no hope, no harm; just another false alarm 

Robe of Gems (2022) 
Directed by Natalia López
Gore Lecture Series #5

No more doppelgangers. No monsters or would-be UFOs. No spiritual possessions. The films selected by Professor Daniel R. Quiles for his Gore Capitalism series have embraced the supernatural as a means of addressing the broad social implications posited by Sayak Valencia’s “Gore Capitalism.” But with Natalia López’ Robe of Gems, we’re presented with a film that examines Valencia’s theories with grave seriousness; a film so rooted in realism that it’s practically suffocating. 

Valencia makes brief mention of the “intolerable position” of the disenfranchised in Mexico, citing that “without work, and without opportunities” men are prone to embrace cartel capitalism as the singular means of ascending the social ladder. I’m reminded of a quote by actress Amber Tamblyn, suggesting that “men are defined by expectations, women by limitations.” López’ film condenses the spirit of that quote into the stuff of nightmares. For men, these patriarchal expectations cost them their integrity and compassion, so driven for status that violence ends up becoming a tool and rendered normal. But women, even when operating within the restrictions of “virtuous” society, remain subordinate and stripped of their agency. Centering on the fragmented and ephemeral experiences of three Mexican women of varying social positions, Robe of Gems takes the heart of Valencia’s work and picks it apart on an elemental level; where Mexico’s stunning coastal plains serve as a backdrop to a living, capitalistic horror. 

What Robe of Gems lacks in narrative clarity it makes up for in tone and tenor. The three women that López follows through the duration of her film intersect from time to time, but in of itself it’s not an especially vital detail. Rather, what we see are three women operating within the rigid framework of a cartel-operated Mexico. Isabel (Nailea Norvind) is of an elite class, assisting her maid Maria (Antonia Olivares) in attempting to recover her missing daughter. Maria also works for Adan (Juan Daniel García Treviño), an on-the-rise gangster that seemingly is getting his hands dirtier with every scene. Adan’s mother, Torta (Aida Roa), is a cop and may well be the only person with integrity left on the force. And while she exhibits great shame in Adan’s behavior, any attempts to stop him are rendered futile by the larger bureaucratic entity that enables Adan’s criminality. All three women end up engaging with the cartel in ways that exploit their class and social position, rendering them peripheral to the game of gore capitalism.  

The most striking and horrific sequence in Robe of Gems finds Isabel carjacked, stripped of all her clothes, and forced to dodge bullets in the twilight. If her wealth had any leverage, it’s that she’s able to walk/run away with her life. Meanwhile, Maria’s life sentence is one of servitude, a cog to criminality that can’t be escaped. In her birth to poverty, she’s dealt a life sentence, never to be let go of her position as servant. These are, inherently, the predominant concerns of gore capitalism, wherein poverty is an endless circle. Wherein privilege is partaking in criminality; anyone that operates outside of it can be threatened and bullied into subservience. Violence is then interpreted as a class struggle, leading to “a kind of post-colonialism in extremis, recolonized by hyperconsumption and frustration.” While not a pleasant viewing, Robe of Gems is certainly the most complementary to Valencia’s text. It may lack the harrowing stylism of similar-minded films like Denis Villenuive’s Sicario or Amat Escalante’s Heli (to which López served as editor), but what López achieves here proves that cinema’s greatest horrors remain rooted in the reality of our present.