What does a country’s national cinema look like when many of its most vital filmmakers no longer live there?

In Cuba, a nation wracked by poverty, political repression, and international disinvestment, hundreds of thousands of citizens have emigrated over the past decade, including a disproportionate share of artists, writers and intellectuals. Among these emigrants is Lázaro González, a doctoral candidate in Film & Media at UC Berkeley and an award-winning filmmaker who was born, raised and educated in Cuba before coming to the United States in 2016.

González has partnered with the Berkeley Art Museum and Pacific Film Archive on a film series opening this week that strives to see what Cuban cinema looks like today — which, given the increasingly displaced nature of the Cuban film community, is appropriately titled Cuban Cinema without Borders.

“My goal is to highlight Cuban cinema that is happening through exported filmmakers like myself. Because of many issues like imprisonment, oppression, lack of free speech, most of the filmmakers in this showcase are currently living in exile, in the diaspora,” said González. “Many of the pieces you can see in this showcase suffered from censorship within Cuba. We’re highlighting on the one hand, the vibrancy and visibility of Cuban cinema, and at the same time that these films are not visible within Cuba.”

González believes that Cuban Cinema without Borders is the largest program of contemporary Cuban Cinema ever mounted in California, a state whose Cuban population represents a relatively miniscule share of its overall Latino community. But even in diasporic hubs like New York and South Florida, it’s extraordinarily rare to encounter so many contemporary Cuban films in one place. That makes the BAMPFA series an almost unprecedented opportunity for audiences of all backgrounds to discover the powerful creative currents that have emerged from this underrecognized film movement.

“It’s important to realize that Cuban cinema today is not only speaking to Cuban people. These films are important not only because they’re Cuban, but because they’re great films,” said González. “Many of the short films in particular have been winning prizes in the most prestigious film festivals in the world. I’m optimistic, because I think this is the best moment for Cuban cinema in recent history.”

“This new wave of filmmakers deliberately breaks away from the legacy of Cuba’s historical filmmaking traditions, which were grounded in neorealism and socialist propaganda. Instead, they offer an alternative gaze that challenges the revolutionary epic and its historiography, shaping what I see as a more tangible stateless cinema.”

Though firmly grounded in this ambitious present, the program Cuban Cinema without Borders opens by recalling an earlier period in Cuban film history with Landrián — a biographical documentary about Nicolás Guillén Landrián, the groundbreaking avant-garde artist who was celebrated during the 1960s as Cuba’s first Black filmmaker before state repression and censorship drove him into exile in the United States. That film screens on Oct. 23, followed by a program the next evening of recently restored short films by Landrián himself.

Two other short film programs in Cuban Cinema without Borders exemplify the teeming energy and artistic promise of Cuba’s new generation of emerging filmmakers. Screening on Oct. 26, Cuban Contemporary Short Films I: Dreaming of a Nation features five shorts, most of which were made in Cuba over the past decade, organized around the topic of the island nation’s proud culture of political resistance past and present. This perspective is complemented on Nov. 2 by Cuban Contemporary Short Films II: Voices of Displacement, a look at Cuban filmmaking through the lens of diaspora artists who are carrying the torch of their national cinema from abroad — including González himself, whose recent film Parole is part of that program.

For González — who notes that the films in the series range from narrative storytelling to documentary, hybrid and avant-garde approaches — the filmmaking techniques are united by recurring themes of dislocation, melancholy and nostalgia among his cohort of filmmakers, who are collectively working to sustain a national cinema in the face of oppression at home and atomization abroad.

“For many filmmakers from other countries living in the United States, they can go back without any problem. But because of fear of state repression, very often Cuban filmmakers are facing a different kind of displacement,” said González. His focus on LGBT themes in his films made it difficult for him to continue working in Cuba. “And that, I believe, changes the conditions of the work. Many of the films, especially in the shorts programs, are symptomatic of that.”

González’s interest in LGBT representation led him to select Calls from Moscow as one of the feature-length highlights of the film series. Directed by Luis Alejandro Yero, this documentary from 2023 follows four queer young Cuban migrants whose daily routines are disrupted by Russia’s invasion of Ukraine. Censored in Cuba, Calls from Moscow nevertheless became a hit on the global film festival circuit, typifying the disconnect between the domestic and international reception of many contemporary Cuban films. It screens at BAMPFA on Nov. 3, preceded by the short film Roads of Lava, a portrait of a queer, Black, feminist activist in Havana.

A highlight of Cuban Cinema without Borders is the guests throughout the series — scholars, journalists, and fellow filmmakers — who will join González in conversation following select screenings. One of these guests is Alán González (no relation), who will visit BAMPFA on Oct. 27 to accompany a screening of his feature film debut Wild Woman, which premiered last year to global acclaim. The film follows a woman living in the slums of Havana whose life is shattered after a violent altercation between her husband and her lover. For Lázaro González, Wild Woman encapsulates a theme of the entire series.

“Something that connects many of the films I’ve selected is the figure of motherhood as a metaphor for the motherland, particularly in the contemporary films,” said González. His own work explores his relationship with his mother in Cuba, whom he has been unable to visit for several years. “There’s this longing, this nostalgia for the native land. But in many cases it’s problematic to go back.”

Cuban Cinema without Borders opens Oct. 23, with a 7 p.m. screening of Landrian. A full schedule of screenings can be found here.