‘The Virgin of the Quarry Lake’ Review: Mariana Enríquez and the Rise of Argentine Horror

Mariana Enríquez’s short stories represent, for Argentine cinema, an open door to multiple universes. Let’s begin with the most obvious—and “industrial”—one: Enríquez is an internationally recognized author in both literary and cinephile circles, which gives any potential adaptation of her work something Argentine cinema does not have in abundance: what the industry calls “IP,” or intellectual property. In this context, the term refers to works that are already known or that come with built-in visibility, giving them a market advantage over lesser-known material. From a commercial standpoint, releasing a film based on a story by Enríquez is not the same as adapting a little-known author without the writer’s steadily growing cult reputation.

But the most important aspect lies elsewhere. Her stories and novels are deeply cinematic; they feel conceived—at least that is my impression—from images, and they rely on stark, often unsettling oppositions. Very little needs to be forced in order to turn her texts into films: they read the way one watches a movie and adapt naturally to the medium. The main complication lies in their brevity, which often requires combining multiple stories or expanding them significantly. Within this territory, what stands out most is Enríquez’s personal—yet unmistakable—affiliation with fantasy, mystery, and horror, a mode of filmmaking that has been growing steadily in Argentina but still lacks the prestige and respect it enjoys elsewhere.

Films such as The Virgin of the Quarry Lake manage to bridge that gap, narrowing the distance between what is often labeled “festival cinema” and “genre cinema.” It does so through a fresh, original, and deeply unsettling approach that, while it can be aligned with certain strands of so-called “auteur genre cinema” (sometimes referred to as “elevated horror,” a term I find dreadful), possesses a logic and identity that are distinctly local and Argentine. Strip away the genre elements from Laura Casabé’s film—the director of Los Que Vuelven—and one could easily be watching a more or less realistic drama set in the Buenos Aires suburbs during the 2001 economic crisis. Yet those genre elements are essential to preventing the film from falling back on the familiar conventions established by the New Argentine Cinema decades ago. The film draws from that legacy—its network of references is undeniable—but uses the tools of genre to push certain aspects further.

Adapted from two Enríquez stories—La Virgen de la Tosquera and El Carrito, both published in Los Peligros de Fumar en la Cama—the film presents itself as a teenage drama centered on a tense protagonist, a 17-year-old girl who has just finished high school and is forced to navigate a series of destabilizing changes that drive her toward increasingly extreme behavior. Natalia’s world (played with remarkable assurance by Dolores Oliverio in her acting debut) consists of two friends who are sisters (Isabel Bracamonte and Candela Flores), a sort-of boyfriend named Diego (Agustín Sosa), her grandmother Rita (Spanish actress Luisa Merelas), and little else. That fragile balance is disrupted by the arrival of Silvia (Fernanda Echevarría), an older girl with more “life experience”—someone who has traveled to London, seen bands live, knows her music, and manages to get into places. Diego’s apparent interest in Silvia only fuels Natalia’s growing frustration and jealousy.

That is not all that unfolds in this working-class neighborhood bordering informal settlements and denser areas of the outskirts. Socioeconomic reality seeps into every corner of the film, often in tense and chilling forms. A man from a nearby settlement defecates in the street, is brutally beaten by a neighbor, and leaves behind his shopping cart—one that no one dares to touch or move, given how “dangerous” its contents seem to be. Power outages are constant (a serious issue if you’re in a cybercafé using ICQ or watching a popular TV show of the era to see if someone receives a life-changing phone call), water shortages plague the area, and gunshots or frantic knocking are occasionally heard at night. Add to this the appearance of a would-be suitor for the grandmother (Daddy Brieva, in a brief but crucial role) and a neighboring boy whose mother is hospitalized and who ends up staying longer than expected in Natalia and Rita’s home. Natalia’s sexual and emotional turmoil intertwines with this harsh reality, producing consequences that slowly spiral out of control.

With a screenplay by Benjamín Naishtat that connects in several ways to his debut Historia del Miedo, Casabé’s film gradually shifts from tense adolescent drama toward something more violent and closer to the realm of the fantastic. In that sense, The Virgin of the Quarry Lake recalls recent French films such as The Five Devils or the Canadian Falcon Lake, which approach realistic situations through a fantastical lens, with Carrie looming as a thematic—rather than stylistic—reference. Casabé carefully modulates the intrusion of the fantastic into the girls’ lives, piling up increasingly serious incidents that the group of friends barely seems to register. As in the great River’s Edge, a nearby death or a bloody event barely stirs them, while other moments hit with disproportionate force—especially for the increasingly confused and disturbed Natalia.

A dark chronicle of “a difficult age,” centered on a protagonist capable of generating empathy and rejection almost simultaneously, La Virgen de la Tosquera is a film with a striking ability to navigate the treacherous ground between suburban realism and full-fledged horror. At times it may feel slightly unbalanced—during the first half, in particular, the horror elements reside more in the staging than in overtly fantastical developments—but it remains a highly accomplished film. It vividly captures the suffocating heat, irritation, discomfort, anxiety, and frustration that define the protagonist’s life, as well as that of those around her, whose only hope lies in a million-peso phone call from a TV show that might lift them out of their predicament.

In this sense, The Virgin of the Quarry Lake—the film’s English title—retains a strong local identity despite being an international co-production. Beyond the occasional elusive accent, Casabé’s film presents a situation that is universal in its portrayal of jealousy and uncontrollable rage, yet unmistakably Argentine in many others. This is evident not only in its references to television, brands, habits, and the music of the era (a couple of songs by the band Las Pelotas play a significant role), but also in its depiction of a world where economic hardship, religion, and the fantastic intertwine in a deeply local way.

As for Naishtat’s adaptation specifically, the film is structured primarily around the events of La Virgen de la Tosquera, while elements from El Carrito function more as background, providing context and secondary anecdotes. Added to this are numerous situations created expressly for the film. And while the eerie presence of that abandoned shopping cart may seem more symbolic than anything else, it is also the catalyst that heightens the social and economic tension permeating the entire story. Without that context, Natalia’s adolescent crisis might lose some of its power; her anger and frustration extend beyond teenage jealousy, becoming an overcharged reflection of what is happening in the streets.

Although other projects based on Enríquez’s work are already in development, films like Laura Casabé’s make it clear that her literature offers a vast, interconnected universe ripe for exploration—one that many filmmakers, particularly women filmmakers, can inhabit while bringing their own thematic concerns and formal choices. It is hard not to imagine directors like Lucrecia Martel—whose La Ciénaga and La Niña Santa traverse similar terrain—tackling one of these stories, or many others daring to weave mystery and fantasy into that fascinating, indecipherable, and profoundly absurd country we know as Argentina.