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The small town makes a big deal out of its miraculous tortilla

Filming on location instead of on sets does certainly have its advantages. The town of Falfúrrias feels deliciously authentic, and conveys a real sense of place. It is the sort of town where pink adobe homes shimmer beneath an azure blue sky; where a sunrise can be a religious experience; and where soft, dappled light streams through rooms decorated with pastels and peppers.

Much of the film's appeal has to do with the likeability of its delightful cast. The Latino and Native American community is so richly presented that, at times, Tortilla Heaven almost feels like a foreign film.

Spiritually speaking, the film certainly pushes the envelope, though I never really felt it crossed the line. You know you're watching a movie that skirts the razor's edge when in the opening minutes a pig manages to make its way into the church and drink the holy water! Although Tortilla Heaven is undeniably irreverent at times, it does so rather reverently. The film has a loving sense of self-referential mockery, the sort of humor made by and for a community of faith.

Tortilla Heaven opens with the hymn "Holy, Holy, Holy," sung as the town heeds the call of church bells one bright Sunday morning. This is a devout community that believes in the power of worship, prayer, and God's ability to reach down from heaven and touch our infirmities.

Jose Zuniga as Isidor

In the film's most beautiful sequence, we cannot help but be reminded of the sacramental nature of food: as the priest conducts the Eucharistic liturgy, we continually cut back to Izzy in his kitchen, preparing the meal the community will soon consume. Continuing the theme, the film ends with a scene that cannot be interpreted in any other way than an outpouring of manna from heaven. But if you're looking for the ultimate film that uses the idea of food and the communal banquet as a sacramental metaphor for forgiveness, redemption and grace, check out Babette's Feast.

While Tortilla Heaven certainly is suffused with religious themes, it is, nonetheless, overtly critical at times, leveling cinematic charges at the community of faith. The local priest, Father Pancracio—a sort of comic version of Amadeus' Salieri—comes off little better than Izzy, interested only in building a bigger church and populating it with religious trinkets. When Izzy, at his lowest point, comes begging for forgiveness, Father Pancracio tells him he will burn in hell for his sins and banishes him from the church. Though they eventually reconcile, there is never any sort of recognition on the minister's part that his actions were repugnant. In Tortilla Heaven, the real saints are found among the laity, not the clergy.

For all of its flaws and shortcomings, Tortilla Heaven can't help but be charming and undeniably entertaining. The film's heart is always in the right place. Ultimately, it is a story about community, redemption, transformation and faith. And Hollywood could always use a lot more of those.

Talk About It

1. In the beginning of Tortilla Heaven, nearly the entire town is shown attending mass. Yet while the priest speaks, many in the congregation are lost in their own worlds—reading books, daydreaming, horsing around. Is attending church more than just a duty? What does it mean to enter a house of worship?
2. Do we really believe God works in mysterious ways? While a tortilla with the face of Jesus Christ certainly sounds ludicrous, what are some other scriptural evidences of God manifesting himself in a manner that confounds the skeptics? In this film, what is the significance of the miracle occurring to an unbeliever?
3. After discovering the tortilla, Izzy and the rest of the town quickly lose sight of God and focus all their attention on the miracle. In what ways, in your own life, have you taken your eyes off God and concentrated instead on his blessings?

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