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2.8/10
Senior Film Conservator
A definitive 2.8/10 rating for a film that redefined the boundaries of cult cinema. Un día en Xochimilco remains a cornerstone of transgressive art.
Most surviving films of the 1890s behave like obedient museum pieces: they march, they parade, they box, they leave. Un día en Xochimilco refuses to stand still. Shot by the itinerant Hermanos Alva—about whom archives only whisper—this 35mm ribbon is less a travelogue than a séance. It conjures the lacustrine lungs of a valley that, even then, was gasping toward metropolitan asphyxiation. You feel the breeze in your hair because the camera once felt it too; the emulsion still carries canal-spray, sunburn, the faintest whiff of pulque.
The reel’s first photogram arrives like a hiccup of mercury: a bow rail, a sliver of sky, then the prow gliding into an avenue of water hyacinths. Because the Alvas cranked at roughly 12 frames per second, each trajinera stroke stretches into a ballet of arrested urgency. A campesino in a straw sombrero pivots; his shadow detaches, slides over the boat’s bright awning, and dives into the canal—an eclipse that lasts three heartbeats. Behind him, chinampas rise like rafts of chlorophyll, their soil so black it drinks the light. The camera tilts, hungry for verticality, and catches the distant ridge of Cerro de la Estrella, a silhouetted reptile basking in Neogene memory.
Mid-film, a woman appears—rebozo the color of overripe apricot—holding a child whose stare drills straight through the fourth wall. The moment is so electrically private you half expect the century to blush. Yet the Alvas hold the shot, transmuting intrusion into stewardship; the child’s pupils become obsidian mirrors in which every subsequent viewer is miniaturized. It’s the inverse of Birmingham’s industrial clangor: here, humanity is not forged but floated.
Historians often quarantine 1898 in the gilded cage of the Porfiriato, when foreign capital stitched rail veins across the republic and Diego Rivera’s later murals were still wet dreams. Un día en Xochimilco is politically quiet yet subliminally mutinous. Notice the absence of gringo steamers or uniformed rurales. Instead, Indigenous horticulture steers the visual rhythm; the floating gardens predate Aztec engineering, and the camera honors that deep time. Compare this with the pugilistic clamor of The Corbett-Fitzsimmons Fight or the imperial swagger of On the Advance of Gen. Wheaton: the Alvas trade spectacle for sediment, boxing ring for lily bed.
Surviving prints measure 18.2 meters, indicating an original runtime of circa two minutes. The stock is Eastman #2, that oatmeal-gauged emulsion prone to vinegar syndrome but blessed with wide latitude—hence those clouds that billow like overexposed ghosts. No edge-coding survives, yet perforation type suggests the Alvas used a Cinématographe knockoff, possibly imported through New Orleans. The camera’s hand-crank varies between 10 and 14 fps, a wobble that modern 4K scans have stabilized without ironing out the tremor of life. Flicker becomes pulse; we remember we’re watching tissue of time, not its marble bust.
Cinephiles who worship the Lumieres’ A Rua Augusta em Dia de Festa will recognize a kinship: both films ride the same 19th-century appetite for place-as-spectacle. Yet where Lisbon’s parade flexes civic pride, Xochimilco whispers of ecological covenant. Likewise, the ecclesiastical processions in A Procissão da Semana Santa externalize dogma; the Mexican short internalizes pantheism—every leaf a psalm, every wave a benediction.
Even within boxing cinema’s blood-slicked canon—see Jeffries-Sharkey Contest or Gans-Nelson Contest—violence is catharsis. Xochimilco offers the catharsis of softness, an anodyne to the century’s coming collisions: revolutions, world wars, the very drainage of these canals that would later gulp for municipal breath.
Found in a Guadalajara cellar 1986, the nitrate negative was already curling like dried hoja santa. Cineteca Nacional’s magicians bathed it in glyoxal, then duplicated onto polyester under nitrogen. What we stream today carries that resurrection scar: scratches shaped like chinampa furrows, density flickers that mimic water striders. Damage becomes dialect; absence speaks. Some cinephiles fetishize pristine restorations, but I cherish these scars—they remind me the artifact drowned, nearly dissolved, yet floated back to tell us remember the wet world before concrete strangled it.
No synchronous track, of course. Yet play the film on a turntable of imagination and you’ll hear the thlop of pole against muddy bottom, the sucking kiss of barge wood, distant market cries floating like radio ghosts. I sometimes pair it with Professor Billy Opperman’s Swimming School for aquatic cognitive dissonance: children in Victorian tank versus Indio boatmen on Aztec canal—two aqueous universes separated by imperial language yet united by the liquidity of cinema itself.
Alfonso Cuarón’s Roma climaxes on the same waters, though seventy years downstream, the trash of modernity bobbing between the lilies. Watching the Alvas’ vision, you perceive cinema’s double helix: every forward gaze carries a backward gene. When the camera in Roma pirouettes inside the La Casa de las Flores courtyard, it secretly quotes the 1898 child’s stare—proof that Mexican memory is hydrological, always seeping.
Questions shadow ethnographic images this old. Did the Alvas compensate the trajinera rower? Did the woman with the apricot rebozo understand her face would orbit satellites a century later? We cannot know. Yet refusal to screen the film would be another colonial erasure. My compromise: every exhibition should tithe ticket sales to Fundación Xochimilco, which replants ahuejote trees along the canal banks. Watch, pay, plant—an ecological indulgence for the sin of voyeurism.
Because the 21st century is an auction house of attention where even glaciers get scrolled past. Because your retina deserves to host a prelapsarian glow before algorithmic haze calcifies it. Because in 120 seconds you can witness the invention of color in the mind: the yellow of marigolds you will never actually see, the indigo of skies long photoshopped by pollution. Because cinema began not with trains and smokes but with water and leaf, and this strip is the chlorophylled evidence.
1. Kill the lights.
2. Project onto a wall the color of wet adobe.
3. Play Silvestre Revueltas’ Sensemayá at low volume—anachronistic yet spiritually consonant.
4. Sip pulque or, failing that, mezcal with a single cube of ice that will melt before the film ends, turning drink into timepiece.
5. When the child stares, stare back. Do not blink first.
I rate films on a scale of evaporation: how much of them dissipates after viewing? Un día en Xochimilco scores zero. It condenses inside you, pooling behind the sternum, rising with each future rainstorm. It is not a relic; it is a reservoir. Two minutes, infinite refractions. Watch it once and you inherit a canal; watch it twice and you adopt a city’s drowned dreams; watch it thrice and you volunteer, forever, to keep the floating world afloat.
Currently streaming via Cineteca Nacional México’s digital vault (free, Spanish intertitles). 4K restoration available for festival booking through Filmoteca UNAM.
"The past is never dead. It’s not even past unless you let the canal run dry." —Your Conscience, 2024
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