admin
There are many types of books that are “unfilmable.” Modernist classics like as Mrs. Dalloway, which is based on Virginia Woolf’s protagonist’s interiority,
And Ulysses, in which James Joyce extends a day to 732 pages and changes stylistic conceits with each chapter,
Are iconic examples. (Although their relative obscurity speaks for itself, both titles have been adapted into films.)
The 1967 masterpiece of Colombian author Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude, poses several issues. It is written in simple terms.
It’s packed with people and narrative elements, so it’s definitely not lacking in either. The complexity of the universe García Márquez creates, the harmony he achieves between magic and reality,
The metaphor and reference he weaves into his language, and the energy that drives each dense paragraph would all need to be captured in order to do this book justice.
Given how challenging the task was, it’s amazing how closely Netflix’s fantastic adaptation of One Hundred Years of Solitude,
Whose eight-episode first portion premieres on December 11, captures both the book’s content and its dynamic spirit.
The Spanish-language series took more than six years to produce, with a cast that was nearly exclusively Colombian and the approval of García Márquez’s family (who, incidentally,
Came under fire this year for releasing his posthumous book Until August against his wishes). The production’s enormous size and the movement and attention to detail that filmmakers Laura Mora
(The Kings of the World) and Alex García López (The Witcher) accomplish on screen are testaments to the patience that went into it. There are dozens, if not hundreds, of stunning pictures in each hour-long program.
Over the period of, well, a century, Solitude charts the emergence and decline of a family, a home, a town, and, in its most obvious layer of symbolism,
A civilization. Young lovers José Arcadio Buendía (Marco Antonio González) and Úrsula Iguarán (Susana Morales) escape.
Their stifling hamlet at the beginning of the 19th century. Since they were cousins and it was a family legend that their children would be born with pig tails,
Their elders had forbade their marriage. José Arcadio had also killed a competitor who had made a lewd remark about the pair.
At the beginning of their voyage, the future patriarch declares, “We’ll find a place where the fears of our ancestors won’t weigh us down.” “Where we can raise a family and love each other in peace.”
The Buendías and their supporters settle on a piece of vacant land that José Arcadio gives the meaningless name Macondo after years of roaming, often in circles.
He claims that a border community emerges where “no one can decide for others.” He is a dreamer who subsequently pursues a hobby of alchemy and invention;
He has no plans to rule Macondo. In order to raise their children, José Arcadio (Thiago Padilla), Aureliano (Jerónimo Echeverría), and Amaranta (Luna Ruíz), he and Úrsula,
Whose work ethic, moral clarity, and practicality make her the ideal counterpoint to her intellectual, impractical husband, establish a modest home with space.
A number of Buendía generations follow, with names mostly derived from José Arcadio, Úrsula, Aureliano, and Amaranta. As the family develops and succeeds,
Ursula redecorates and expands until the little thatch-roofed home is transformed into a great Victorian palace, with production designer Bárbara Enríquez faithfully capturing each period.
Even while its own Adam and Eve (or Romulus and Remus) foreseeably reject most of what passes for development, Macondo also evolves beyond its primordial beginnings. The Colombian government sends.
A magistrate to make the town official. Elections, firing squads, the Church, the Liberal and Conservative political parties, and war are all made possible by his presence.
The series masterfully depicts these entwined changes; cinematographers Paulo Pérez and María Sarasvati maintain the camera’s motion as it.
Moves between the house’s rooms, Macondo’s streets, and the surrounding landscapes where different Buendías end themselves.
For example, a stream of blood weaves its way across town from the house where a character dies to his family’s residence.
These surreal imagery from the text that might have easily looked stupid on television preserve their lyrical meaning. The degree to which Netflix’s Solitude presents.
A compelling tale without reducing García Márquez’s massive themes—politics, religion, autonomy, love, civilization and its never-ending parade of unhappinesses,
And of course the evil of loneliness in all its forms—is even more astounding. Among a variety of unique characteristics, certain characters and performances stand out.
Claudio Cataño’s depiction of the adult Aureliano, a lonely soul who looks for purpose in an impossible battle and love in a girl too young to comprehend romance, has a chilling quiet.
Rebeca (Nicole Montenegro), a somewhat feral orphan who shows up at the Buendías’ door with her parents’
Bones in a burlap bag, maintains her wildness until maturity (when she is portrayed by Akima). Although the scripts naturally include a lot more conversation than the novel,
The program avoids becoming too talkative via a mix of sparse narration and strategically timed silences. Solitude’s tendency to appear almost too true to the novel is one of its weaknesses.
To their immense credit, the authors do not sanitize or obscenely take advantage of the story’s unsightly but symbolic elements, such as incest and self-harm.
However, this version sometimes veers into the respectful formality of a Masterpiece miniseries, despite its touch of comedy and sexuality.
Furthermore, it often skips over important scenes by maintaining García Márquez’s fast pacing, focusing on ornate wedding and combat set pieces while ignoring more subdued insights.
Almost as soon as it starts, a scenario in which Aureliano, lost in the marsh, meets a vision of his father when he was a young man and they talk about how their wanderings are cyclical ends.