The film La Llorona—distinct from "The Curse/Legend of La Llorona"—operates effectively on multiple levels, which could be described as both legendary and historical. Richard Burton’s quote from The Night of the Iguana about existing on different planes of reality seems relevant here. Enrique Monteverde (Julio Díaz), an aging, unwell, and paranoid former Guatemalan dictator—as they often become—is facing trial at the start of the movie for the genocide of Ma-yan natives in the 1980s. The film presents two courtroom scenes; a particularly impactful one focuses on a close-up view of a K'iche' Mayan indigenous woman recounting the atrocities she witnessed and endured at the hands of Guatemalan soldiers, with an interpreter translating her words. She concludes by saying, “I am not ashamed to tell what happened to me; I hope you are not ashamed to impart justice,” highlighting the judges’ dehumanizing reference to her as "witness 82." Monteverde, whose character is inspired by Efraín Ríos Montt, a real Guatemalan war criminal, is initially found guilty. However, the verdict is overturned and he's permitted to return home to his wife Carmen (Margarita Kenéfic), his daughter Natalia (Sabrina De La Hoz), and granddaughter Sara (Ayla-Elea Hurtado). Carlos, Sara’s father, disappeared under mysterious circumstances that only Natalia seems aware of. Nearly all the household staff has left except Valeriana (María Telón), whom Carmen suspects might be Enrique's illegitimate daughter, and bodyguard Letona (Juan Pablo Olyslager). Simultaneously, crowds gather outside the house to protest day and night, essentially placing the family under siege. It’s then that Alma (María Mercedes Co-roy), a silent native woman, arrives as their new servant and quickly becomes Sara's favorite. La Llorona isn’t a straightforward adaptation of the Hispanic-American legend but alludes to it through imagery, such as when Alma teaches Sara how to hold her breath underwater. Monteverde occasionally wanders around the house at night claiming he hears a woman crying, though this could be attributed to his declining mental health. The film's title might refer to the 1981 massacre in the village of La Llorona or more broadly symbolize Guatemala as a mother grieving for the thousands of children who have vanished or been killed. The ending suggests that supernatural forces are also involved, an element I feel mixed about. On one hand, it seems almost superfluous; the story is already compelling on its own, and adding fantasy risks diminishing the stark reality it portrays. However, unfortunately, it’s likely this is as close as Monteverde will come to facing consequences for his actions, a comfort we don't experience in real life (and seeking retribution through fiction, like Tarantino recently attempted, would be misguided). By portraying Monteverde as a stand-in for Ríos Montt rather than the man himself, co-writer/director Jayro Bustamante avoids some of the historical revisionism seen in films like Inglorious Basterds. Ultimately, this debate is irrelevant because La Llorona stands out as a horror film that also functions as social commentary, succeeding on both fronts; it's intelligent horror cinema. I was going to compare it to The Official (Ghost) Story, but that film also features ghosts—figuratively or literally, they’re always present in stories like this. Bustamante has created an artwork that can be appreciated through either a set of narrative values and each approach proves successful from the opening scene to its chilling final wail.

Source on TMDB