I tend to think a lot about what I think about movies. Or of music, or TV, or books. I have this impulse to categorize my enjoyment of a piece of art. To compare it to other things I have seen, and rate and rank it alongside other similar pieces of art. This can often be very enjoyable. It forces me to evaluate what I find important. But sometimes there’s a problem with this methodology. It can distract from my experience of the movie itself. It can force me to make a hard decision about something in a short amount of time, and sometimes there are pieces of art that demand more from us than a quick assessment.

How do I compare Roma to anything else I’ve watched recently? Well, I’m not sure I can. I’m not sure I should. That’s not to say that it should be treated as perfect, without reproach. Nothing is perfect. When it comes to art, the value is within each individual experience. Roma provides a specific vision, based on one man’s individual experiences in 1970’s Mexico City. And through his story (which is actually a story based on his childhood nanny), I am forced to put myself completely in his hands. It’s a setting that is physically, culturally, and psychologically different from my own. I have no other way to view this film but from the perspective that the filmmaker gives me. It’s a vulnerable position to be in for both the viewer and the filmmaker. But Cuaron’s vision is so fully realized that the barriers that can sometimes prevent emotional connection completely fall away.

For most of the film, you’re stuck on the outside of these characters. The cinematography is breathtaking. Every frame of the movie is stunning. And that can sometimes even be a hindrance. It distracts from what’s actually happening in the story. You feel almost overwhelmed by the artistry itself, and tend to forget that there’s an actual plot, there are actual stakes, there’s character development, and all the other things that movies need in order to work. But the final act of this movie tears that detachment off, exposing us to the raw, emotional core of the story. It’s deftly, masterfully done. The movie I thought I was watching at the beginning suddenly transformed into something much more gripping and soul-baring. There’s one specific moment, even, that I could feel this warmth come over me as I suddenly understood what Cuaron was wanting to show us. And it’s so beautiful, and powerful. It gives us a new understanding of what a film can do – all the humanity it can show us.

I watched Roma in the theater the night it came out. And it was a bit overwhelming after the first viewing. I knew that I’d seen a masterpiece. But just because it’s a masterpiece doesn’t mean its “good.” Don’t worry, I’ll tell you what I mean. Something can be artistically and creatively impressive without establishing the proper emotional connection with those who interact with it. Roma clearly has the highest degree of technical and artistic mastery. But did I like it as a movie? Did the story draw me in and show me something I’d never seen? Basically: Was I entertained? Did I actually like it?

After that first viewing, the film weighed on my mind. I knew I had to watch it again. And it was the second viewing that really drove home how I felt about it as a movie.

I guess I should say that what I liked most about Roma was how real it felt. And I don’t necessarily mean that it looked and felt “realistic” (though it certainly did). I mean it more in the sense of the human brain’s perception of memory and place. Sometimes the things that feel most real are the tiny, seemingly banal moments in life that for whatever reason stick out years later as you reflect on your life. The sound of wet laundry dripping on the roof in the summer. The way your father has to squeeze an oversized car into the garage. The way airplanes fly overhead at the same time every day. Yes, even the way dog shit tends to pile up outside your house, never ceasing, always a nuisance that needs to be addressed. I most often equate these kinds of sensory moments with childhood. It’s the specific little things you remember but you don’t really know why. But when you really look back, and you can analyze yourself and see the whole picture, it makes more sense. It makes sense because that oversized car carried with it a certain presence beyond just physical. It makes sense because that dog shit had to get cleaned up somehow, by someone – and that someone’s importance and relevance to your life was comprised of a thousand tiny things that felt insignificant when isolated on their own, but when put together, were overwhelmingly central to your everyday reality. Roma is littered with these little banal moments. And when you look back on them, it reminds you of your own life. It reminds you of your own little specific banalities. It’s the banalities that sometimes define our sense of the world.

I’m reminded of a commencement speech that David Foster Wallace gave at Kenyon College in 2005. He begins the speech with a little parable:

“There are these two young fish swimming along, and they happen to meet an older fish swimming the other way, who nods at them and says, ‘Morning, boys, how’s the water?’ And the two young fish swim on for a bit, and then eventually one of them looks over at the other and goes, ‘What the hell is water?’”

And then at the end he sums up what he means: “None of this is about morality, or religion, or dogma, or big fancy questions of life after death. The capital-T Truth is about life before death. It is about making it to thirty, or maybe fifty, without wanting to shoot yourself in the head. It is about simple awareness – awareness of what is so real and essential, so hidden in plain sight all around us, that we have to keep reminding ourselves, over and over: ‘This is water, this is water.’”

Watching Roma is like inhabiting someone else’s memories. It’s about seeing the hidden meaning in the seemingly meaningless trivialities of life. The fact that it takes place in another place and setting that you’re not familiar with makes it feel exotic and new. But that allows us as viewers to reflect on our own lives. To re-evaluate the things that we’ve taken for granted. To explore ourselves in new ways. To find a new way of understanding who we are and how we became who we are. For Alfonso Cuaron, making Roma was his self-exploratory apparatus. For us, it’s watching it…and then doing what we need to do to discover ourselves on our own terms.

5 out of 5 stars