Cannes Review: Dominga Sotomayor’s La Perra Moves Beyond Simple Metaphors to Embrace Suggestive Mysteries

      On a windswept island where Dominga Sotomayor’s La Perra takes place, gas bubbles rise from the sea. A pipeline has burst near the shore, releasing fumes for ages. This phenomenon is seen as a local miracle: residents come to ignite their lighters and watch the flames flicker on the water's surface, adding to the film's collection of enigmatic elements. Sotomayor’s previous films—rooted in childhood experiences to varying degrees—also grappled with nature's forces. Water played a significant role in both her 2012 debut, Thursday till Sunday, which chronicles a tumultuous family road trip to the beaches of Northern Chile, and Swim to Me, a depiction of class tensions stemming from a wealthy Santiago household; in Too Late to Die Young, a fire devastated a bohemian community on the outskirts of the capital as the country entered its post-Pinochet era. La Perra, adapted from Pilar Quintana’s 2017 novel of the same name, marks a shift from the autobiographical nature of the director’s earlier films, yet it remains focused on exploring the connection between individuals and their enveloping landscape.

      If you are familiar with her work, you’ll recognize the pattern: Sotomayor often places her films in confined settings that trap her characters rather than simply house them, and her adept use of familiar domestic environments is a signature of her creativity. Much of Thursday till Sunday unfolds inside a car, while Too Late to Die Young is set in a hillside retreat. Swim to Me rarely steps beyond the villa at its heart. In adapting Quintana’s novel, Sotomayor and co-writer Inés Bortagaray change the original setting—from the lush jungles along the Colombian Pacific to an island in southern Chile. Here, the childless Silvia (Manuela Oyarzún), in her forties, was born and raised. Although the mainland is just a short ferry ride away, it seems unlikely she has ever departed. Oyarzún, reflecting the elegant beauty reminiscent of a Modigliani, shares a symbiotic connection with her homeland. Like many islanders, Silvia makes her living collecting seaweed, and in the film's early scenes—meticulously documenting her work—La Perra recalls Jean Epstein’s Breton films, where his maritime settings became powerful entities as significant as the people inhabiting them.

      The tension between the fictional narrative and the nonfictional backdrop is evident throughout the film, particularly when Silvia encounters the titular dog, a stray pup she decides to adopt and names after the 1980s Mexican pop star whose songs play on her old TV: Yuri. This event propels the plot; the dog disrupts Silvia’s solitary life, and the film, at its core, follows the aftermath of this transformative encounter. However, La Perra is not driven by a conventional narrative, and its defiance of dramatic norms strengthens its impact. While the adoption indeed changes Silvia—leading her on a path of self-discovery that confronts childhood traumas—it feels secondary to a film that steadfastly refuses to treat the dog merely as a trigger for her character development.

      This subversion is one of La Perra’s most refreshing aspects. Instead of turning Yuri into a stereotypical sidekick—filling an emotional gap—Sotomayor challenges the notion of domestication. The dog is not just an unruly presence resistant to commands and prone to escape; rather, the film itself, shot by Simone D’Arcangelo—known for his collaboration with Alessio Rigo de Righi and Matteo Zoppis—is equally resistant to taming. Early on, Sotomayor leaves Silvia behind to follow Yuri as she roams the island, barks at horses, and indulges in bones. By shifting the perspective to focus on the dog, La Perra embodies the carefree spirit of its four-legged co-star.

      Even as the film later returns to introduce younger Silvia (Rafaella Grimberg) and the tragedy likely shaping her deep connection to the island, the flashback—Sotomayor’s first—does not unfold as one might anticipate. Instead of clearly marking distinct time periods with unique color palettes or period-specific props, Sotomayor allows these elements to coexist in a state of temporal uncertainty. Throughout, contemporary smartphones and cars appear alongside items from previous decades, creating an ambiguous timeline. Shot on Isla Santa Maria, the location feels suspended in reality, resembling a ghostly limbo; at its most perplexing, the film hints at a world disconnected from both time and space.

      Sotomayor crafts a disquieting ambiance, though not every interstitial shot of rain-soaked cliffs and deserted beaches carries significant weight, and the film's conclusion risks simplifying the entire journey. However, following Swim to Me, a Netflix project that required her to suppress her instincts for a more accessible style, there’s an invigorating quality to this film that returns the director