Internationally-acclaimed Uruguayan films are pretty thin on the ground, so an internationally-acclaimed Uruguayan film that is completely deadpan and whose main character is the terminally morose owner of a sock factory comes as quite a surprise. Jacobo, aforementioned factory owner, has invited his brother from Brazil for the erection of his mother’s headstone. He asks his devoted, and equally taciturn employee Marta, if she will pretend to be his wife for the duration of his stay. She agrees, gets her hair done, and his brother arrives. The set-up is that of classic farce, but Whisky is very far from this, instead offering a tone of resigned melancholy with occasional moments when we are almost dared to laugh.
In its minimalist approach to language and gesture and its non-judgemental stance towards its characters, Whisky has drawn comparisons with the films of Aki Kaurismäki, but there are important differences. There is none of Kaurismäki’s striking colour design and little of the kitsch (there is some – the three of them sitting resolutely silent while lit by a mirrored disco ball is perfect). Instead, Rebello & Stoll present a world of naturalistic deadpan. Their minimal approach also means that small details stick in the mind – Marta patting her hair, Jacobo’s habit of turning lights off too quickly. Sometimes these details lead to possible hidden narrative threads and motivations – how calculated is Marta in moving the oxygen bottle into Herman’s room and what role does it play in later events?
Its visual design is also quite sophisticated. Jacobo leads a disordered, ramshackle life and the first part of the film reflects this well, not allowing the eye any comfortable resting points or compositions, instead making his world drab and dissatisfyingly bitty. The relief to the eye when Marta puts his flat in order is palpable.
Now and again, laugh-out-loud sequences punctuate the long – very long, silences, but then the uncanny sensation takes hold that as viewers, we are more embarrassed with the trio’s situation than they are themselves. They certainly don’t need our pity. By the end – and this is a mark of the film’s success – we actually care about Jacobo and Marta, and what, if anything, happens next.