‘Like Water for Chocolate’ Review: A Magical Romance Gains Welcome Depths in an HBO Latino Adaptation Worth Savoring

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As a lover of magical realism and a passionate foodie, I found myself utterly captivated by this adaptation of Like Water for Chocolate. Having grown up immersed in the rich tapestry of Mexican culture, the series resonated deeply with me, transporting me back to my roots while offering a fresh take on a beloved classic.

As a fervent admirer, I find that delving into magical realism is akin to uncovering the intricate patterns beneath a seemingly simple molehill. It takes an astonishing amount of detail and depth to create something that appears deceptively straightforward – like transforming fifty distinct chili varieties into a rich, chocolatey sauce. This genre masterfully blends sentiments, whimsy, romance, and the extraordinary with a touch of reality, creating a concoction that even the local culture critic might struggle to fully comprehend or critique – it either works or doesn’t. Remarkably, two individuals may experience the same intricate tapestry of elements in wildly different ways, each drawing unique flavor profiles from the blend.

Let’s consider Alfonso Arau’s 1992 film version of Laura Esquivel’s novel Like Water for Chocolate, which was already a popular success at the time. Over the years, appreciation for this movie has only increased. The film’s tone and visual aesthetic, crafted by Steven Bernstein and Emmanuel Lubezki in their early careers, are undeniably captivating. However, by emphasizing the magical realism aspect so strongly, the film risks overshadowing its characters and the chemistry between them. This is particularly noticeable in the edited American version, where the love story feels underdeveloped.

If it appeals to you, then indeed it does. I’m aware that its enticing, passionate allure captivates numerous individuals as well.

Over the course of the first two episodes, I find HBO/HBO Latino/Max’s fresh adaptation more appealing to my personal taste in television and culinary storytelling. This new interpretation seems to be a faithful blend of Esquivel’s original book and its long-awaited sequel.

Instead of only relying on its magical elements, this Spanish-language drama skillfully uses its six episodes to develop its realistic aspects more deeply. By setting the characters and social class structures against the backdrop of a particular Mexican Revolution, it effectively highlights the story’s themes, making it easier for me to become emotionally invested in the romance starring captivating actress Azul Guaita.

If you discover that these layers make the original seem less captivating and straightforward to you, then the remade version of “Like Water for Chocolate,” produced by Salma Hayek Pinault, might not grab your attention as much. Moreover, this new adaptation seems to have made a questionable structural decision that I’m still trying to understand.

In this version penned by head writer Francisco Javier Royo Fernández, commonly known as “Curro Royo”, the narrative commences in a manner reminiscent of previous installments. We find ourselves in the Mexican state of Coahuila where Elena (Irene Azuela) weeps profusely during Tita’s birth, not just due to onions but also an unhappiness that will be clarified later on.

After sixteen years, Tita (Guaita) devotes much of her time to learning culinary skills under the guidance of the family’s cherished cook, Nacha (Ángeles Cruz). Tita perceives that Elena harbors less warmth towards her compared to her older sisters Rosaura (Ana Valeria Becerril), who might appear plain in television terms but not so in real life, and Gertrudis (Andrea Chaparro), who is growing into a fiery spirit.

Elena’s frostiness intensifies when Pedro, a longtime admirer from a neighboring ranch, proposes marriage to Tita, and Elena firmly rejects the idea. In the movie and book (though details are hazy due to reading it 30 years ago), it seems there is a family custom where the youngest daughter cannot wed but must instead devote her life to her mother. Here, this tradition is initially portrayed as more of a harsh and selfish maternal demand rather than a family custom.

So Pedro makes a choice. He will marry Rosaura, because it’s the only way to stay close to Tita.

In her own journey, Tita consistently enhances her culinary artistry, yet there’s an unusual aspect: Consuming Tita’s food is like experiencing her emotions directly. This isn’t a figurative expression, as you might find with any chef’s dishes; it’s a real connection. As one voiceover puts it, “Her feelings were woven into every dish, making it seem as though Tita herself was an ingredient.

It’s odd that this revelation occurs at a time when it has no bearing on the situation. Yes, Tita has just prepared cream fritters for Pedro, which brings him joy. However, someone enjoying good food doesn’t necessarily prove the existence of magic. This segment of the story could have been placed anywhere in the sequence, and positioning it here dilutes the impact of a crucial scene by diminishing its sense of surprise. Instead of telling us about the power, it would have been more effective to allow us to witness it, making the choice somewhat hard to comprehend.

It’s more effective to leave things unsaid (as audiences are intelligent) than to reveal them too early or too explicitly. If your interpretation is that this choice might imply a lack of respect towards the “magical” aspect in magical realism by the show, I wouldn’t argue against that perspective.

Perhaps I find it easier to appreciate the link between food and love in concrete, long-lasting ways. To illustrate, I enjoyed the Zoe Saldaña Netflix series From Scratch, as it showcased beautifully captured meals and actors expressing affection in beautifully filmed European settings. This was enough for me to consider it magical, and maybe that’s also how Like Water for Chocolate intends its magic.

Although it doesn’t quite match up to the flawless aesthetic of Arau’s stunning film, Like Water for Chocolate still boasts a striking beauty. The series skillfully leverages its Mexican backdrops from yesteryear, and some scenes are truly awe-inspiring. The artistry of culinary visuals has significantly progressed over the past decade, and the impact of the Chef’s Table style is palpable everywhere, even in the precise on-screen labeling of crucial dishes as they are prepared.

The novel’s setting is richly detailed with a focus on 1910s Mexico, depicting conflicts such as landowners vs their Indigenous workers, dissatisfaction with the rule of General Porfirio Díaz, and the rise of various revolutionary movements beneath the surface. This historical context may be present in Arau’s full director’s cut of the movie, although it was not included in the version that set box office records in the U.S., where political and racial tensions are subtly hinted at for those who can discern them.

Having Pedro be a budding progressive and supporter of Francisco Madero gives him a secondary character detail in addition to his love for Tita, and the entire series is more interesting as a result. You can see how his interest in breaking out of class-based societal constructs complements what Tita is doing in terms of gender-based constructs. It gives their connection a depth beyond the basic fact that they’re both pretty, which is all Pedro and Tita really have going for them in the movie.

Guaita swiftly demonstrates an acting ability that suggests she could convincingly share emotional depth with a Pop-Tart (and Baida is more handsome than typical toaster pastries). Given her character’s dramatic entrance into the world weeping, Guaita excels at revealing intense emotions through tears. Similar to Tita and her recipes, she imbues every scene with feelings of joy, sadness, or longing, but not in an overly exaggerated manner like many actors in the Arau film. Although I haven’t seen any of Guaita’s previous work — mainly Mexican soap operas and teen dramas — her performance here is the kind that should catch the eye of American casting directors.

Although Elena and Rosaura are portrayed as villainous mother and sister in a story heavily influenced by Cinderella, Azuela and Becerril bring enough vulnerability to their acting to prevent these characters from being mere foils for Tita’s overall kindness. Meanwhile, Chaparro has subtly introduced a feisty trait in Gertrudis, which promises to be significant in the latter part of the season.

From the initial portion of the season, it appears that by extending the character screen time, the story is becoming richer and more intricate. The characters and their world are already well-developed. When considering the film Like Water for Chocolate, is it important for events to be logically consistent or simply for them to feel authentic? I believe this adaptation manages to achieve both, making a familiar tale worth revisiting.

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2024-11-01 20:25