06 · 30 · 26

Fernando Eimbcke: The specter in the frame

Alonso Díaz de la Vega

Fernando Eimbcke’s career and filmography are distinguished–among many other things–for the absence: in Duck Season (2004), authority (in this case, the mother) disappears, and this sets the perfect stage for the chaos to leak around an apartment sentenced to farewells; in Lake Tahoe (2008), a teenager finds himself forced to experience a Kafkaesque peripeteia that, no matter how frustrating it may be, takes his mind off his home, where grief awaits him; in Club Sandwich (2013), a mother faces loneliness knocking at her door when her son discovers romantic love while vacationing, which inevitably leads to estrangement between them. This last one would be only Eimbcke’s released feature film in more than ten years before the premieres of Olmo (2025), and Flies (2026). Consequently, it could be argued that the most evident absence comes from Eimbcke himself, who, in his first three films, had a spectral way of showing himself–of being both inside and outside the frame. That way, he creates one of the most singular filmographies of his generation: Eimbcke found his place as the great chronicler of the ordinary world through economics, humor, cinephilia, absurdism, and the authenticity of the Mexican essence.

We could consider the beginning of Duck Season as a declaration of principle: for almost two minutes, Eimbcke shows us a flawed and lonely world. Tlatelolco and its surroundings look as if they have survived the extinction of humanity, ceasing to be functional places as they once were (dwellings, recreation areas, and transportation) to become ruins that evoke those who once lived there.

 

As a matter of fact, Eimbcke is just showing a common Sunday, as stated in an intertitle. But why does the most respected day off for workers end up being extremely melancholic? Despite the objectivity that the images suggest (the camera rarely moves), the Eimbcke’s direction distinguishes itself by the absence of energy. If someone is sincere even when lying (for every lie is an expression—if not of truth, then of the consciousness that produces it), Eimbcke does not disappear from the frame by sticking to minimalism, which is often misinterpreted as a more authentic expression of the real world because of its austerity. On the contrary, in each movie the montage becomes more complex, as Eimbcke gains confidence to create even disturbing images, though never reaching hostility like his contemporaries.

There is a shot in Lake Tahoe that, due to its symmetrical composition, reminds me of another shot in Amat Escalante’s Heli (2013).

Both are images of tortured prisoners, but in a completely different ways: in Lake Tahoe, the protagonist is captured by a mechanic who swears he has an intruder before him (even though if he’s just a client); while in Heli, some drug dealers torture those they believe have stolen a package of cocaine. For the topic Escalante has chosen, his plan is to introduce horror and showing the audience the physical suffering of the Mexican drug war that the news cannot fully cover. Quite the opposite, Eimbcke explores the most ordinary fear: being guarded by a fighting dog caught in the middle of a misunderstanding. The stiffness and symmetry of the shot soften the evident humor, and these details make Eimbcke a filmmaker (in close affinity with Aki Kaurismäki and Hal Hartley): a rigid comedian, yet not cold.

In another shot of Lake Tahoe, the main character makes a phone call while a new friend (another mechanic) rehearses his martian arts routine.

At this point, Eimbcke reminds me of the great French film director Jacques Tati, who used to film wide angle shots where many actions occurred simultaneously, thus turning images into real atmospheres. In real life, when we look around, people are not coordinated; in a hurried glance, we can see a family crossing the avenue, a street juggler performing his show, a stray dog walking around. What Tati did was to sort out and recreate that chaos.

In contrast with Tati, Eimbcke’s shot focuses only on two actions, but shows his interest in slapstick, which also reveals his cinephilic sensibility: the mechanic is a fan of Bruce Lee and kung fu movies, and he invites the main character to watch Enter the Dragon (1973). We will never know if including the work of another great minimalist was a deliberate decision. We are referring to the Taiwanese film director Tsai Ming-liang, who centers his already classic Bu san (2003) around the last projection in a movie theater of King Hu’s action classic Long men kezhan (1967).

Eimbcke shows a tendency to allude to popular culture more explicitly: his filmography is not made up merely of time, but a certain time, and a certain era that surrounds it, which is quite notorious in Duck Season: a boy, who daydreams of being hugged by his best friend, but spends his time whistling a homophobic chorus by the Mexican rock band called Molotov. Later, we see a visual parody of a famous Beatles album cover (a name pronounced by the characters in a very Mexican way: Los Bitles).

The most interesting aspect of this inclusion of popular imaginary is a duel with a pizza deliveryman  that ends in a virtual soccer game. Eimbcke describes this confrontation through the TV itself.

 

This decision may seem irrelevant, but requires the assignment of rights (or facing the risk of receiving a complaint for copyright infringement), which suggests the importance of reproducing the video game, partly as an element of authenticity in relation to the adolescent imaginary—there are countless films where it is obvious the director has never played PlayStation. Most importantly, these images serve as a symbol of lockdown: the characters spend the whole movie in a state of waiting–in the same vein as Beckett– and their only contact with the outside world is a stadium made up of pixels. Nevertheless, Eimbcke does not succumb to the radical pessimism typical of the Irish author; instead, Eimbcke finds optimism through another representation of the outside and the community: a painting of flying ducks that the deliveryman –a frustrated veterinarian– explains thoroughly and ends up owning.

Club Sandwich takes this imagery to its limit while making absurdism a permanent discomfort.  Without ceasing to be melancholic and humorous, Eimbcke begins to tease the audience. In his last film before a decade-long hiatus, Freudian imagery piles up in scenes where the mother and her son behave like lovers.

The family of two members will collapse when the son begins to feel sexual attraction for a girl at the hotel. Eimbcke films masturbation scenes that break reality because of their audacity (while the protagonist’s mother sleeps, he touches himself in front of a window facing the pool where he met his summer affair), but the filmmaker also humorously describes the needs of a passionate teenager. Here, humor eases the partial breakup between the protagonists, but ends up being a sweet image, concluding Eimbcke's main idea: growing up hurts. In Duck Season, the boys have to say goodbye; in Lake Tahoe, the teenager comes to terms with maturity as his fatherless family falls apart (Telemachus becomes Odysseus), and in Club Sandwich, the mother and her son embrace their imminent detachment.

The absence of Fernando Eimbcke is a theme in itself and an illusion created by him. His presence is completely clear in all his decisions. For that reason, the Mexican audience looks forward to watching his most recent film. Meanwhile, it would be worth (re)watching these kind of movies, where quietness and helplessness, endured with humor, pretend to say nothing, yet in truth speak volumes.

Translated by Michelle Olvera