Ruben Rabasa carries The Old Man and the Parrot with a presence that feels carved from the long corridors of Cuban memory. Gabriel de Varona guides him through Little Havana with a tenderness that glows through every frame, giving Praxi’s wandering a pulse that blends grief, ritual, and the stubborn fire of an exile who refuses to surrender his story. The film opens with Praxi and the taxidermy parrot that holds Yoelvis’ soul, and from that moment the world bends toward enchantment.
The plot moves through Praxi’s search for Radel Matanzas, played with eccentric gravity by Serafin Falcon. Radel’s alchemical experiments carry the weight of old Cuban myth, the kind whispered in kitchens and back patios, where spirits and ancestors share the same air as the living. The film treats these beliefs with reverence, folding Santeria and folk religion into the emotional architecture of Praxi’s journey.
Through flashbacks, René Lavan’s Yoelvis emerges with warmth and charisma. His scenes with Rabasa shimmer with the energy of two men who built a life through shared hunger, shared dreams, and shared wounds. Their relationship becomes the emotional spine of the film, especially as Praxi revisits the betrayals and choices that led him toward Radel’s curse. The film’s rhythm grows richer each time Yoelvis appears, giving the story a fuller sense of longing.
The supporting cast deepens the world. Isabella Bobadilla’s Ana Matanzas brings a fierce devotion to family history. Margarita Coego’s Tia Lydia radiates the authority of an elder who carries entire generations in her voice. Maria Eugenia Abrante and Desiree Masucci, as the parrot dancers, add bursts of surreal joy that echo the film’s devotion to magical realism. Every performer contributes to the film’s textured portrait of the Cuban diaspora.
De Varona’s direction leans into the absurdity of Praxi’s mission without diminishing its emotional stakes. The taxidermy parrot becomes a vessel for memory, a reminder of how exiles carry their dead through every street, every storefront, every scent of café cubano drifting from a ventanita. The film’s humor rises from this tension, giving the story a buoyancy that keeps its sorrow from overwhelming the viewer.
The film’s treatment of the Cuban regime arrives through Praxi’s recollections and Yoelvis’ ambitions. Their dreams were shaped by a country that demanded sacrifice from every citizen, and the film honors that truth with clarity. It never turns away from the pain of displacement, yet it also celebrates the resilience of those who rebuilt their lives in Miami’s heat and noise. The political critique emerges through lived experience rather than speeches.
Radel’s presence brings the story into the realm of spiritual reckoning. His alchemy becomes a metaphor for the transformations forced upon exiles, the way identity shifts under pressure, the way old beliefs survive through reinvention. Falcon plays him with a mischievous serenity that keeps the film’s magical elements grounded in human desire.
The climax, in which Praxi must choose between holding Yoelvis’ soul or releasing him, carries tremendous emotional force. Rabasa delivers the moment with a trembling dignity, giving the film a sense of closure that feels earned. The choice becomes a ritual of liberation, a gesture toward a future that still holds uncertainty yet also holds possibility.
De Varona’s filmmaking embraces the surreal without losing sight of the human story at its center. The film’s structure occasionally wanders, yet its heart remains steady. Its devotion to memory, faith, and the strange beauty of grief gives it a resonance that lingers long after the final shot.
In the end, The Old Man and the Parrot becomes a hymn to the Cuban diaspora, to old age, to the rituals that keep families alive across oceans and decades. Rabasa’s performance anchors the film with humor and sorrow, and de Varona’s direction lifts the story into a realm where magic and truth share the same breath. The film’s imperfections only deepen its humanity.
Grade B+.
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