Sujo (2024) Mexico’s Oscar Submission is a Generic Affair

Mexican creative duo Astrid Rondero and Fernanda Valadez write and direct this low-key Mexican crime drama, one that’s disinterested in the macho conventions of the gangster film and instead focuses on the long-lasting consequences organized crime has on women, children, and the boys who grow up in this environment.

Sujo is a four-year-old boy, the son of a hitman ominously known as “the Eighth,” whose life is upended when his father is unceremoniously killed. He is secretly taken into the care of his aunt, who protects him from his father’s killers. They assure her that, when Sujo grows up, he’ll inevitably follow the same path. The story then follows Sujo as he grows up, haunted by the impending threat of a life of crime and its influence on him and his friends.

Sujo has been somewhat of a success internationally for Rondero and Valadez, winning prizes at the Sundance Film Festival and being selected as Mexico’s official submission for Best International Film at next year’s Oscars. The style of Sujo is very indicative of the type of international film that tends to get picked up by festival bodies in the current cinematic landscape—sparse use of music, understated performances, unbeautified visuals, and a focus on the space between set pieces rather than bombast.

Perhaps I’ve been inundated with these kinds of films recently, but the way Sujo presents itself feels very antithetical to the emotional core of its story. The performances are near non-existent in how underplayed they are, leaving pivotal moments in the plot feeling monotonous and unimportant. The same goes for the film’s use of color—or lack thereof—with its completely greyed-out aesthetic. Not only does this push Mexican cinema further down the bizarre trend of always filming the country with an awful color scheme (with Breaking Bad being a particularly guilty example), but it also leans into the tired trope of depicting poor or working-class stories with a desaturated grade.

This isn’t a case of bad acting or cinematography—certain low-light scenes have an almost Bruce Surtees-esque control of shadows and look fantastic. Likewise, some first-person dialogue scenes appear to reference Jonathan Demme’s work. However, these flaws stem from Sujo’s minimalist dogma of “doing less” to focus on the important moments of drama and humanity. The directors take this approach too far, resulting in a homogenous feel that misses the meat of its own story.

Sujo is a frustrating example of a film where you can clearly see the outline of prescient and moving ideas, supported by a story that embodies those themes. Yet the experience of watching it is completely unmoving. The central conflict—whether Sujo will fall into his father’s ways and continue the cycle of crime and violence—is stark and easy to grasp. But emotionally, these ideas remain distant, largely because of the removed filmmaking style.

During a scene where the boys try to repair a car, I instinctively smiled when the engine finally starts up, the radio blares, and they all cheer and dance to the music. It was the first time any actual emotion had been expressed by the characters—nearly halfway into the movie. By breaking from the film’s usual style, this moment highlighted the limitations of Sujo’s approach.

This goes beyond the film merely being uninteresting. For a story that depicts the lives of those in poverty, affected by the ripples of gang violence, representation should be a priority. The most genuine way to achieve that is by depicting these characters as real, multidimensional people. There are few better ways to bridge emotional distance than by showing characters as fully alive, with complex emotions.

In Sujo, we see the characters’ traits, flaws, and choices, but we rarely see them respond to the world with anything other than stone-faced apathy. As a result, I had to force myself to care about the story. While the film does feature intriguing moments of choice for Sujo and his friends—such as Sujo robbing a friend to help pay another’s debts—the redemptive arc hurtles toward a conclusion that feels far too easy for the kinds of complex questions Rondero and Valadez are raising.

For a film so averse to fantasy and creative license, the late development suggesting that the educational system is a surefire solution to systemic issues, alongside the idea that all Sujo needs to save him is a wealthy guardian, feels like a cop-out. It’s a weak ending for a film that, up to this point, had been relatively grounded in realism.

While it doesn’t deal with gang crime, Andrea Arnold’s Bird is a great example of the heights that proper representation of the poor can achieve. That film is fully immersed in the harsh realities of poverty and doesn’t shy away from its ugliness or violence. Yet it’s also beautiful, culturally rich, and filled with wonderfully complex, alive characters.

True, Bird incorporates flights of mythic fantasy, but even in its whimsy, it never suggests that a benevolent rich person or an educational quick fix is the solution. Instead, it looks within the community for joy and support. While it’s not a one-size-fits-all solution, Bird demonstrates the power of authentic storytelling, something Sujo ultimately misses. By opening a social can of worms it cannot contain, Sujo falls short of its potential.

Jake’s Archive – Sujo (2024)