César Bordón in Charcoal (TIFF)

The most welcomed surprise and my favorite discovery at this year’s Toronto International Film Festival was Carolina Markowicz’s feature debut, Charcoal. It’s a potent part of an emerging subgenre, the Caustic Capitalistic Caper: part satire, kitchen sink family drama, and crime thriller—with a furtive romance thrown in for good measure. The well-calibrated droll and dark satire has a life force that courses in serpentine ways that recall Bong Joon-ho’s Parasite.

However, Markowicz has created her own dog-eat-dog world out in the underserved Brazilian countryside, and her screenplay has many layers while painting a broader, more complex portrait of two slivers of society. She addresses a tug of war between the haves and have nots while tweaking notions of masculinity, class, and power, among other targets. All of her themes fit together in a puzzle of a plot. It’s doubtful that anyone in the audience will know exactly where the next twist will come from or know for sure who is scamming whom. If these opening paragraphs come across as hyperbole, let me assure readers that they probably haven’t seen so many creative ways to snort cocaine as depicted here, even if they had been to Studio 54 in its heyday. 

A new caretaker, Juracy (Aline Marta Maia), from the local healthcare center arrives to check on 88-year-old Firmino’s (Benedito Alves) oxygen. He lives bedridden in the ramshackle home of his daughter and caretaker, Irene (Maeve Jinkings), and sleeps on the bunk below his nine-year-old grandson, Jean (Jean Costa). Living on the outskirts of the southeast city of Joanópolis (population around 14,000), Irene and her husband, Jairo (Rômulo Braga), scratch out a frugal existence burning wood for charcoal.

Within minutes, the soft-spoken, seemingly maternal nurse bluntly sums up Firmino’s situation. His health is deteriorating, and she scoffs at Irene’s optimism, what with Firmino, “Staring at the rotten wood with termite dust falling on his face, those coarse sheets scraping against his asshole, and that diaper leaking on the sides,” as Juracy matter-of-factly notes. At that she offers Irene and her husband a lucrative proposal, and after thoughtful consideration, Irene says yes.

The director then throws one of many curveballs that will involve the family hosting a wealthy older man on the run, the Argentinean drug kingpin Miguel (César Bordón), with strict protocols in place to maintain the arrangement’s secrecy, which all involved will flout. Miguel sleeps in the bed that used to be Firmino’s, learns to knock before entering the bathroom, and because of the lack of privacy, he discovers more about Irene and Jairo than he bargained for. Oh, and there’s a nosey neighbor asking too many questions. To say complications surge would be to underrate how clever the script sets up plot threads that become entangled and gnarled. There are at least two con job masquerades taking place. So yes, it’s loaded with spoilers, and rich characterizations.

As played by Jinkings, Irene’s unguarded body language unconsciously reveals what she feels. When she has her hands on her hips, look out, she’s determination writ large. The actress’s subtle reactions are in sync with how the screenplay slips in clues at the most innocuous moments. Bordón, as the household’s arrogant guest, is a big shot refusing to accept that his living arrangements have changed. Even a powerful man like him grows flustered trying to figure out how to deal with Irene and Jairo. In fact, the entire cast is impeccable.

The director throws yet another twist at the end: The core character may actually be Jean, the observer of all the shenanigans and too wise for his young age. What he has come away with from his experience with Miguel may not be what any parent would hope for—this film has a bite.