Director Guillermo del Toro has praised Canoa: A Shameful Memory, describing its legacy as, “part of the generation of films that changed Mexican cinema.” The credit is well-deserved, del Toro highlighting the movie’s focus on the “anxiety” and “brutality” felt during the repressive time period and how it turned a “figure that was sacred in Mexican film” into a monster. Canoa, by director Felipe Cazals, might just be one of the scariest movies with actual legitimacy to the claim of being based on a true story. Made only eight years after the true incident, Cazals relies on naturalistic techniques to make sure no one forgets the massacre and the larger implications of it.
‘Canoa’ Depicts A Turbulent Time In Mexico
In 1968, university students raised political upheaval in a movement to oppose an authoritarian government regime that had been in power since 1929. Tensions were inflamed and on October 2nd, hundreds of protesters were killed in Tlatelolco by the gunfire from soldiers, some of which were disguised as protesters. For decades afterward, the government covered up its complicity in the attack. There were warning signs to this escalation, a tragedy on a smaller scale but just as horrific. A few weeks earlier, on September 14th, a group of university workers visited the rural village of San Miguel Canoa, planning to go on a hike, unaware their arrival disturbed the villagers. A power-hungry priest framed the outsiders as communist agitators, manipulating the fearful villagers into forming a lynch mob. The attack left behind fatalities and maimed survivors, a massacre that was put to screen in Canoa: A Shameful Memory.
The movie opens with a reporter learning about the incident in the village, repeating the victims’ names to type them out correctly and for the audience to not forget them. The next scene shows a funeral for the lives lost, their coffins carried down a city street, all the while a line of armed soldiers marches nearby. Eventually, the two meet at an intersection, the funeral procession turning down one street while the soldier parade goes down another. Enough can be taken from this scene, without knowing about how volatile 1968 was for Mexico, and how it connects to the government forces and the lives lost to the repressive power in Canoa.
Director Felipe Cazals’ decision for a documentary-like format at times, presents a matter-of-fact narrative, avoiding an exploitative account. Cinematographer Álex Phillips Jr. plants the camera as a physical element at some points where characters know it’s there, while it’s invisible in other scenes. Starting off with the aftermath of the massacre, Canoa doesn’t lose any the impact, in fact, it builds on the doom that is to come. In an interview with MovieMaker, Cazals explains that Canoa, “has the structure of a horror film. It’s fundamentally about creating in the spectator the anxiety of not being able to escape the events. In horror films, what keeps the spectator intrigued is that he knows the characters won’t be able to escape, and the threat is going to come true. Remember, this is a movie that announces its ending at the very beginning.”
The village of Canoa is a sun-drenched, dried-up community not too far from the capital city of Puebla, struggling with poverty and where faith is a quintessential part of living, so deeply personal, the villagers will do whatever it takes to protect it. “I wanna tell you real clear and you can trust me like your personal friend. Some bad shit is gonna happen in this town. There’s a lot of bad shit here, I swear to God. The whole town’s been jumpy for a while now.” The Witness (Salvador Sánchez) says this, a man who is made to be a mouthpiece for the village. Various, nondescript townsfolk move about their day, with some glaring into the camera for a startling effect as if the audience is invading the location. There are many who are illiterate, who don't speak Spanish but the Nahuatl language, and who believe the criticism said in newspapers and from TV announcers about the student protesters in the city. A brick wall, covered in flyers, cries out the villagers’ fears, “Christianity yes! Communism no!” Director Cazals creates a raw, almost casual look at the community that doesn’t narrow the villagers into backwoods monsters. That’s because there is someone who can be blamed for the massacre that will come, the most fascinating figure in Canoa and the most heinous.
Mexican Cinema Meets A Different Kind Of Holy Figure
“As in every town, there’s a church, and here too the priest plays an important role in society,” a voice-over explains, introducing the priest (Enrique Lucero), who wears dark sunglasses while giving a sermon, looking the opposite of pious. His influence has many followers, but there are a divisive few who understand what he’s doing. The priest is described as “the political boss, appointing mayors, councilmen, and judges. He controls the power. He’s also the treasurer of the Development Committee, the Drinking Water Committee, the Electricity Committee, etc.” It’s a mouthful and should be as concerning as it reads. He takes money from the village, and you will be blacklisted if you do not pay up.
The priest is the provocateur that he will frame the young workers to be, keeping the fire of the town’s unease alive as glowing embers because when he wants, he will set it ablaze. From the MovieMaker interview, Cazals explains just how shocking it was to have the priest be a conniving character, saying, “If you watch Mexican cinema before Canoa, the figure of the priest in small towns and ranches that appear in films is always good-natured. In those films, priests are the ones that organize parties, they are the ones who comfort widows, they are the ones who fix conflicts between people. This was the first time they were presented in a different way.” Most of the village unanimously serve the priest, a perfect metaphor for the country’s Institutional Revolutionary Party (or PRI) regime, holding absolute power for 71 years.
Canoa then establishes the five workers from the Autonomous University of Puebla. Julián (Roberto Sosa) is the unofficial leader, with infectious energy as he tries to get friends interested in the getaway trip to hike the local mountain in Canoa, La Malinche. Ramón (Arturo Alegro), Roberto (Jaime Garza), Jesús (Gerardo Vigil), and Miguel (Carlos Chávez) join him. While the student protests are happening, the friends are at a distance from it, discussing it but without participating. “Workers haven’t mixed with the students,” one of them declares, “Workers are one thing, students are another. We respect each other, but we’re separate.” It won’t matter that they aren’t students in the end, they will be dangerous outsiders to a village already uneasy.
‘Canoa’ Is A Grounded Horror Story
The cinematography by Álex Phillips Jr. is precise, capturing wide shots for naturalism. The documentary moments, which include segments with Witness and the priest, add to the movie's realism. There is no added soundtrack, no horror-themed score to explicitly let the audience know what they are watching is a horror story. The opening in laying out the aftermath sets a sense of dread, as does the use of foreshadowing. One of the friends leaves behind a rifle for hunting — or what could have been a defensive weapon. A coworker tells another of the young guys, “I’ll pray you make it back!” This grounded approach to Canoa emphasizes how the university workers are at the wrong place, at the wrong time. What can be considered the most distinct horror trope, is the storm that hits with growling thunder and a downpour of rain once Julián and his friends get off the bus in Canoa. The bad weather blocks them from heading to the mountain, stranding them.
The friends try to look for shelter, encountering armed guards by the church and silent villagers watching them from balconies. Julián tries to keep up the positive energy, if he isn’t worried, his friends shouldn’t be either. When they do find shelter, it’s at the home of the ostracized Lucas (Ernesto Gómez Cruz), who has animosity toward the priest. This is what seals their fate. The priest’s loyal followers see this as proof the outsiders are here to disrespect their church, and the priest confirms this. Torches get lit, and machetes and sticks are waved around as 2,000 residents go to attack the young men. Over loudspeakers, a woman shouts, “The outlaws are here in town!” The young men don’t speak the town’s Nahuatl language, feeding into their anxiety that something might be wrong. Blasts of noise echo in the distance. “Are those firecrackers?” one of the men asks. “More like gunshots,” is the reply.
In one of the movie’s most chilling scenes, one of the young men looks up after a severe beating, his vision is blurry, and he’s able to see the priest standing among four of his most loyal of followers. All of them are backlit, becoming ominous shadows. The church and the mob behind these dark figures light up the night with their torches, devolving into total pandemonium. It deviates from the naturalistic approach, but it feels earned, the priest allows this darkness in, so it makes sense he should truly represent it. The ending, like in the real-life event, offers no justice with closing title cards explaining how, “none of the principal agitators were put on trial.”
Canoa: A Shameful Memory is an upsetting watch that doesn’t shy away from the bleakness to its real-life event. Director Felipe Cazals mentions in the MovieMaker interview what happened years after his movie’s release, “--you should know that in the year 2002, Puebla’s clergy sung the national anthem on the atrium of the church of San Miguel Canoa under a massive banner that read, ‘The movie is a lie.’” The massacre at Tlatelolco would take up more of the country’s attention, but Cazals knew there was a connection with what happened in San Miguel Canoa. From that, the director made a seminal, still shocking, piece of Mexican cinema, memorializing the lives lost when an absolute power weaponizes a community based on lies.