As of right now, the biggest movie of 2016 is a story about constipated-looking godlike heroes punching each other. On the surface, it may not seem so different from the sea of likeminded popcorn fare, but this film is animated by its creator’s withering contempt for humanity, a contempt that bleeds through its every joyless facet. For those still struggling to wash down that blockbuster’s bitter aftertaste, Neon Bull might serve as the antidote (or perhaps the kryptonite?) to the former’s toxicity. The second non-documentary feature from Brazilian director Gabriel Mascaro, it is a film about relationships: the relationship between people and their environment, between people and animals, between people’s bodies and people’s work. And in sketching out these relationships, Mascaro creates a snapshot of human experience that’s shocking and at times uncomfortable in its comprehensiveness. There are no bodily functions too taboo, nor moments too private for us to witness; his actors eat, bathe, piss and engage in extremely convincing simulations(?) of sex. They wax their vaginas and, in one particularly memorable scene, they even jerk off a horse to steal its semen. The boldness of those both behind and in front of the camera gives us an insight into the world inhabited by these characters that is beyond intimate.
Neon Bull follows the day-to-day lives of vaqueiros who manage a traveling rodeo. Iremar (Juliano Cazarré) is a cowhand with dreams of becoming a fashion designer. His primary creative outlet comes from sewing outfits for Galega (Maeve Jinkings), a newly single mother and exotic dancer who accompanies the troupe and maintains the truck. Though they aren’t romantically involved, the two serve as a family unit for Galega’s daughter Cacá (Alyne Santana), a little girl with a passion for horses. While there is certainly a plot, the film is more concerned with tracing the day-to-day rhythms of its characters’ lives than following any kind of traditional narrative arc. Mascaro maintains a purposeful distance with his camera, often shooting his subjects from a medium range that allows them to move freely within the frame. We are thus denied insight into their inner workings as they wander through the quotidian tasks of feeding, prepping and cleaning up after the animals in their charge.
This freedom Mascaro grants to his actors creates a space for us to witness shared moments of tenderness, as well as the petty, banal cruelties that people inflict on the ones they love with unthinking regularity. Part of Mascaro’s strength lay in his unwillingness to idealize or judge his working-class protagonists. This places the audience in a difficult position, given how disturbing the Brazilian vaquejadas are sure to be for much of the English-speaking world. The main event appears to be a sport where two riders sandwich a bull between them while one grabs its tail and attempts to capsize the animal before it reaches the finish line in the arena. We see numerous falls, as well as their aftermath: an animal struggling unsuccessfully to find its feet again, and the tufts of yanked-out tail-hair discarded in the arena, later to be repurposed by Iremar for one of his creations. In one scene, I’m pretty sure the actors actually brand a bull. It’s the kind of thing that seems indecorous to do for the sake of a motion picture, but Mascaro maintains his documentarian instincts. The world these characters inhabit is placed before us in its entirety, and it’s up to the individual viewer to decide how he or she will react.
This unwillingness to turn away from the uglier and less glamorous realities of these lives, combined with Mascaro’s languorous takes, helps blur the line between the artifice of drama and reportage. But Mascaro further confounds this aura of naturalism with moments of surreal beauty: Galega’s otherworldly dance routines, an erotically charged carnival performance between horse and rider and a stunning sequence featuring the titular beast lit in neon, cosmic-bowling-style. These dreamlike interludes point towards a dimension to Mascaro’s subjects that is not expressible through observing the minutiae of their daily routines or the sundry operations of their bodies. It is a glimpse, perhaps at some of the magic residing beneath the skin of the world, screaming to be set free.
Neon Bull is a beautifully shot and brilliantly acted film operating on a variety of levels (another theme worthy of greater exploration is Mascaro’s subtle play with traditional gender roles). Perhaps its greatest asset, though, is its generosity of spirit. Few other films dare cast such an unflinching gaze on the human animal, on the impact it has upon its environment, on its interactions with its fellow humans, on all the gross and mundane functions of its body. Fewer still do so in such a way that maintains the inherent dignity of their subjects, or hints at the vast, untapped oceans contained within, aching to spill out onto the world.