The image of Frida Kahlo has become so ubiquitous that we assume there’s little left to learn about one of the icons of 20th century art. She can be found on peering out from t-shirts, mugs, and innumerable prints on countless walls. Carla Gutierrez‘s intimate documentary sets out to prove that this is not the case. Using the artist’s own words from letters and diaries, accompanied by her work adapted through animation to reinforce her words. It’s a straight chronological retelling if her life, with all her contradictions and pain intact, but the beautiful idiosyncrasies of her art compensate for its conventional narrative.
Frida follows Kahlo through her early life as a strident child and her political awakening during the Zapatista period, her adoption of Communism, and her gender non-conformity at school. When she reaches adulthood the documentary understandably spends a lot of time on the trolley car accident that maimed her and caused her excruciating pain for the rest of her life. It was the overwhelming influence on the art that is so beloved of millions. The other main influence was of course her husband Diego Rivera. He’s more often than not seen as a footnote in her story these days, but back then the muralist was one of the most famous artists on the planet. Their tumultuous relationship is the other central strand of her art work.
These events are well known, but we’re less familiar with Frida’s own thoughts. Voice actor Fernanda Echevarria del Rivero fully embodies the artist in all of her frank and fierce glory. It’s a bold strategy but one that pays off, in a similar way to Alistair McGowan’s uncanny resurrection of the master of suspense in My Name is Alfred Hitchcock. It forces the viewer into her headspace, to the point where you nod along with her denunciations of her womanising husband, the French surrealists, whom she dismissed as Bourgeois opportunists, and numerous others she splattered with her favourite insult, caca.
The talented team of animators bring her paintings to life as fluid embellishment of her words. Anyone familiar with Loving Vincent will be familiar with the technique. It’s particularly haunting in the recounting of her miscarriage, illustrated by the disturbing Henry Ford Hospital and the blood that gushes from her tortured body. The words and the paintings compliment each other beautifully, as you would of course expect. The seamless editing makes it a rare pleasure even in Kahlo’s most harrowing moments.
With the chronological approach, there isn’t an overarching theme or viewpoint to Frida, other than to have her tumultuous life told as intimately as possible. This is more than enough. She was a fascinating person and an extraordinary artist who more than most combined the personal and the political to potent effect. Gutierrez’s film is so successful in its aims, so immediate and immersive that its almost jarring to remember its subject died 70 years ago.
Screened as part of Sundance Festival 2024