The Mexican writer Juan Rulfo’s mystifying 1955 novel “Pedro Páramo” is, at least in the English-speaking world, most often invoked for its influence on Gabriel García Márquez. But admirers of the book (Susan Sontag famously among them) have long cited it as a masterpiece of spare surrealism.
It is odd, then, that Netflix’s new adaptation, directed by the cinematographer Rodrigo Prieto, is a rather orthodox work. Where this rich, metaphysical text might have come alive in dreamlike abstraction, Prieto and his screenwriter, Mateo Gil, instead content themselves with a prestige Western on terra firma — grave, good-looking and uninspiring.
The story opens as Juan Preciado (Tenoch Huerta Mejía), our narrator, treks to the vale hamlet of Comala in search of its cacique, Pedro Páramo (Manuel García-Rulfo). He arrives to find Pedro dead and the village deserted, save for murmuring specters. From there, the movie becomes nonlinear, restlessly flitting around in time to chronicle how decades of yearning, anguish and the Páramo family’s sins eroded Comala’s spirit. What emerges is a lugubrious and at times frightening ghost saga in which the living fear hell and the dead bemoan past injustices.
Yet for all its sprawling, “Pedro Páramo” also has a lot of talking. There are countless scenes of Pedro giving orders; only some of his stooges doing his bidding. The women, helpless and subordinate, mostly listen, except for Dorotea (Giovanna Zacarías), doomed to die penniless and then, from the grave, assist Juan in voice-over. A picture may be worth a thousand words, but at over two hours, this visual adaptation of Rulfo’s only novel rambles without much to say.
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