Even the Rain

History has a way of repeating itself and it does so before our very eyes, often with a sense of harsh irony. In Even the Rain (Tambien la Lluvia), Spanish director Icíar Bollaín uses the creation of film, the recalling of what once was, to illuminate the realities of cyclical destruction that occurred during the 2000 Cochabamba Water Wars .

When a Spanish film crew arrives in Cochabomba, Bolivia, to shoot a movie about Christopher Columbus’s arrival in the Americas, they hire the locals to play the indigenous Taíno people. Yet these outsiders, headed by the director, Sebastian (Gael Garcia Bernal), and producer, Costa (Luis Tosar), don’t realize they’ve walked into a war zone hauntingly reminiscent of the colonialism depicted in their film. In Cochabamba, the government and private corporations tax water in all its forms – even the rain, as the title reflects. Countless poor citizens must pay the atrociously high tax or go without. When Sebastian rebelliously hires Daniel (Juan Carlos Aduviri) to play the Taíno leader, Hatuey, the crew comes to realize that their film is far less important to their actors than the crisis they face.

Bollaín and writer Paul Laverty weave a brilliantly crafted story in which the line between present reality and gruesome history continually blurs. As Daniel and his friends portray the Taínos, unsuccessfully panning rivers for enough gold to fill a jingle-ball for Columbus and his selfish men, one comes to realize that they trade one evil by day for another far more urgent one at home. Leaving the set each night – having been paid a paltry two dollars – they return to a reality that is no better than that of their characters, where freedom is restricted because they lack even the most basic human rights.

In contrast, when Sebastian and Costa leave the set, they return to their hotels and enjoy a lavish dinner, where they drink champagne and condescend to learn the term yuka – the native dialect’s term for “water.” But it might as well mean “life” because, as Daniel states, “Water is life,” and it’s something he and his family must struggle every day to sustain. Going so long without even the ability to create their own wells, the people manifest their anger in desperate violence. When Daniel is arrested and taken from the set – still dressed as Hatuey – the rest of the Bolivian extras attack the police officers with sticks and their own fists. In a surreal scene, Alex Catalán’s cinematography morphs past with present; it is impossible to tell which people belong where, as natives overturn a car and rescue Daniel, who flees for his life. The bewildered filmmakers attempt to corral their cast, but at this point they are in far over their heads, beyond even where money and influence can help them understand what is happening around them.

Yet through all of this warfare Sebastian refuses to let go of his work. The last, and most important, scene that they are able to shoot is one in which half a dozen Taíno natives are burned alive at the cross. Hatuey stands stoically in the spotlight, hatred burning in his eyes as he shouts out his contempt for Columbus and his intruders. Aduviri, a complete unknown, was cast as Daniel because there simply was no one else who knew the role as innately as he did. A real-life participant in the 2000 Cochabamba Water Wars, he holds in his heart the suffering that Daniel feels as he persistently revolts against the government, refusing to stop, refusing to sacrifice the lives of so many for such injustices.

Even after violence has injured Daniel and other protesters, Costa still pleads with him to stay out of trouble until the filming is complete, admonishing him like an unruly child. He goes so far as to bribe him and spring him from jail. In the land of filmmaking, which Tosar so deftly portrays, money is life and water is taken for granted. Costa cuts corners as often as he can during production, until ruin – in the form of no cast – stares him in the face. The only viable route to survival is money, and he throws it out like candy, frequently calling his distributors for yet more funds.

Bollaín and Laverty fiercely cast the scorching burn of a magnifying glass across multiple evils, though they are hardly black and white. Whereas the cold, unfeeling governmental and corporate bureaucrats “refuse to give an inch” to the people, the film crew struggles to remain detached while their humanity slowly leaks through, if only after a long struggle. The earnest, well-meaning, yet naively blind Sebastian falls prey to hypocrisy and his determination to follow his dreams. Costa, who comes to see Daniel and his family as true friends, is agonizingly pulled between the duties of his project and his need to make a difference for these people. One of the most heart-wrenching scenes is when the Cochabamban mothers, dressed as Taíno natives, must pretend to sacrifice their crying babies by drowning them in the river. Their haunted eyes and frozen postures as Sebastian tries to convince them that their actions are not real shows that after living so long as the prey, they cannot imagine submitting to such an atrocity.
In a film that truly makes you think twice about what a movie is meant to do, Bollaín successfully skews the boundaries between fact and fiction and the grey areas that so many history books gloss over. When I returned home to my apartment, I hesitated before running my tap, where an endless gush of cold, clean water is a constant presence. Bollaín and Laverty have created a piece of art that denies viewer detachment because no matter what, these events are a part of the world we all inhabit, however hidden from view they may be.