Carla Gutierrez, in her directorial debut, takes on the ambitious task of delving into the multifaceted life of Frida Kahlo in "Frida," a documentary that aims to capture the essence of the artist through her own writings, letters, and interviews. The concept of telling Frida's story in her own voice is, on paper, a powerful idea. After all, who better to narrate the highs and lows of her life-her pain, love, and political views-than the woman behind the iconic eyebrows and self-portraits? But, much like the attempts to animate her paintings in the film, the execution doesn't always live up to the depth of the original work.
The film starts strong, immersing us in Frida's world with rare footage and glimpses of her studio life. These black-and-white scenes, sometimes subtly colorized, beautifully capture the duality of her existence: a modest space for such a grand creative mind. However, as the documentary tries to balance her personal story, political struggles, and physical challenges with an analysis of her work, the weight of stylistic choices begins to drag it down.
A central misstep lies in the decision to animate Frida's paintings. Her works, already brimming with symbolism, texture, and intrinsic movement, don't need dripping tears or fluttering 3D leaves to come alive. These additions feel artificial, like an attempt to translate something already visceral for a digital audience. It's akin to adding unnecessary filters to a perfect photograph-rather than enhancing, it diminishes authenticity. This approach recalls the animated Van Gogh exhibits that have flooded museums and social media, where the visual spectacle often overshadows the original emotional impact.
That said, Gutierrez's love for Frida shines through, and the film has its standout moments. The extensive use of archival materials and the decision to preserve Frida's writings in their original Spanish add an essential layer of authenticity often missing in biographical documentaries. The nuances of her language-her wordplay, irony, and expressions-bring the woman behind the myth to life, offering a glimpse into her complex personality. These choices strike a necessary balance between reverence and humanization, presenting Frida not just as an icon but as a flawed, passionate, and deeply human figure.
However, there's a sense that the film tries too hard to appeal to both younger audiences and longtime fans of the artist. The inclusion of sound effects, like the flick of a cigarette being lit or recreated radio headlines, feels like filler in moments where silence might have been more powerful. These instances underestimate the audience's ability to connect with the story without constant sensory prompts.
On the narrative front, the structure is serviceable but lacks a wow factor. The chronological approach-from Frida's revolutionary youth to the physical suffering caused by the accident that shaped her life, and her tumultuous relationships with Diego Rivera and others-is effective yet predictable. Even so, Gutierrez succeeds in emphasizing Frida's independence in a male-dominated era and her bold political visions. There's something profoundly inspiring about her refusal to accept the surrealist label and her insistence on painting the raw reality she lived rather than disconnected dreams.
Overall, "Frida" is an admirable but uneven effort. It captures fragments of Frida Kahlo's soul but often wraps them in packaging that doesn't do justice to her authenticity. For those who know and love her work, the film serves as a reminder of her enduring impact but might frustrate with its attempts to modernize something that never needed translation. Frida, after all, has always spoken for herself-with brushes, colors, and words that resonate just as powerfully today.
