There’s something hauntingly beautiful about stories that force us to confront the silences of our past. Luis Diego Pérez’s The Beast Is Not to Blame isn’t just another coming-of-age tale—it’s a mirror held up to the unspoken tensions of growing up queer in a world that demands conformity. And yet, what makes this project particularly fascinating is how it’s being shaped by a coalition of Latin American producers who see its potential not just as a film, but as a cultural statement. From my perspective, this isn’t merely about funding a movie; it’s about creating a space where marginalized voices can finally be heard without apology.
Let’s start with the premise: a nine-year-old boy, Iván, whose world unravels when his best friend moves away. The twist? Their bond transcended friendship, a truth they couldn’t share openly. What many people don’t realize is how rare it is for Latin American cinema to center queer childhood without reducing it to trauma. This isn’t a story about victimhood; it’s about the quiet ache of unspoken love, the way kids navigate identity in spaces that demand they stay invisible. Personally, I think this is where the film’s power lies—not in melodrama, but in the subtle, almost imperceptible moments of longing. The First Communion scene, for instance, becomes a metaphor for being seen and not being seen at the same time. It’s a brilliant choice, one that layers religious symbolism with the rawness of self-discovery.
Pérez’s approach is refreshingly introspective. He’s not just drawing from memory; he’s excavating it. What makes this particularly fascinating is his admission that the film is built on ‘gaps in my memory’—the things he couldn’t articulate as a child, the guilt he carried, the wonder he found in nature and faith. This isn’t a tidy narrative; it’s messy, fragmented, and deeply human. A detail that I find especially interesting is how he frames religion not as an antagonist, but as a source of magic. In a region where faith and queer identity often clash, this nuance is revolutionary. It’s like saying, ‘Yes, I was taught to fear my own body, but I also found beauty in the rituals that shaped me.’ That duality is what gives the film its emotional heft.
Now, let’s talk about the producers. Dos de Patos and Expansiva Cine aren’t just backing this project—they’re investing in a cultural shift. What this really suggests is that Latin American cinema is entering a new era, one where co-productions aren’t just about budget-sharing but about building bridges between nations. Pérez’s mention of films like Gugu’s World and the influence of directors like Chloe Zhao and Carla Simón isn’t accidental. It’s a deliberate nod to a global wave of queer storytelling that prioritizes subtlety over spectacle. But here’s the thing: while those films might have international audiences, The Beast Is Not to Blame is rooted in a specific place—Costa Rica—and that specificity is its strength. It’s not about making the film ‘marketable’; it’s about ensuring that the stories of people like Iván aren’t lost to the homogenization of global cinema.
And then there’s the question of visibility. When Isabella Gálvez from Expansiva Cine says supporting the film feels ‘meaningful,’ she’s not just talking about funding. She’s talking about creating a space where queer childhoods—so often erased or vilified—are not only acknowledged but celebrated. This raises a deeper question: Why do we still need to fight for the right to exist in stories? The fact that this film is being called ‘refreshing’ by its producers speaks volumes about how far we’ve come, but also how far we still have to go. In a region where LGBTQ+ rights are still contested, this project is a quiet act of resistance. It’s saying, ‘Our stories matter, and they deserve to be told with care.’
Looking ahead, I can’t help but wonder what this means for the future of Latin American cinema. If films like this can find their way onto screens across the region, imagine the ripple effect. It’s not just about representation; it’s about normalization. When kids in Mexico or Peru see themselves in Iván’s struggle, it changes the conversation. It shifts the narrative from ‘Why are they different?’ to ‘Of course they’re different. That’s what makes them human.’ The fact that Pérez is collaborating with producers from Panama and Costa Rica also hints at a broader movement—one where borders are less about division and more about shared cultural DNA. This isn’t just a film; it’s a blueprint for how stories can transcend national boundaries while staying deeply rooted in local truths.
In the end, The Beast Is Not to Blame is more than a movie. It’s a reckoning with silence, a celebration of the magic that exists in the margins, and a testament to the power of storytelling to heal. If you take a step back and think about it, this project isn’t just about one boy’s journey—it’s about the collective yearning of an entire generation to be seen, to be understood, and to be loved. And that, my friends, is the kind of story that changes the world.
