Cannes Review: Dominga Sotomayor’s La Perra Abandons Simple Metaphors for Suggestive Mysteries

      On the windswept island where Dominga Sotomayor’s La Perra takes place, there’s a location where gas bubbles up from the sea. A pipeline has burst near the shore, and it has released fumes for ages. This phenomenon is considered a local miracle: people come to light their lighters and observe the flames flickering on the water’s surface, which adds to the film’s atmosphere of strange mysteries. Sotomayor’s earlier films—each influenced by childhood memories—also dealt with the unpredictable forces of nature. Water serves as a significant theme in her 2012 debut Thursday till Sunday, which follows a tumultuous family road trip to Northern Chile's beaches, and in Swim to Me, which explores class tensions from a wealthy Santiago home; meanwhile, in Too Late to Die Young, a fire destroys a bohemian community in the hills around the capital as the country enters its post-Pinochet phase. La Perra, adapted from Pilar Quintana’s 2017 novel of the same title, marks a shift from Sotomayor's autobiographical style, but still delves into the connection between people and the landscape surrounding them.

      If you are familiar with her works, you’ll recognize the pattern: Sotomayor often places her characters in tight spaces that trap them rather than offer them freedom, and her skillful use of familiar domestic settings is a signature of her style. Much of Thursday till Sunday unfolds in a car, and Too Late to Die Young takes place in the hillside retreat; Swim to Me rarely leaves the villa at its heart. In adapting Quintana's novel, Sotomayor and co-writer Inés Bortagaray change the setting from the lush jungle of the Colombian Pacific to an island off the southern coast of Chile. It is here that the childless 40-something Silvia (Manuela Oyarzún) was born and raised, and although the mainland is just a short ferry ride away, it seems unlikely she has ever ventured far. Portrayed by Oyarzún, who possesses the distinct beauty reminiscent of a Modigliani woman, she shares a deep connection with her homeland. Like many other islanders, Silvia makes a living selling seaweed, and in its initial scenes—meticulously depicting this business—La Perra evokes the films of Jean Epstein, another filmmaker who transformed maritime settings into significant characters themselves.

      The tension between the fictional foreground and the real-world backdrop persists throughout the film, even as Silvia encounters the titular dog, a stray puppy she chooses to adopt and names after the 1980s Mexican pop star whose songs echo from her rickety television: Yuri. This moment triggers the narrative; the dog disrupts Silvia’s solitary life, and the film essentially chronicles the consequences of this pivotal event. However, La Perra is not driven by narrative in the conventional sense, and its disregard for dramatic norms enhances its impact. While adopting the dog indeed alters Silvia—sending her on a journey of self-discovery that compels her to confront childhood traumas—this transformation feels almost secondary to the film’s refusal to treat the animal as merely a plot device for her character development.

      La Perra’s refreshing perspective lies in its approach to Yuri. Rather than reducing the dog to a tired trope of a “best friend” filling an emotional gap, Sotomayor challenges the notion of domestication altogether. The pup is unruly, resistant to commands, and likely to run away at any opportunity. Additionally, the film itself, shot by Simone D’Arcangelo—best known for his collaboration with Alessio Rigo de Righi and Matteo Zoppis—resists being tamed. Early on, Sotomayor shifts focus from Silvia to follow Yuri as she wanders the island, barking at horses and scavenging for bones. By splintering the perspective to prioritize the dog’s experience over the woman's, La Perra reflects a similar carefree spirit as its canine co-star.

      Even as the film revisits past moments to introduce us to preteen Silvia (Rafaella Grimberg) and the tragedy that likely shaped her strong bond with the island, this flashback—Sotomayor’s first—defies expectations. Instead of clearly distinguishing between the two time periods—using specific color palettes or era-appropriate props—Sotomayor leaves the timeline ambiguous. Contemporary smartphones and cars exist alongside objects from earlier years, creating a confusing blend of when events occur. La Perra was filmed on Isla Santa Maria, but the setting appears suspended in time; at its most perplexing, the film suggests a reality unanchored in time and place.

      While Sotomayor cultivates an unsettling atmosphere, not every transitional shot of rain-drenched cliffs and desolate beaches carries significant weight, and the resolution risks tying up the journey too neatly. Nevertheless, following Swim to Me, a Netflix project that required her to tame her instincts for