Riveting Documentary, “Stranded: I’ve Come From A Plane That Crashed on the Mountains” An Inspiring Saga Of Miraculous Survival

by Sam Juliano

A Uruguayan rugby team and several fans embarked on a plane trip from the capital city of Montevideo on 13 October, 1972 to take on the players of the Chilean team on their own turf.  The only obstacle was the imposing snow-capped Andes Mountain chain that divided their countries, but in some cheerful documentary footage of the departure, no one could have imagined what tragedy was lurking in the air for the 45 passengers on board.     

This compelling human interest story was first given cognizance in a 1973 novel titled Alive! The Story of the Andes Survivors, a best-selling novel translated into English and a rather sensationalistic film that starred Ethan Hawke that followed, named simply, Alive, released 20 years later.  The main hook of the earlier film revolved around the issue of how the 16 people who survived the crash and were finally rescued over two months later on 23 December, managed to secure sustenance in a snow-covered terrain with no vegetation nor animal meat.  This “less than subtle” treatment violated the very premise of community and teamwork that made the story one of inspiration and resilience rather than one of human depravity, but making “nourishment” the central focus.      

This long injustice has been reversed with a fascinating film, Stranded: I’ve Come From A Plane That Crashed on Mountains, that deals with issues of friendship, spirituality and philosophical contemplation, that brings together the survivors to engage in talking head interviews that strive to recreate the entire crash and the harrowing period where the survivors must initially find shelter against a raging and hostile wintry environment.  The major advantage that this Spanish-language film, directed by Gonzalo Arijon has over the previous drama is the real-life survivors, all in middle-age, have the advantage of passing time and perspective to examine in their own minds what really happened and to recapitulate the comportment that enabled them to outlast nature’s imposing force, by sheer defiance and astonishing endurance.  Arijon is a lifelong friend of this throng and he deftly wove their testimony with dreamy re-enactments that attempt to place memories in a visual context.  He brings the survivors to the “Valley of Tears,” the glacial mountain trek, where the plane crashed.  And he allows the survivors to engage in intimate testimony, letting this already-shocking story tell itself, without the need to sensationalize.      

Most of the survivors remained practicing Catholics, and they likened the eating of human flesh as a kind of ‘Holy Communion.’  Another made apt reference to the Last Supper, while a few others compared their act as ingesting the body and blood of Christ. They feel an eternal “spiritual kinship” with those whose deaths ultimately gave those who survived the calamity the sustenance to live long enough to be rescued, and yet they now understand there would have been no other way to survive, as food rations had long since been exhausted.  One man claimed that they even had to resort  swallowing tooth paste when all other options had been spent.  While a good deal of courage enabled these survivors to take that ‘unspeakable step,’ truth is the same mother nature that had doomed their plane to go down, had also supplied the chilling cold to ‘refrigerate’ the dead bodies, and keep them from spoiling.     

Perhaps the most fecund of the talking heads is Nando Perrado, whose mother and sister perished.  Perrado and Robert Canessa hiked 44 miles in rugged terrain and were finally rescued by an elderly Chilean shepherd, who uttered “They smelled of the grave; no animal would go near them.”  This segment was wonderfully reenacted, although there really was no other way to go with the dearth of photographic records.  Then again, there was little by way of real-life footage aside from the lengthy passage at the airport when the festive, unsuspecting passengers prepare to disembark.     

Arijon’s sole intent with Stranded was to probe the psychology of those who now had the perspective of time, and the unmitigated clarity of events that may have stood as vague and indecipherable in the agony of the siege.  With their wrinkled, weathered faces standing as living proof of the passing of time (some, invariably aging more than others) there is a incontestable strain of authenticity, the clear result of the real-life participants baring their souls in public.     

Stranded succeeds in turning the revulsion and immoral savagery of the written account and the earlier film, into a kind of existential and mythical rite that, while espousing the ’survival at all costs’ adage, somehow poses the notion that the dead are resurrected in the continued lives of the survivors.  It may be in the eyes of some as a poor excuse for cannibalism, but it surely validated what happened in the minds of those who persevered.     

While Stranded is fueled by cumulative power, there’s no denying the film is overlong at two hours plus.  Some deft editing could have eliminated some of the more banal or redundant passages, or some of the extended reenactments.  This is no major flaw, but it’s an imperfection that could have easily been remedied.  The directors of photography Cesar Charlone and Pablo Heroan assist Arijon is employing hand-held cameras and stationary close-ups to enhance the realism, and the spare, evocative music by Florencia Di Concilio-Perrin seems wisely composed.     

Stranded is a solid documentary film, in large measure for the thoughts and revelations of people who were long thought to have buried their secrets for eternity.  We are all so much richer for it.      

Final Rating:   * * * * (of five)       

Note:  I saw ‘Stranded: I’ve Come From A Plane That Crashed on the Mountains” by myself on Sunday evening, November 2nd at 9:10 P.M. at the Film Forum in Manhattan.  Although the film only ran at that theatre until Tuesday, and I had certainly seen the very good reviews, I admit I was urged on to see it by blogsite proprietor Nick Plowman of Fataculture, who was singing its praises weeks ago, and had written his own effusive review.  Sunday night parking in the Houston Street area was unusually fine, making for a smooth-flowing trip.