Durval Discos

In Anna Muylaert’s breezy, unpretentious answer to High Fidelity, the owner of a São Paulo record shop carries only vinyl, and only, apparently, the best ’70s Brazilian pop — of which, the soundtrack mildly reminds us, there’s plenty. The fortysomething Durval (a lanky, big-haired Ary Franta, perfectly cast) doesn’t seem to mind living as an anachronism any more than he minds living with his pushy mother (Etty Fraser), until they get stuck looking after an energetic 5-year-old girl. Notwithstanding the trio’s occasional impromptu dance parties, tension mounts when Durval’s mother stubbornly spoils the girl and, upon discovering that she’d been kidnapped, stalls Durval’s efforts to involve the authorities. Here Muylaert flips to the story’s B-side, yielding melodic runs of dark humor and absurdity. Her method, as analog as an old record, isn’t slick; the tone is shifty, but nimbly so, rather like the affable tunes she uses for punctuation.