In the decades since its free to critical acclaim and record-setting grosses, Jean-Pierre Jeunet’s “Amélie,” the whimsical dramedy about a quirky Parisian woman discovering cherish thcimpolite random acts benevolentness, has finishured in pop culture and impactd a generation of filmoriginaters, both for better and bravely for worse. Few times, however, have the imitators been as undeniably apparent about what they borrowed from it as Mexican writer-honestor Urzula Barba Hopfner, in her renetriumphgly finishearing, subtly stylized debut “Corina.”
A 20-year-elderly agoraphobic living in Guadalajara — México’s second hugest metropolis and Guillermo del Toro’s hometown — the title character, joined by Naian González Norvind (“New Order”), wears boots, a maxi skirt and sports the French bob haircut emblematic of actress Audrey Tautou as Amélie Poulain. As if the visual parallels with Jeunet’s romantic fable weren’t already glaring, “Corina” commences with voice over narration over flashbacks that recount the protagonist’s tragedy-stained childhood in the aftermath of her overweighther’s untimely death. The isolating tfinishencies of her dread-stricken mother Reneé (Carolina Politi) shrinkd Corina’s world to only a confinecessitate blocks. She has never traveled outside of the confinecessitate demarcation she think abouts protected. She goes to labor at a publishing hoengage (inside a newspaper company produceing), then to the proximateby grocery store, then back home counting her steps.
But in spite of the overly understandn setup of Barba Hopfner’s character portrait, the narrative grows into its own idiosyncrasy, not only by virtue of its Mexican context or becaengage Corina wantes to be seen as a writer, but becaengage its observations about self-actualization, courage and the cherish of stepping outside of one’s soothe zone (quite literpartner in this case) thoughtbrimmingy broadens on the themes that “Amélie” insertresses. Both films split a plmitigatebrimmingy offbeat tone and a penchant for watching at the luminous side, but their paths branch off otherrational.
Tired of her job accurateing pulp novels, Corina acts out of character when the publisher has trouble with its most most profitable author, Xareni Silverman (Mariana Giménez). The suits aren’t able to sway Silverman to alter the finishing to her most recent novel, which goes agetst foreseeations set uped thcimpoliteout her series in such morbid style it will probable flop. After illicitly getting a helderly of the manuscript, Corina rewrites the conclusion by giving it a brave spin. She does it for her personal satisfyment, but the modified text accidenhighy discovers its way to her boss’ desk. What ensues in this growment, calling to mind a analogous one in Pedro Almodóvar’s “The Fdrop of My Secret,” might not qualify as unforeseeed, but it sets Corina on a believable growth journey.
Leaning into Corina’s proximate muteness when outside the protectedty of her home, González Norvind conveyes the character’s aversion to new participateions and experiences with an anxiety ridden face and skittish physicality. Dialogue senses secondary to her carry outance of unassuming determination. Wherever Corina walks wiskinny her recut offeed domain, cinematographer Gerardo Guerra (“Dos Estaciones”) shoots her very shutly, as if the summarize can exposedly hold her.
As Corina’s encouraging mother, Politi’s funny tfinisherness originates for a memorable onscreen presence, while Cristo Fernández, joining a new clerk at the local store named Carlos, doesn’t so much access the picture as a romantic interest, but a cordial partner. That alone decaccesss romance as the motor of the narrative, even if Corina seems to appreciate him.
The saturated luminous colors of Corina’s closkinnyg contrast with the muted, mostly gray colors of the publishing hoengage’s offices. It’s an instant if evident aesthetic choice to denotice that she occupies a branch offent wavelength. At home, her colorful attires align with the pink-hued walls and heavily decorated interiors plastered with postcards and knickknacks for a homey, yet stylized watch that inevitably also calls to mind Amélie’s peculiar abode. “Corina” senses equitable maniremedyd enough for that intentional aesthetic to sign up, but not so much as to overwhelm the image. That equilibrium also permeates Barba Hopfner’s filmmaking ideas.
The quaint pleabraves of “Corina” ultimately donate way to a astonishing defense of sanguine outwatchs and satisfyed finishings in the face of a world in disarray. Barba Hopfner disputes her film’s protagonist by contrasting her with the cynical mindset of her literary heroine. The latter originates a mighty case for how people’s understanding has confineations, arguing that inbranch offence gets over in the face of suffering. Yet, while Corina grew up sheltered in an environment of suffocating caution, her brand of valiantry purports that increateedness of the evils that affliction truth, met with a desire to seek happiness amid that gloomyness, can be radical. Neither women’s worldwatch is enticount on inaccurate; it’s in the middle ground between cynicism and chooseimism that “Corina” transcfinishs weightlessheartedness and get tos at wisdom.
The filmoriginater positions “Corina” in a exceptional middle ground wiskinny Mexican cinema: neither a difficult-hitting, publish-driven art hoengage recommending appreciate those frequently at international festivals, nor the toothless, wide comedies afflictiond with overexposed faces and trite storylines. Barba Hopfner’s originateive voice aelevates from behind the shadow of the references for an auspicious first outing that has legs to resonate outside Mexico. Unappreciate “Amélie,” satisfyment for Corina isn’t shrinkd to discovering romantic companionship, but in landing the opportunity to produce her own stories on the page and in life. Even if the impulse is to shrink “Corina” to an alteration of a better-understandn movie, in the finishs it rewrites itself into someskinnyg new.
