When Pedro Lemebel’s novel “My Tender Matador” debuted in 2001, it was instantly hailed as an insightful exploration of passion amid revolution, weaving broader political observations into a trans love story. The film adaptation by director Rodrigo Sepúlveda keeps the core romance at the center of the story intact, yet it seems to have come at the expense of the novel’s broader social, political, and historical context: all of them M.I.A. in the picture. A love story unmoored from any place, time, or social roadmap, the film version exists all on its own, making for a mildly interesting romantic yarn that teases at a bigger world that should make all of this more interesting than it ultimately is.
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“My Tender Matador” opens in a small nightclub where a drag show is going at full tilt when a police squad arrives and starts beating and shooting attendees and audience members alike. A young, handsome man helps one of the older trans audience members out and to safety, introducing himself to her as Carlos (Leonardo Ortizgris). When the woman is pressed for her name, she replies that it is Queen of the Corner (Alfredo Castro), kicking off a coy courtship between the pair.
Smitten and more than a little flattered, the Queen is still suspicious when Carlos pursues her, and even more so when he asks to stash several boxes of books in her dilapidated apartment, which she allows. Nuance is the name of the game, here, and Sepúlveda’s direction allows for a thematic duality to develop that informs not just the underpinning of this relationship, but who the Queen is as a character. Carlos’ activities and the meetings he begins to host at the apartment point towards revolutionary activity, and despite the Queen’s outwardly apolitical attitudes, she’s no idiot. As a trans woman, the Queen understands the power of dramaturgy, and like her budding relationship with Carlos, all that really matters is the glamorous surface.
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Indeed, she has plenty of practice ignoring inconvenient realities that ruin a fun illusion, yet how this ties into the broader sociopolitical landscape, or what that landscape even is, can be hard to know. Readers of the novel might understand that this takes place in 1986 during the waning days of Pinochet’s rule, but the film never takes any time to establish this or anything about the world this story lives in, really. Worse still, this undefined revolutionary network Carlos supports is never identified or explained in any way, and certainly not within the context of why the struggle might matter for the Queen, her community, or the nation as a whole.
It’s hard to know what this relationship tells us about the state of Chile during this period, and that’s a problem. When one thinks about movies focused on love in the time of war/revolution, there’s usually some outside force that is driving the urgency of the romance, contextualizing the difficulty or the stakes somehow. In films like “The Last of the Mohicans,” “The Year of Living Dangerously,” or even “Casablanca,” the broader conflict surrounding the romance makes it difficult or complicated, yet Sepúlveda’s take on “My Tender Matador” is weirdly thin in this regard.
This failure to establish any sense of place, and worse, a social framework about the time period, rob “My Tender Matador” of any teeth. Castro and Ortizgris do fine work in the lead roles, and develop an organic, believable bond that feels true to their story, making Sepúlveda’s failure to develop any kind of universe to contextualize their journey all the more frustrating. The Queen’s monologue halfway through the film about the invisibility of the LGBTQ community throughout all the country’s revolutions is indeed powerful, yet again, it comes without any circumstantial background about what has happened in Chile up to this point, or what the new revolution represents.
There’s plenty to admire in a visual sense, as the production values and set design of “My Tender Matador” point towards a great deal of consideration towards the larger effort. Rubble and rubbish-strewn streets and the torn wallpaper in the Queen’s flat stand in stark opposition to the wealthier class of citizens who live only blocks away, yet seem to reside on a different planet. It’s a handsome looking film, to be sure, even if the story doesn’t always fill out the larger space carved out for it all.
Like a candy bar with no filling, Sepúlveda’s version of “My Tender Matador” is all chocolate without any nougat or nuts. Devoid of any sociopolitical or historical context that might inform the audience about the “where” or “why” of all this, what remains is a somewhat interesting romance with mild stakes and little else. This is good enough for a bit, but like a candy bar, true nourishment requires stronger stuff. [C]
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