‘On Behalf of My Son’ Review: A Strained Brazilian Drama About a Mother’s Apology Tour

A Brazilian drama with a powerful premise but labored execution, Gabriel Martins’ “On Behalf of My Son” follows the ripple effects of a tragic bus accident through the eyes of the driver’s mother, Vicentina (Rejane Faria). As she pillories herself with an apology tour, family members of the other victims veer in and out of the spotlight, offering more potentially affecting moments which — by structural necessity — quickly fade from view. Instead, the dramatic focus pivots entirely around Faria’s performance, which unfortunately works against the movie, more often than not.

Opening with unassuming portraits of passengers on their commute in the city of Belo Horizonte, “On Behalf of My Son” begins with an enticing visual setup for individual stories that don’t fully materialize. In the moment, however, Martins imbues tremendous intrigue through snippets of the seemingly distracted middle-aged driver, Wesley (Renato Novaes), and eventually, through the crash itself. Its presentation is shocking and harrowing even if you know it’s coming.

The film is at its most vigorous here, when its possibilities lie ahead. In the few moments we see Vicentina before she’s told of this tragedy, the aged character hobbles around on her crutch and performs unassuming household tasks with a captivating, disaffected demeanor, as she curtly cuts off an incoming phone call (the dramatic irony of which only the viewer is aware). Something’s clearly on her mind, and we never need to know exactly what in order for her to feel familiar.

Once she’s told of the tragedy by her younger neighbor Joana (Maíra Azevedo), the routine of having to answer questions and identify her son’s remains allows Faria to shift quickly into thorny territory, promising a film that lives within the rankling discomfort of loss. Wesley’s twin brother (also played by Novaes) briefly comes to visit, practically conjuring Wesley’s ghost as he wanders around the house. However, gossipy TV news stories speculate on Wesley’s intent and state of mind, foisting doubt upon the mourning matriarch as an intimate mystery fades into view. Her way of dealing with the ensuing guilt is to track down the families of the other victims and apologize on her son’s behalf, which, on paper, makes for a fascinating approach to grief, but proves rote and repetitive in execution.

Across nearly two-and-a-half hours, the camera follows Vicentina — from an observant distance when she makes arduous journeys between neighborhoods, and then in closeup when she arrives — as she meets with family members one by one. Few of these sit-downs play out with meaningful differences until late into the runtime, during which Faria is shouldered with dramatic heavy lifting that doesn’t quite gel with her approach. She’s clearly adept at summoning despair when required, but behind the character’s rehearsed apology (which we hear spoken ad nauseam) is a near-identical approach to emoting that proves troublesome when repeated back to back. It’s a performance of loud thoughts writ large across her face, reeled in by pursed lips, resulting in the awkward effect of stilted emotions struggling to be expressed, when the film ought to be at its most volatile.

A handful of those she visits offer riveting work in return — like Fábio Leal as a grieving, battered lover who harbors complicated feelings about his fiancé’s death — but Vicentina becomes a mere interloper to these lives, and they seldom affect her own sense of self, or her sense of contrition, in the process. Those who reject or question her motives are pushed far into the movie’s gradual, calculated unspooling, gesturing at thorny complexities which are never allowed to arise.

The recurring appearance of a mysterious friend of Wesley’s, a death-metal frontman with dwarfism named Fred (a heartbreaking Giovanni Venturini), becomes vital to Vicentina understanding that he lived a life of unexpected interests and frustrations. But before these doubts and mysteries can be folded into her worldview, the focus pivots elsewhere, never allowing even dead ends and unanswered questions to emotionally linger, before the film wraps around to questions of how Vicentina is to live and cope going forward.

Martins has a deft eye for place and environment. Many of the victims are poor, and his camera’s tour of Black Brazilian lives hints at a multifaceted cultural portrait not usually contained within the Brazilian cinema that takes hold in North America. (At least, not since “City of God.”) However, the fluidity of his exploration is hardened early on, thanks to a tedious focus on hitting the same beats with little variety or escalation. It is, at best, intriguing from a safe distance, where its detailed, rundown textures can tell you more about its characters’ struggles than up-close depiction of their inner lives ever does.