Jo?o Miguel and Fabiula Nascimento in Estômago

Estômago begins with a convoluted anecdote involving cowboys, nosy wives, sour milk—and ultimately, the origins of Gorgonzola. The jittery man conveying the tale is cut off by a protest that the cheese, despite its extraordinary beginnings, stinks enough to be put outside with the dirty socks and underwear. The dynamic at work here continues throughout the film: Raimundo Nonato (João Miguel), meek sweet county boy is impassioned not just by Gorgonzola, but by all food—so to is he empowered by it. And yet the power he wields is always in jeopardy of being disregarded. Much like film or other arts forms, culinary delights must be appreciated or they hold no sway; the eater, like the audience, can always choose to not be impressed.

The story is simple enough: Raimundo Nonato, played by the João Miguel, comes to the big city, destitute and in need of work. His education comes by way of a blunt instrument wielded by a restaurant owner.  Nonato’s ability to transform even fried chicken snacks into a delicacy catapults him to a meager success, and into the arms of the corpulent but kind prostitute Iria (Fabiula Nascimento).  The film's brilliance lies in Marcos Jorge's ability to make the story deceptively familiar, yet but with  ; part of his strategy is to employ two narratives, the first being Nonato’s introduction to the city, the second, unfolding alongside this, is Nonato’s entrance into prison. Director Marcos Jorge understands that the grotesque and the delicious are often interchangeable. When has standing naked, bathed in refrigerator light, indulging in a fried food ever been precious, tender or lovely? Iria's incessant eating becomes both sensual, but also an early warning sign of the destructive appetite in her, and in all the characters.

But the film also works because of lead actor João Miguel’s child-like beauty. His charm lies not merely in disarming the audience, but in his own seeming bafflement and pleasure at the world unfolding around him. When he smiles, his whole face threatens to crack in pieces. This awkwardness never quite dissolves, and the expected transformation—from country boy to criminal—does not feel like a descent into immorality, but rather an unfortunate turn of events. That his internal monologue begins only in prison suggests a movement toward interiorization, yet even his personal narrative is flatly innocent, as if naiveté were a form of defense.

It is in Miguel’s performance and the two interlocked narratives that the film reveals a disconcerting ambivalence: prison is perhaps not so different than the working world, innocence and experience not mutually exclusive. That the two stories unfold simultaneously furthers this logic because we are never completely sure which one has happened first—did Nonato come to the city after prison? Is the city narrative leading up to the crime which lands him in jail? And while we can make assumptions based on other films or story conventions, the ambiguity never quite dissolves. Thus what is one of the most classic tales—country mouse goes to city, meets girl, temptation, and succumbs to corruption, becomes both tender and unsettling in this rendition.

 

 

 

Estamago plays Monday, July 21 at 6:30 p.m. and Saturday, July 26, 2008, 2:30 p.m.