“A deeply unsettling but profoundly beautiful elegy for an entire generation whose stories have been concealed for far too long.”

There’s nothing quite like the existential crisis that comes as a result of discovering that there have been roughly 117 billion people who have lived throughout all of human history, an unfathomably large number that only becomes more intimidating once we realise how only the smallest fraction of them left enough of an impression to even be considered the faintest of memories. Yet, every one of these people had distinct personalities, ambitions and desires, almost all of which have sadly been lost to time. It’s a bleak realisation, but one that is always important to remember when it comes to contextualising existence, which is far more difficult to comprehend than many of us would like to imagine. This momentary sojourn into the haunting facts of life ties in directly with Salón de Belleza, the absolutely staggering directorial debut of Nathalia Acevedo, who takes on the intimidating task of adapting the novella of the same title by Mario Bellatin. This landmark work of literature centres around a beauty salon in Mexico in the early 1990s that is turned into a makeshift treatment centre for the gay men suffering from a mysterious disease that is causing their bodies to rapidly wither until they pass on. They are tended to by the owner of the establishment who reflects on how, in his own words “what was once dedicated to beauty is now dedicated to death”, helping these people transition to as peaceful a death as possible, determined to explore whether the soul lingers in the memories and stories of those whose bodies slowly perish. The result is a film that is as poetic as it is provocative, a deeply unsettling but profoundly beautiful elegy for an entire generation whose stories have been concealed for far too long. They are given a small but incredibly moving tribute by this film, which proves to be almost indescribably beautiful (both visually and in terms of the story being told) and undeniably challenging in how it tackles these intimidating ideas, using actors to pay tribute to the countless people who lost their lives before their stories truly could be told, or their names even remembered.

While it may not be directly referenced, there is no ambiguity that Salón de Belleza was written as a response to the HIV/AIDS crisis, which reached its peak during the early 1990s, when the story is set. The plague that causes those infected to die a slow and painful death, where their bodies wither away, is not given a name, but the clarity with which it addresses the obvious themes makes it equally as powerful, if not more so. There have been several films that address the subject, each one making astute and meaningful observations, and gradually we’ve begun to see more works built around looking at specific aspects, rather than efforts to make the definitive film on the matter. Working closely with Bellatin’s text, the director crafts a film that is focused on seeking answers to one simple question: how do you find hope in a situation where destruction seems inevitable? Every character we encounter in this film seems to be fighting for their survival, but when dealing with an incurable disease, any kind of optimism feels misplaced. The film doesn’t spend too much time trying to answer the question directly, but rather makes observations that prove how difficult this period was for these people and their loved ones who had to watch them fade away. The decision to centre the film around an older protagonist (played brilliantly by performance artist Sam Louwyck, whose quiet and soulful work is an invaluable commodity that the film uses to explore these harrowing themes, becoming some of the most profoundly compelling acting of the year) is simultaneously heartbreaking and fascinating. A large portion of the queer population at this time did not reach his age, which in itself suggests a conversation around the idea of the survivor’s remorse felt by those who didn’t fall victim to the disease, as well as that of mortality as a whole. When we are young, we believe that we’re immortal, and that nothing can destroy our youthful spirit. Yet, as we see the bodies of these men grow weaker, it becomes clear that this was far from the case. Salón de Belleza becomes a haunting but moving tribute to a generation lost to time, causing us to wonder who these people would have become, since each one of them had ambitions and desires which disappeared as they steadily succumbed to a destructive sickness.

At a glance, you would be forgiven for thinking that Salón de Belleza was made by someone who witnessed the crisis firsthand, watching an entire population erode at a shockingly fast pace, since there is a candour and maturity that suggests it comes from a deeply personal place. However, the stark reality is that the director was born only a year after the first reported case of HIV/AIDS in her native Mexico, which makes this film an even more impressive endeavour. While she was working with a text that was already strong enough to draw our attention, the decisions she made in bringing the novella to life are fascinating and nothing short of incredible. The film functions as a social and cultural collage, consisting primarily of scenes accompanied by narration, moving between the present day of the story and the recent past. It creates a layered portrait of this community in both its heyday, where celebrations were a regular occurrence, and in its present form, where the people who came to this establishment to feel a sense of community and mutual love as patrons have now been taken in as patients, spending their final days surrounded by those same people with whom they used to dance and sing only months or years before. Emotionally, the film is an astonishing piece of work – some strong, impossibly challenging feelings are to be expected, but at no point is this story unnecessarily overwrought. Acevedo focuses on creating a film that exists at the perfect intersection between tenderness and despair, a balance which is integral to the film’s identity. It is often relentlessly sad, since the images of these people slowly becoming weaker, as well as those who have set aside all other responsibilities to help their friends on their final transition, can deal a brutal emotional blow. Yet, there are occasional bursts of joy (albeit contained to the flashbacks, where we are given momentary reprieve from the sorrow), nestled between layers of tragedy, with the technical elements intersecting with the story to create a bold and imaginative vision that is as narratively rich as it is artistically resonant.  Salón de Belleza is built around raw, visceral emotions and the director refuses to resort to misguided sentimentality, preferring instead to craft a film that leaves an enormous impression without becoming saccharine.

There are some films that defy categorisation based on the story being told, and others that contain images and ideas that stop the viewer dead in their tracks, rendering them essentially speechless. Credit must be given not only to the director for how she adapts this landmark novella, but also to the crew of exceptionally gifted craftspeople who come together to give this film its unique identity. The sound design, by a team led by Nicolas Becker (whose previous work includes Sound of Metal and Dahomey, this being the most recent addition to an already eclectic career), creates a distinct atmosphere where every whisper carries meaning, and the cinematography by Balthazar Lab aids in turning this into a truly immersive sensory experience, each frame an evocative composition on its own, collected into a series of stunning images that say more than any words ever could. Salón de Belleza contains some of the most beautifully devastating and harrowing examinations of the human condition committed to film in a very long time, a relentlessly daring work that moves and unsettles in equal measure. At its core, this is a deeply human film, but one that is not afraid to challenge the viewer, showing that many of the most compassionate, important works of art are those which force the audience to sit in the discomfort, reckoning with the harsh reality presented to us on screen. The result is a work of incredible artistry that evokes the kind of profound sadness that sits deep within the soul, never entirely extinguished but remaining as a fervent reminder of how life can sometimes be extraordinarily challenging. Thus Acevedo crafts something that sets out to find beauty and hope in the face of unrelenting devastation – despite its subject matter, Salón de Belleza is not solely about death, but rather a bold and captivating depiction of human empathy at its purest and most direct. The film evokes almost indescribable emotions, employing a sense of melancholy in its exploration of the interplay between the pain and poetry that emerges when setting out to investigate the deepest recesses of existence. Formally, Salón de Belleza is an astonishing work – several images and sequences strike the soul, confronting us with the immense weight of witnessing a devastating past. The dialogue between characters is quite sparse, with the focus being on narration, images and sound, creating a multimodal collage of this place and the people who lived within it, as well as offering a few moments of gentle catharsis that make it clear that there is more to this film than just emotional desolation. The carnal interweaves with the abstract to create a masterful work of art that draws us in and takes us on a daunting but unforgettably moving journey that is bound to be seen as a defining work of contemporary queer cinema, and a vitally important piece of social and cultural storytelling.