Roma (2018)

Roma is the kind of film that doesn’t just tell a story—it recreates a world, with Alfonso Cuarón’s luminous black-and-white images and patient, immersive direction turning everyday routines into something quietly breathtaking. Centered on Cleo, a domestic worker whose steadiness becomes the film’s emotional compass, it finds profound tenderness in small gestures while letting the larger social tremors of 1970s Mexico City rumble at the edges. Yalitza Aparicio gives a performance of astonishing naturalness, and Marina de Tavira matches her with a portrait of motherhood that’s messy, funny, and aching in equal measure. It’s unhurried and sometimes harrowing, so it won’t suit viewers craving a plot-driven pace, but if you’re open to a deeply human, technically masterful experience, Roma leaves you with the feeling of having lived beside its characters rather than merely watched them.

Roma is clearly aiming for a memory-like portrait of 1970s Mexico City, where everyday domestic routine and national unrest quietly collide, and Alfonso Cuarón crafts it with astonishing visual control. The catch is it’s deliberately slow, observational, and sometimes emotionally distant—more like watching life unfold from across the room than being pulled into a plot with big dramatic beats. If you need tight pacing, sharply defined supporting characters (especially the kids), or a story that tells you exactly what to feel, this can come off as remote despite its technical beauty. But if you’re patient with minimalism and want a humane, immersive slice-of-life anchored by strong central performances, it can be deeply affecting.