Obscuro Barroco is a documentary on various kinds of metamorphosis: from nature to civilisation, male to female bodies, silences to loud protests, chaos to spiritual meditation. A French and Greek co-production, the documentary begins with the camera gliding over a forest, taking us back to the genesis of human life. We then follow Brazilian transgender activist and narrator Luana Muniz on a cable car and see a panoramic view of a vibrant Rio de Janeiro. Through a series of contradictory images (like the intimate spaces of Muniz and impudent performances by trans performers), Kranioti shows the city is no different from Muniz: they’re both in a state of constant transition, and are unafraid to express themselves.
The documentary by Greek director Evangelia Kranioti, known for Exotica, Erotica, Etc. (2015), was part of the Panorama section at the recently concluded 68th Berlinale International Film Festival. It won the Teddy’s Special Jury Award, an honour for Berlinale’s LGBTQ films, at the festival this year. The film focuses on Muniz’s body as a vehicle for her activism. For Muniz, her transformed body is a political statement against machismo and patriarchy. Kranioti highlights Muniz’s body using shots that let details emerge. There’s ample amount of soft, flattering light and close-ups of Muniz’s long eyelashes, painted nails, brown skin and enlarged breasts. The filmmaker doesn’t flinch from capturing the genitalia of a transvestite performer as she strips on stage, showcasing her dual state of being: a man and a woman. For Muniz, the human body, after all, is a prop; a costume at a perpetual carnival. What better to illustrate that than capture the lifelessness of papier-mâché idols and cardboard faces, covered in colour and glitter, that lie unused after the carnival.
As successfully as Kranioti generates euphoria (by making us live the exuberance and rawness of an anti-government carnival), she also navigates through the broken dreams and loneliness behind closed doors. Away from the queer community — both the physical and the imagined — trans lives can be rather solitary. The film oscillates between irreverence and contemplation as Muniz narrates poetic passages about the body and soul from Clarice Lispector’s book Água Viva.
For both Muniz and Rio de Janeiro, religion is what connects them to the world beyond sight and sound. Kranioti highlights the religious syncretism of Brazil by depicting rituals which find its roots in Catholicism and beliefs of indigenous Brazilians, lending another layer of “otherness” to the film. As Kranioti navigates through this complex maze of religion, sexuality, gender and politics, she introduces an allegorical figure of a white clown who walks calmly through the madness of carnivals and protests. It’s in his stoic clown face against the background of revelry, do we truly understand the deceptiveness of facade.
