We Shall Not Be Moved Review: Crisply Shot Mexican Revenge Thriller Details the Domino Effect of State-Sanctioned Violence

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Socorro, a civil rights lawyer in her later years, is struggling with failing health – she’s losing her hearing and experiences unexplained blackouts. She copes with heavy drinking and chain-smoking. Her messy apartment is shared with her son, Jorge, a journalist who’s currently unemployed, his wife, Lucia, and her somewhat clueless assistant, Sidarta, who always wears a trucker hat. Living in a small corner of Mexico, this unconventional family finds itself drawn into Socorro’s consuming quest: to track down and kill the soldier responsible for her brother’s murder, a crime that happened fifty years prior.

The film We Shall Not Be Moved, named after a well-known anthem of solidarity used by civil rights activists in the 1950s, is a powerfully moving story about the lasting impact of political trauma. Director Pierre Saint Martin Castellanos, in his first feature film, skillfully connects those harmed by government violence with those who live through it, and makes us question what it truly means to survive when so much is lost.

In 1968, the Mexican military opened fire on peaceful student protestors at UNAM and other universities in Tlatelolco, killing hundreds (estimates range from 300 to 400, though the exact number remains unknown). Socorro’s brother was among those killed, and she has been seeking justice for him ever since. Believing the Mexican legal system favors the wealthy and powerful, she feels true justice is unattainable and instead calls for retribution.

The lawyer is initially resigned to never solving the murder. However, everything changes when the son of a former coworker arrives with a mysterious box. Inside, she discovers a photo of herself, a group of soldiers, and a list of suspects – with one name, Juan Agundez, highlighted. Driven to action, she asks Sidarta to track down Agundez and eliminate him. Sidarta refuses, stating he’s left that life behind, but Socorro reminds him of a debt he owes her.

This thriller is a strange and captivating cat-and-mouse game, but it’s not simply about Socorro getting revenge. It’s about her internal struggle with the temporary satisfaction that revenge offers. The film shows how desperate someone can become when trying to find a guilty party within a fundamentally unfair system, suggesting that the real problem lies with the system itself.

Jorge’s son is unemployed and surprisingly turns down a job interview his wife arranged for him. He’s deeply devoted to his sick mother, yet criticizes her for enjoying things he himself pays for. Elsewhere, Candiani, still on a ventilator and constantly smoking, repeatedly calls his son, requesting to be allowed to die peacefully. The show’s creator, Castellanos, initially struggles to weave these separate stories together, but when he does, the resulting emotional impact is incredibly powerful.

Thanks to the stunning visuals captured by César Gutiérrez Miranda, Castellanos powerfully shows how power corrupts and harms those directly affected, as well as those around them. Socorro’s son struggles to find his place in the very systems she fought against, and unintentionally fuels her increasingly risky behavior. Candiani’s health declines, partly because he’s become too invested in her cause.

As a fan, I’ve been really thinking about the characters and how their desire to stick together both helps and hurts them. It makes you wonder, is getting revenge really worth it if it ends up destroying the people trying to get it? And what if the person they’re after doesn’t even remember what they did? It also got me thinking about what justice even is when it happens in secret, away from the usual courts and laws. It’s a really complex story!

There’s a moment where Socorro persuades Lucia to help her by using her sexuality, prompting Lucia to wryly comment on the sacrifices made for even a small amount of justice. The film then questions whether true justice exists if achieving it requires someone’s degradation. If the government offers minimal compensation – a mere 200,000 pesos in this case – it’s understandable why people might seek justice through less legitimate means, depicted in the film’s striking black and white cinematography. It’s a shame morality isn’t as simple as the film’s stark visual style suggests.

We Shall Not Be Moved opens Friday, November 28, at Cinema Village in New York City, With Additional Screenings in Select Cities to come.

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2025-11-27 19:02