Respect and enjoyment don’t always travel together, and Vidas Secas puts that gap on screen for roughly 100 minutes. The political anger is baked into every cracked frame, the refusal to sentimentalise poverty is admirable, and the landscape photography communicates a life reduced to pure survival — dust, silence, blank horizons doing the work dialogue refuses to carry.
But austerity can tip from powerful into punishing, and for me it tipped. The characters felt trapped at a distance from me as well as from society — figures in a thesis about injustice rather than people I could grip onto. The episodic structure diagnoses brilliantly but rarely builds. And the dog moved me more than most of the human suffering. Which probably says something about me, or the film, or both.
Dry land. Dry lives. Dry viewing experience. The title wasn’t mucking about.