TELEVISION
“The Boy From Medellin” delves into the life of J Balvin.
Backlash doesn’t always ruin careers. But it can stay with a performer for a long time.
Sinead O’Connor incited rage when she urged people to “Fight the real enemy” while ripping up a picture of Pope John Paul II on “Saturday Night Live.” Dixie Chicks singer Natalie Maines got the group blacklisted from country radio when she told a London crowd they were “ashamed the president of the United States is from Texas,” referring former President George W. Bush. Beyoncé’s Black power display during the Super Bowl halftime show had viewers clutching their pearls.
Art and politics have always managed a delicate balance. That push-pull is at the center of “The Boy From Medellin,” an absorbing documentary about Colombian superstar J Balvin, debuting May 7 on Amazon Prime. It’s also a testament to his boyish appeal and details his battle with anxiety and depression.
“I’m not from the left, I’m not from the right, but I’m going forward,” Balvin tells a crowd early in the film. It’s meant as a kumbaya, love all sentiment but frequently comes back to haunt him.
“The Boy From Medellin,” directed by noted filmmaker Matthew Heineman (“Cartel Land,” “A Private War,” “City of Ghosts”), covers a week in Balvin’s life, leading up to his first solo stadium show in his hometown. At the same time, Colombia is in the midst of great political unrest. Protests in the streets are turning increasingly violent, most, spurred by the actions of right-wing President Iván Duque Márquez.
Colombian fans on social media and local artists criticize Balvin for promoting his concert but staying silent on the issues. They urge him to speak up. But he’s evasive during an interview with a journalist.
“I don’t wanna get into political things because that’s not my thing,” Balvin says. At the same time, he’s clearly agitated by the negative attention. He messages Colombian rapper Mañas Rufino on Instagram, asking to meet up and discuss their differences.
Heineman juxtaposes Balvin’s anxieties and images from the protests with scenes of the singer posing during a rainbow-themed photo shoot and playing charades with friends inside his gorgeous home as a silent maid hovers nearby. It’s a jarring contrast and, whether intentional or not, amplifies Balvin’s detachment from what is happening in his homeland.
None of that, however, is to take away from Balvin’s success. He recounts his early years spent painting houses during the day and playing for small crowds at night. There were bouts of depression, a reliance on five sleeping pills a night and thoughts of suicide. He found meditation and uses it to find the balance between J Balvin, the artist, and Jose Alvaro Osorio Balvin, the man.
He sees the upcoming concert as a healing moment for the country, despite the fact that several other major shows that week are canceled because of the strife. Friends try to dissuade him from speaking up, fearing a backlash. But it’s ultimately worse for him to say nothing at all.
It’s mega-manager Scott Braun who ultimately gets through to Balvin, claiming he has a responsibility and the platform to say something during the climactic concert. During the show, Balvin asks for a moment of silence for those who have died, takes a deep breath and addresses the crowd.
“I ask the government to please listen to them. If they’re marching, it’s because something isn’t right,” he says. Balvin voices his support for education, health care and calls for an end to the violence.
It’s meant to be his big moment, but those are hardly inflammatory opinions. Even this week, Balvin’s social media is filled with “too little, too late” sentiments and people accusing him of being “tibio,” or lukewarm.
The film ends with Balvin identifying with salsa legend Héctor Lavoe, who chronicled his life in the song “El Cantante.”
“And nobody asks/ If I suffer, if I cry/ If I have a sadness/ That hurts very deeply.”
But it’s not really that others don’t see his pain. It’s that they want him to acknowledge theirs.