Film Review: El Planeta (2021)
Treading grounds similar to the independent spirit that broke the movie business wide open in the late-’80s and into the ‘90s, El Planeta takes us on an enlightening trip through contemporary Spain as seen through the eyes of a broke fashion designer and her shoplifting mother. First-time feature director Amalia Ulman (who also stars as the above-mentioned broke fashion designer) proves herself a talent to watch by demonstrating with poise and humility that poverty comes not only in all shapes and sizes, but also with varying degrees of denial.
While incredibly stylish and charming, El Planeta is also keenly observant and aware of what it’s trying to say about world economic realities of both the young and the not so young. It happens to be very funny as well (in that wry, sarcastic kind of way your favorite independent comedies from the ‘90s are), with Ulman and her real-life mom (Ale Ulman, the shoplifter) gliding effortlessly from one bankrupt situation to the next.
Leonor and her mother María (the Ulmans junior and senior) live in a cramped apartment in Gijón, Spain where they struggle to keep the lights on and sleep in the same bed for warmth. It’s clear they were at one time accustomed to a more posh lifestyle (they own more than one fur coat), but hard times have fallen on all. The city, which once played host to a vibrant and thriving community, is now mostly boarded up and wandered by an aging and elderly population. It’s in this environment of malaise that mother and daughter dream of better times (Leonor’s gaze is aimed toward the future while María’s remains firmly centered on the past) and dilute themselves about their standard of living, all while navigating the intricacies of romantic and familial relationships.
Told mostly through a series of odd encounters and sometimes uncomfortable vignettes, El Planeta moves through a dying city like a tour guide who is also a part-time con artist. Neither Leonor or María are bad people, but they aren’t above petty crime either. What’s interesting is that they operate mostly in service to appearances rather than necessity, indicating that both are convinced their poverty is only temporary, or some kind of big mistake. When the hammer finally falls, there is no giant revelation or redemption (it’s barely even acknowledged), and the conclusions Leonor and María draw from their situation are not the same as the ones we draw in our role as voyeurs. What we see is dire economic straits and a world plunging deeper and deeper into uncertainty, and the once comfortable and oblivious now struggling to cope with their new reality.
