No crashing waves on the shore of Cuba, no talk about the innate stardom of the musicians, no over-inspired filmmaking to saturate the subject of Latin music. There is, in fact, very little to compare the Buena Vista Social Club with Calle 54, although that's the first impulse, since both films document the unsung history of Cuban music. In Calle 54, however, the past and present of Latin jazz are celebrated naturalistically, with consecutive performances by 13 jazz masters, filmed simply. Such faith in the subject matter left very little need for talk in the film.

Director Fernando Trueba's narration is spare, so he never gets overentangled in his subject.

Though the film slips from unstable black and white into full, shocking color, the filmmaking remains reverent and observational, allowing for all the movie's rhythms to be born of the music. Tito Puente, Bebo Valdés and his son Chucho, Jerry González, Eliane Elías--all give mesmerizing performances, in which their bodies and instruments seem to transform into wild animals.

The observations are humble but lasting: Pianist Elías plays a masterful rendition of "Samba Triste," and a quick shot of her feet reveals she is barefoot; the two generations of Valdéses, who haven't seen each other in five years, play a piano dialogue, and the pianos face each other, even fit into one another, like intersecting lines of music; trumpeter Jerry González's bloody, bandaged fingers; saxophonist Gato Barbieri's shawl. These tiny details are all Trueba needs to establish the humanity of the performers. He lets the music do the mythmaking.

As the film ends, you realize that the effect of such a deep appreciation of Latin jazz--and of Trueba's measured direction--is that your surroundings have changed. No matter how cold and desperate the climate, such rapturous music makes the air warm.