Sebastián Lelio, the Oscar-winning writer-director behind critical hits like Gloria (2013) and Una Mujer Fantástica (2017), came back in style last fall with The Wonder, a Netflix-backed period drama that grapples with the dangers of religious fervor and superstition. Florence Pugh leads all proceedings as Lib Wright, a young, strong-minded nurse who is dispatched to a remote Irish community to investigate a medical anomaly that is being hailed as a divine miracle among the locals. Tearing at the very fabric of patriarchy, religion and cinema itself, Lelio provides audiences with plenty of food for thought as he’s accustomed us to so far in his career.
On the heels of its European premiere at the 70th San Sebastián International Film Festival in September, Guillermo De Querol spoke with the Chilean director to discuss his new film, his Catholic upbringing, filmmaking, working with Florence Pugh, and his cinematic influences from Andrei Tarkovsky to David Lynch.
Film Cred: Let’s start with that opening scene. One does not expect to see a modern film soundstage on a 19th century period piece. I must admit I was taken aback by the way Florence Pugh introduces the film to the audience, brazenly breaking the fourth wall right from the onset. But looking back, I think it ties nicely with the ongoing theme of cinema’s persuasive power.
Sebastián Lelio: That’s right. I wanted the film itself to become part of the problem and hopefully to have an active viewer. So it’s not just about getting lost in the characters, adventures, and misadventures, anecdotes and fictions, but for the film itself as a construct to be part of the problem. This is a film in which many belief systems collide, whether it’s reason vs. superstition, rational thought vs. spiritual and magical thinking, so I essentially wanted to tell the viewer to watch out. Don’t buy everything automatically. You’ll be hypnotized by fiction here and there and then you’ll be reminded you have been seduced to believe in something. And the mechanisms you will use to believe in this film are the same ones the characters use to believe in their own stories — those that are there by default and by choice. What do you think about what you’re seeing, what do you believe about what’s happening, and also, independently of the film, what do you believe in?
Belief is a thought in which you insist until it becomes a belief. And they’re powerful tools, they can consolidate in stories that transcend, sometimes, thousands of years. Patriarchy, religion, ideologies… It’s not a light subject. Nowadays, we’re being inundated by a cacophony of storytelling and multiple opinions. The biggest casualty is to determine what’s real, which no one knows anymore. That’s the reason I was drawn to the story, I think it’s a relevant story for our times.
FC: It’s almost as if you’re using this Brechtian distancing to remind your audience to remain skeptical and not believe everything they’re being shown.
SL: Exactly. The thing about the Brechtian distancing is that it allows you to confront what the viewer is watching. In this case it applies too. The problem is not whatever the characters are going through. I mean, sure, that’s part of the equation, but really, the thing here is how the viewer is relating to what is being shown to him. The relationship with the viewer is therefore more important than the fictional. The fictional characters may not be real, but what they represent certainly is. And in a way, to start with a modern set and slowly pan to 1862 to suspend the disbelief, is a way to declare that what we’re watching is a reconstruction of something that can never be caught: the past. Yet again, it’s not really the past, it’s about something that has always happened, it is happening today and will continue to happen for as long as we allow it to happen. That might have to do something with the patriarchal story, the idea that women are property of men, yeah.
FC: How did The Wonder come around? And in what sense did your cultural distance to the source material help you find a unique perspective to tell this particular story?
SL: When I first read the novel, my first impression was that it was a potential minefield for a filmmaker. The novel had such delicate themes, so naturally I needed to find the correct balance between treating these themes seriously while finding some sort of cinematic pleasure, which was very challenging, because a film has to conquer you somehow. I was very worried about that, because it could have been very easy to get it all wrong. But I also felt an instant connection with the two women at the center of the story; their mutual relationship and the fact that they have to confront the community. The tension between individual freedom and the mandates of society, characters willing to pay the price for their freedom… I really connected with that as well, not to mention the power dynamics within an oppressive society ruled by men who dictate what’s right, what’s wrong and what should be done.
I felt like, well, maybe my way in was the fact that I grew up in the South of Chile in the 80’s during a dictatorship in a very Catholic country not too dissimilar to Ireland. Because the specificity of how it happens in the novel and the film has nothing to do with Chile, but beyond the local specificity, the dynamics at a human level, I knew them by heart. So I naturally connected with those.
FC: The patriarchal figures in the film; the father, the powerful churchmen… Do you think they can also be victims as well in this whole story, in this world ruled by religion?
SL: That’s a complex question. I will say yes and no. They didn’t invent patriarchy, and it isn’t fair to ask one generation to deconstruct the whole thing, but we are that generation. And we have to start doing it, to make the cultural assumptions that have been structural, so structural that we’re blind to them. We can say that we are them. To make them visible and then decide what to do, where we stand. Maybe back in the 19th century, you could say certain men were more of a victim, saddled by something inherent to their societal rules that has been evolving for centuries.
But with the level of consciousness that we have today, one can’t say that we’re not responsible. That’s the thing, we all are now. From our little corner of the world, we should all be saying; “Wake up, let’s be aware that these beliefs can actually be very dangerous, and we have the power to change them. They’re just collective thoughts, in which we have insisted. So it’s up to us to change that thought. It is only then that we may avoid what is happening in Iran, where that interpretation of reality allows a man to whip a young girl because she’s wrongly wearing something, or going out with her hair loose. That’s what is happening in this day and age. That’s how urgent it is.
FC: How would you define your own relationship with religion, or Catholicism?
SL: [Laughs] Well, I was a Catholic by default before I deconstructed myself. I remember thinking, well, maybe I’m Catholic because I was born in a Catholic culture. What if I had been born in India? That helped me realize that every religion is just stories we tell ourselves. Necessary stories perhaps, capable of civilizing us and saving us from barbarism. At least they used to, but do we still need them the same way today? What is the mechanism behind that? Can we control the stories and choose the stories we believe in? Can we create better stories that push us forward and not backwards?
Take a look at what happened with the abortion laws in the United States. It takes a blink and we’re back 50 years, and if we blink another time, we might as well be in 1930. I think this is happening everywhere, and it spreads fast because of the Internet. One click or article might generate another million of flat-earthers. You know what I mean? So yeah, everything is magnified because of the Internet. The light and the shadows.
FC: As an artist, do you feel you have a duty of educating and raising awareness over simply entertaining your audience?
SL: I never feel really comfortable with the idea of educating through my work. I understand what you mean, but it’s really not that. I think it’s offering an experience that is complex. To quote the late Jean-Luc Godard, “to provide thought in the form of spectacle.” That I can agree with. But never pedagogical, always experimental. I think especially in cinema, the first connection should be raw, profound, visceral, but always at an emotional level. And then, of course, ideas can be found behind these said emotions, but only after that first connection.
FC: Does growing up Catholic make you a better filmmaker?
SL: [Laughs] Well, faith and guilt are both essential in the history of cinema, so maybe.
FC: And spectacle too.
SL: Spectacle too, yeah, the drama! Those are central themes in cinema. When I was a boy, I used to go to church until one day I started to become conscious of the story mechanisms behind what was being expressed there. I thought, we’re looking at two pieces of wood nailed, but we’re seeing far more than what it’s actually there. We’re imbuing this symbol with a lot of added meaning. And that’s exactly the same mechanism that the viewer uses to relate to a film. The Wonder doesn’t literally happen on-screen, it happens inside the viewer, and it’s the collision between the projection of the film, but what really counts is what the viewer projects upon it — their desires, fears, fantasies, guilt. That’s where cinema really happens. There’s something religious in believing like that. Cinema is the dream factory, after all.
FC: Looking at your body of work, I can’t help but notice the surprising amount of strong female characters that have taken center stage in your films, from A Fantastic Woman (2017), Gloria (2013), Disobedience (2015). As a filmmaker, would you say you find female protagonists more interesting?
SL: Well, I can’t compete with statistics in my own filmography. [Laughs] I will say that it hasn’t been a conscious decision. It’s been the product of following what has moved me, and seemed exciting to do at that moment in time. In 2012, when we shot Gloria, the idea of placing a secondary character that normally would not warrant a lead role, was really moving and exciting. No one really thought if it was going to work or not, not even myself. I conceived it as the story of a lady, who seems to be a minor character, and who says goodbye to the male protagonist, who goes on a supercar somewhere else… But the camera stays with her and stays with her, and suddenly turns her into a protagonist. In that case, the first connection was emotional, rather than rational or intellectual. And I think that’s been the case with the rest of my work so far.
FC: Speaking of strong female performances, much like Florence Pugh, Kila Lord Cassidy delivers a commanding performance as the young Anna O’Donnell. How much did she understand about what was going on and the film’s subject, and how difficult was it to deal with that during production?
SL: Kila actually turned 12 the day we shot the big confession scene. We did have the great fortune of having her own mother (Elaine Cassidy) on set, playing her mother in the film. That was really helpful, because Elaine helped us go step by step and follow Kila’s process in terms of her understanding up to the level that she required. Of course, some of the themes in the film are delicate territory for someone her age, but we really tried to be as careful as possible. However, Kila is a really intelligent young girl and one shouldn’t underestimate or patronize her. We answered the questions whenever she posed them, and we tried to be there to help at all times. So in that regard, it was a very protective environment. Half of the film hinges on her character, so we needed someone who was capable of generating this duel, this electric artistic fight with Florence (Pugh), and Kila delivered that beautifully. I feel very blessed to have worked with her.
We were very lucky to summon all this talent. Working with English and Irish actors is a dream for a director. The tradition they have is amazing. Toby Jones, Niahm Algar, really, really great actors. They read the script and then we made the film. There was no conflict about it at all, only the joy of doing it.
FC: Andrei Tarkovsky once said that art as much as religion has its own postulate of faith. You have mentioned him as a big inspiration growing up. I couldn’t help but be reminded of Andrei Rublev while watching your film. I wonder if that was an influence.
SL: I mean, I would be terrified to mention Tarkovsky’s name as an influence, because he’s in a different dimension. I am a big fan of the climax scene at the end of Andrei Rublev, where a young artist forges a bell in front of the downtrodden priest. It may not have been a conscious inspiration, but it’s not a bad parallel because that film also deals with the mechanism of believing, and of course, that optical illusion is at the basis of cinema.
FC: It’s only fitting we end this conversation with the ending of the film. The in and out, the curtain call of The Wonder. It’s almost like your own spin on the Silencio ending in Mulholland Drive. The show is over.
SL: Oh, you just nailed it. Mulholland Drive is one of my favorite films, and I actually re-watched it last month on the big screen. I must say that the way in which Silencio is said at the end of that film is masterful, because it’s completely emptied of any meaning, it’s actually like music. And that’s precisely what I really wanted to reach at the end of The Wonder. It’s almost like not saying anything, you know, it’s so empty that you can fill it with whatever meaning you are projecting, which in a certain way is an ideal cinematic mechanism. Because again, you’re counting with the participation of the viewer. The viewer is creating the meaning, and you’re just providing the container.
The Wonder premiered at the San Sebastián Film Festival on 21 September 2022, and was released on Netflix on 16 November 2022.
