“Sotomayor’s latest has enough to keep the viewer on edge.”

To fill a void in her heart, Silvia (Manuela Oyarzún) adopts a puppy from a stray litter abandoned by their mother. On a remote island off the coast of Chilean Patagonia, she and her partner Mario (David Gaete) make their living harvesting seaweed, just like the rest of the small community that populates the island. The pup, now named Yuri, grows up fast in the windswept wilderness of the island, but when she goes missing after a New Year’s celebration Silvia is distraught. A frantic search leads her and Mario to a coastal cave that brings back childhood trauma connected with a disappeared boy, and to a modernist, abandoned home that ties everything together.

Chilean director Dominga Sotomayor has quietly established herself as one of South America’s most prominent and interesting directors, and a staple at festivals with every new film she releases. Her latest, La Perra (The Bitch), marks her Cannes debut, not counting the short segment in 2021’s anthology film The Year of the Everlasting Storm. And with this portrait of grief and guilt off the remote coast of Chile she immediately demonstrates what makes her such an exciting director. Shot on grainy film and with a soundscape filled with wind and seawater, La Perra immerses the viewer in the surroundings from its opening scene, in which a dog is rescued from the sea. Why was it swimming there, and is it perhaps the mother of the abandoned litter?

Sotomayor never lets such mysteries unfold themselves completely, which makes La Perra all the more intriguing. The fate of the young boy, who together with a younger Silvia (Rafaella Grimberg) forms the focal point of a long flashback segment at the heart of the film, is a thorn that has been in older Silvia’s side since she last saw him, and perhaps that is why she is so adamant about not losing Yuri. The dog is a free-wandering spirit though, only returning to drop off a litter of her own, which she then promptly abandons. There seem to be remnants of a story about Silvia as a mother, with the way she is concerned about Yuri’s behavior towards her pups, as well as the presence of a pregnant family member. Whether this is a leftover from an earlier draft or a conscious ambiguity Sotomayor introduces is unclear, but these moments feel somewhat strained and have little payoff, since we never get any idea of the reason for Silvia’s motherly concerns and protectiveness.

Similarly, a recurring motif of melodramatic chansons, often sung on a TV talent show Silvia and Mario watch religiously, never really gels. While the intrigue it creates gives the film an atmosphere shrouded in secrets, it makes Silvia as a character hard to read. Which doesn’t say anything about Oyarzún’s stoic acting, which mostly relies on the sorrow in her eyes. It’s a solemn but powerful performance, her distinctive face immediately etched into memory. She and Sotomayor’s direction hold the film together and prevent it from losing steam. Patagonia itself is photogenic enough, especially in cinematographer Simone D’Arcangelo’s deep, warm colors, to keep La Perra engaging all the way through. Not really as strong as Too Late To Die Young, Sotomayor’s latest has enough to keep the viewer on edge, even if it threatens to get bogged down in its own mysteries. And who knows, perhaps the cuteness overload of a young puppy chasing horses is worth the price of admission alone.