Review by Joel del Rio
Despite the escapist tendencies prevalent in mainstream Hollywood-style cinema, and notwithstanding the rise of postmodern hedonism and individualism—or even the ascendancy of neoliberalism and right-wing ideologies—social dramas have always endured. They have marked milestones in the history of national cinemas—from the era of Italian Neorealism and beyond—spanning India, Japan, the works of North American independent filmmakers, and, of course, Cuba.
The recently previewed film Estrés (Stress) stands as a clear example of the enduring relevance of the Cuban social drama, specifically in its episodic, ensemble-cast format.
Its director and screenwriter, Marilyn Solaya, defines it as “a responsible, honest film—made for Cuba and about Cuba—that addresses issues affecting us yet possessing universal resonance, such as family conflicts linked to migration, the care of the elderly, and the impact of poverty on certain sectors of society. (…) It is a love story in which, just as in life itself, our problems and our truths also appear.”
It is precisely this frankness, honesty, and sense of responsibility that have characterized Cuba’s significant tradition of social drama—a tradition rooted in the influence of Italian Neorealism during the 1950s and 1960s, through films dedicated to exploring themes of collective and national importance. After all, social dramas seek to evoke a sense of solidarity by emotionally engaging the viewer—or challenging their conscience—through the depiction of a society rife with problems.
The docudrama El Mégano (1956, by Julio García Espinosa)—which depicted the appalling conditions faced by charcoal burners in the Zapata Swamp—played a foundational role. Although banned at the time of its release, its creators would, just a few years later, become the founders of the Cuban Institute of Cinematographic Art and Industry (ICAIC). Following the creation of ICAIC, the social drama re-emerged with vigor—bearing a veristic, documentary-style slant—to reveal the complexities of adapting to the new socialist morality. A prime example is Ustedes tienen la palabra (1973, Manuel Octavio Gómez), which contrasted the harsh reality of agrarian life and the daily tragedies faced by many workers against the textbook formulas wielded by certain officials and the solutions proclaimed in slogans. De cierta manera (1973, Sara Gómez) and Hasta cierto punto (1983, Tomás Gutiérrez Alea) ventured into this same vein of critical reflection on reality, documenting the persistence of certain backward mentalities and sexist inequalities.
The social drama experienced a new heyday in the 1990s and beyond—precisely the decade when social progress slowed due to the crisis triggered by the collapse of the socialist bloc. Amidst the so-called “Special Period”—an era defined by deprivation, scarcity, and a crisis of values—Fernando Pérez released La vida es silbar (1998) and Suite Habana (2003). While the former features a choral cast and an episodic plot, both films align more closely with symbolic, surrealist auteur cinema than with the verism typically associated with classic social drama.
If one were compelled to identify a precursor to Estrés, the most apt choice would be Suite Habana. That film also presents an illustrative array of dramatic situations—rooted in specific urban contexts—unfolding over the course of a single day. Through a diverse group of male and female characters and their respective stories of resilience in the face of adversity, Pérez—much like Marilyn Solaya—exposed the contradictions between the public and private spheres, the social and the domestic, all while reflecting on the interplay between the exceptional and the ordinary, the harsh and the delicate, and the clamor and the calm. However, the thematic references to Suite Habana merely reflect Solaya’s respect for a film of undeniable ethical and aesthetic stature; the filmmaker addresses conflicts that may at times seem similar, yet approaches them with a distinct narrative and aesthetic sensibility. Let us look—without spoilers—at some of the key stories told in one of the most talked-about Cuban films of the last few years, while acknowledging that one of its greatest strengths lies in the dedication and sincerity of the actors and actresses.
Two of the most powerful and moving stories center on caregiving and old age: there is the bus driver Dimitri (Luis Alberto García), who must care for his elderly, senile parents (Verónica Lynn and Mario Limonta), and the story of Lucía (Iyaima Martínez), whose meager income barely suffices to ensure a dignified life for her young son and her mother, who is battling cancer.
The resilience sought and found by most of the characters in Suite Habana is present in Estrés primarily through two characters: Maruja and Esther. The first story brings us back to a magnificent Isabel Santos, portraying a character who joins the ranks of her most powerful performances. Maruja is a rural woman from Camagüey who finds an opportunity to cling tenaciously to life—and to certain inalienable values—through her forced cohabitation with Alfredo (Aramís Delgado). He is an intellectual who was once famous and acclaimed but is now blind, solitary, and anchored to a past of diplomas, fleeting accolades, and falsehoods.
Esther (María Isabel Díaz) is a dedicated pediatric oncologist facing the dilemma of whether or not to leave Cuba—and the profession she adores—to join her waiting family abroad. This move would effectively close the book on all her past and present achievements, as few people care about the projects or deepest desires of a sixty-year-old woman.
If cinema can be truth—the most precise and powerful reflection of reality and human emotion—and if it can serve as an exorcism and a catharsis, then Estrés is destined to become one of the most significant Cuban films of the 21st century. It belongs in the category reserved for movies that have touched the nation’s most sensitive chords, such as Conducta or Suite Habana.
Cuba 50 
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