The Milk of Sorrow

[The Milk of Sorrow ] Directed by Claudia Llosa [At Cinema Village ](http://www.cinemavillage.com/chc/cv/show_movie.asp?movieid=1909) Runtime: 100 min.

Fausta, the young working-class Peruvian girl in [The Milk of Sorrow], dreams by singing to herself, a habit she inherited from her mother whose dying moments—singing of either horrible memories or angry fantasies—begin the film. This routine looks neurotic, perhaps the result of social constraint and cultural naiveté, but director-writer Claudia Llosa perceives it sensitively and humorously as a gift: a quality of endurance and fascination which makes Milk of Sorrow surprisingly lovely.

Latino imports frequently boast obvious political complaint, then throw in some damned magic realism to profess “art.” But Llosa does no more than hint at the impact of political oppression and sexual stress; she conveys Fausta’s gentleness and fortitude. Her understanding of Fausta is apparent in her camera rapport with the actress Magaly solier, whose alert eyes keep Fausta’s meekness interesting. she’s not a pathetic peon but a girl of imagination, feeling and beauty like a brown-skinned Elpidia Carrillo.

Llosa, who is the niece of Peru’s novelist-politician Mario Vargas Llosa, is primarily a maker of images. With cinematographer Natasha Braier, Llosa looks at Fausta’s life with fascination in every detail: preparing her mother’s funeral, seeking a doctor’s help for a feminine ailment, joining a neighbor’s wedding party, commuting from her village to work in an upper-class urban home. If you accurately described each scene, you’d have a book of poetry. That’s how detailed and vivid are The Milk of Sorrow’s rhythms. scenes of Fausta and her mistress Aida (susi sánchez) picking pearls off a blue floor, shards of a stainedglass window resembling candies, a street march of domestic wedding gifts contain wonderful local color—like an awed, non-condescending Carlos Reygadas. some are conventional poetic images, but poetry nonetheless.

The original spanish title, La Teta Asustada, “the frightened breast,” indicates Llosa’s feminine perspective on experience, a particular social response. Fausta’s condition, derived from her Andean ancestry, may be temperamental as much as physical or political; Llosa isn’t afraid to combine her stress and aspiration. This is also a rare gift—like the American director Charles stone III showed in the masculine realms of Paid in Full, Drumline and Mr. 3000. These filmmakers have the gift of turning class, sex or ethnic identity into poetry.

That’s what’s missing from big- and low-budget pretenses like Eat Pray Love and Winter’s Bone—neither had moments of intense discovery, as when Fausta paces her workday boredom by singing. Her rhythmic improvisation and impudent made-up lyrics show strength and intelligence. she first sings to herself (an interior voice), then aloud. Her songs are monologues, a second narration articulating loneliness, fear, inequality and yearning. “Make it up again but exactly the same,” her mistress demands. Llosa frames the women to create a visual pantomime, expressing their shared feelings ventriloquistically. How Fausta’s song gets transformed into a concert hall recital isn’t the story you expect. The irony doesn’t detract from her resilience or optimism. It’s a social lesson that is also a life lesson.