DN:FILM América
AMÉRICA, by filmmakers Erick Stoll and Chase Whiteside, portrays the complex, moving efforts undertaken by three brothers in Colima, Mexico as they endeavor to care for their dementia-suffering 93-year-old grandmother, América, after their father is arrested and jailed after being charged with neglecting her.
The film demonstrates in unrelenting detail how caring for an elderly loved one can be defined by the work required, a level of demand that can make the process seem like a one-way exchange. The brothers—Diego, Rodriguez, and Bruno—approach caring for América—and thus keeping her out of an assisted living facility—with individuated styles and degrees of enthusiasm. There’s feeding; bathing; walking; putting to bed; placing bedpans and buckets. And if it’s all mostly managed with good-heartedness and smile-through-it-grit, the underlying strain is evident. Emblematic is a scene where Rodriguez reflects, during a spate of frustration, that while he cares for América because she’s in his house, he doesn’t know how to deal with her because she seems essentially not conscious: He doesn’t recognize in her a will to keep living.
Meanwhile, it is scenes with Diego—shot as portrait-like close ups—that exhibit the bond between him and América that are among the most affecting. They offer testament to the fuller relationship between grandson and grandmother, with América revealed as more than the burden of the tasks required for her care. Diego endearingly engages América with a playfulness and an uncanny ability to find connection, such as when he plants kisses on her cheek and forehead and playfully asks her who he is; then joyfully, helpfully, provides the photographic reminder that’s he’s her grandson when she’s answered, instead, “You’re my son.” At another point, he turns philosophical, even spiritual, during an argument with Rodriguez, as he defends their grandmother’s state of mind; he describes her as existing on a special plane, and as worthy of respect, not someone to define solely by her condition. América appears to offer evidentiary support for Diego’s claim; with her ability to command the camera’s attention, in singing a beloved ballad, by making astute observation during moments of clarity, she proves capable of sharing, and not just receiving, Diego’s love.
The filmmakers are careful to point out the arrangement they’re documenting is dependent on multiple contributions. For example, though Rodriguez may be the most reluctant participant, it’s he who provides the house, and thus the foundational stability, for América’s care. (In a lively scene, this metaphor turns literal, as the acrobatic brothers stack one on top of each other, with Rodriguez at the base, Bruno next, and Diego seeking stable footing at the top in order to complete the sibling tower.) No surprise, with the strains and pressure of money, time and the constraints that come with being caregivers, stability is difficult to maintain, and conflict periodically erupts between the brothers; there are also their efforts to get their father released. Hard decisions are made. And yet the story, told in a little less than an hour, renders the full range of a family’s care-taking experience, capturing the complicated reward of its familial commitment. América asks Diego, “There are people who end up with nothing, right?” Diego responds, “That’s how we came into the world.” And then the camera finds América, mouthing as if to herself, “Alone, abandoned with no one that loves you.” And yet, fortunately for América, that’s not her story.
Airs on POV October 7th