One of the more delightful gems to come out of the 2023 Sundance Film Festival, Patricia Ortega’s Mamacruz is a sweetly war, charming look into one Spanish woman’s quest of sexual reawakening.  Anchored by Kiti Manver’s commanding performance as the titular Cruz, the movie is a love letter to mothers and an affirmation of the raw power of women’s sexuality. In Ortega’s generous film, acknowledging and addressing one’s physical needs are a key step on the path of self-discovery.

When we first meet Cruz, she’s on the couch raptly watching a soap opera, entranced by the smoldering tension onscreen.  Next to her snoring soundly is her husband Eduardo (Pepe Quero, styled to look like Gene Shalit on a bad day). She gazes at him, clearly feeling unfulfilled.  During the day, she helps out the priest at her church, decorating and maintaining the various religious statues. Then one night while trying to use her iPad, Cruz accidentally comes across internet pornography.  She quickly closes it, but it’s too late—she’s clearly shooketh.  She tries to return to her daily routine but finds her thoughts occupied.  Amusingly, each time she’s tempted to look up porn again, she crosses herself and lights another candle at her shrine (the candles increase in number throughout the film). So when she hears about a sex therapy class being advertised at the church, she sheepishly attends, embarking on a journey of self-love.

One of the film’s more amusing touches is Ortega’s acknowledgement of the intrinsically sexualized nature of certain Biblical images and Catholic traditions.  Depictions of Jesus on the cross often emphasize his sculpted physique, making him look more like a swimsuit model than the son of God.  At one point, while Cruz is working on the church’s Jesus statue, the only audible sound is her heavy breathing, as the camera follows her gaze (and her fingers), lingering on his muscles, tracing his nipples. Ortega uses this consistently amusing technique a few times in the film to telegraph Cruz’s heightened arousal.  Similarly, communion and the oral consumption of the body of Christ also prove to be too much for our heroine.

As Cruz attends the sex therapy sessions, she noticeably grows in confidence, seemingly becoming truer to herself.  She stylizes her hair, adding blue streaks to match her blouse, and Manver’s body language becomes less rigid, more relaxed.  In turn, this allows the character to more fully engage with the ones she loves.  In one particularly touching scene, Cruz pours her heart out to Eduardo, saying she’s tired of spending her life as a “flowerpot.”  Indeed, being in touch with her own needs also enables her to gradually repair the relationship with her daughter, who is in Vienna pursuing a career as a professional dancer.  Being present with herself allows Cruz to be more fully present with others as well.

This is one of the many takeaways, slyly embedded in this story that’s full of warmth and heart.  Another pertains to the sexual repression imposed by Cruz’s religion, and the friction between that and her need for self-care.  As another group therapy member poetically puts it, “The holy ghost doesn’t do the dirty work.” It’s okay to acknowledge that religion has its limits, particularly when it comes to our physical needs.

Even with those messages on its mind, the film is remarkably light on its feet, and will likely leave you feeling warm and fuzzy. It’s a reliably amusing movie, with many of the laughs coming from Manver’s character being scandalized by human sexuality.  It at first seems like a poor fit when she joins the sex therapy group—at her first meeting, her eyes bulge as if to ask, what have I gotten myself into?—and it’s enjoyable to watch her slowly adjust to her new friend group.  And even with all the seemingly raunchy topics they discuss (sex toys, masturbation, etc.), this is an incessantly sweet film, a rapturous celebration of female sexuality.