Director: Suzanne Andrews Correa
Writer: Suzanne Andrews Correa
Stars: Adriana Paz, Teresa Sanchez, Jennifer Trejo
Synopsis: In the border city of Juárez, Mexico, where violence against women is perpetrated with impunity, an unlikely defender emerges with a desperate call for change. Inspired by true events.
Women’s suffering has been ignored, pushed aside, or hushed into silence for as far back as history goes. And one of the most unfortunate truths that comes with being a woman is knowing that the other women who surround you more than likely have an experience with sexual assault. It’s a hard pill to swallow, especially when justice evades victims through conventional methods. Inspired by true events, The Huntress (La Cazadora) answers the call to even the score between predator and prey.
Director and writer Suzanne Andrews Correa takes audiences back to August 2013 in Juarez, Mexico, showing a peek into the life of being a woman in a city that lets violence against its female population run rampant. As the film opens with a crowded bus filled with a mixture of men and women of all ages, there’s a creeping uncomfortability that seeps in. Their driver is ogling a young woman who ignores his advances, and as he pulls up to her stop, his final words before gunshots ring out are those insulting her for not giving him her number. As he lays lifeless in a seat where he once felt power, life in the city will never be the same.
It’s a startling opening, but it’s entirely effective; Correa isn’t concerned with holding our hands while we navigate the harsh realities of the women living here. It sets out immediately to establish how tired women are of having their lives, and their loved ones’ lives, treated as disposable. Luz (Adriana Paz) is one of those women, working in a warehouse with strict rules. Three years ago, she was a victim herself, raped on a bus. And even a few years removed, she can’t escape it, either by reminders of a lack of intimacy from her boyfriend Jaime (Eme Malafe), or by the constant worry that her young teenage daughter Ale (Jennifer Trejo) will become yet another girl with her innocence taken.
Navigating through Luz’s life is enraging; it’s a direct reflection of stories we’ve all heard. She’s a mother trying her best to keep her daughter from going through what she had to, but the systems in place make it almost impossible. With corrupt police partaking in the same activities they are being asked to stop, to abusive workplaces that refuse to let women off work to heal from their trauma. Paz’s performance is captivating and suffocating all at once. Her character’s actions are hard to disagree with, especially when Paz’s work evokes the panic felt during flashbacks to her assault. So when Luz takes inspiration from the Goddess of the Hunt, Diana the Huntress, a bow-and-arrow-wielding hunter, it isn’t just about snuffing out predators; it’s a warning to those who protect them.
Yet Luz isn’t the only woman whom the film highlights who is trying to find her own way to advocate. Correa places mothers in the deserts of Juarez day in and day out, looking for a sign of where their missing loved ones have gone. Ximena (Teresa Sánchez) is one of the women, armed with a pickup truck with the bed filled with tools covered in dirt. Sánchez plays a rough-around-the-edges woman; her house, minus her daughter’s room, is a mess, but her ability to make it feel warm and welcoming is a bright spot in a dark film. She shows Luz a future filled with the danger her daughter is in, even partly due to Luz’s own actions, by opening up about the work she does—creating a community of other mothers who refuse to accept that the local police won’t do anything, organizing protests and search parties. The Huntress doesn’t ask audiences to accept either as the correct way to change things, but reminds audiences that women create change when they advocate for one another.
Correa doesn’t shy away from the mental and physical tolls of abuse, from young women showing up to work late, covered in bruises, to Luz breaking down as her daughter touches her. The depictions of violence are hard to stomach, and for some viewers, it might be too much. But it’s used to remind us why these women are so passionate about ending that same kind of harm for future generations. Where The Huntress falters is its pacing, starting out with a bang of tension that fizzles out during its second act, only to pick back up just as the film enters its final moments. And not enough time is spent exploring Luz’s and Jaime’s relationship, leaving it in a confusing spot when the film ends.
The strength within the performances, and Correa’s examination of how powerful women’s collective voices can be, are highlighted by picturesque visuals of Mexico throughout the film. Either through the clothing of the elegant dresses Ale sneaks off to try on, the mountains cutting through the horizon, or the colorful paint adorning the walls of their homes. Cinematographer Maria Sarasvati Herrera only intensifies the unease of The Huntress with her unique style. When Luz is experiencing her anxiety attacks, the camera locks onto her face, forcing the audience to look her in the face while she’s panicking. Or when Ximena stands against a police detective, the camera zooms out to show a crowd of like-minded moms.
While the film’s runtime begins to be felt midway through, The Huntress still has enough strength in its performances, visuals, and themes to be more than worth a watch. Correa’s writing and directing are another promising female voice within filmmaking that has an important story to highlight. She uses women’s pain without exploiting it for shock value, giving them the ability to tell their trauma their way.
