Debut: A Stylistic Ride In Search Of Substance: ‘Motorcyclist’s Happiness Won’t Fit Into His Suit’
The French New Wave has found a home in modern-day Mexican cinema. Gabriel Herrera’s visually electric short film, Motorcyclist's Happiness Won’t Fit Into His Suit, opens with a quote from Éric Rohmer’s 1967 classic La Collectionneuse: “Each one is responsible for his own beauty. Being ugly is an insult to other people.” This passage introduces the thematic elements of Herrera’s film, which intertwine handsomeness, colonialism, and fever-dream inducing imagery.
The film follows Hernan Callejas, a Mexican motorcyclist whose handsomeness is inseparable from the bike he rides through the narrative. As he rides, both he and his motorcycle become adorned with increasingly extravagant light-up accessories. Hernan and his bike are gradually depicted as one, which builds an image of his status being rooted entirely in appearance.
The narrator deems him the sole explorer capable of venturing into the untouched jungles beyond the clearing, the so-called “New World.” This ties into Hernan’s standing among his peers; he clings to his bike possessively, knowing that without it, he’s no different from those surrounding him: stuck. Yet, with the bike, people do not see Hernan; they only care about the vehicle, solely conversing with him when asking for rides.
Despite clocking in at only 10 minutes, Herrera manages to compose a visual feast. There is a clear symbiotic relationship between the film’s cinematography and thematic elements, where each frame is intricately detailed and intentional to the narration. The film plays out similarly to a picture book, with the dialogue being sparse and the pictures doing the heavy lifting. Audiences hoping for a linear structure will likely find themselves lost early on, caught between the highbrow narration and the lack of tangible meaning to be unearthed from it.
Herrera, alongside co-writer Stefanie Reinhardt, cleverly subvert traditional Eurocentric perspectives of colonialism and reimagine the structures through the lens of Mexican folklore. Their screenplay reads like a traditional tale passed down through generations. Herrera has even described the film as dealing with “handsomeness and colonization, [and] past and present.” These tensions are felt throughout, but only in theory. The film offers little support to its audience to help interpret these ideas and would likely be missed by a wider audience.
Stylistically, the film is quirky to say the least: we see Hernan stare directly into the camera as a spotlight beams down on him, shattering the fourth wall; a mysterious brigade of helmeted men sit still and sparkle in the brush, like jewels in the sun; and the score drops in and out mid-scene without warning, sometimes flourishing with the action, and other times cutting out in the middle of it. Every one of Herrera’s choices feels deeply deliberate, and the choices do work, but primarily on a visual level. Understanding why these events are happening seems indecipherable.
This is the film’s biggest weakness: the disconnect between its visionary imagery and its shallow narrative. We are treated to images we’ve never before seen on screen, but collectively, they never fully come to fruition. Most semblance of meaning will evade audiences.
Although central to the film, Hernan remains more a symbol than a character. He is a distant figurehead whose identity dissolves without his motorcycle. He’s admired by all and framed as the pinnacle of handsomeness, yet is only interacted with by those pleading to ride on his bike. His status, then, can be interpreted as fragile, clearly superficial, without his decked-out vehicle. But why? The film never pushes further into who he is. Is he merely a lost explorer? Is his status higher than those surrounding him?
The film shines brightest in its otherworldly visuals. The use of red is riveting, repeatedly permeating the frame, particularly in the large tent where much of the film takes place. Although nothing more than a red tarp, the cinematography paints it as a flowing sea of red situated in the middle of nature. There is intricate detail in every frame, especially with the film’s unique aspect ratio, which works hand-in-hand with the lighting. Unique sequences of the characters’ faces lit in narrow beams of light contrasted against pitch-black voids look like they were pulled straight out of the Criterion Collection. The visuals, sound design, and use of color and light all do the heavy lifting. The setting is palpable and alive, humming with the sounds of the jungle, its insects, and the loud revving of Hernan’s bike. Everything is felt deeply.
This is what inspired filmmaking looks like. Even through a rather muddled narrative, Herrera’s confidence and artistic clarity as a filmmaker are palpable in every frame. It is clear he set out to make the film he envisioned, which may not be for everyone. But for those it does resonate with, they will find much to appreciate.
The ending serves as a somewhat jarring change of pace. Hernan’s heart becomes one with his motorcycle, embedded into the bike’s machinery. It’s a one-of-a-kind visual, but once again, why is this happening? Is Hernan alive? Is this transformation a positive thing for Hernan? The moment feels impactful visually, but falls flat emotionally because there is no indication of what this transformation means for Hernan and the story collectively.
Motorcyclist's Happiness Won’t Fit Into His Suit is an undeniable feat of filmmaking that is worth watching for the sheer craft on display alone. The imagery ultimately does outweigh the themes that fail to come to fruition, resulting in a wholly unique, yet somewhat underwhelming viewing experience. The lack of a tangible narrative will prove difficult for audiences to pull meaning from, leaving many appreciative of the art but likely underwhelmed by the viewing experience as a whole.