María is older than Jesús and has just reached a long-desired milestone of having a baby. She is over the moon about being a mother, but Jesús seems less enthusiastic about their new life. While shopping for furniture, Jesús points out that he has very little agency in their day-to-day life. She’s taken absolute control of their environment, having chosen the color of their apartment. Plus, it was her idea to have a child. María, in her drive to create a perfect atmosphere for child-rearing, has determined every detail. She even chose the baby’s name without his input.
Jesús wants the coffee table and holds out for it as the only expression of himself in the tightly controlled tapestry of their life. María capitulates but with enormous contempt toward him and the table. The table, at least, deserves her derision. It is gaudy and awful, with pedestals made of gilded topless female figures holding up a glass top. The salesman assures them that owning such a glorious artifact will change their lives. He’s not wrong. At this point in The Coffee Table, the viewer knows something is coming, as we’ve yet to see anything out of the ordinary. There’s a brief but icky interaction with neighbors as Jesús and María move the hotly contested coffee table into their apartment. The neighbor’s teenage daughter insists that she and Jesús are in love and having a torrid affair. While the adults laugh it off, she’s serious. But even this is not the moment.
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