The first time I saw the teaser trailer for Disney’s “Encanto” – an animated musical set in Colombia – two feelings came to my mind. First came a wave of excitement about what it could be. Then, almost immediately, a shift to the defensive. “They better not screw this up,” I thought.
After “Narcos” hit Netflix in August 2015, obscuring drug lords, the Medellín cartel, and cocaine with a gloss of glamour, couples dressed up for Halloween as Pablo Escobar and his wife, María Henao. Escobar’s mugshot and mustache were pasted onto canvas carrier bags. I introduce myself as a Colombian American tinged with perceived intrigue — before “Narcos,” my peers may not have immediately associated Colombia with drug violence. Now, the land was a curiosity.
But “Encanto” was an opportunity for a new generation to see Colombia in a new light.
In October I saw an early showing of “Encanto” for an article I was working on. Not long into the movie—as towering wax palms filled the screen—my eyes glazed over with tears. The filmmakers hadn’t screwed up. Directors Jared Bush and Byron Howard turned out to have a close relationship with Colombian filmmakers Juan Rendon and Natalie Osma, with whom they traveled to Colombia on a research trip. A group of Latino Disney Animation employees called Familia shared their experiences and perspectives to shape the film. Charise Castro Smith, who co-wrote and co-directs the screenplay with Bush, is Cuban-American.
The film captivated me, because someone who had grown up with my heritage held me an arm’s length away. I knew where my father’s family came from – I had been to Colombia – but I always wanted to know more. But what about my father, who left the house to build a new one?
“Encanto” means “enchantment” or “spell” in Spanish, and the film lives up to its name: Years ago, Alma Madrigal fled her home while escaping armed conflict. She saved her three small children, Julieta, Pepa and Bruno, but lost her husband, Pedro. Devastated, Alma clung to the candle she used to light her way, which became enchanted. Its magic infuses every member of the Madrigal family with a fantastic gift when they come of age – except Julieta’s youngest daughter, Mirabel.
Julieta can heal physical ailments with the food she cooks (often arepas de queso or buñuelos). Pepa’s moods affect the weather, and Bruno sees visions of the future. Isabela, one of Julieta’s two older daughters, lets flowers bloom; Luisa, her sister, has superhuman strength. Pepa’s three children each have a power, like talking to animals. And our main character, Mirabel? She never got a present.
For me, as the only cousin in my family who was born outside of Colombia – and the only one who doesn’t speak Spanish – that resonated.
My father, Francisco Zornosa, is from Cali; he immigrated to the United States when he was about my age, 25 years old. Born a year after a five-decade armed conflict began in Colombia, he grew up amid wars between left-wing guerrilla groups, right-wing paramilitaries and government forces. It’s an aspect of his childhood that we never really talked about.
I had just started college in 2016 when the peace agreement between the Colombian government and the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC) was signed. Growing up, I was fascinated by the mysterious country where my father came from, where my grandmother, aunt, uncle and cousins lived. But with my fair skin, red hair, and mangled Spanish, I’d stand out like a sore American thumb. It was deemed too dangerous for me to visit.
But once the peace deal was signed, my incessant nagging started. Finally my father gave in: we embarked on a tour of his homeland. We stayed with my grandmother in Cali, nestled comfortably among the mountains. We drank in the sun in Cartagena, on the Caribbean coast. And we walked through Cocora Valley in the Zona Cafetera, where the wax palms stretch impossibly high, through the mist to the sky.
As I left the screening, I knew I had to show “Encanto” to my father. “Look!” I wanted to tell him. “I recognize these trees! That animal! This pastry!” I wanted to hold up a shiny piece of his – both of us – to be proud of.
Over Thanksgiving weekend, I dragged him to a theater. Maybe 20 minutes later, his glasses came off and the tissues came out. I had only seen him cry once, when his father died.
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Abuela Alma, the family’s fiercely protective matriarch in the film, closely resembled his mother, who passed away this year. I later found out that she also looked a lot like my grandfather’s mother. Even my father – who usually keeps Colombia tightly closed in a box – had told me many stories about that tough old woman who lived in the mountains and took care of her finca and her family – just like Alma.
And then, of course, there was the scene by the river. Angry, Mirabel flees through the mountains, far into the rainforest, and stops next to a flowing river. Alma finds her there, in a place she has never been able to return to: this is where her husband was murdered all those years ago, when their new family had to flee his home.
Since then, Alma has clung to the remaining relatives, desperate to protect them. But now that she’s sitting by the river with Mirabel, she realizes she’s holding the family so close that it’s starting to explode. While a cloud of golden butterflies by Gabriel García Márquez enveloped the granddaughter and grandmother, my father and I wept together.
I never knew my Abuela well, but I knew she could be unusually hard on my father, her youngest son. I hoped he could now see that perhaps that pressure came from a place of love and protection, albeit misplaced.
When I later asked him what felt familiar in the film, he said the family dynamic. He said Vallenato and salsa and marimba and alpargatas and Tejo. He enjoyed the flora and fauna, the food and the smallest, most intricate details. “Who made this,” he said, “they made it right.” They had done justice to the land, the people, the culture and the customs.
The soundtrack fascinated him. “Colombia, Mi Encanto”, a “love letter” to the country sung by Colombian singer Carlos Vives, plays during the credits over a steaming bowl of sancocho – the soup my family once welcomed me home with. “Colombia, te quiero tanto,” reads the chorus. “Que siempre me enamora tu encanto.”
“Colombia, I love you so much, I always fall in love with your charm.”
“Encanto” had done more than serve my father a piece of his homeland – it brought him back all the way.