Miami’s filmmaking scene has seen a rise in microbudget features over the past decade, offering up a different perspective of South Florida than the typical partiers and tech bros would try to sell you. One of the most recent and exciting of the crop is Hansel Porras Garcia’s experiment Tropical Park: an intimate tale told entirely from the inside of a car during a driving lesson.
With a camera set up in the back seat, the audience watches as two Cuban siblings — Fanny (Lola Bosch), a trans woman who recently arrived in Miami, and her estranged conservative brother Frank (Ariel Texido), who just informed her it’s time for her to leave his home — navigate their fractured relationship. The entire film unfolds in one take, without a single cut, even when they step out of the car to argue or hold each other as the duo drive through South Florida and explore their histories as much as the city.
Their conversation, entirely improvised by the two actors beyond the loose scripting that Porras Garcia gave them, dives into familiar terrain to anyone queer with a Latin family, from capitalism and public transit to familial obligation and gender/sexuality. But, even beyond the heft of their discussion, there exists a beautiful if slight portrait of South Florida through the windows of the car. Tropical Park presents Miami and its residents as they are: just average people trying to survive in a country that turns us against each other.
Ahead of their screening at Museum of the Moving Image’s First Look that took place on May 3 and following their hometown screening at Miami Film Festival earlier this month, I sat down with Hansel to talk about the cinematic experiment, traversing South Florida with a camera, and their interest in telling distinctly queer and Cuban stories. The following conversation has been condensed, edited, and partially translated, as it was conducted in both Spanish and English.
Where did the idea come from to do this kind of cinematic experiment?
The idea came from learning how to drive in Tropical Park with my dad and then, ten years later, when my mom came [from Cuba], I taught her how to drive there too. I remember sitting in the back seat and I saw my mom with my ex-boyfriend in the front seat and I had a perfect view. It was in that moment, when I was in the other seat, that I realized this could be a film. And when I was alone with my mom, there were moments between lessons where we would talk about family stuff and we weren’t able to escape from it because we were stuck in a car.
What was the scripting process for it? Was it more like an outline of things you wanted to touch on and then the actors could improv?
So I knew the characters were very different and wanted to explore that conflict from the beginning. Frank is very similar to my dad, and Fanny is very similar to me. I would recreate these same conversations I’d have with my dad about any ideas we argued about, like public transportation and anything else that came up. So there was this 13-15 page “script” but with no specific dialogue, just “Fanny talks about this” and “Frank says this.” The first time I talked to them about the project, I didn’t send them a script, but just sent a bio for each one so we could meet up and rehearse a little together. We did some improv with the script in hand there, and then I asked them not to see each other again anymore.
Then I had one rehearsal with Lola because she actually didn’t know how to drive, so we went to Tropical Park and laid out the whole thing while talking about the character and her situation and everything. I did the same with Ariel another day, and that was it. Then we just shot the film.
And you did that all in one day, right?
One day, one take. We only did one take before the official one, but it didn’t work because of the sunlight and shadows on the camera and the sound. We took that as our official rehearsal and then did the one you see on screen.
Were there any breaks with the shoot at all or any stealth cuts? I know there’s a moment where they leave the car, but it seemed that the camera and mics just kept recording.
Nope, it was completely straight through, and they were completely alone in the car. I told them that it needed to feel like theater where we only had one chance to do this and whatever was caught in that moment is what it was going to be.
If it works, it works.
And if it doesn’t, it doesn’t. What do we lose? One day of hanging out and talking about these interesting topics? We don’t lose anything! From the moment we started, I was like: This is it, whatever happens happens. Part of the experiment is just giving it one shot. And we actually lost audio in the car
No way.
Yeah [laughs] We were in a chasing car behind them with the monitor and the sound, but at some point during the drive we lost all audio. So there’s a staged bit where Fanny gets a call from her boyfriend and that was always meant to be me calling in character trying to prompt Lola, but I also had to say “can you please leave the phone on speaker so I can listen to whatever you guys are saying” and she did it perfectly in character. So I was able to hear everything through the phone, but we had no idea if the sound itself was going to be good or not. If it hadn’t worked out, we wouldn’t have tried again.
So how much came from your own personal experiences versus what the actors themselves brought to the table?
I wouldn’t say it’s very personal to me, but I can’t speak for them other than saying they had the freedom to do anything. Like I don’t know how they came up with the detail that the mom died — that wasn’t in the script, they just came up with it together. It wasn’t even the usual improv direction of “yes and” from me, they just did it because they’re great actors and always building on whatever the other actor was saying.
There’s so much specificity to some of the details, it’s hard to imagine they didn’t come from you, like the Spanish song Fanny sings [La Mar Estaba Serena].
I remember listening to that as a kid, and I knew I wanted them to have a song they remember together. At some point Lola was like “why this song?” and it was just because it was from my childhood. But then she realized the song made sense because it was “La Mar” “Le Mer” “Li Mir” [changing the vowels] and that’s kind of like pronouns.1 So not only was it important because of my childhood, but we found something else meaningful in it after the film was made.
How does it feel looking at the film knowing you caught those little magic moments too, down to the guy asking for money outside the car?
I was watching the movie for months by myself, and every time I tried talking to Lola or Ariel about it, neither one of them could remember anything because it was just a one-time performance. But at the premiere, Lola and I stayed up until 6 a.m. talking about all the discoveries we made while watching it. And there’s so many things that happened at the moment that I didn’t pay attention to but that we started to notice at the screenings when people would react. Sometimes I don’t even want to watch the film anymore, but I know I’m going to miss something special the next time if I don’t.
Between your two features, Tropical Park and Febrero, you seem really interested in the distance between people and the way they come together after years apart. What is it that draws you to stories about that reconnection and getting to know someone again?
You know, I’d never even questioned that, but even my short Ana y la Distancia is about someone waiting to reconnect with her son. Maybe it’s my Cuban DNA, like that separation and waiting and reconnection is there because of that. I still remember the day I left Cuba and came to the US as the most special and also sad day of my life. I spent my entire childhood waiting to find myself with my family in Miami, and ever since I got here I have spent all my time exiled and waiting for my mother and sister, so it’s always been about waiting for that moment.
Is that moment ever kind of a disappointment or is it always just the high?
I think there are two moments in the “reconnection.” One is that first hug in the airport, and it’s a hit of serotonin that I can’t describe, but then everything goes back to sort of normal, and life starts in a new way. I remember when my sister came, we’d been waiting for that moment for so long, but she had to start becoming part of my life again while also trying to start a new life in this country. In Tropical Park, it’s a month in, and they’ve already lived that big moment, which itself was also very different in their case, because Frank was waiting for someone different than who came in. And, in that moment, you’re still finding yourself with the person you thought you left, but you’re discovering something new too – not just in the other person, but in your own relationship with that person, which then makes you new too.
And then it’s about figuring out your relationship going forward, which feels like what Tropical Park is all about. Maybe a silly question, but how do you think they’ll navigate their relationship at the end?
I just care that they [Fanny and Frank] were able to hug at the end. That’s all that matters to me. We could judge either one of them, but what’s the point? I don’t know how they’re going to get through it.
Maybe it’s just from living in Miami where political relationships always seem fraught, but you have Fanny and Frank on these two very different terrains, and that’s so familiar. What did you want to say through them?
There’s always this distance between family because you feel like you can’t actually talk about these things. I feel that way with family members and friends, and maybe I made the film because I want to keep believing that we can keep having conversations and those conversations don’t have to be about changing the other person. Everyone is going to stay in their position, in their mind, but that conversation can still end in a hug.
And that comes from moments in my life when I have people telling me things that are so stupid and I am just done with fighting them. I don’t want to keep fighting. And I would love it if someone felt the same way about me because I don’t have “the truth”, instead of fighting with me or judging me, they hug me and try to continue living in this world together. And maybe that sounds a little… “come pinga”2 of me, but I truly want that ideal world. I know I can’t right now, but at least I can try to create it myself. Through my films is one way, sure, but in my life itself. We’re just sharing the world and I don’t expect people to always agree with me.
Has it felt kind of therapeutic to go through making this too?
Yes, completely and absolutely. I came out with my own self through this film. I remember before making the film, having some conversations with a trans friend and being super engaged but eventually being like “well, no no no, I’m not trans.” Then while making the film, I was like “ohhhhh, hmmmmmm” and even realized why I said that back then. And I think that happens a lot with non-binary people — some people see you as trans, some don’t — but I think this film came out of necessity.
I feel like people out there still look at trans people as something to be scared of, and I understand that to some level because I was scared, too. I just wanted to bring a story about regular people, like it could be your own sister.
And I do think you’re even playing with gender norms on other levels, like the subtitles for the brother being pink and the ones for the sister being blue.
I wonder where that came from [laughs] maybe to confuse people and confuse myself while doing it [laughs more] I wanted to do it that way since the beginning, and I remember I was playing a lot with the trans flag colors back then. I was painting my nails with those colors too, but even my mind was set to “blue is his, pink is hers” while I was working on it. And that was the exact reason why I wanted to do it — you’re challenging what people think is “natural.”
When it comes to the things that come naturally, I did want to ask about the weight of supporting your family when they come. All of my family was either in the states or Mexico, so I don’t have that experience, but do you feel some level of obligation to make sure your family is taken care of when they get here?
In Latin America, there’s absolutely an expectation when you leave. Your family is putting so much together for one person to leave that that person feels like they also have to take care of them. Sometimes when people have been in the US for a long time and they want to forget their past and focus on their new life, that’s what Cubans call “la Coca-Cola del olvido”. But it’s an expectation that can turn you into the “bad” family member instead of the “good” one because we all know what the deal is in Cuba. Whatever we have here is, at least, a little better than what you had there, so you feel a moral obligation to take care of your people.
That also ties into the movie with Frank wanting to push Fanny out while still claiming he’ll take care of her. Different people have different options in Miami and, for a trans woman nowadays, it won’t be the same as for a cis man who came decades ago.
Fanny mentions in the film how hard it was to get a job in Cuba [as a trans woman] and she believed that, in getting here, it’d be easier. But the rules are the same here and the system is bigger and unfair.
And the movie gestures at a lot of these bigger conversations that we have regularly about Miami, whether that’s rent going from $500 to $2000 for an efficiency over the past decade or even something as simple as how badly designed Miami’s public transit infrastructure is.
I think, sometimes, people have this idea that the political doesn’t pertain to us directly, especially for those of us coming from Cuba. It’s one thing being born in a democracy and understanding that democracy, but when you’re born under a dictatorship, things aren’t quite so clear. So you are born believing that the political is completely out of your hands and that politicians are so untouchable that you believe that you can’t impact anything. But I believe that all of these conversations around politics come right back around to the human core, and that politics have become deeply personal and entirely too focused on individual whims. And it’s important to reclaim that power back because I don’t feel like the president should be my boss, I should be the boss of the president. I’m paying for someone to oversee our shared space, and I want those holding places of political power to think about the people they represent instead of themselves.
What do you want people to take away from Tropical Park now that it’s going out into the world?
The hug. This movie has been a miracle in every sense of the word, but all of the processes just came out of our first impulses. Every process was very personal and intimate. I’ll be honest: I didn’t have the ending for the film, but when the hug came to my mind, I thought maybe it’s too much. But then I realized that’s where the power is. That’s what I want people to take away. I want to hold people, and I don’t want to keep seeing evil in those people who are different from me. If those ideas they have are destructive or longing to harm me, then I’m going to try to understand them, and I realize that this all comes from fear. And the only thing that can stop that fear is love.
1 In the song, “La Mar” AKA “The Sea” gets changed from the feminine “La” to the masculine “Le” (or “El” in Spanish) and beyond, thus the emphasis on “pronouns” and “gender” in a children’s song that isn’t explicitly exploring that
2 “come pinga” is Cuban slang that directly translates to “dick eater” but really just relates naivety or being a dumb bitch. For example: I frequently yell it at people who can’t drive and also at myself.
