realized I wanted to approach filmmaking in a similar way––not by spoon-feeding information to the audience, but by inviting them to engage actively in the process.

      **Nino Martinez Sosa**

      Having grown up in the Dominican Republic, did you know about Liborio? When did you first learn of his story?

      Liborio’s story has not been well-covered in our historiography. I was initially unaware of his true significance and had only encountered him superficially. The first time I recall hearing his name was from my third grandmother, María, who worked in my maternal grandparents’ household since my mother was born and helped raise me. She was from San Juan de la Maguana and maintained a small altar dedicated to popular spirituality in her room, despite the strict and conservative atmosphere of my grandparents' home.

      In my family, there wasn’t much discussion of Dominican popular spirituality. Dominant Catholicism was accepted as unquestionable, while everything else was dismissed as “witchcraft," which instantly invalidated it. My father, proud of his Black heritage, wasn’t particularly Catholic and kept various ritual drums in our living room. He would often be invited to a palo gathering, loading the drums into his car and disappearing for the day. However, I was never allowed to accompany him.

      There was also a merengue by Luis Díaz about Liborio, which might have been my first direct introduction to him and the myth surrounding his supposed immortality. My genuine interest in Liborio emerged when I recognized him as a figure embodying the three heritages that shape Dominican cultural identity. His narrative unfolds against the backdrop of the profound transformations of the Dominican Republic in the early 20th century, when commercial capitalism fully took root––first through U.S. influence and later through its invasion. During this period, large estates were established, land was registered and sold, forcing peasants to shift from landownership to working for landlords residing in cities. The convergence of all these factors in a single figure fascinated me, and the more I learned, the more convinced I became that I needed to explore this.

      You dedicated eight years to researching and making this film. Can you describe what that research process was like? What challenges and surprises did you encounter?

      I first arrived in Maguana Arriba, Liborio’s village, during the patron saint festivities on St. John’s Day,