Cannes Review: Dominga Sotomayor's La Perra Abandons Simple Metaphors in Favor of Suggestive Mysteries

      On the windswept island where Dominga Sotomayor's La Perra takes place, gas emerges from the sea. A pipeline has burst near the shore, releasing fumes for ages. This phenomenon fascinates locals, who come to light their lighters and watch the flames flicker on the water's surface—a peculiar enigma in a film filled with them. Sotomayor's previous works, each rooted to varying degrees in childhood memories, were equally affected by natural elements. Water played a prominent role in her 2012 debut, Thursday till Sunday, which depicted a tumultuous family road trip to the beaches of Northern Chile, and in Swim to Me, which explored class tensions from a wealthy Santiago home. In Too Late to Die Young, a fire devastated a bohemian commune in the hills of the capital city just as the country entered its post-Pinochet era. La Perra, adapted from Pilar Quintana's 2017 novel of the same name, represents a shift from the autobiographical nature of her earlier films, yet it still delves into the connection between individuals and the landscapes that encompass them.

      For those familiar with her body of work, it will come as no surprise: Sotomayor often sets her narratives in confined spaces that ensnare her characters. She skillfully utilizes familiar, domestic settings, which is a signature aspect of her filmmaking. Much of Thursday till Sunday unfolds inside a car, while Too Late to Die Young is centered around a hillside retreat. Swim to Me rarely strays beyond the villa that serves as its core setting. In adapting Quintana's novel, Sotomayor and co-writer Inés Bortagaray replace the original lush Colombian Pacific jungle with an island off the southern coast of Chile. Here, childless Silvia (Manuela Oyarzún), in her forties, was born and raised. Although the mainland is just a brief ferry ride away, it’s hard to imagine she has ever departed. Portrayed by Oyarzún, who embodies the angular beauty reminiscent of a Modigliani figure, Silvia shares a symbiotic relationship with her homeland. Like many locals, she survives by selling seaweed, and the film’s initial segments, which meticulously detail this business, evoke the Breton films of Jean Epstein, another filmmaker who transformed maritime settings into characters as compelling as the drifters navigating them.

      The tension between the fictional narrative and the real-world backdrop permeates the film, even after Silvia adopts the titular stray dog, whom she names Yuri after the Mexican pop star whose 1980s songs play on her dilapidated television. This event propels the plot forward, with the dog disrupting Silvia's solitary life, and at its core, the film explores the aftermath of this pivotal encounter. However, La Perra does not follow a conventional narrative path, and its strength lies in its casual disregard for typical dramatic frameworks. Although Silvia's adoption of Yuri significantly alters her—sending her on a journey of self-discovery and compelling her to address childhood traumas—this feels secondary to a film that stubbornly refuses to treat the dog merely as a device for her character development.

      This aspect is perhaps what makes La Perra most refreshing. Rather than relegating Yuri to a cliché role of a “best friend” designated to fill an emotional void, Sotomayor challenges the notion of domestication itself. The mutt is chaotic, unresponsive to commands, and often runs away, but the film, captured by Simone D’Arcangelo—known for his collaborations with Alessio Rigo de Righi and Matteo Zoppis—displays a similar resistance to being tamed. Early in the film, Sotomayor forgoes following Silvia to instead focus on Yuri as she explores the island, barks at horses, and enjoys bones. By shifting perspective to the dog’s experience, La Perra approaches the uninhibited energy of its canine co-star.

      As the narrative shifts back halfway through to reveal preteen Silvia (Rafaella Grimberg) and the tragedy likely shaping her deep attachment to the island, the flashback—Sotomayor’s first—defies expectations. While many films delineate different time periods through unique color palettes or era-specific props and decor, Sotomayor allows her scenes to exist in a temporal ambiguity. Throughout the film, modern smartphones and cars appear alongside items from past decades, creating a blend that makes it difficult to ascertain the specific timeframe. Shot on Isla Santa Maria, the setting seems suspended in a haunting limbo—neither a tangible location nor a tangible reality; at its most perplexing, the film portrays a world unanchored in time and space.

      Sotomayor crafts an unsettling atmosphere, although not every interstitial shot of rain-soaked cliffs and deserted beaches carries significant weight, and the conclusion risks oversimplifying the journey. However, following Swim to Me, a Netflix project that constrained