Filmmaker Manuel Acuña uses his personal relationship with the protagonists to invite the audience into the intimate struggles of an LGBTQ+ couple who are deaf
For Rosa and Sai of “The Silence of My Hands,” or “El Silencio de Mis Manos,” restful contentment is perpetually just out of reach. Filmed over the course of seven years, filmmaker Manuel Acuña cleverly disturbs the chronological order of events to place the viewer at different points in a couple’s relationship, ultimately exposing the fragility of their love in their individual endeavors for growth.
Rosa, a native to the Mexican state of Jalisco studying law at the University of Guadalajara, and Sai, a Mexican immigrant who grew up in California reckoning with their gender identity, appear at first to the audience as soulmates yearning for the day when their long-distance relationship will close on stable reunion. Rosa and Sai also share a unique connection that transcends the bond more commonly shown in on-screen romantic relationships: they are both deaf.
Immediately, the viewer is consumed by a meticulously edited and mystifyingly realistic sensory experience. The orientation of the audio establishes the active hearing of either Rosa or Sai — which depends on who is the main subject of the scene — as the audience’s own. There is a particularly moving scene in which Rosa and Sai enjoy an evening on the beach, a youthful glimpse into a memory that they both treasure and reminisce on frequently throughout the film.
As the couple frolics along the shoreline and into the water, the audio begins to directly contradict the visual scene. When witnessing the gentle crashing of waves and the couple’s tender displays of affection all encompassed by a glowing sunset, the grating, whining drone of Rosa’s cochlear implant begins to drown out the visual bliss. The noise peaks at a roaring point, at which Rosa rips it off.
A collective “Ohhh” was whispered amongst the audience as we realized that the closer Rosa and Sai embrace each other, the stronger the feedback from their hearing aids becomes. This heart-wrenching reality acts as a metaphor for their relationship and underscores the rest of the film.
Acuña uses water as a way to transport the viewer between scenes of Rosa, which were professionally filmed by himself in Mexico, and scenes of Sai, which were self-tapes made for Rosa — some recorded on a cell phone, others not — that Acuña recovered. Swooping, aerial camerawork delivered us down a river toward Mexico in one instance, and in another, the whooshing sounds of a thunderstorm united the couple across the night sky. Acuña especially relies on the couple’s local aquarium, which they presumably visited together often, to anchor the time jumps in the movie.
The aquarium illustrates the barriers that Rosa and Sai have to overcome together, like mastering the balancing act that is long-distance communication. They are confronted with personal hurdles as well — a lived reality of gender euphoria for Sai and equal opportunity in law school for Rosa.
Essentially, you can place your hand against the aquarium glass to feel the coolness emanating from the water in the tank, marvel at the bioluminescent jellyfish and smell the moisture in the air for as long as you want. You can be as physically close to your deepest desires and loftiest aspirations as possible, but an impenetrable force might still impose that you have not yet done enough to grasp them.
By the end of the film, the audience can conclude that Rosa becomes the first lawyer who is deaf in Jalisco and Sai transitions, finally receiving his mother’s acceptance. In finding themselves, Rosa and Sai lost each other.
“The Silence of My Hands” reassures us that some relationships are not meant to be lifelong. We are reminded that heartbreak and loss are just as human as love and joy. The hops between timelines, reflective and nostalgic, are also tinged with an air of restlessness; a craving for a reality just out of reach.
As the final scene swells with emotional, Mexican folk music, the movie comes to an abrupt end. The camera jostles in the car alongside Rosa, panning down and focusing for several beats on her hands, clasped in anticipation of what’s to come.
After 83 minutes of tireless, outwardly expressive sign language, Rosa can finally exist in the silence of her hands.
It would be remiss not to emphasize the cultural feat of “The Silence of My Hands.” The movie is showing this coming week in the Jalisco State Judiciary, which Acuña said will begin a long overdue and very necessary conversation about trans rights in Mexico.
You can keep up with The Maneater’s 2025 True/False Film Fest coverage here.
Edited by Mikalah Owens | mowens@themaneater.com
Copyedited by Emma Short | eshort@themaneater.com
Edited by Emilia Hansen | ehansen@themaneater.com
Edited by Annie Goodykoontz | agoodykoontz@themaneater.com