I had never seen a Portuguese film before I watched Bad Living (2023). The country nestled next to Spain on the Iberian peninsula is one whose culture and arts I had not had the privilege of knowing. Ironically, my journey into the country’s film industry comes right after the Museum of Modern Art (MoMA) “The Ongoing Revolution of Portuguese Cinema” exhibit. The exhibit explored the political power of Portuguese filmmakers from the 1960s to the present day. 

Historically, Portuguese cinema is laced with docu-fiction work that confronts the political landscape around them. Bad Living continues this tradition, if ever slightly.

João Canijo’s bleak film navigates motherhood and female relations, allowing women to behave in ways we rarely see documented on screen. Despite the semi-groundbreaking feminist angle, the film suffers from its misery as it forces it down the viewer’s throat.

The film follows five women who own and manage a hotel. The two most pivotal characters– and whose relationship truly drives the film– are mother and daughter Piedade (Anabela Moreira) and Salomé (Madalena Almeida). After the sudden passing of Salomé’s father, she returns to live at the hotel. Her arrival resurfaces old feelings of resentment and failure that had been buried within.

This inner turmoil is the crux of the story. The film focuses entirely on these character’s relationships with one another, and all 127 minutes are dedicated to heated conversations and lingering stares. It is only through conversations with each other that we come to know our characters and their inner conflict. As the film progresses, we discover Salome’s resentment of Piedade for not being there for her as a child, Piedade’s own self-hatred, and the anti-feminism distaste all five women share for Piedade’s mournful nature.

The film never provides much context to the root of these feelings. It offers slight mentions in passing comments but leaves much up for the audience to infer. By choosing to focus on what the characters are experiencing at that moment, the film almost feels like a piece of docu-fiction that Portuguese cinema has become famous for.

The film situates the audience as an onlooker to the goings of the hotel as if we are a guest staying the night. We are provided little context as to what has caused the rift among our characters. Bad Living understands that it would be illogical to recite an incident that each character is already aware of. The causes for the cracks in relationships don’t need to be described aloud — it is simply known. Thus, the audience is a fly on the wall observing the aftermath as the story unfolds.

However, as an audience member, this approach makes it somewhat difficult to invest in the story. In one scene, Piedade wails out “I can only harm my daughter,” but we have no reason to believe this. We have not seen this to be true or have any evidence to support the statement. The film tells us how we should feel and think about the characters without allowing us the opportunity to analyze and make our own judgments.

It may be what’s realistic to not explain, but it hurts the story. By not believing our characters or understanding their feelings, it becomes easy to gaslight what they say– to simply roll your eyes and pass it off as histrionics. 

This is made worse by the overdramatic script. Each line feels too unnaturally profound and inorganic for how humans actually communicate with one another. It becomes much too heavy in its attempt to convey the misery within the walls of the hotel to be believable. The film becomes this abnormal mixture of documentary-style film-making to theatrical soap operas. 

Despite its flaws, there is something quietly revolutionary about Bad Living. The female relationships the film depicts feel grounded in something real. Women hate each other. Society pits against one another, cultivating feelings of envy and jealousy within us. And yet, we also love one another greatly as we are connected through sisterhood and bonds. This is exaggerated even more when it comes to blood. Our mothers, aunts, sisters, and mothers are our worst enemies and greatest friends.

Bad Living grasps this while also not passing judgment. It is refreshing to see these women in all their bitter glory. It allows space for them to be miserable and angry, full of regret and hate. None of the characters are very likable, and I struggled to sympathize with any of them. And yet, that in itself feels like a meta-form of feminist critique. There is something inherently political about a film like this even existing, and given the history of Portuguese film, it should not be surprising. 

Bad Living is not an enjoyable film to watch. The character’s misery seeps itself into your viewing experience. The minutes drag on until one final tragedy that almost feels like a respite, for at least something happens. Yet, there is something special about it amongst the sorrows, especially for its female audience. For everyone else, it still is quite a feast for your eyes.

If you are like me and have never seen a Portuguese film, perhaps do not start your journey with Bad Living. But if along your path you stumble upon it, allow yourself the time to stew in it. 

Review Courtesy of Kam Ryan

This review was submitted for the Third International Feature Film Festival.

Feature Image via Berlin International Film Festival