You’re thrown in at the deep end with La Ciénaga—no setup, no backstory, just a languid mess of bodies, booze and blood. It’s like turning up late to a family gathering where everyone’s had one too many, and the air’s thick with old grudges and heatstroke. The camera drifts through this bourgeois purgatory, where everyone’s either injured or on their way to being so. Cuts, bruises, mysterious ailments—half the film feels like a waiting room montage, and the Virgin Mary pops up just often enough to make you think someone might be praying for an escape. It’s disorientating initially, but the more you piece it together, the more hypnotic it becomes. Everyone’s wilting, physically and emotionally, and no one seems capable of stepping in to help. The real scar tissue isn’t what’s visible—it’s the slow rot in the family itself. A challenging watch but a quietly brilliant one.