I’ll even go so far as to say that it is one of the more
baffling selections in the Criterion Collection. It’s fairly common for
Criterion nerds to debate what movies do and do no deserve to be in the Collection,
and I tend to be more forgiving than most, preferring to default to the label’s
original mission statement and figure out what the film represents that makes
it important to this version of cinematic history. When it comes to Sólo
con tu pareja, however, I come up with nothing, except that it’s the
full-length debut of Alfonso Cuarón, made in Mexico a decade before Y tu
mamá también [review]. Well, I guess it’s true, everyone has to start
somewhere. The cover copy calls Sólo con tu pareja a
“ribald and lightning-quick social satire,” to which I can only reply, “I guess...?”
Sólo con tu pareja, which
translates as “Only With Your Partner,” and has also been referred to as “Love
in the Time of Hysteria,” is a sex comedy released in 1991. Written by Carlos
Cuarón,
it tells the story of Tomás Tomás (Daniel Giménez Cacho, BadEducation), a ladies man who we are lead to believe has game inside
the bedroom, but who otherwise appears to be a buffoon outside of it. As a
schemer, Tomás seems to have picked up most of his moves from Three’sCompany reruns. We’re talking a guy who calls in sick to work while
holding the thermometer against a light bulb to prove he has a fever. Over the
phone.
Tomás not only refuses to settle down, but he’s irresponsible about
it. You see, Tomás is one of those immature lovers who refuses to wear condoms.
If the girl is on the pill, that’s enough, he doesn’t think about
other consequences (but more on that later). Things change
for Tomás on a night he tries to balance two women--his best friend’s
assistant, Silvia (Dobrina Liubomirova), and his own boss (Isabel
Benet)--keeping one in his apartment and one two apartments down. It’s when
moving between the two via the building’s outer ledge, going in and out through
the bathroom windows, that Tomás spots the new neighbor that has moved into the
middle apartment. Clarisa (Claudia Ramírez) is a pretty flight attendant who
captures Tomás’ imagination. So much so, he declares he’s in love and will
change his ways to impress her.
Only, as such things go, Tomás has to actually learn his lesson first.
Tomás’ best friend, Mateo (Luis De Icaza), also happens to be his doctor, and
this puts Silvia in the position to intercept Tomás’ lab reports and mark him
down as having tested positive for HIV. Fearing his life now ruined, while
everyone else is out celebrating for New Year’s, Tomás is concocting ways to
kill himself (like sticking his head in the microwave!). As luck would have it,
when Clarisa comes home early and catches her own boyfriend, a pilot with
silver-fox Elvis hair, having sex with another woman on her bed, she joins
Tomás’ suicide mission. You think they’ll find love with one another rather
than go through with it? Well, do ya’?
Oh, and did I mention that earlier Tomás accidentally gave Silvia his
stool samples when seeing her off to work, and he took her lunch to the
hospital for lab analysis. Is that a “meet cute” or a “meet poop”?
In many ways, Sólo con tu pareja is
very much of its time, particularly in style and presentation. One could see it
fitting in with the early 1990s Sundance circuit, where many middling efforts
were applauded for their quirky energy and stepping outside the mainstream.
Indeed, Sólo con tu pareja sort of comes off like Pedro
Almodovar decided to make an Adam Sandler movie, but ended up meeting Sandler
more than halfway in his attempt to adapt to the comedian’s style. Even for
1991, the comedy is politically tone deaf, making light of people’s ignorance
about a very serious subject, with occasional pit stops for racist comments
about some Japanese doctors visiting Mateo. Really, that Sólo
con tu pareja holds any kind of critical regard at all is down to
that strange reverence some cinephiles have for movies in any language other
than English. Were this a Hollywood release, it would already be forgotten, and
it should be held up as evidence that cinema from other shores is not
automatically better or devoid of schlock. We are just normally spared anyone
importing the worst of it. Hell, I’d probably sit through The Cobbler again before reaching for this disc.
As a young filmmaker, Alfonso Cuarón already shows an attention to detail
and an early interest in tricky shots and extreme angles. Likewise, his
relationship with his regular cinematographer, Emmanuel Lubezki, is starting to form. The storytelling here
is clear, as are the pair’s command over a locale. What Cuarón shows
little facility for, however, is comedy, which might explain why his career has
gone in other directions since this debut. His instincts for what is funny and
for how to frame a gag prove woefully inadequate. Despite the preponderance of
pratfalls and slapstick, Cuarón is no Charlie Chaplin, and his leading man is
no Buster Keaton. Cacho gives an off-putting performance full of mugging and
banal mimicry. Worst of all, he fucks like he’s being bitten by bugs and is
trying desperately to shake them off his body, meaning this sex comedy isn’t
just unfunny, it’s unsexy, making it hard not to root for Tomás to get
everything he deserves.
Though vastly different in tone and quality, Criterion also includes
two short films from the Cuarón brothers on Sólo
con tu pareja: Alfonso’s 1983 student film Quartet for the
End of Time and Carlos’ 2002 comedic short Wedding
Night. Of the two, Carlos is the winner, with a quick vignette that
features a solid gag. The trick here is not overselling it or overstaying his
welcome: set-up and punchline.
Quartet is more ponderous, as perhaps befitting a college project. Angst, boy, angst!
Quartet is more ponderous, as perhaps befitting a college project. Angst, boy, angst!
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