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7.5/10
Senior Film Conservator
A definitive 7.5/10 rating for a film that redefined the boundaries of cult cinema. No País das Amazonas remains a cornerstone of transgressive art.
The river is a black mirror, and this film is the first crack across it.
Shot somewhere between 1914 and 1918 by itinerant cameramen Joaquim Gonçalves de Araújo and Silvino Santos, No País das Amazonas pre-dates Homer Comes Home’s pastoral whimsy and anticipates the agit-prop clarity of Back Pay. Yet it belongs to neither tradition. Instead, it floats in a liminal zone: half industrial reportage, half fever dream. The print I streamed—restored by the Cinemateca Brasileira from a 35 mm nitrate riddled with emulsion rot—still smells of camphor and catastrophe. Each flicker feels like a resurrection.
Early cinema loved to collect bodies: Lumière’s Annamite dancers, Edison’s Kwakiutl potlatches, Méliès’s cardboard “savages.” Here, the indigenous presence is framed with the same clinical distance, yet the gaze ricochets. A Ticuna girl stares back, unblinking, until the lens becomes an accomplice rather than a scalpel. The feather diadem trembles in the breeze; the girl’s pupils swallow the frame. For a second, colonial taxonomy collapses into reciprocal recognition.
Latex bleeds like milk from a wounded moon-tree. A worker—his ribs a xylophone—scrapes the bark with a half-moon blade. The coagulated sheets, hung to smoke, resemble parchment for some infernal Torah. Export statistics flash in my head: 40 % of the world’s rubber once passed through these docks. The mattress we watch being stitched will cradle a bourgeois spine in Liverpool while the seringueiro who tapped it earns a handful of réis worth less than the salt on the manatee steak.
Cut to Manaus: belching chimneys, corrugated roofs sweating rust. Workers pour out like iron filings answering an invisible magnet. Their gait recalls the cadence of The Accident Attorney’s office clerks, but here the exhaustion is glandular, not existential. No dialogue, yet you hear the collective sigh—an exhalation of lungs scarred by sulphur and debt.
Few images sear like the butchering of the peixe-boi. The creature, already endangered in 1918, is hauled aboard a riverboat, its skin mottled like wet granite. Children watch, half horrified, half ravenous. The flesh, salted and sun-blistered, will sustain families when the rubber price plummets. A parallel narrative to Tillie’s Tomato Surprise’s slapstick kitchen chaos, yet here the comedy is replaced by a sacramental gravity: every slice of blubber a wafer of survival.
The camera lingers on hands—those universal diplomats—shelling Brazil nuts, grinding guaraná stems into an astringent paste, brushing ants off smoked monkey meat. Macro shots of iridescent beetles prefigure the entomological fetish of later ethnofictions. You can almost sniff the tannic bite of guaraná, its caffeine jolting the bloodstream like static.
No iris-ins, no matte paintings. The filmmakers rely on natural chiaroscuro: sunlight spearing through canopy, kerosene flames painting faces umber. Depth is suggested not by rear projection but by the staggered planes of riverboats receding into heat haze. The camera seldom pans; instead, the world glides past as if on a dolly carved from mahogany. The effect is proto-Steyerl: the image itself drifts, unstable, waterlogged.
Modern festival screenings often slap a pastiche score—berimbau, cuíca, rainforest foley—onto silent docs. Resist. The vacuum is the point. In that absence you hear your own circulatory system, the faint buzz of tinnitus, the existential hum that The Unknown Quantity theorizes but never embodies. The lack of human voice-over feels punitive, ethical: no one speaks for the river; the river refuses ventriloquism.
Unlike Fräulein Mutter’s weepy maternal melodrama or Eve’s Daughter’s flapper escapism, Amazonas offers no catharsis. The final tableau—crates stamped EXPORTAÇÃO sliding into a freighter’s hold—feels prophetic. The same port would, a century later, dispatch soybeans and illegal timber. The loop of extraction tightens like a snare.
The 4 K scan reveals scars: tramline scratches, water stains blooming like orchids, a hair lodged in the gate for twenty meters. Normally such blemishes irritate; here they act as stigmata, proof of the film’s endurance. Compare that to the sterile perfection of Made in the Kitchen’s recent 2 K polish, where every pore gleams like plastic. Imperfection equals ontology.
Watching in 2024, you can’t ignore the apocalyptic headlines: Amazonian drought, rivers at record lows, manatee carcasses bloating under 40 °C sun. The film becomes a time-capsule ransom note: we told you so in 1918, but you mistook montage for myth. The same boats still navigate the Solimões, only now they’re laden with diesel engines and Evangelical pastors. The manatee population has nosedived 80 %; rubber accounts for less than 1 % of state GDP. History as palindrome.
…der Übel größtes aber ist die Schuld moralizes about guilt and original sin; Amazonas dispenses with sermonizing and lets the materialist base speak. Where Betty and the Buccaneers commodifies exotic locales for swashbuckling fantasy, Amazonas commodifies them for documentary “truth,” thereby exposing the commodity form itself. Both are guilty, yet the latter’s guilt is self-aware, like a Möbius strip.
Notice the division: men tap rubber, women smoke manatee, children hull chestnuts. A microcosm of sexual division that A Common Level tries—and fails—to dismantle. The camera doesn’t protest; it registers. Feminist critique must be imported by the viewer, like bringing your own bottle to a Prohibition speakeasy.
Frames drip with humidity; fungal shadows creep into the perforations. The Amazon emerges as a Gothic protagonist: seductive, venomous, haunted by the specter of its own future desiccation. Call it eco-Gothic avant la lettre. The verdure is so dense it feels claustrophobic, anticipating the Bear Hunt’s carnivalesque dread but without the comedic release.
Every shot of rubber dripping into tin cups is itself a droplet of audiovisual raw material, later to be refined into nationalist myth (Verde-amarelo propaganda) or anthropological data. The film is both commodity and critique of commodity—an ouroboros of latex and light.
The last image: a steamship whistle blows, white plume merging with equatorial sky. Cut to black leader. The silence afterward is cavernous. You sit, bereft, realizing you’ve consumed 70 minutes of exploitation footage that refuses to resolve into liberal guilt or redemptive pedagogy. That refusal is its radicality. The river keeps flowing, indifferent to critics, capitalists, and cameras alike.
—for the manatee, for the girl who stared back, for the forest that forgets nothing
IMDb —
1918
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