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‘7 Boxes’ – Living with cell phones in Paraguay

‘7 Boxes’ – Living with cell phones in Paraguay

7_boxes

7 Boxes

Written and directed by Juan Carlos Maneglia and Tana Schembori

Paraguay, 2012

Even within Latin America, Paraguayan cinema does not exactly dominate the cultural conversation and, sadly, remains something of a mystery. In fact, outside of Argentina, Brazil, and maybe Chile, the rest of South America, in cinematic terms, is mostly uncharted territory (which is not to say no movies are made there, but rather that international audiences, even open-minded cinephiles, don’t know much about them). With this in mind, the breakaway success of 7 Boxes, by Tana Schémbori and Juan Carlos Maneglia, is startling. Since premiering in 2012, it has nabbed prizes in San Sebastian and Mar del Plata; has featured in film festivals in Mexico, Cuba, Sweden, Canada, Ecuador, and the Dominican Republic; and has earned critical accolades wherever it has been shown. It is also the highest grossing Paraguayan movie of all time. Nevertheless, it still took two years to reach North American art houses, and it only recently opened in a handful of screens in Argentina, which neighbors Paraguay.

7 Boxes, in this age of sequels and franchises, is like Hollywood done right, except outside of Hollywood. Although, in many countries, it has been relegated to the festival circuit and has received a limited release, this is a formally conventional and fast-paced affair, featuring energetic handheld camerawork and an aesthetics of clutter, which, as in City of God or the more sophisticated Portuguese works of Pedro Costa, emphasizes the lived-in texture of poverty. Although it has plenty of violence, 7 Boxes is never solemn or sensational, allowing sudden and even surreal intrusions of humor to relieve the tension and bloodiness. Any movie of this sort risks suggesting that its humble characters know only hunger and crime, and though it would be false to say that 7 Boxes entirely avoids this pitfall, its protagonists do seem to enjoy a broad panoply of emotions, love and camaraderie, dreams and pure adrenaline, as they also interact creatively with technology.

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The plot is set up quickly. Victor (Celso Franco), a 17-year-old pushcart porter, is hired to deliver seven crates. He is unaware of their contents, but the money offered to him is enough to buy a new Nokia cell phone, which he deeply wants. Of course, he soon wishes he had never taken the job, as his cargo places him in mortal danger, not only because of what it contains but also, in a darkly hilarious turn, what others erroneously think it contains. As an elaborate chase unfolds, audiences are taken on a tour of the coiling and congested alleys of Municipal Market Number 4 in the capital city of Asunción, a journey that spans roughly 24 hours from morning to morning. The result is a portrait of the various people who congregate, for business or pleasure, in this labyrinthine space: an expectant mother; her stalwart friend; their barking Asian boss; his more sensitive and romantic son; the ridiculous and humorous criminal minds behind the whole debacle; and Liz (Lali Gonzalez), the brave, impulsive, and unsuspectedly clever girl who follows Victor around in his mad escape.

Throughout it all, technology affects how people in the market relate to each other, as they share their latest acquisitions, snap pictures, send text messages, shoot videos, and ring each other at the worst moments. This is a story that can only be told now, in an era after the spread of cell phones. I have often mused, watching an old movie, how the story might change with the introduction of cell phones or computers; what psychological trauma might be avoided with a WhatsApp message, perhaps warning of a belated arrival; how political secrets might be guarded or transmitted through the Internet; how the entire narrative figure of the chance encounter, or the chance reencounter with people from the past, would be significantly altered by Twitter, Facebook, and Foursquare, which can dilute the surprise of any encounter or reencounter, as they expose the movements of all one’s contacts (for an interesting take on the literary roots of this figure, read Ian Bogost’s Unit Operations). 7 Boxes makes the argument, however, that we should not make the mistake of assuming that such narrative events have necessarily become outdated thanks to technology, for the simple reason that technology can fail. Even though many of the protagonists carry cell phones, they continually lose and find each other, as their devices run out of power, are misplaced or abruptly change hands, allowing total strangers to answer crucial calls. In fact, technology ends up being a deceptive crutch: characters expect it to do things for them, to make certain individuals easy to reach, and they are frustrated when their supposedly reliable bridges of gadgetry fall into the abyss.

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Most depictions of the effects of computers and cell phones on modern society are set in roughly middle class contexts, from Her to Me and You and Everyone We Know, and this is true even when the middle class context is being demolished by a gigantic monster, as in Cloverfield. 7 Boxes is a reminder, possibly banal but very useful, that technology has embedded itself everywhere, and that for many in poor neighborhoods, the only way to cross the widening digital gap is to acquire a cell phone, the one advanced gadget within their price range. At least, compared to other tech products: Victor must, after all, put his life on the line for a Nokia, which doesn’t even have a touchscreen. But what this phone means to Victor, in the bustle of the market, is a doorway into the rest of the world. This is equally true of television, which offers, wherever a set is plugged in, glimpses of alien realities: the notoriety of public figures and the sublimity of soap operas and even commercials for expensive junk. Victor stares wide-eyed at the promise that beams from these variegated monitors. Unsurprisingly, one of the features that most impresses him about the Nokia is its camera: rather than being a consumer, he will finally be able to produce imagery of his own. This magical power, the production and dissemination of visual material, will be in his hands, and the monologue that the outside world maintains with him, who can only see and hear, might turn into a conversation, in which Victor will be able to reply with captured videos. The ending, in this regard, is ambiguous. For, if the mystical cell phone eye, at long last, puts him under the public spotlight, it does so under the terms established by news media, which scavenges the unpaid work of so-called citizen journalists. Victor remains stuck in Municipal Market Number 4, and his transcendence is determined and scheduled by people he cannot hope to know working in buildings he will never visit for multinationals that will never hire him.

— Guido Pellegrini

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