In the decades since its release to critical acclaim and record-setting grosses, Jean-Pierre Jeunet’s “Amélie,” the whimsical dramedy about a quirky Parisian woman finding love through random acts kindness, has endured in pop culture and influenced a generation of filmmakers, both for better and certainly for worse. Few times, however, have the imitators been as undeniably apparent about what they borrowed from it as Mexican writer-director Urzula Barba Hopfner, in her refreshingly endearing, subtly stylized debut “Corina.”
A 20-year-old agoraphobic living in Guadalajara — México’s second largest metropolis and Guillermo del Toro’s hometown — the title character, played by Naian González Norvind (“New Order”), wears boots, a maxi skirt and sports the French bob haircut emblematic of actress Audrey Tautou as Amélie Poulain. As if the visual parallels with Jeunet’s romantic fable weren’t already glaring, “Corina” begins with voice over narration over flashbacks that recount the protagonist’s tragedy-stained childhood in the aftermath of her father’s untimely death. The isolating tendencies of her fear-stricken mother Reneé (Carolina Politi) reduced Corina’s world to only a few blocks. She has never traveled outside of the limited demarcation she considers safe. She goes to work at a publishing house (inside a newspaper company building), then to the nearby grocery store, then back home counting her steps.
But in spite of the overly familiar setup of Barba Hopfner’s character portrait, the narrative evolves into its own idiosyncrasy, not only by virtue of its Mexican context or because Corina wishes to be seen as a writer, but because its observations about self-actualization, courage and the value of stepping outside of one’s comfort zone (quite literally in this case) thoughtfully expands on the themes that “Amélie” addresses. Both films share a delightfully offbeat tone and a penchant for looking at the bright side, but their paths diverge otherwise.
Tired of her job correcting pulp novels, Corina acts out of character when the publisher has trouble with its most most profitable author, Xareni Silverman (Mariana Giménez). The suits aren’t able to convince Silverman to change the ending to her most recent novel, which goes against expectations established throughout her series in such morbid fashion it will likely flop. After illicitly getting a hold of the manuscript, Corina rewrites the conclusion by giving it a hopeful spin. She does it for her personal fulfillment, but the modified text accidentally finds its way to her boss’ desk. What ensues in this development, calling to mind a similar one in Pedro Almodóvar’s “The Flower of My Secret,” might not qualify as unexpected, but it sets Corina on a believable growth journey.
Leaning into Corina’s near muteness when outside the safety of her home, González Norvind expresses the character’s aversion to new interactions and experiences with an anxiety ridden face and skittish physicality. Dialogue feels secondary to her performance of unassuming determination. Wherever Corina walks within her restricted domain, cinematographer Gerardo Guerra (“Dos Estaciones”) shoots her very closely, as if the frame can barely contain her.
As Corina’s supportive mother, Politi’s humorous tenderness makes for a memorable onscreen presence, while Cristo Fernández, playing a new clerk at the local store named Carlos, doesn’t so much enter the picture as a romantic interest, but a friendly ally. That alone decenters romance as the motor of the narrative, even if Corina seems to like him.
The saturated bright colors of Corina’s clothing contrast with the muted, mostly gray colors of the publishing house’s offices. It’s an instant if obvious aesthetic choice to denote that she occupies a different wavelength. At home, her colorful attires match with the pink-hued walls and heavily decorated interiors plastered with postcards and knickknacks for a homey, yet stylized look that inevitably also calls to mind Amélie’s peculiar abode. “Corina” feels just manicured enough for that deliberate aesthetic to register, but not so much as to overwhelm the image. That equilibrium also permeates Barba Hopfner’s filmmaking ideas.
The quaint pleasures of “Corina” ultimately give way to a surprising defense of sanguine outlooks and happy endings in the face of a world in disarray. Barba Hopfner confronts her film’s protagonist by contrasting her with the pessimistic mindset of her literary heroine. The latter makes a strong case for how people’s empathy has limitations, arguing that indifference takes over in the face of suffering. Yet, while Corina grew up sheltered in an environment of suffocating caution, her brand of bravery purports that awareness of the evils that plague reality, met with a desire to seek joy amid that darkness, can be radical. Neither women’s worldview is entirely incorrect; it’s in the middle ground between cynicism and optimism that “Corina” transcends lightheartedness and arrives at wisdom.
The filmmaker positions “Corina” in a rare middle ground within Mexican cinema: neither a hard-hitting, issue-driven art house offering like those often at international festivals, nor the toothless, broad comedies plagued with overexposed faces and trite storylines. Barba Hopfner’s artistic voice emerges from behind the shadow of the references for an auspicious first outing that has legs to resonate outside Mexico. Unlike “Amélie,” fulfillment for Corina isn’t reduced to finding romantic companionship, but in landing the opportunity to create her own stories on the page and in life. Even if the impulse is to reduce “Corina” to an adaptation of a better-known movie, in the ends it rewrites itself into something new.
