I Am Cuba (1964)
Twenty-ninth highest-rated film of all time on Letterboxd. Let that sink in for a moment. That is the weight I Am Cuba carries before you have even pressed play, and it is, frankly, an impossible burden for any film to shoulder. I went in expecting something close to perfection. What I got was something far more interesting and far more frustrating than that.
Let's start with what nobody in their right mind would argue about: the visuals are extraordinary. Mikhail Kalatozov and his cinematographer deliver some of the most jaw-dropping, gravity-defying camerawork I have ever seen. The high-contrast black-and-white photography has this hyper-real, almost fevered quality, like the whole island is on the brink of combustion. The camera floats, dips, soars and glides in ways that shouldn't have been physically possible in 1964, and you spend a good chunk of the film genuinely baffled as to how certain shots were achieved. On a purely visual level, it absolutely earns a chunk of that Letterboxd reverence.
But here's the thing: the moment the film opens its mouth, the illusion starts to crack. There is a persistent, high-pitched whistling on the audio track that cuts through practically every outdoor scene like a distant kettle that nobody can be bothered to take off the hob. It's a glaring technical flaw, the kind that reminds you this was a messy, complicated production rather than the pristine, untouchable classic its reputation suggests. It grated on me almost immediately, and it never really stopped.
Then there's the pacing. I'll be honest, I normally have a genuine soft spot for episodic films, and there is a loose, disjointed charm to the way the picture moves between different vignettes of pre-revolutionary Cuban life. But when a single nightclub dance sequence devours what feels like a quarter of the entire runtime, and precious little of narrative consequence happens within it, you start wondering if the editor simply lost interest. It is a bold, avant-garde choice, no question. It is also a choice that grinds your patience into fine dust well before the more politically charged episodes get going.
And those episodes do eventually get going, with a heavy, unapologetic hand. This is propaganda, full stop. It was designed to be propaganda, proudly and loudly. The contrast between grotesque elite wealth and the grinding suffering of the working poor is laid out with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. I can appreciate the historical context and the sheer audacity of making something so nakedly political, but there are stretches where it feels less like a story and more like a lecture delivered at considerable volume. The non-professional cast do a commendable job with the material, but they are often simply swallowed by the overwhelming scale of Kalatozov's ambitions and the uneven, clunky sound mix surrounding them.
It's worth saying that Soviet cinema from this era produced some genuinely astonishing work. I reviewed Come and See and was floored by it, and if you want to see what happened when that tradition of bold, expressionistic filmmaking truly fired on all cylinders, that is the place to go. I Am Cuba reaches for the same heights but keeps snagging on its own shoelaces on the way up. For a different perspective on the island itself, my review of Cuba and the Cameraman is worth a look too, a very different kind of document but one that shares something of the same preoccupation with Cuba as a living, breathing idea as much as a place.
What you're left with is a fascinating paradox. I Am Cuba is a visual triumph that keeps tripping over itself. Its aesthetic ambition is real and it is staggering. But the audio problems, the exhausting pacing and the blunt-instrument messaging mean it doesn't come close to the untouchable masterwork its Letterboxd ranking implies. It's an essential watch for anyone serious about film history, absolutely worth your time. Just walk in with clear eyes rather than reverence, and you'll enjoy it a great deal more for it.
Three and a half stars.
Rating: ★★★½ | Year: 1964 | Watched: 2026-07-16
Where to watch
Watch in the US
Stream: Criterion Channel · Kino Film Collection
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