Fiercely proletarian to the end of her days, Chilean folk singer Violeta Parra was born poor and died poor. She’s classic biopic material: a martyr sanctified by suffering and art.
The film uses an interview Parra gave late in life as de facto narration, jumping back and forth in time from her acerbic replies to the TV host who’s interviewed her. Sometimes director Andrés Wood slides into magical-realist visions of Parra (Francisca Gavilán) and people long dead.
This ducks the stodgy linearity of biopics, but to no good purpose. Much time is spent wandering in the foothills of the Andes with Parra; the scenery is spectacular, but the story gets lost. Doling out information in scraps may work for those who know this artist, but the neophyte is likely to lose interest.
The people in Parra’s life drift by with hardly a trace, even the Swiss lover (Thomas Durand) who broke her heart. The sole anchor is Gavilán, who shines even in predictable scenes like the one where she performs for a rich audience more interested in their top-shelf liquor than her song.
The biographical bits soon feel like a distraction from the music, performed by Gavilán. It’s heard often, but not often enough. Judging by the movie, Parra’s songs are fiery and haunting, sometimes sensuous, sometimes bleak. When Parra sings, the movie becomes worthwhile.