06 · 19 · 25

Carlos Bonfil (1952-2025)

Rafael Aviña

Life is a host of moments that hurt, comfort, but most importantly, nurture us. Those moments slip away like water through our fingers, exactly like when we mechanically wash our hands. The first time I saw and spoke with Carlos Bonfil in person was at the press office of Cineteca Nacional in November 1990 during the issuance of accreditation for the showings of that year’s Muestra. I used to read him and I admired him, particularly his style, sensitivity, and elegance when writing reviews. Of course, I aspired to write with the same fluency, irony, ease, and literary beauty that he brought the moment he put his phrases and thoughts together. Curiously, Bonfil (writing for La Jornada) and Naief Yehya and I (writing for Uno más uno) had the opportunity to make our debuts as film critics in March of that same year.  

Around 1991 or 1992, we met at the Guadalajara International Film Festival, where we talked for the first time. From then on, I became aware of Carlo’s humor, irony, and good judgment, but above all, his quality as a human being and his overwhelming simplicity that contrasted with his outstanding intellect. He had spent much of his childhood in movie theaters, those simultaneously dark and bright rooms that served as an escape and a fantasy, a place where sorrows, dreams, and joys could be contained. This experience, along with his passion for English and French literature, languages he spoke perfectly, set him on the right path. 

I remember his genuine joy and our shared surprise when we first discovered films like Tequila by Rubén Gámez; 'Til Death by Fernando Sariñana; A Breakfast Chronicle by Benjamín Cann; A Thousand Clouds of Peace by Julián Hernández; Duck Season by Fernando Eimbcke; Japan by Carlos Reygadas; Blood by Amat Escalante; Cumbia Connection by René U. Villareal; or The Chambermaid by Lila Avilés. Carlos Bonfil holds and will continue to hold a prominent place in national film criticism and culture, not only because of his rigor and unique style. People considered Carlos an "exquisite" critic, and indeed he was, but he was also someone who cherished the film experience rather than endured it. He passionately revered movie theaters and Mexican cinema. Contrary to what one might expect, he knew dialogues and remembered situations of the most popular national cinema while fervently supporting the careers of young contemporary Mexican filmmakers who were trying to break through, without ceasing to be critical and observant of them. And above all, he avoided writing about pretentious nonsense, preferring instead to extract the best from what he considered valuable, stimulating, and transcendent.

Carlos particularly loved the Morelia International Film Festival (FICM) and was a fundamental member in its creation. His involvement began with the 1994 Mexican Short Film Festivals, conceived by Daniela Michel and Enrique Ortiga, and continued through the Mexican Directors Meeting in the early 2000s. Daniela invited Joaquín Rodríguez, Carlos Bonfil, and me to moderate panels with budding filmmakers that were preparing their debut films (Eimbcke, Iván Ávila Dueñas, Everardo González, Marcela Arteaga, among many others). Carlos soon joined the Festival's selection committee for feature-length documentary and fiction.

Carlos studied French literature at the University of Paris IV (Sorbonne) and translation at Paris Dauphine X. He served as curator of the major exhibition Del rancho a la capital for the Museo del Estanquillo in 2011. As an author, he wrote Águila o sol: las apariciones de Cantinflas (1993) and, in collaboration with Carlos Monsiváis, A través del espejo: el cine mexicano y su público (1994) and Al filo del abismo. Roberto Gavaldón y el melodrama negro (2016). He also served as editor and coordinator of the volume ¡Hoy grandioso estreno!: El cartel cinematográfico en México (2011).  

However, there is another Carlos Bonfil: the dear and endearing friend, the man of integrity and sensitivity with a sharp irony that he surely inherited from his friend and mentor, Carlos Monsiváis. Carlos became a supportive colleague in the presentation of my books; he always told me that they would end up calling us “Manolín and Schillinsky”. We shared multiple presentations, conversations, trips, festivals, and coffee shops. Carlos was afraid of speaking in public; however, he always ended up captivating the audience, as he did at the Cartagena Festival, where he overshadowed everyone with his eloquence. But what I remember most from that trip was our night walk through the amazing city of Cartagena on Ash Wednesday, surrounded by people with crosses on their foreheads—like a scene from a García Márquez story.

Little by little, over the years, our conversations moved from movies to our own stories, our loved ones, childhood memories, worries, joys, and fears. Carlos was always very discreet about his personal life and used to maintain boundaries with elegance and good sense with most people. Beyond the committed, admired, and educated critic he was, I got to know the person who was both strong and vulnerable—the always-smiling friend who used to make jokes with sharp irony. I recall an early morning chat at a taco stand on the coast in Acapulco, the seafood restaurant he discovered in Los Cabos, and above all, the nights in Morelia.

Carlos managed to defeat cancer more than ten years ago. However, in the last few months, that unwanted intruder returned and little by little began to take a toll on his body, but never on his spirit and will. We continued to meet in old coffee shops that would soon cease to exist. In the last few weeks, we chatted on the phone from the oncology ward while he was undergoing chemotherapy, and his mood remained intact. Like him, I never gave up hope because he managed to recover before. Three weeks ago, he even accompanied me to the talk at Cineteca of Cayó de la gloria el diablo (dir. José Estrada, 1971). He knew how important this presentation was to me. Yes, I saw him—he was thin, shaved, and wearing a face mask—but my son Rai and I saw him composed and still smiling. Later, when I visited him at home last week, I knew that things were not going well, yet I was still confident. 

Today I learn about his departure and that of another dear friend, Pepe Návar, and sadness and anger envelop me. With deep sorrow, I bid farewell to my best friend, a critic who is and will always be a world reference. In 35 years of knowing and reading him, I never managed to reach his subtlety and elegance, much less his eloquence, irony, and erudition. However, I know that I was one of the few privileged people to have his affection and deep friendship. But above all, I celebrate having remained very close to that unique, special, and unforgettable being. Rest in peace, dear Carlos.

Translated by Abigail Puebla