There is an enchanting kind of beauty in Tommaso Santambrogio’s lyrical trilogy about contemporary Cuban life, “The Oceans Are the True Continents.” With black-and-white cinematography that characterizes strict formalism throughout the film, this image of the island works hard to dedefine the colorful, sun-drenched image of Cuba that dominates the cultural imagination. An intergenerational study of exile and belonging, Santambrogio has crafted a sobering journey whose poetic sensibility is what makes it an interesting proposition and also an utterly alienating one.
“Oceans Are Real Continents”—whose title prompts audiences to reimagine how we understand the geography of the world around us—is guided by a similar kind of conviction. Instead of tracing a vision of Cuba through Havana, for example, the film’s roots go back to San Antonio de los Baños. The small Cuban town, at least as presented through Santambrogio’s eyes, is a ghostly, vibrant but haunting space for those who have left, are about to leave, or who dream of being able to do so. Three interwoven stories (although that word seems too generous for the kind of weak narratives structured by the film itself) anchor this neo-realist-inspired film.
In one, two young boys, Frank and Alan (Frank Ernesto Lamm and Alan Alan Alfonso Gonzalez), have high hopes of one day heading to the United States to become successful baseball players. It’s everything they dream of doing between daytime training and nightly trips to empty baseball fields, even if the reality around them (scored by family feuds and endless rain) risks dimming those prospects.
In another, Alex and Edith (real-life actor and theater coach Alexandre Diego and puppeteer Edith Ybarra Clara) struggle to make their relationship work amid their warring ambitions and life circumstances.
And in the final thread, Milagros (Milagros Llanes Martinez), an elderly woman who lives alone, spends her days selling peanuts on the streets and reading old letters from a loved one at home.
By moving between these three shots, Santambrogio aims to create a patchwork image of a country in transition. These are visions of dreams deferred and ambitions dashed, nostalgia nurtured and memory reworked. Lorenzo Casadio’s camera captures intimate moments—in lush landscapes and gritty urban areas alike—and frames each individual interaction we see with an eye for composition. Each shot is so carefully curated that any shot looks like a coffee-table book-ready image of contemporary Cuba.
There is a captivating beauty in simple scenes like Frank and his brother on the porch playing with toys at night away from their bickering parents; Or Milagros sitting in her courtyard while rain-soaked letters dried on her clothesline; Or even Alex and Edith relaxing naked in bed in each other’s arms, the two of them lost in each other’s embrace.
The political and cultural context that frames the lives of these characters (developed by Santambrogio alongside his mostly non-professional performers) is filtered through radio and television broadcasts, as well as bureaucracy (around visas and travel documents). The feeling that any one of their lives could suddenly be turned upside down by the opportunity to emigrate is felt in every scene, as if the reality of contemporary Cuba cannot be separated from its increasingly porous relationship with the world at large.
This is an appropriate message for an Italian director to deliver within a film that is nonetheless trying to create a solid vision of Cuba that looks forward (with its young children, whose future seems bright and full of possibilities), backward (with Milagros, whose letters take it back to the late 1980s) and inward (with the young couple In a suspended relationship). There’s no way to watch any of these stories without reading the metaphors they stand for, and “Oceans Are Real Continents” sometimes feels like a heady affair.
For example, when Alex guides his children through a workshop to benefit from the nature around them—“We will build a bridge between our memory, our existence, and the reality of our surroundings”—it’s as if he is articulating Santambrogio’s mission for them. A brilliant, beautifully realized film. But he’s also perhaps a bit sober and detached (it says a lot about the film that its most poignant sequence centers on Edith’s doll). If this is cinema as poetry, these are verses made to be framed and admired, rather than sung or felt.