Silent Light (Stellet licht)

Mexican director Carlos Reygadas’ third feature, “Silent Light”, takes place nominally in a Mennonite community in northern Mexico. The film’s combination of universal fable and magical realism is apparent from the first scene- a long shot of deep outer space. A galaxy slowly coalesces into the center of the image and continues its crystalline condensation toward earth as the spiraling Milky Way yields to preternaturally glimmering stars scattered along the lacy silhouette of a day-glow dawn emerging through a thicket of foliage and trees, propelled by the disembodied cries and calls of roaming wild animals.

The ominous sounds give way to the ticking clock in a brightly lit farmhouse kitchen where a farmer, his wife and family sit in silent meditation before their morning meal. The story that unfolds is of Johan’s struggle to honor his love for his wife, Esther and his attraction to Marianne, the woman with whom he is having an affair. He has kept no secrets from his wife, who patiently, supportively and lovingly awaits his decision. Johan wants to believe his liaison with Marianne could be spiritually ordained. His anguish and vacillation are evidence of his uncertainty as to which commitment is his true fate.

Long scenes of rugged landscape in wide-angle inclusiveness or pinpoint detail are punctuated with architectural vignettes that carry a deep relevance and resonance for the unfolding narrative. All of the architecture depicted is straightforward and ordinary; nothing is even slightly unusual. Through placement and direction, shape, size, color and lighting, these simple rectangles and boxes take on narrative associations far more complex than their modest purity would imply.

The first structure depicted is the farmhouse itself. Matter of fact in the extreme, its capacious interior is entirely unsurprising. Outside is another story: the large L-shaped main house nestles a small separate cottage set off to one side, seemingly uninhabited. Already we understand that there is something that the main house cannot contain.

Johan goes to pick up a repaired engine part from his friend Zacarias’ auto shop. The huge cavern of the shop’s work area is just a large box with one side that opens entirely, as with a roll-down garage door. Under the blazing morning sun the interior is as black as the underworld; undecipherable overlays of music and talk radio pour out of the mechanics’ workspace, though they are nowhere to be seen. Zacarias and his helpers are working down in a grave-like opening, which on second thought is not in the least unusual at a shop that repairs engines, trucks and cars.

The building that adjoins the dark workshop is a smaller plain white clapboard façade, as shallow in appearance as the workshop is deep. The wall is punctuated with a brown door and two small windows like closed eyes; their plain plastic shades are drawn down tight. Zacarias knows of Johan’s affair and that the two lovers are about to meet; he encourages Johan’s wish to believe that Marianne might be his “natural” woman.

Low to the ground the camera traces Johan’s steps as he climbs a hillock to join Marianne. A flat stone wall brings all movement to a halt. Three dark upright rectangular openings, possibly three doors in a game of chance or a reference to Calvary, speak irredeemably of fate. Johan is barely visible in the central opening, showering, trying to cleanse himself.

Seeking advice from his father, Johan goes to his parents’ farm. As the two converse in a snow covered field, we see a huge solid gray barn- old but implacable- it is set with a pair of enormous closed red doors. Like the united parents themselves, the barn and doors stand firm and present, their responsibility and gift are only to witness.

The seasons progress. Huge, indifferent and unrelenting, the metal teeth of a tractor shears the harvested field clean to the ground. Esther not only drives the tractor, but has made and serves the lunch that is interrupted when a messenger arrives and Johan reveals that it is a request from Marianne. Esther’s only comment is that he should take along the children for an overdue visit to the dentist.

Marianne’s world is a spacious gleaming-white truckstop diner so spotless it is impossible to imagine even the possibility of customers or food. She leads Johan to the simple motel bedroom, for what she tells him will be the last time. Afterwards they stand in front of two narrow green buildings; each has a separate external staircase leading to a single room on its second story. A drawn pink curtain marks the room from which they have come. The two buildings are so close it seems impossible that they do not and cannot connect, but they do not.

Johan tries and fails to resist his attraction to Marianne. Marianne’s sincerity and depth are above question. She, too, struggles with the truth of her relationship with Johan and her responsibility to Esther.

In a raging storm that matches her frustration, exhaustion and bottomless sorrow, Esther runs through an open field toward a copse of trees and collapses; she has nothing more to give. Like a discarded cardboard box lying in an empty field, the long low building of the rural hospital tells us the outcome of her ordeal.

Returned to the farm for the rituals and gathering of departure, the family prepares the body and makes their goodbyes. . Marianne arrives and asks to see Esther once before she is buried. The body lies in a white room so empty it appears as if in a ray of light, the companion/opposite to Marianne’s cool yet equally brilliant realm. Unlike the rest of the house that feels to be hermetically sealed, the window of this room is left ajar and the open, empty space becomes a prism connecting the two women’s essential spirits. Marianne leans down and kisses Esther tenderly on the lips, acknowledging fate and forgiveness.

The kiss unites the spheres of death and life in unspoken dialog. Marianne surrenders to her fate of taking Esther’s place. Esther grants her permission and comes to life to speak her gratitude to Marianne. The two youngest daughters enter the room and witness the exchange between their mother and Marianne, understanding that one is passing her earthly mantle to the other, that from now on Marianne is the mother of the children she could not have brought into the world. The girls are still young enough to be amenable to the mixture of the real and spirit worlds and accept this altered reality as they excitedly discuss the unusual proceedings of the day. They do not know what death is, or how long it should last, or how the journey begun in one place or person should find its way to another. The ghost of Marianne leaves the house as Johan’s father resets the clock that was stopped at the story’s start. The girls tell their father that their mother wants to talk to him.

The wide horizon darkens as the sun sets and dissolves into the enormity of the night sky, back to the twinkling stars that began this tale.