May 23, 2025

Green Butterflies (2017): A Poetic Cry for Freedom, Love, and the Right to Be Seen

In a world that often punishes the different and silences the sensitive, Green Butterflies (original title: Mariposas Verdes) lands like a whispered prayer — fragile, fearless, and devastatingly human. Directed by Gustavo Nieto Roa, this Colombian drama unfolds as more than just a coming-of-age story. It is a gentle rebellion, a poetic scream, a tender elegy for those who dared to love in a place that refused to understand them.

Set in the corridors of a high school where conformity is sacred and vulnerability is weaponized, Green Butterflies strips away the performative layers of adolescence to expose the bruised, beating hearts underneath. It is a film that doesn’t ask for permission — it simply opens its arms and bleeds truth onto the screen.

This is not just a movie about bullying, or queerness, or adolescence. It is about survival. About the unbearable cost of silence. And about the small, sacred acts of resistance that can grow, like butterflies, into something breathtaking.

Plot Summary
Mateo is quiet. A student who watches more than he speaks, he navigates his school life with caution, avoiding conflict but unable to avoid the pain of being different. His sexuality is an open secret — one that paints a target on his back in a deeply homophobic environment. When he meets Daniel, a new boy whose own struggles run deep, something shifts. A connection forms: tentative at first, then fierce, then impossible to deny.

Their bond is not explosive, but it is electric. Shared glances, whispered confessions, fleeting touches — all unfolding in a world that punishes even the hint of affection between two boys. As their relationship deepens, the hostility around them tightens its grip. The whispers grow louder. The threats become real. The boys are forced to make impossible choices, their innocence crushed under the weight of other people’s hatred.

And yet, through it all, Mateo writes. In secret, in silence. His words — his voice — become both refuge and resistance. The green butterflies he draws become symbols of freedom, of a dream to escape, to fly, to be. But dreams, as this story reminds us, can be dangerous.

Artistic Analysis
Visually, the film is both raw and lyrical. It doesn’t shy away from the brutality of its subject matter, but it frames even the ugliest moments with a haunting, almost delicate eye. The use of color is subtle yet significant — the muted grays of school corridors, the sterile whites of oppressive institutions, all contrasted by the occasional, glowing green: the butterflies, the leaves, the hope.

The camera often lingers — on trembling hands, on eyes brimming with unshed tears, on the breath between a decision and its consequence. These choices make the film feel intimate, almost confessional, as if we are peering into something we were never meant to witness.

There is a literary softness to the way scenes unfold. Moments don’t crash into each other — they dissolve, like fading memories. The narrative structure is reflective, nonlinear at times, as if the entire film is being remembered by a boy who no longer has the luxury of time.

Performances
Kevin Bury, as Mateo, delivers a performance that is painfully restrained. His silence is not emptiness — it is loaded with emotion, with things he dares not say. The weight he carries is visible in every gesture, every pause, every line spoken through trembling lips.

Deivi Duarte brings Daniel to life with a vulnerability that cuts deep. His defiance, his confusion, his longing — they all flicker behind his eyes, sometimes visible, sometimes buried. Together, Bury and Duarte have a chemistry that is not about seduction, but survival. Their connection feels urgent, necessary, and terribly real.

The supporting cast, especially the teachers and bullies, feel disturbingly authentic. There are no cartoon villains here — just products of a system built on fear, ignorance, and shame. It’s this realism that makes the cruelty all the more chilling.

Emotional Impact
Green Butterflies doesn’t just touch the heart — it haunts it. Its pain is quiet, not because it’s small, but because it’s been forced into silence. The film captures the internalized terror of queer youth so precisely that at times it becomes difficult to breathe.

But in that suffocation, there is something sacred. The stolen moments of joy, the whispered “I love you,” the green butterfly on a page — these fragments become lifelines. They remind us that love, no matter how brief or broken, is still beautiful. That even when hope feels futile, it matters.

By the time the film reaches its devastating conclusion, the viewer is left not just in tears, but in reflection. This is not a story that ends neatly. It ends honestly.

Tone & Rhythm
The film moves like a memory — slow, deliberate, echoing. Its tone is mournful, but never cynical. It knows darkness intimately, but refuses to surrender to it completely. There is a thread of beauty woven through the pain, like sunlight through stained glass.

Pacing-wise, it favors emotion over momentum. Scenes are allowed to breathe, to ache. Moments of silence are as powerful as any confrontation. It’s a rhythm that demands patience — but rewards it with sincerity.

This is not a film made for comfort. It is made for catharsis.

Final Thoughts
Green Butterflies is a film that lingers. It lingers in the air, in the heart, in the ache behind the eyes. It is not perfect — some scenes stumble, some metaphors stretch — but its imperfections only make it more human. More honest.

It is a love story, yes. But more than that, it is a requiem. For the boys who loved quietly. For the voices that were never heard. For the dreams that dared to take flight, even when the sky was cruel.

In the end, the green butterflies are more than just symbols. They are wounds. They are wings. They are the echo of a truth too beautiful to be hidden — and too dangerous, in some places, to survive.

This is a film that every heart should meet at least once.