Matadero

"What was portrayed in El matadero.

was meant to be seen, not to be written." E. Echeverría, El matadero.

You never know what you're shooting

until you see on the big screen.

And I filmed a lot of things for Jared.

Murderer! Murderer! Murderer! Murderer!

Good evening.

We're very sorry for the delay.

Despite all the protests out there,

we've decided to show Matadero.

This cursed movie was filmed decades ago,

but it has never been shown.

Not in Argentina, not anywhere else.

And we all know it is infamous

due to the people who died on the set,

and it was the last film by Jared Reed, its director.

We condemn that tragedy, obviously,

and we understand the protesters,

but we think this movie should be seen.

Jared Reed wanted to be here to present it to you today,

but, unfortunately, he is unable to attend

and has asked us to read a few words for him.

He says he hopes we can see more than dead people in these images.

Thanks.

I met Jared in Los Angeles.

I went to UCLA to study cinema

because I wanted to be the first director in Argentina

who didn't make traditional and old-fashioned films

that all the idiots in my country made.

Jared was my teacher.

Some said that before being a filmmaker he had been in the war.

Others, that he had been a stuntman in bloody B-movie westerns.

A lot was said about him, but we all wanted to make films like his.

His father was an agronomist

who came from Texas during Perón's first government.

And he spent part of his childhood in Argentina.

But he got everything mixed up:

communists, revolutionaries, Peronists, Hollywood...

But I didn't care.

He was making movies that stuck with you.

"Films that defend us from death",

he said: "We have to make films that defend us from death."

Don't look at the camera, please!

I was the only Argentinian in his class,

and I clung to him like his shadow.

When I found out the dates, I left the school. I left everything.

And I headed back to my country, to work in his movie.

I was the assistant to an assistant on the set of Matadero

but I didn't care.

I wanted to be close. As close as possible.

If I hadn't come back, I wouldn't be condemned to tell this story.

Shout out loud!

You're going in there to kill the bosses' cows!

Action!

- Next! - Moreno.

Next.

Elvio Cueva.

We only pay for days filmed.

I worked eight days.

Take it or leave it.

Next, come on.

Moreno, Fabián.

What a mess.

Yes. A mess.

We can keep going in guerrilla mode.

What's the name of the rich lady who was here the other day?

I don't know.

We can ask if we can stay there and film on her land.

My family has a ranch.

In Córdoba.

You have a ranch?

With animals? Cattle?

Yes.

Do you know how to use a 16mm camera?

I can try.

We have to do a new casting.

Everything he said sounded crazy.

We need committed actors.

But to me it sounded like an adventure.

That day I became his right hand without a second thought.

What are you trying to prove, Bárbara?

This is getting out of hand.

Come back home. I beg you.

Your father is desperate

and I don't know what's right or wrong anymore.

Let's stop this, please.

Come home,

I'm begging you.

Tell my father

that as long as he keeps exploiting workers in his factory,

I'll keep sleeping with every one of them...

Tell him all of this word for word.

Tell him that this will be his redemption in the class struggle.

Bravo!

Bravo!

What we're doing is indigestible for our parents' class.

It's like what Perón and Evita did when they took the workers

to spend the summer at the beaches of the rich. What?

We also enjoy it. It's fun to do this.

We don't know if it's revolutionary, but it sure helps.

And the look on their faces at the end!

Oh, yes. I love that part.

I'm filming Matadero.

But instead of eating the bosses' cows, the workers eat the bosses.

Are you making a horror movie with Echevarría's Matadero?

No, it's not a horror movie.

I don't know what it is, but it's never been done.

I'd like to work with you.

If you're interested, Vicenta will tell you how to proceed.

Are you adapting it by yourself?

He repeated the same words he had used with me.

With the same emphasis.

And the same passion in the same words,

although back then I hardly noticed those details.

What I did notice was that Bárbara was going to be his muse.

And she also started to notice.

He hired the workers from the slaughterhouse.

He got them in the truck with the actors,

and he dragged us all along on his journey.

Do you want one?

No, I'm alright.

Thanks.

I don't like these people.

I don't mean the gringos,

but the brutes from the slaughterhouse.

Everything will be fine. Okay?

That's a lot of people to feed.

Your mother left money, but not so much.

Don't worry, Elda. I'll take care of everything.

It's not easy to explain Peronism to a foreigner.

I was there too.

- There? - Yes. It was amazing.

But now it's different. It's a horror...

There's a sorcerer in the government.

Besides, Perón is senile.

The only real Peronism left is going underground.

Does your role scare you?

No.

It's uncontrollable, I know, but I want to reach that extreme.

Yes, but that's exactly why I started doing political theatre.

You have to be able to watch an animal get killed.

See those cows? What comes to mind?

I don't know.

A calm place, always the same.

Until the end, when they will be slaughtered.

- Let me help you. - Don't worry.

I can handle it.

Esteban, tell this guy he can't sleep here. I think he's drunk.

Excuse me, you can't sleep here.

Why not?

The actors sleep here.

But I act too.

Sorry, man. Find somewhere else.

I'm sorry.

One...

Two...

Three...

Four...

Five, six, seven,

eight, nine,

ten...

Eleven, twelve...

Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen...

Here we are.

You'll be fine here. There's a stove and beds for everyone.

What about the bathroom?

Outside, by the chicken coop.

Hi. Excuse me.

Lady, where do the actors stay?

Aren't you comfortable here?

Don't listen to him. He just wants to tease you.

Come here.

- Have you worked here long? - Forty years.

I thought your house would be more elegant.

Well, we can move some furniture.

If you want, we can take out what you don't like.

You could shoot the scene of the workers here.

When they enter to loot the house.

Come here.

We could shoot the scene of the lady's rape here.

Look.

The last thing she'll see before dying:

a chandelier dangling from the ceiling.

It seemed like he already had Matadero filmed in his mind

and he watched it as he looked around.

I followed everything he looked at, wanting to glimpse something,

like those old projectors with holes on the sides,

which let you take a peek at a little bit of what's coming.

But I didn't see, or didn't want to see,

any of the bloodshed he was looking for.

Grab it there!

Grab it! Grab it.

Hold it.

- I've got it. - Okay.

Hold it. Hold it.

Look how brave he is.

Castrate it.

Hey, Elda. Don't be mean. Give us some wine.

There's no wine in this house.

Just a little wine.