Directors Cristian Carretero and Lorraine Jones Molina. Photo credit: Experimento Lúdico.
By Camila Marchese Gonzalez
Esta Isla (This Island), the debut feature by Puerto Rican directing-producing duo Lorraine Jones Molina and Cristian Carretero, had its world premiere earlier this month in the U.S. Narrative Competition at the Tribeca Film Festival. The duo's first feature received three honors at the festival: the Best New Narrative Director Award, a Special Jury Mention for U.S. Narrative Feature, and the award for Best Cinematography.
In Esta Isla, with outstanding cinematography and grounded performances, the filmmakers foment a strong exploration of youth and identity. The film follows siblings Charlie and Bebo as they maintain a humble but freewheeling lifestyle in a public housing complex in their coastal Puerto Rican town. When teenage Bebo falls for a girl from a wealthy family and Charlie clashes with a dangerous drug dealer, the young lovers are forced to flee into the island’s wild mountains—escaping both immediate danger and the unraveling of the lives they’ve known.
TropicalFRONT spoke with the filmmakers ahead of their world premiere to explore how the film dissects interpersonal dynamics, reflects historical and cultural moments in its backdrop, and uses cinema as a vehicle for social commentary, most notably through the filmmakers’ approach of Tropical Realism.
How did the idea for the feature grow out of Carretero’s 2014 short film of the same name? What was it like adapting the short into a full-length film?
Lorraine Jones Molina (LJM): We always wanted to make the feature. That was the intention from the start. We made the short film together too—me as the producer, and Cristian as the director. We really love this genre of ‘lovers on the run’ and coming-of-age stories. Films like Badlands (Malick, 1973) were a big inspiration, or Y tu mamá también (Cuarón, 2001), where the characters also encounter different communities and people, and we get to see landscapes—how people live, how they are. That really inspired us. We wanted to make a film that was entertaining and dynamic, but also one that could show you something about Puerto Rico—so that you’d get to know the island a little better. That’s how the idea for this film came about.
Cristian Carretero (CC): After we received an Ibermedia grant to develop the feature, we brought on Kisha Tikina Burgos, a very talented screenwriter, actress, and director. So we had parts that were already written and other parts that were just ideas, and together we created a first draft. That draft evolved over time as we finished other projects and started looking for financing.
But a lot happened in Puerto Rico during that period—Hurricane Maria, for example. That changed our lives. Then there were the earthquakes in the south, which are reflected in the film through the grandmother’s character, who lives in a community called El Faro de Guayanilla. That was the epicenter. Later came the massive protests that led to the governor’s resignation—something that had never happened before. And then, of course, COVID. So much was happening, and we wanted the film to reflect the moment we were living in. That meant the script kept changing—we were constantly adapting it, evolving it.
Esta Isla also explores human relationships through Bebo’s journey as he tries to navigate them. Could you talk about the perspective the film takes in portraying these relationships?
CC: Yes, there are several layers to that question. First, I want to mention that the title Esta Isla carries a lot of meaning for us. It speaks to the idea of the island as a metaphor for the individual—these characters are trying to figure out who they are, where they're going, and why they're here. But it also refers to the island of Puerto Rico itself and its complex identity. Puerto Rico is also going through a kind of adolescence—trying to understand what we are, whether we're a country, a colony, or something in between. So there’s this parallel between the characters and the island—both are trying to decipher their relationship to themselves and to others. These relationships also reflect a deeper disconnect—we don’t understand our past. And when you don’t know where you come from, it’s hard to understand who you are. As Puerto Ricans, we’re not taught our own history.
LJM: Yes, exactly. In terms of how human relationships are portrayed in the film, we wanted to create connections that aren’t so ‘black and white’—more dynamic and versatile. For example, Moreno’s character doesn’t even want to talk to Charlie, but there’s still a deep love and respect between them, even if it’s unspoken. There’s a shared bond rooted in culture and who we are. We wanted to explore how we treat and love each other in Puerto Rico. Sometimes it’s complicated, sometimes it’s very simple. But I believe that in all relationships, nothing is perfect and nothing is ever entirely simple.
Cinema has always been a powerful tool for social resistance, and Esta Isla clearly fits within this tradition, particularly through the use of conversations that occur outside the camera’s immediate focus. Could you discuss the decision to include these off-screen dialogues, how you incorporated them so naturally into the scenes, and the importance of these background conversations in shaping the film’s atmosphere and message?
CC: We really wanted to capture that background context of conversations happening just outside the frame in Esta Isla. I remember the scene in the little store—with the man who’s always there drinking—that conversation came straight from real life. One day, while we were filming in Mayagüez, I heard a drunk man talking about some really profound things, and I recorded it on my phone. We used moments like that to add historical and social context, making it as important as the central story. Because that’s really the point—being aware of how spaces shape who you are. These layers add depth and expand the message. It’s also something you notice if you watch the film again—catching conversations you might have missed the first time around.
Cinematography is used poetically throughout the film, with the tone shifting depending on the environment. Could you talk about how the film’s tonality differs between spaces?
CC: It was very intentional. For example, when the characters arrive at Cora’s house in the mountains, we use a tripod or dolly to keep the camera anchored and grounded, which helps root the image. The sound design also shifts, moving into natural environments filled with sounds that are distinctly from the mountains, adding layers to the visual experience.
LJM: Cinematographer Cedric Cheung-Lau is not Puerto Rican; he traveled to the island specifically to film. He’s one of the few people involved in the project who isn’t Puerto Rican. Before filming began, he lived with us for two months to immerse himself in the environment. Cedric is very hands-on and willing to work almost guerrilla-style. Although we didn’t know each other beforehand, we quickly developed a strong understanding, which made communication effortless and helped us realize our vision. I think this was essential to capture the images as we did, being as true to the landscape as possible.
CC: It was very important for us to work with a small team and minimal equipment—few lights and no interference in the spaces—so we could capture the essence of the places and performances organically. As if the people and the environment barely noticed we were there. The film has a documentary feel; we wanted it to look authentic. The beauty isn’t staged—what you see is simply the incredible nature and charm of the island.
The film is described as Tropical Realism. Could you explain what this term means to you and how it’s reflected in the film?
CC: Tropical Realism is a term we came up with to describe our process. We can’t imitate Hollywood—that language doesn’t reflect who we are. We grew up watching those films, and they influenced us, but we can’t compete with that model. Instead, we have to create our own cinematic language, one that’s rooted in our reality. And while we coined the term, I think its spirit exists throughout the Caribbean—in the Dominican Republic, in Cuba—we’re all building a Caribbean cinema that’s still emerging.
Our independent filmmaking relies on small equipment—a camera, no lights—but our goal is to tell real, authentic stories. We also gather a lot of information from the spaces we film in. During our research, we enter communities and listen—we let them tell us their stories, and we adapt the script based on that. Not the other way around. It’s not about imposing something on them; it’s about seeking authenticity. That’s where the idea of Tropical Realism comes in: a style that’s accessible, grounded in our reality, and aware of the history embedded in our spaces.
There’s also a kind of spirituality in trusting the camera. Like Bresson said—it’s as if God is there, capturing something alive. Sometimes it really feels like there’s an invisible hand guiding things. I mean, the horse stood exactly where it needed to be, the chicken passed by at the right time, thunder rolled in—and we just looked at each other like, ‘Thank you!’” (laughs)
LJM: Just to add to that—we also like to shoot in a documentary style, to incorporate the real and play with those elements. That approach is also part of what we call tropical realism. In the Caribbean, we’re geographically close, but often culturally and politically disconnected. This term, and the cinema it represents, is also about visibility—about seeing ourselves and using film as a way to connect across the region.
CC: Absolutely. But this term can’t serve as a true bridge unless it’s rooted in the political will to unite the Caribbean—to make us stronger together. Puerto Rico is still a colony, and maybe that’s one of the missing links in this effort. But through cinema—through this shared cinematic language—we can begin to understand that we are part of one culture, one region, with a common history and a shared future.
