Director: Pablo Larraín
Stars: Jamie Vadell, Paula Luchsinger, Gloria Münchmeyer
Having split opinion with his festive window into the fraught mindset of Princess Di (Spencer), Chile’s Pablo Larraín returns to home soil and familiar subject matter with his latest offering for Netflix; a further evisceration of Augusto Pinochet that traverses uncharted genre territory for the filmmaker.
Presented in a solemnly reverential monochrome that doffs the cap back to Murnau’s landmark bastardisation of Dracula – 1922’s Nosferatu – Larraín reimagines the fascist despot as an aged and ailing vampire in his final years; a fitting if crude analogy for a corrupt leader feeding off of his subjects’ lifeblood. The very irreverence of this take marks El Conde as Larraín’s most humoristic offering since 2016’s Neruda, which was just as much a sardonic rebuke of his nation’s political history, presented as a twisting cabal of lies and misdirection.
Narrated incongruously in the Queen’s English by a spirited Stella Gonet (whose ephemeral presence suggests the tacit complicity of the West and whose identity within the story is, ultimately, hilarious), Larraín presents Pinochet (Jaime Vadell) as a misunderstood national hero via monologues of barbed sarcasm. We’re greeted with the man’s funeral. But, of course, this is just the beginning. Within frames he’s soaring bat-like across the night sky on the prowl for victims among the populous to quench his thirst.
Doddering about the caverns beneath his estate with the aid of a walking frame, this Pinochet is laughably removed from the trenchant fantastique of most cinematic vampires. Indeed it seems as though his official uniform is somehow imbued with his real power. It seems to enable him to fly. A further distinction Larraín infers that the man behind the office of government is weak, frail, made whole – or perhaps more aptly hollow – only by the accoutrements of the position.
Larraín’s Pinochet brandishes an oversized knife to carve open his kills, rejecting the conventional fangs, in the process suggesting a prissiness or impotent aspect to this vampire; venal, gentile and impersonal. Even if the weapon itself is phallic, its necessity lessens the carnality of Pinochet’s attacks, negating sensuality until one pivotal, ecstatic sequence that ushers in the film’s third act. For the most part, however, the motivation behind his feeding lacks ambiguity. It’s a smart choice.
Much like his excursion to the house of Windsor, Larraín presents the upper class family dynamic here as detached, hostile, almost laughably out of touch and encrusted within its own pompous dining halls, where lackeys fawn disgracefully for despicable masters, or even carry on tawdry affairs with them after hours. The director’s distaste for this most privileged portion of society appears equal to his recurrent fascination. The empathy he exhibited for Jackie Kennedy and Diana Spencer seem notable now as the exceptions to the rule. There are no such lost innocents here.
The arrival of young auditor Carmencita (Paula Luchsinger) similarly thwarts such a reading while conjuring the spirit of another silent classic of the 1920s. Luchsinger’s facial features are pure Falconetti. Speaking French she can’t help but recall The Passion of Joan of Arc, yet Carmencita arrives with both sparkle and cunning. She seems savvy, intelligent, modern, equipped to defend herself from the nest of vipers awaiting her. Interviewing the family members with the conniving charm of a tabloid journalist, Carmencita uses flattery to disarm while, one feels, noosing the necks of her prey.
Flecked with the surreality of Yorgos Lanthimos, El Conde finds Larraín’s satirical wit in rude health. Depicting heartless decrepitude with a glint in his eye, he enjoys the suffering of those he deems unworthy of remorse, rewriting history with a perverse and gothic glee. Edward Lachman’s photography captures this beneath furrowed, moody skies, while a histrionic – even giddy – score carries us through an inspired revision of the stale biopic.
The Lost Highway Hotel 