If there could be one word used to describe Alfonso Cuarón’s latest, Roma, it would have to be water. Even more than, say, a movie that hits you over the head with water in the title (e.g. The Shape of Water, Like Water for Chocolate…Water Boy [warning: this won’t be the first Adam Sandler movie mention]), Cuarón’s latest bona fide masterpiece shows us, more than any film in recent memory, just how evocative sound can be. From the moment the first scene opens on the tranquil mop waters of the courtyard being sloshed from side to side as the stream makes its way into the drain, it is evident that Cuarón is building up to something monumental with his quietness. His deliberate and determined unfolding of Cleo’s (Yalitza Aparicio) quotidian, unspecial life is punctuated by this water she must use to cleanse. A silent hero, she helps run the household for a middle class family in Mexico City in the early 70s (the timeline of the film is from 1970 to 1971), Cleo works with fellow Mixtec Indian from Oaxaca Adela (Nancy García), a girl who appears to be slightly more pragmatic about her “closeness” with the family.
A family that is “overseen” by its somewhat neurotic matriarch, Sofía (Marina de Tavira), who lives in overt perpetual fear of losing the interest of her doctor husband, Antonio (Fernando Grediaga). Rightly so, of course, for as she later drunkenly points out to Cleo in one of many moments of inappropriateness that breach the employer-employee relationship, “We are alone. No matter what they tell you, we women are always alone.” But for a brief moment, it looks as though Cleo might not be when she is set up with Fermín (Jorge Antonio Guerrero), the cousin of Adela’s boyfriend, Ramón (José Manuel Guerrero Mendoza). As their tryst quickly escalates to sex, Fermín feels a little too comfortable showing off his commitment to martial arts in the bedroom as he performs his moves (the whooshing sounds of which provide another prime example of sound editing emphasis) in front of her whilst naked (though it’s always refreshing to see full frontal male nudity in film). She probably should’ve surmised then that he was a fuckboy not worth trifling with. And yet, women are so susceptible to what they want to believe is sweetness.
How could someone like Cleo, sequestered in another person’s home like Cinderella for most of her time, not be vulnerable to any attention paid to her in a non-“serve my needs” way? And, to be sure, there is some bizarre and unlikely parallel between Cleo and Cinderella, minus the part where anyone involved in the scenario cuts off a toe or heel (as was the case in the Brothers Grimm version). But perhaps what makes it even worse for Cleo is that she is deemed “part of the family” yet not truly given any of the courtesies that such a role would entail–like being able to watch TV in the same room as them without being asked to go fetch the doctor some tea. Incidentally, the comedy they happen to be watching is called, somewhat cruelly, La Grande Vadrouille, or The Big Mop.
Scenes of Cleo slowly and meticulously hand-washing–always washing (as though to insist that nothing can ever really be clean)–the laundry as she observes from her invisible perch the confidential moments she should perhaps not be privy to heighten the sense of intimacy we’re made all too aware she has with this family. Like watching Pepe (Marco Graf) being bullied by one of his two older brothers for his “sissy” antics. After Pepe disputes how to play his brother’s game of “shoot ’em up,” Cleo ends up demurely consoling him by also pretending to be dead as he is, remarking, “Hey. I like being dead.” It’s gotta beat fucking cleaning all the time, a point iterated as the camera pans up and out to show the drips and drops of the laundry as we get a complete vista of the tenement-looking neighborhood (middle class life isn’t all that glamorous when you get right down to it).
While Cleo can’t help but be more nurturing toward the shamelessly effete Pepe and the only daughter in the family, Sofi (Daniela Demesa), she stands on the sidelines as Paco (Carlos Peralta) and Toño (Diego Cortina Autrey) exhibit increasingly aggressive behavior as the film advances, reacting to the lies and concealments of their father, as well as the perceived fault of their mother for being unable to “keep a man.” In fact, there are many moments when Cleo would seem to prefer standing on the sidelines to offering her complete involvement. After all, even Vivian Maier probably got a better wage than her, how much can she be expected to care with such inadequate pay (“free” lodging aside)? She’s also clearly not compensated enough to want to pick up dog shit on the regular from the courtyard, because, hey, it’s a whole goddamn process to set the mop bucket up. This lack of “attentiveness” sets off Sofía after Antonio leaves for the final time, inciting her to take her anger out on Cleo–place blame on anyone else–by snapping, “I thought I told you to clean up that dog shit!”
And yes, the sound of dogs (and their shit being run over), specifically the family dog, barking throughout Roma offers an added sense of visceral urgency. As though only they can express what the humans are feeling at a base level. The frenetic overall sounds of Mexico City are in sharp contrast to the tranquility theoretically connoted by water. Yet in all instances of water’s usage, there is something either ominous or tragic underlying it. Including, most notably, a Felliniesque (but then, this entire movie is Felliniesque) scene at an empty beach in Túxpam, an almost four hour drive away from Mexico City (executed in the, at this point in the film, iconic Ford Galaxy, of course). It is here that Sofía has wrangled her litter of four and Cleo, insisting on the latter’s accompaniment not as “the help” but as a friend in desperate need of an emotional reprieve after a traumatic event.
As the ocean waves lap toward the shore with calm purpose, one thinks of Cuarón’s painstakingly conscientious sound editing choices. Naturally it is not just in Túxpam that this stands out, but Mexico City about all, with Cuarón noting “Each place has a completely different sound because Mexico City is like that. For instance, in Mexico City, different street vendors they have different calls. Some are by shouting but some are musical. So we wanted to honor that.” And the crew has honored that and so much more, most especially the strange dynamic that arises when class is always at play in a relationship.
There is no better indication of this than when Sofía’s own mother, Teresa (Verónica García), is tasked with taking Cleo to the hospital in a state of emergency. As Cleo is wheeled away, Teresa is asked questions like, “Her middle name?” “I don’t know.” “How old is she?” “I don’t know.” “Her date of birth?” She continues to sob and wail in confusion, prompting the front desk agent to ask, “What’s your relationship with the patient?” Teresa asserts, “I’m her employer,” as though that should explain it all. And, in truth, it does–at least in terms of excusing away any need to have knowledge of even the most basic of information about a person who has been more intimate with your daily life than you yourself.
While the accolades for Roma have all been due, this notion of at last “generously” giving the maid her own story is not as avant-garde as people are making Cuarón’s film out to be. Least of all in the realm of Spanish-language film. Look no further than the aptly titled The Maid (2009) from Sebastián Silva or The Second Mother (2015) from Anna Muylaert. Or look even most of all to James L. Brooks’ 2004 film Spanglish, in which a maid/nanny named Flor (Paz Vega) upsets the entire balance of the Clasky family in terms of how much more the children favor her over their own mother. Of course, the ultimate comparison here, as touched on before, is to Fellini, who once blew the lid off of his own hometown with a film of the same name. Each auteur knows their city of origin like the back of their own hand, could likely tell you more about it than any government official. In fact, that’s what they’re counting on–so they might show audiences the mistakes of the past that have bled into the present do not have to become a part of the future, if we don’t want it to be. Now please, go mop your own damn floor.
