Helmut Dosantos’ film, Gods Of Mexico (Dioses de Mexico, 2022), emerges as a profound and visually arresting exploration into the heart of Mexico’s indigenous communities. Far from a simple documentary, it’s an ethnographic meditation that unfolds in three distinct parts, each a window into worlds often unseen and unheard. For those seeking to understand the multifaceted soul of Mexico, Gods of Mexico offers an unparalleled journey, revealing the enduring spirit and traditions that shape the nation’s identity. This film is not just a viewing experience; it’s an immersion into the very essence of Mexican heritage, making it a crucial piece for anyone interested in the diverse tapestry of Mexican culture.
The film, sometimes presented in an extended version at venues like the Cineteca Nacional in Mexico City, is structured into segments named after colors, beginning with White. This section plunges us into a community dedicated to the ancient practice of salt production. We witness the meticulous process, from gathering brine to the expansive salt pans where the sun works its transformative magic. Interwoven with this is the demanding work of men crafting lime in earth-kilns, an essential element for preparing and maintaining these very salt pans. White is visually stunning, characterized by carefully composed shots that emphasize the stark beauty of the landscape and the harmonious integration of human labor with the environment. The techniques are traditional, low-tech, almost disappearing into the earth itself, evoking a sense of timelessness and a connection to ancestral practices. The visual language here resonates with a heroic, almost mythic quality, reminiscent of early cinematic styles that celebrated human endeavor against grand landscapes.
Men working at salt pans in the 'White' section of Gods of Mexico
In stark contrast, the final segment, Black, adopts a fly-on-the-wall approach to document the arduous lives of miners. This section is dark and gritty, immersing the viewer in the relentless toil of men deep underground. The purpose of their labor, what they are extracting from the earth, remains unspoken, adding to the sense of raw, unadorned reality. While still rooted in traditional methods, this labor is portrayed as a more contemporary form of resource extraction, hinting at capitalist structures and the exploitation of labor. These two sections, White and Black, serve as powerful bookends to the film, framing an extraordinary central sequence: a series of portraits of indigenous peoples from across Mexico.
This central act of Gods of Mexico is a breathtaking collection of “portraits,” capturing individuals and small groups from the North, West, East, and South of Mexico. These are not conventional portraits. Shot from a distance, framing the entire body, they eschew close-ups and verbal descriptions. There are no spoken words, no captions identifying origins or stories, just the visual context within the frame and the ambient sounds of their environments. Each portrait is a long, static shot, inviting the viewer to truly observe and contemplate the individual or group presented. They stand motionless, often accompanied only by the sounds of nature – wind rustling through plants, the profound silence of the earth.
These striking images consciously echo early ethnographic portraiture, recalling the work of figures like Martin Gusinde among the Tierra del Fuego people in the 1920s, or Edward Curtis’ ambitious “The North American Indian” project spanning from the 1890s to the 1920s. There’s an acknowledged artificiality in these posed shots, yet the cumulative effect of this collection is deeply moving. These are not just images of people; they are moving still-lives that capture cultures, traditions, and ways of life. As these portraits flow across the screen, viewers are given the rare opportunity to truly look, to deeply consider these individuals who, in their presence and dignity, become the very gods of mexico.
To delve deeper into the making of this remarkable film, Desistfilm engaged in a conversation with Helmut Dosantos. This interview offers valuable context, background, and personal stories behind the production of Gods of Mexico, shedding light on the director’s journey and the people who contributed to this cinematic achievement.
DesistFilm: Could you share a bit about your background and how you began your journey into filmmaking?
Helmut Dosantos: My filmmaking journey began in the late 90s while I was living in Paris, primarily working as a photo assistant. Photography was my initial passion, but I felt increasingly constrained by its static nature. This led me to create my first short film and apply to film schools in Europe. I was accepted into the Czech Film Academy in Prague, which became a pivotal experience. Later, seeking diverse perspectives, I spent time at the EICTV film school in Cuba. Following Cuba, I immersed myself in my own projects, mainly short films and an independent mid-length fiction film shot in Buffalo, New York.
Mexico eventually became my home, and it was here that I embarked on two significant projects: a fiction feature and Gods of Mexico. While the fiction project faced the common fate of many early-career films – remaining unproduced – Gods of Mexico gained momentum. Two cinematographer colleagues from Prague joined me, and we ventured into Mexico, capturing initial footage that served as a teaser for funding applications. This effort proved successful, securing support from a major Mexican Film Fund, enabling us to begin principal photography in April 2018. That marked the true beginning of Gods of Mexico.
During this period, I also co-produced three other films, including Yuri Ancarani’s “Atlantis,” which premiered at the Venice Film Festival and received significant acclaim, and Tatiana Huezo’s “Prayers for the Stolen,” which premiered at Cannes and garnered considerable recognition.
DesistFilm: Turning to Gods of Mexico, what were the initial inspirations that sparked this project? Were there specific feelings about indigenous cultures, images, or ideas that ignited your imagination?
Helmut Dosantos: The genesis of Gods of Mexico can be traced back to a powerful black and white portrait captured during a 2013 scouting trip with Kacper Czubak, one of the cinematographers. Although this particular shot, due to technical reasons, didn’t make the final cut, its evocative strength became the catalyst for the entire film.
Initially, I envisioned a shorter film composed solely of moving portraits, inspired by Sergei Loznitsa’s short documentary “Portret,” a filmmaker I deeply admire. However, as I traveled throughout Mexico, I realized that portraits alone wouldn’t fully represent the breadth and depth of the indigenous communities across the country. I felt something crucial was missing: the element of human labor, the representation of the daily toil intrinsically linked to the land, the work rhythms passed down through generations. This realization led me to incorporate salt mining as the film’s opening, recognizing salt’s historical and fundamental role in human societies, not just as sustenance but also as currency.
The central portrait section, breaking the linear narrative, emerged as a way to showcase the vast diversity within Mexico, emphasizing that there are “many Mexicos,” not a single, monolithic narrative. It underscores the importance of preserving these varied cultural identities. The concluding section then takes us into an antimony mine in northern Mexico, bringing the theme of enduring labor full circle. Mining, in this context, isn’t just a backdrop; it’s a cornerstone of Mexico’s historical and contemporary identity. An earlier, longer version of the film also includes a chapter on Afro-descendant communities on the southern Pacific coast, planned for a future Director’s Cut release.
Desistfilm: Regarding the opening segment of the film, is the activity we see on the mesa related to lime kilns? Are the men collecting ashes producing lime there?
Helmut Dosantos: Yes, precisely. They are producing lime, and this process beautifully illustrates the syncretism that followed the Spanish Conquest. While the salt flats are ancient, dating back to pre-Columbian times, the lime kiln technique was introduced by the Spanish, a method with roots in Egyptian and Roman practices. In this region, lime has become indispensable for constructing and maintaining the salt pans. These two traditions, salt production and lime making, have coexisted and depended on each other for centuries. However, lime production is now facing imminent extinction. The last two individuals in the region with the knowledge are elderly, and younger generations are not learning the craft. Cement has become the modern replacement for lime. Interestingly, while lime can last for 80 to 100 years, cement requires more frequent repairs. When we decided to film the lime production alongside salt harvesting, every salt harvester wanted a sack of lime for themselves, highlighting its continued value. Filming the lime production was the longest shoot of the entire project, taking 45 days, although in the film it may appear to happen much faster.
Lime production depicted in the 'White' sequence of Gods of Mexico
Desistfilm: It struck me that the White section presents these traditional, yet somewhat industrial, techniques of salt and lime production, contrasting with the Black section’s depiction of a more contemporary, exploitative mineral mining. It highlights the historical exploitation of indigenous populations in mines, and the industrial foundations of the Mexican state rooted in mining.
Helmut Dosantos: Exactly. The European colonizers came primarily to exploit the land and extract valuable minerals like silver and gold. They relied on exploited local populations, brought enslaved Africans, and also attracted European workers to the mines, particularly in northern Mexico. In the salt flats, the community identifies as indigenous Popolocas. While many have lost their native language, they still maintain a strong Popoloca identity. In contrast, the northern mine area is predominantly mestizo. Indigenous people are less prevalent in these mines. Life in these mining communities seems frozen in time. They rely on donkeys for transport, echoing scenes from Sicilian sulfur mines in the 1950s. Infrastructure is limited, with poor roads, mostly paths, and unreliable cellular service. Communication with miners often involved leaving notes at the mine entrance, relying on word-of-mouth.
Desistfilm: The film’s structure, moving from White and Black sequences bookending the central portraits, feels almost improvisational yet beautifully cohesive. Was this structure pre-planned, or did it evolve organically during the filmmaking process?
Helmut Dosantos: The structure was a blend of planning and organic development. Collaboration with the communities was paramount. We engaged in extensive conversations to understand how they wished to be represented and to plan each shot meticulously. These dialogues, sometimes lasting months, were crucial, especially considering the historical marginalization these communities have faced. There’s a universal human desire to leave a legacy, to transmit cultural identity and traditions.
I worked with a flexible outline, adapting it based on community input and the significance of specific locations. I paid close attention to their tools, animals, environment, and aimed to ensure the aesthetic aspects of the film complemented their portrayal. My intention was for the subjects to be aware of the camera, connecting directly with the audience, presenting themselves with dignity, and reflecting their past, present, and future identities.
Desistfilm: It’s evident that the individuals in the portraits chose their attire and the objects they carried, signifying their identities and occupations – farmers, fishermen, musicians. Was this self-representation a deliberate choice for everyone portrayed?
Helmut Dosantos: Yes, it was. Each person and portrait embodies something unique, even if not explicitly stated. The end credits offer insights into their backgrounds, intentionally preserving the film’s poetic essence. I aimed to convey emotions and meaning visually, minimizing reliance on captions or dialogue. The credits themselves become a significant part of the storytelling, acknowledging the collective effort involved. They provide additional context about each individual and their indigenous community. In the White and Black sections, identities are perhaps more directly linked to their labor, but in the portrait section, the representation becomes more nuanced and symbolic.
Gods of Mexico stands as a powerful testament to the diverse cultures and enduring traditions of Mexico’s indigenous peoples. Through its striking visuals and thoughtful structure, the film invites viewers to contemplate the profound relationship between people, land, and labor, and to recognize the individuals portrayed as the true gods of mexico – the living embodiments of the nation’s rich and complex heritage. For those seeking a deeper understanding of Mexico beyond the typical tourist gaze, Gods of Mexico is an essential and enlightening cinematic journey.
