Dos Estaciones presents a gorgeous portrait of a headstrong tequila factory boss

• Reviewed from the 2022 Sundance Film Festival. 

Fifty-year-old Mexican tequila factory owner María García keeps her cards close to her chest. The character at the centre of Dos Estaciones – the first feature length fiction film from Mexican director Juan Pablo González – is an enigmatic force that commands the viewers’ attention just as her established influence in the region begins to wane, and it is her threatened power (and ego) that González is most interested in.

Although María is one of very few characters in the film to be played by a professional actor (Teresa Sánchez, seen in Tatiana Huezo’s Prayers for the Stolen and Lila Avilés’ The Chambermaid), the director chooses to reveal the simmering emotions and secret intentions of his protagonist largely through her actions, in medium-to-long shots that capture the settings’ atmosphere but also, crucially, allow him to expose María’s social status in every situation.

Facing the workers of her factory, she stands stiff and barely looks them in the eye, while they keep a respectful distance. Later, arriving at a kid’s birthday party, she does not participate in the fun activities but sits alone at a table, the host thanking her for coming and immediately serving her tequila – in a glass, not a plastic cup.

Respected and proud, she only lets her almost mask-like look of seriousness slip when she is truly alone or, in one of the film’s most striking moments, when getting her hair done. González’s choice to cut to rare close-ups on María’s face in that scene subtly and elegantly reveals that here, as her head is being massaged by the glamorous transgender hairdresser Tatín (Tatín Vera), María feels good and safe, free to let her emotions come to the surface.

Working in an industry commonly associated with men, sporting short hair and masculine-coded outfits of trousers and wide-fitting shirts, it is clear that María does not follow conventional ideas of gender. Yet the appointment at the hairdressers, standing out from the rest of the film for its framing and the intimacy of physical contact it depicts, feels like a precious and all-too-brief stolen moment.

María’s encounter with the young and beautiful Rafaela (Rafaela Fuentes) at the kid’s birthday party is her chance to change that, though not in an explicitly visible way. Whether out of fear, pride, or mere convenience, María mostly manifests the attraction she feels for the alluring stranger through work. While the much more expressive, socially comfortable Rafaela casually brings up the topic of tequila, María’s way of opening to her is to offer her a job as her assistant. When she later guides her on a visit of the factory, González’s compositions in long takes allow him to show two women simply walking side by side, but also to expose the sexual tension between them, a tension no doubt invisible to the men around María, who have never had much access to the emotional or sexual side of her.

The film delicately intertwines María’s work as the headstrong boss of a tequila factory (whose very existence is threatened by a plague affecting raw materials), and her emotional life as a woman seeking connection and companionship. This hard/soft dynamic is perfectly embodied by Teresa Sánchez in an understated, full-body performance, her soft facial features not so much contrasting as complimenting the stiffness of her body language.

María finds a way to exist beyond the traditional gender binary, and the cinematography of Gerardo Guerra brings out that same kind of duality in the nature that surrounds her – we see it in the beauty of the landscape and the violence inherent to harvesting; in the mix of brutality and tender patience that making tequila requires. It’s a careful balance that – as González shows – the forces of profit do not allow. The film ends on a fascinatingly sombre note as María’s efforts to survive bring her head-to-head with the cruel demands of capitalism.

Both carefully considered and loose, with studied compositions that allow its actors and settings to breathe, González’s film is a subtle and compelling proposition. Instead of a didactic approach, González employs a refreshing visual language – one wide awake to cinema’s ability to expose the intersection between complex human histories, and powerful economic forces.