Circle of Strife

Endless revenge pervades life under this Sun.

Behind the Sun, though curiously renamed for U.S. distribution from Broken April, is beautiful to watch and universal in theme by any name, as evidenced by the fact it's set in turn-of-the-20th-century Brazil though it's based on a contemporary novel from Albania. (The book, by Ismaïl Kadaré, is also titled Broken April.) Directed by Walter Salles (Central Station), it's a look at the senselessness of vengeance as justice, set beneath a vast blue sky in a gorgeous and remote area where the primary industry is the farming of sugar cane. Our narrator is little Pacu (Ravi Ramos Lacerda), the youngest of the Breves family, who toil all day at the massive wheel that grinds cane into juice. Across the way lives another family, with whom a running feud exists. Why, we don't know. Perhaps even they don't know. But they're honor-bound to continue it.

As the story begins, Pacu (who at that point is actually nameless; the "Pacu" moniker will be received later, as his family hasn't bothered to call him anything but "kid") is riding on the shoulders of his eldest brother, Inacio, when a shot rings out and Inacio falls. His bloody shirt is hung out on a clothesline in front of the house with the proviso that as soon as the blood turns yellow, it is the obligation of the closest able relative, in this case middle brother Tonho (Rodrigo Santoro), to kill the one responsible. It gradually becomes clear this is a back-and-forth routine that's been going on for a very long time, tied to a strict honor code the patriarchs of each family uphold. Ironically, there's no rule about having to confront one's opponent face-to-face, or shooting him when he's alone; all bets are off in that department.

Since there would be no point in telling us a story that's pure routine, it's inevitable that we come to learn about the Day Everything Changed. It's here that the film takes a brief detour into cliché, as the catalysts are two traveling gypsies named Salustiano (Luís Carlos Vasconcelos) and Clara (Flavia Marco Antonio) with a horse named Bootleg. And, you know, those gypsies are just so passionate, aren't they? Even without Johnny Depp among their number, they manage to awaken a lust for life in both Tonho (who's smitten with Clara, the daughter-in-law of Salustiano) and Pacu (who is so named, by Salustiano, for a river fish). Pacu is given a picture book that manages to enrage his uppity father (José Dumont); Tonho, despite having been cursed by the rival family that he won't live long enough to experience love, promptly goes ahead and does so anyway.

It's not a complicated story, nor is its message a surprise. But it doesn't hurt that the film is striking, with painstaking attention to historical detail and excellent cinematography that stands out in addition to the stunning Brazilian vistas (some people confuse "cinematography" with "scenery," but this film has plenty of both). One detail in particular is well-handled: Without books (until mid-film) or TV or any other such diversion, the primary escape Pacu and Tonho have is a dream of flying, which they imagine with the aid of ropes and swings. When Tonho spends an entire day twirling a rope to which sexy gypsy Clara is clinging high above him, they might as well be making love. The camera moves with Pacu's swing or provides a POV above Clara on the rope, giving us a sense of the brief yet substantial release the illusion of flight provides.

Salles' film is like a more poetic sibling to Guillermo del Toro's The Devil's Backbone and a resplendent cousin to Barbet Schroeder's substantive, low-resolution Our Lady of the Assassins. All these films reveal the temporary bloom of love against a pointless and stupid cycle of destructive violence, and since each film is set in a different time period, all three make for a distressing triple feature that would seem to indicate that humanity hasn't progressed at all this century, with youngsters inevitably dying unnecessarily to make the point. Better that a movie make this point than an actual war of vengeance; right now we have both, yet somehow one gets the impression that the former brings it home for us in a clearer fashion.