Stir Q&A: Mexican filmmaker Ángeles Cruz on grief, silence, and reappearing at Vancouver Latin American Film Festival
The creative force behind Valentina or the Serenity delves into mourning through the perspective of a young girl
Ángeles Cruz.
Vancouver Latin American Film Festival presents Nudo Mixteco on September 15 at 3:30 pm at the Cinematheque and Valentina or the Serenity on September 15 at 6 pm at the Cinematheque
MEXICAN FILMMAKER ÁNGELES CRUZ returns to the Vancouver Latin American Film Festival with Valentina or the Serenity, a release that delicately captures the weight of grief through a child’s eyes. Set against the serene landscapes of her native Oaxaca, the director’s second feature unfolds within the rhythms of her own Mixtec community, where nature and tradition offer quiet solace.
This year, the festival also shines a spotlight on Cruz, celebrating her work with special screenings of her acclaimed shorts and her debut feature, Nudo Mixteco. Ahead of Valentina or the Serenity’s Vancouver premiere, Stir caught up with Cruz to chat about her storytelling roots, the role of community in her filmmaking, and what it means to share these intimate stories with the world.
You began your career as an actress. How did your interest in writing and directing come about?
I felt that the roles I was being offered as an actress were always stereotypical and restrictive. I had never written anything before, but with my first short, “La Tiricia or How to Cure Sadness”, the story took root in my mind, and I asked a friend to help me. It became a way to free myself from that sense of confinement in acting. I hadn’t initially planned to direct it, but after exploring writing, I felt a natural shift and decided to helm it and make it within my own community.
With Valentina or the Serenity, what inspired you to delve into grief through the perspective of a young girl?
I lost my father in an accident when I was nine, and I felt really alone during that time. When I wrote this script in 2020, the pandemic brought back that fear of losing a family member, and it took me right back to how I felt as a kid. Talking to kids from my community who had been through similar losses, I found they felt the same—like nobody had really sat down with them to talk about it. That’s when I realized it wasn’t just my experience; it’s something we all carry with us. As adults, when we lose someone, we also go back to that same fragile, vulnerable state.
It seems like things left unsaid play an important role in this film and others in your catalogue.
Sometimes I think we give too much importance to words. In the Mixtec culture I come from, much is left unsaid, but there’s a deep sense of companionship. There’s companionship in silence, in moments where nothing seems to happen, yet there’s the weight of a gaze, a breath, the space around you—whether it’s the warmth of a kitchen or the openness of a field. I hadn’t realized how much of this was present in my home and culture. The idea became important in my filmography. I’ve found that silence is a powerful way to connect with others, regardless of the languages we speak. We’ve all kept things inside, or supported someone without having the right words, and still managed to connect.
After her father’s death, Valentina reconnects with him through the Mixtec language—despite her struggle to understand it, it becomes a powerful bridge between them.
It’s what connects Valentina to her father and also what she once dismissed about her ancestry. For me, it was important because Indigenous communities have been stripped of their languages through an imposed language meant to unify us but that has instead taken something essential away. Younger generations often don’t learn their language because they feel ashamed, face racism, or are stigmatized. For Valentina, what connects her to her father is the language she didn’t want to learn while he was alive. I thought about how we often end up with regrets when we lose someone and start reflecting on all the things we didn’t do during our time with them.
Like much of your work, Valentina was filmed in Villa Guadalupe Victoria, the community where you grew up in San Miguel El Grande, Oaxaca. How did the natural landscape shape her story and the grieving process she undergoes?
I wrote the story while living in a cabin in my village. Whenever I needed a break, I’d walk through the forest, visit the river, or gather herbs and mushrooms for the house. All of that found its way into the story. As a child, I was nearsighted and always drawn to the tiny details in nature—the veins of leaves, the patterns on tree bark, the trails of ants. It was important for me to capture Valentina as a child discovering the world despite her pain and confusion, with nature around her reflecting that confusion. Like when she first goes to the river and sees a little bug barely able to move after the rain—it’s just like her. The forest and mountains have always been my teachers, and I wanted them to be part of Valentina’s world, where they discover each other as she navigates this loss. The metaphors just found each other.
Nudo Mixteco.
Your projects often involve locals in the filmmaking process. How does that collaboration unfold?
It all happens organically because we know each other well. Our community assembly, which is made up of all the adults, is our highest authority. I present what the film is about and what the community’s role would be, and then we discuss it, ask questions, and everyone votes on whether or not they want to make it. After that, we agree on spaces, timing, and responsibilities. I always make sure we secure all necessary funding to avoid any kind of double exploitation. It’s crucial to fairly compensate everyone, especially in a community that’s already facing poverty. For me what it means to work in my community is feeling at home, feeling like I’m with family, feeling protected and supported, but also feeling questioned. And I love that.
How do you view your role in bringing stories from your community to light?
I think a person’s perspective is shaped by what surrounds them and what gives them strength in life. Often, loss can also become a source of strength. As for my community, I’m a part of it, so my voice is an echo of many voices within it. Because of that, I feel a responsibility to speak out—staying silent would break my heart. If I kept quiet just to avoid conflict or because I was afraid it might affect my work as a filmmaker or artist, it wouldn’t sit right with me. I believe the only real consequence in life is learning to stand up for the causes you believe in and making sure the vision you present, your gaze, aligns with what you stand for. I’m critical of my community; I’m critical of the machismo and misogyny that exist. I like to address topics that provoke dialogue and reflection. The violence happening in and toward my community must be reflected in my work. It’s my duty; I don’t see it as just my voice—it’s an echo that has been growing, and my voice is part of that communal echo.
Valentina or the Serenity.
Valentina’s character is so full of curiosity, courage, and that free-spirited energy children have. Did your own childhood inspire her character, and how did you guide Danae Ahuja Aparicio (the young actress who plays Valentina) to capture that spirit?
Absolutely, I was just as mischievous. I used to sneak out with my brother Cagua, who actually inspired Valentina's best friend Pedrito. We’d play in the rain, climb trees, and sneak off to the river every day, even though it was strictly forbidden. We’d come home covered in mud, and we’d grab towels or whatever we could find to wear as capes. We didn’t have a TV—I only saw one movie during my entire childhood—so our daily play was entirely fuelled by our imaginations. I definitely lent some of those childhood memories to Valentina, though, of course the story and fiction have their own life. All fiction is rooted in reality, and all reality has a bit of fiction in it—there’s a beautiful mix between the two. When working with Danae, I never gave her the script. I placed her directly in the situations. There was no need to tell her something harsh like “Your father died.” That would have just made her sad the entire time. We used specific images for each scene—like telling her, “Here, you’re like a withered leaf, feeling like you’re cracking when someone steps on you.” This approach helped her maintain her innocence and sense of play while still finding the emotional depth needed for some scenes.
How does it feel to be at VLAFF once again?
I’m deeply excited and grateful. Our discussion with the festival's youth jury when we presented our feature Nudo Mixteco was incredibly enriching, and the feedback we received for Valentina or the Serenity in the Work in Progress for Afro-Indigenous Voices forum was invaluable. Being here with this film, feeling a big embrace of our work, and understanding that the soul of a festival should be about sharing, feels like the perfect closure. 
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