Locarno 2024 Interview: MEXICO 86 Director César Diáz on Blending Personal Trauma with Political Thrillers, Mother-Son Relationships, Guatemala's Dark History
Belgian-Guatemalan film director César Díaz has been making politically charged films.
His debut feature, Nuestras Madres, which won the Camera d'Or at the Cannes Film Festival, explored the devastating impact of Guatemala's civil war, particularly through the lens of maternal strength and resilience. Now, with his latest film, Mexico 86, Díaz delves even deeper into his personal history, drawing from his own childhood experiences during the Guatemalan Civil War to craft a story that blends the intimate with the political.
Screen Anarchy met with Díaz to discuss how his memories and the broader historical context of the era influenced the film's narrative and emotional core. He also reflects on the challenges of balancing genre conventions with deeply personal storytelling, and how his own family history continues to shape his cinematic vision.
Screen Anarchy: MEXICO 86 is a personal film for you, reflecting on your childhood experience during the Guatemalan Civil War. Could you discuss how these personal memories influence the narrative and emotional core of the film?
César Diáz: Actually, my own experience allowed me to understand and really know the characters. It helped me grasp exactly what their feelings are, where their griefs lie, what they are trying to do, or what they are trying to achieve, you know? But this is not an autobiographical film. I only picked some pieces of my own story.
You know, it's true that I was raised by my grandmother, and my mom was in Mexico. I would go back and forth during the holidays, and then, when I was ten, I moved to Mexico to live with my mom. But everything else is just fiction, actually.
Your previous film NUESTRAS MADRES also deals with mothers as characters, and here, the mother is a very strong character as well. Why are you driven to this perspective on motherhood?
I think it's because, as I said, I was raised by a woman—my grandmother. In Guatemala, during the war and post-war periods, it was the women who held everything together, you know? They were the ones who stayed in the country, seeking justice, still looking for their loved ones. I believe they are the ones who held the country together, actually.
And in my memories, it was the women who raised me. I wanted to pay homage to them. Because usually, in traditional revolutionary war movies or whatever, there's a strong focus on men—they’re the revolutionaries, and the women are often omitted.
Is this an intentional subversion of that convention in cinema?
Well, for me, the theme I wanted to explore is the mother and son relationship. The problem is that the revolutionary men kept pursuing the revolution, and they never cared about the kids. I mean, they would go to the mountains, go into exile, and then come back without thinking about who would take care of the kids, you know?
This makes the women’s characters more complex. They want to be part of the revolution; they have this need to transform society, to fight for something they believe is fair against a dictatorship. But at the same time, they have to take care of the kids. So, they face this dilemma—what am I going to do? The men don’t have that dilemma.
For me, the mother and son relationship is important because I think that just the biological link is not enough. Your mother isn’t just the one who gave birth to you; she’s the one who takes care of you, raises you, loves you, and spends time with you. That’s an important thing for me to express.
When I put these two characters together—mother and son—they don’t know each other. They have to learn how to live together, even though they’re mother and son. This is my exploration of how we build this kind of relationship.
Besides what you mentioned about being raised by your grandmother, is there any real event or person behind the script that you utilized? Is the book of dead and tortured real?
Yeah, the Book of the Dead is a real book that was found. It wasn’t found in 1986; it was discovered later by an American anthropologist, Kate Doyle. She’s been keeping the book at the Washington University. We worked closely with her to stay as close as possible to the real book. But we changed the portraits because we wanted to respect the real victims.
I wasn’t comfortable using real images. For instance, the mother of one of my best friends is in the book, and I couldn’t ask for permission to use her image and her real story on screen. It didn’t feel right. So, I recreated the book based on real events, which I believe made it stronger. This allowed me to use it narratively without the constraints of sticking to exact details, which would limit how I could tell the story.
The book is a powerful element because it shows the world that the repression was real and that the entire administration was involved. The pictures in the Book of the Dead were taken from the population registry, which means that the city council was working with the repressive regime. It’s real proof of the systemic nature of the violence.
Have you had other inspirations from real people, especially the rebels?
Yes, I conducted many interviews with my mom’s comrades, and hearing them talk about what they did and why they did it helped me understand that their activism wasn’t just a job—it was a part of who they were. At some point, you might think, “Maria, just stop. Take care of your kid.”
But she can’t because her activism is a part of her identity. You can’t ask someone to stop being who they are. I came to understand this aspect of their lives through these interviews and spending time with them.
When you mentioned your dilemma about the Book of the Dead, were there any other ethical dilemmas you faced while working on the film in such a personal way?
One of the things nobody will see is that my mom and her comrades always kept these things secret—the guns, the fake IDs, the double or even triple lives they led. Putting that on screen could feel like a betrayal because I was part of that world, and now I’m sharing it with everyone.
But for me, it’s not a betrayal. If some people see it that way, I understand, but I see it as a narrative process that helps the audience connect with the story. I also see it as an homage to what they did. Having a double life or being away from your child is not easy. So, for me, it’s about honoring that complexity and sacrifice.
Was Bérénice Bejo your first choice for the role? What was her reaction when you showed her the script?
Actually, I saw her in the movie La Quietud by Pablo Trapero, where she speaks Spanish. I knew her from before, from The Artist, and I think she’s amazing. And then when I discovered that she speaks Spanish, I was like, "What?" I started digging, and I found out she’s Argentinian. I also learned that she left Buenos Aires when she was little due to political reasons. So I thought, okay, there’s something here that she can relate to in the character, something she can understand.
We spent time together, just talking about our families, the way we deal with secrets. Of course, she read the script before our meetings, and I think we found common ground. There was something in her personal story that really resonated, which allowed her to create this wonderful character.
Did you rehearse before the shooting?
Yes, we rehearsed a lot. And you might think it was because of the Spanish, but actually, it was more about working with the kid.
I thought you were going to say because of the kid.
No, no, no. Actually, with the kid, I did something different—I didn’t give him the script.
Really? So he was improvising?
Not exactly. I worked with him for about three months before shooting, just exploring emotions, going to dark places, and then to happy places. We worked on body language, on his expressions, especially his eyes.
The parents read the script, but I only gave him his lines the day before each shooting day. He discovered the character little by little, which was amazing because I think he knew exactly where I was going.
I shared with him my memories, my griefs, telling him how sad I was when my mom was away, and he understood. He really understood.
The film is a mix of family drama and spy thriller, in terms of conventions. How did you approach structuring the film? Did you have any specific influences or references in mind?
Yeah, I think we make films that we really like, actually. In the '60s and '70s, there were so many great political thrillers, like The French Connection or Running on Empty. Running on Empty was a huge reference for me.
I wanted to explore how external danger can become a source of conflict within a family. The political thriller allows you to reach a broader audience that enjoys that genre while also making the story more universal. We all know the spy-thriller convention—someone has to kill someone else, and so on. It’s a good entry point into the family drama.
Balancing these elements was hard work, both in the script and in the editing room. We needed to keep everything on the same level to ensure that the characters were fully understood.
Was there a different version of the film during editing?
Yeah, I mean, I had a version that was almost entirely the thriller, and it felt weird—kind of empty. When you only have the thriller...
Did you screen it for a test audience?
No, no, no. It was just me and the editor testing things out. We also had a version that was mostly the family drama. But then we realized that to understand what the character was doing, we needed the political thriller elements too. That’s why balancing both aspects was so important.
So, does the final version of the film differ from the script you originally wrote?
A little bit, yes. In the script, there were one or two more thriller scenes. We also had a more complete arc for the love story between María and Miguel. But closing that story properly, with a scene where they say goodbye and decide to separate, felt too heavy for the end.
As soon as María calls after the car chase, then talks to her mom, and goes to the magazine editor, there’s nothing more that needs to be said. We needed to keep up the pace. Closing the love story would have slowed everything down, creating a huge stop in the film. Restarting the momentum for the last two scenes would have been too difficult.
Even though it was a pity to lose some of that, I think it’s clear that when María is alone in the car with the kid, Miguel is no longer a part of her life. At least, that’s how I see it.
Why did you decide to include the 86 football final into the film?
I remember being so into the World Cup in '86. I followed all the matches, all the players. But the reason I kept it in the film wasn’t just because of the year.
For me, the interesting thing is that during that time, all eyes were on Mexico and the World Cup, while just across the border, terrible things were happening, and nobody cared. Everyone was focused on football.
It’s like what we see today with the Olympics or events in Ukraine or Israel and Palestine—everyone’s distracted by the spectacle. It’s similar to the 1978 World Cup in Argentina, where people were being tortured in the same stadiums where matches were being played just days before.
But it also has geopolitical relevance, right?
Exactly. But for me, it’s also a critique. It’s saying, “You really care about this football, this World Cup, but you don’t care about 250,000 people.” At that time, the information wasn’t widely known, or it was kept somewhat secret. But for those who wanted to know, the information was there. Yet, nobody cared, especially because the majority of the victims in Guatemala were indigenous people. There’s a kind of racist perspective to it.
If you look at Argentina and Chile—where there were around 3,000 people who disappeared compared to the 250,000 in Guatemala—people didn’t care as much because the victims were indigenous. The media didn’t care because they were Indians. This aspect isn’t explicitly clear in the film, of course, but the point is that nobody cared about what was happening in the neighboring country.
You’ve focused on Guatemala in your films. Do you plan to continue exploring Guatemala in your future work?
I’d like to make a film in Belgium. I’ve been living there for 25 years now, which is why I speak French. But I still want to explore the same themes—motherhood, fatherhood, mother-son relationships, father-son relationships.
But still politically focused?
Yes, I think it’s important. Everything is political, in a way. But I also enjoy mixing political, art-house films with more genre, mainstream stories.
Do you do this by choice, or is it just a natural inclination?
No, it’s a choice. In the case of Guatemala, I was really interested in understanding why Guatemala is such a violent country. Where does this violence come from? Why is there such a lack of trust among people?
When you go to Guatemala, there’s this huge lack of trust—even in small things, like when you tell someone, “I had an amazing croissant this morning,” and they respond, “Really?” Why don’t they believe you? It’s almost like an ingrained mistrust. I wanted to understand why people are like this, why all this violence exists.
And I think you can trace it back to the history—40 years of dictatorship, the lack of justice, the impunity, the fact that you could kill. In Guatemala today, you could kill someone, and nobody would care. There’s no punishment—99% of crimes go unpunished.
That’s a staggering number. And there’s a reason for it. If, as a society, we see that a dictator who killed countless people wasn’t punished, and the justice system isn’t working, and the state isn’t functioning, it creates an environment where people feel they can do whatever they want.
This is why, in the particular case of Guatemala, politics is so important. But in Belgium, for example, there’s a different kind of shock. Sometimes the Belgian society is very racist against Muslims or the Moroccan population.
And I think, wait a second—60 years ago, you went there, brought people here in buses to work in the mines. You brought them here to do dangerous, life-threatening jobs, and now you’re surprised they’ve built lives and kept their culture? This is the kind of subject I’d like to explore.
Do you consider your films to be politically activist or engaged?
No, no, no. I’d like to think of my films more as a window into the characters’ journeys. While there’s an intention to bring certain issues to light, I believe that if your main objective is just to spotlight a subject, you lose the artistic gesture that should come with it.
For me, the priority is to present a character’s journey that the audience can relate to. Of course, there are important contexts and issues around them that create conflict and situations, but I always try to approach them in a cinematic way.
Speaking of characters, there’s a clear dichotomy between the private and revolutionary life of the mother, as well as masculine versus feminine stereotypes or conventions. Do you consciously work with these different perspectives or worlds?
No, I don’t frame it strictly in terms of masculine or feminine perspectives. For me, it’s more about the huge dilemma she faces. I’m exploring how motherhood can be different—how, in an extreme way, being separated from her child might actually be an attempt to create a better world for him.
It sounds strange, but she’s doing what she’s doing for her son, even though it means paying a huge price. She wants him to live in another country, a free country, in a different context than she did. The price she pays is not being able to be with him.
So, it’s also a generational dialogue?
Yes, of course. I think that’s why I like putting María’s life in that context. The previous generation had the tools to truly transform life—to create a revolution. They had this need for justice, for freedom, and a different world, and they had a path that allowed them to pursue that.
My generation, however, has the same needs and feelings, but we no longer have the tools. There’s no clear, visible enemy like a dictatorship or the military.
You mentioned that you’re planning to make a film set in Brussels. Does that mean you won’t be revisiting Guatemala in your films?
Not for now. Maybe later. There’s a novel I want to adapt called The Judges of Guatemala, but that’s for later. It’s a contemporary story set in a slum near a popular neighborhood. The plot revolves around a kid from the slum who rapes and kills a girl from the other neighborhood. The community, seeing that the state and justice system aren’t working, takes matters into their own hands and judges the kid in a cruel, violent, and unjust way.
This story illustrates why we need the state to manage our conflicts. If you and I have a conflict, we can’t make justice ourselves—we need an external body to rule on it. The question is, what happens when no one is ruling? How do we deal with our dilemmas and problems?
One scene that really sticks in my mind is the car chase, where María faces a huge dilemma. Did you have any issues with that scene, or did the kid have any problems with it?
No, no. We discussed that scene a lot. It’s actually based on a personal experience.
When I was a baby, something similar happened. My mom was in the car with propaganda in the trunk and got caught at a police checkpoint. She told me that as the police asked her to open the trunk, she had her hand on her gun, ready to use it. She said to me, “One bullet for you and one bullet for me, because I would never let them torture us.”
In the end, the policeman just closed the trunk and let her go. She never knew if he didn’t understand what was in the trunk or if he forgave her and didn’t want to arrest her. But that story stuck with me. I completely understand her perspective because, during those times, they would torture babies to make parents talk. My mom was ready to protect us from that at any cost.
Cover image (c) Locarno Film Festival
