A fine script, with deceiving middle-class civilities and formalities, with puzzling evasions in the dialogue, and with the subtle construction of a foolproof trap, written by the young Mexican filmmaker Jaime Humberto Hermosillo; an elegant, icy performance by Martha Navarro; and between them, they create a perfect specimen of la belle dame sans merci, her hair brushed back to expose haughtily the scar she bears on her left cheek. To her, love and loyalty are trivial emotions; the important one is hate. Hermosillo's direction has a delicate, appreciative feel for the exterior world -- the tasteful bourgeois bric-a-brac; the ladylike gracefulness with which Navarro lays out her godmother's colorful pills in the palm of her hand; the tiny squeak of a felt-tip pen as she sketches an erect penis on the door of a public toilet -- and Navarro's introverted characterization forces you to reinterpret everything you see and hear. You can probably predict the outcome, but even if you are right in the essentials, the particulars will still stand your hair on end. (1976) — Duncan Shepherd
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