Nicolás Pereda's 'Everything Else is Noise' Pits Women Against the Patriarchy at NYFF

Nicolás Pereda's Everything Else is Noise, an absurdist comedy of manners that runs just 70 minutes, premiered at the 64th New York Film Festival and will be released by Pragda. Almost the entire film takes place inside one plant-filled Mexico City apartment, where three women fight to be heard over the noise — literal and patriarchal — that surrounds them.

The opening scene sets the terms. Pereda's camera sits motionless at a window overlooking a Mexico City intersection, where construction produces a traffic jam in one long, continuous shot. Vehicles block the box, oncoming drivers swerve, horns and sirens pile up — and underneath it all, a cello plays inside the building. Despite the street's blaring cacophony, a new father knocks on cellist Tere's door (Teresita Sanchez) and asks her to quiet down. She has already made a similar pact with another bothered tenant. As the review in The Film Stage notes, Tere spends the rest of the film reminded that she is "always at the mercy of other men's schedules, preferences, and selective ears."

What happens in the film?

Pereda (Lazaro at Night), a veteran Mexican filmmaker whose work frequently shifts between fantasy and reality, stays inside Tere's apartment. On that loud morning, Tere has lent her space to her friend Rosa (Rosa Estela Juárez Vargas), another cellist and fellow composer, so Rosa can film a cable-television interview about her craft. When interviewer Lázaro (Lázaro G. Rodríguez, Pereda's longtime collaborator) and cameraman Paco (Francisco Barreiro) arrive, the shoot falls apart:

• the power shuts off
• the camera's audio malfunctions
• the next-door dog will not stop barking

Between the humorous fits and starts, Lázaro and Paco interrogate Rosa with basic questions she answers in short, slightly stubborn replies. The stilted rapport builds a stuffy atmosphere. Tere — and later her daughter Luisa (Luisa Pardo), lurking in the corner of the room — seize chances to interject their own answers about working in a male-dominated field, even forcing Paco to mic Tere up.

Tere at one point relays a fantastical story about how the scent of a rat influenced her to become a composer. Lázaro cannot tell she is fibbing, or at least partially fibbing, and takes her seriously — yet asks none of the follow-up questions such a revelation would warrant. He is just there to collect material.

How does Pereda expose the sexism?

About halfway through, Pereda adds stylistic flourishes that sneak up rather than announce themselves. When Lázaro and Paco step outside to wait for the power to return, the camera stays on the three women while the soundtrack keeps the men's conversation. The effect is eerie, like eavesdropping without visual reference.

The overheard small talk turns revealing: Lázaro explains that this messy, all-day interview might have real merit only because Luisa's father — and Tere's one-time lover — is the legendary composer Estevez (José Rodríguez López). Upon returning, Lázaro brings up the maestro and retreats into an easy corner of questioning: "What was his influence on you?" he asks Rosa, as though nobody in the room might have their own source of inspiration.

Pereda and co-writer Juan Francisco Maldonado nestle into this subtly ingrained groove of sexism throughout, including an awkward scene in which Paco attempts to get Luisa's number for a movie he is directing.

What limits the film?

The 70-minute runtime cuts off the opportunity for a deeper examination of the complicated family dynamics at the core — namely the relationship between Tere and Luisa, which boils into a frustrated third-person conversation about their generational insecurities. Luisa spats about her mother having her at 18 and losing her independence; Tere believes her daughter has not come to terms with her lack of vocation. They share history, musical gifts and an understanding that will never be given due credit.

What binds them is the patriarch — the maestro Lázaro seems to care more about anyway. When Estevez stops by at night, he captures the interviewer's full attention. Under candlelight, Tere and Luisa listen to his self-congratulatory list of accomplishments and projects, the predicted talking points that never change. They cannot handle the reality of this chaotic day and this secondary existence, but they can at least indulge in its preposterousness.

"You've spent your whole life doing what other people want," Luisa advises her mother. "Stop caring so much."

For a film about women denied attention, the joke lands hardest where it always does: the men never notice they are the punchline. With Pragda handling distribution, audiences beyond the festival circuit will soon hear the noise for themselves.