Mar '24: Society of the Snow
Mar '24: Society of the Snow
... plus a sip of Argentinian Malbec!
Screen: Society of the Snow
I was no more than ten years old when my father brought home The Ten Commandments (1956) from the library. He had a closed-mouth smile – a subtle yet scarce expression – as he skipped through the film to Moses parting the Red Sea. Though he prefaced the scene as a cinematic marvel from his childhood, my blank stare left both of us underwhelmed this time around. Today, I imagine my father watching this scene some 60 years ago in Kakinada, India, and I liken him to Hugo Cabret watching A Trip to the Moon with a wide-eyed awe of the unfathomable. Most any moviegoer is familiar with this feeling; while few and far between, it is the reason we come back.
I recaptured this feeling with Society of the Snow. The film relives the harrowing survival effort of the passengers aboard Uruguayan Air Force Flight 571, which included the tragic demise of some and hollow triumph of others. Set over 50 years ago and in a realm of the Andes beyond my most ambitious Patagonian itinerary, it presents a vicarious thrill for us couchbound Netflix viewers. Critic Ben Kenigsberg prefers perverse to vicarious because cinema is “less effective at capturing hunger, cold, and [the 72 day] duration.” However, I believe the audience can extrapolate these senses from their tangible (though perhaps lesser) experiences, after all cinema’s awe-inducing magic lives in the gap between on-screen realities and the limits of our imagination.
The look of Society of the Snow is admittedly monotone. The scenery is dominated by the cool color palette of the wintertime Andes, but their exotic and extensive nature elicits an immersive quality. In a Behind the Streams spotlight, visual effects supervisors, Laura Pedro and Félix Bergés explain their process to digitally alter the background of scenes shot in the Spanish Sierra Nevada with real footage from the Andean Valley of Tears. This effort honors the crew’s collective conviction to retell the events as realistically as possible, which in turn yields a truer array of emotions for us viewers. On one hand, the Andes’ enormity – in reference to both their uninhabitable altitude and arctic vigor – is terrifying. On the other hand, these snow-capped mountains, where all in sight can appear a tranquil sea of white, invite comparisons to the heavens.
This complexity anthropomorphizes the mountains into a temperamental being with capacity for good and evil. And, without any concrete perpetrator for the on-screen agony, they register as the arbiter of fate. For example, on the 17th day of their abandonment, Roberto, Nando, and others share a few rhymes to make light of their situation until the final delivery from Numa is met with a ruckus applause. It is a cozy illustration of the camaraderie that unites this rugby team, and it is impossible not to smile here (even if it does not last). Within seconds, an avalanche demolishes the makeshift baggage barrier and floods the fuselage, burying the team in snow. Although noise is an oft-used plot device to prompt an avalanche, this association is untrue. Perhaps, this torment is instead an act against the team’s hubris: like Odysseus escaping the cyclops, the elated verses are met with a divine reminder that the journey is far from over.
To ascribe this omnipotence to nature may seem farfetched in the Christian-dominated West, but it is a common feature to non-Abrahamic religions, including the indigenous beliefs from Pre-Colombian South America. Evilio Echevarría’s Legends of the High Andes shares the myths that Indians, mestizos, and whites retold regarding the mountains, which may help answer the question Numa echoes in his closing monologue, “¿qué sentido tiene?” Consider La Lola, “the personification of snow and of snowstorms,” who the people of central Chile and Argentina depicted as an alluring woman with a murderously frigid touch. Now, consider our rugby team, who jovially concede over beers that their trip to Santiago is less for sport and more for the list of girls they met there… maybe Graciela, Silvia, and Beatriz function as the allure of La Lola.
Echevarría goes on to lament our modern world’s irreverence for these Andean myths. Mountains are now limited to their physical quantity; they are merely something to summit. While I agree with this sentiment, I also accept that changing attitudes is a perduring phenomenon in any society. In the film, a church service before the flight recites Matthew 4:3, in which Satan tempts Christ amidst his fast: “si eres el hijo de Dios, que esas piedras se convierten en panes para comer.” The parable foreshadows the cannibalistic temptations of the survivors. Although they do give in, to deem their actions sinful is ignorant to the dire circumstances… the taboos which guide life in Montevideo are incoherent with life atop the mountains. Thereby, our attitudes are subjective and ever prone to change. What is important is for us to respect these stories, morals, and other constructs within their appropriate context rather than dismiss them as oddities of a different time.
Taken one step further – though Society of the Snow invites us to consider the Andes relative to the 1972 flight disaster – to remain in awe of the mountains’ potency is myopic to their bleak reality. Today, Andean glaciers are retreating at an accelerated rate. For the water-scarce central Andean basins that rely on snowmelt, findings such as a 45% loss in glacier coverage between 1956 and 2015 in the Juncal basin forebode increased risks of drought. Practical repercussions are seen in Argentina’s Mendoza province (location of the crash site) where the increasingly arid foothills have forced laborers such as third-generation goat farmer Antonio Sazo to move to progressively higher altitudes. Human-driven causes from mining pollution to climate change are to blame, so to not at least acknowledge the ongoing perils would be, well, perverse.
To come full circle, my fascination with Society of the Snow echoes my father’s sentiment towards The Ten Commandments. It has less to do with the story itself and more to do with the opportunity to experience a world far removed from my own. Oftentimes this escapism is a respite from a monotonous grind, and sometimes it even spurs an academic intrigue. But once in a while, it recaptures that wide-eyed awe which first drew me into cinema. Sure, I am yet to summit the Andes, but this is the next best thing.
Stove: Argentinian Malbec
Mendoza province, referenced earlier in the review, is also home to Argentina’s world-renowned wine region. It is roughly the same size as the U.S. state of Georgia and borders the Andes to the West (the mountains also mark the international border with Chile). The acclaimed vineyards are located at the foothills of the Andes, where the conditions are particularly favorable for viticulture. How so?
For one, the soil. Thousands of years ago, the glaciers retreated from the foothills and stripped the soil of its nutrients. Contrary to conventional wisdom, this is a boon for grape growing: vines will yield a lesser quantity of grapes but with more concentrated flavors. For another, the altitude. Although dwarfed by Aconcagua and surrounding summits, the foothills still stand 3,000 to 5,500 feet above sea level. Higher altitude warrants lower temperature and lower atmospheric pressure: herein the cool nighttime breeze preserves the grapes’ acidity while the more potent sunlight develops their aroma, color, and tannins.
Yet, more important than either soil or altitude, is the water. Ernesto Bajda, winemaker for Bodega Catena Zapata, notes that annual rainfall in the region is a mere eight inches. In this arid climate, vineyards and other greenery owe their existence to irrigation channels originally constructed by the Incas and later improved by the Huarpe Indians. Though irrigation affords regional winemakers near-total control over their grapes’ water supply, these channels rely on a depleting reservoir – the Mendoza River and snowmelt. On an optimistic note, researchers have proposed high resolution cartography as a means for more efficient water-use: surface mapping and monitoring vine health should better identify when and where to irrigate.
With all this talk of terroir, what about the grapes themselves? Which varietal is Mendoza known for? In a word, Malbec. In 1868, French agronomist Miguel Pouget curated several old-world vines and introduced them to Argentina. Previously sensitive to disease in the damper conditions of its native France, Malbec has thrived in its time in the sun. Whereas French Malbec was sometimes relegated to a purple-coloring agent in blends, the Argentinian variety is widely celebrated for its own flavors – violets, dark fruits, and plums.
Here are my two cents. I am not a sommelier, and Bianca Bosker’s Cork Dork intimidated me from ever trying to be. But for occasional drinkers like me, I find Malbec to be a safe choice. The fruit-forward flavor balances the bitterness of the tannins and burn of the alcohol, even if I do grimace after my first sip. And thanks to the cheaper Argentinian peso, you can find Malbecs of similar quality to Bordeaux blends for a fraction of the cost. Cheers!
Ingredients
· 1 bottle of Argentinian Malbec
Directions
1. Open the bottle and pour.
2. Or, how about some more pizzazz? To abbreviate the sommelier mechanics: cut the foil just below the lower lip of the bottle. Plant the corkscrew and lever it. Pull out the cork and serve.
Considerations
It is certainly possible to open a bottle of wine with a shoe and re-cork it, but my attempts have resulted in a wine-stained ceiling and some overpriced vinegar. Instead, I recommend investing $30 or so in a waiter’s corkscrew and Vacu Vin saver pump. These will allow you to open a bottle with ease and keep the wine inside potable for a good 4-5 days.
Next, how should you select a bottle? After grape (Malbec) and region (Mendoza), what distinguishes different winemakers or grape-harvesting years? Frankly, I do not know. I rely on websites like Wine.com for their vast catalog and aggregated ratings from everyday consumers as well as panels like Decanter. My strategy is to shortlist bottles with higher user ratings and read through the panels’ tasting notes. Then, I select one which best matches my palate (e.g. rich blackberry jam) and fits within my budget (there are fantastic bottles for under $30). Enjoy!