Gabor, the Spanish documenttary by Argentine-born Sebastián Alfie is a most unusual work: you could say it’s a film about a director of photography who lost his eyesight 10 years ago. But actually it’s not. Or at least that’s not all of it. Everything began when Sebastián Alfie travelled to Bolivia to fulfil a very specific assignment: to shoot a short film in the first person singular, with a personal viewpoint, about an organization that works for the recovery of eyesight in blind people. So he rents a camera for the short film, and in so doing he meets Gabor, a blind Hungarian DP. Of all things, Sebastián asks Gabor to go with him to Bolivia to help him with the cinematography. You’d think that Gabor should be able to see to do that, wouldn’t you? Yet he can. Because he has a great photographic memory, he can recall a scene of a given film shot by shot, as though he were actually watching it. He can also “feel” the right framing, the appropriate exposure, the way lights and shadows have to interact as to draw the best possible shapes. Of course, he can also discuss with the director how he “sees” the film has to be photographed. So in no time, Gabor, the film, becomes a film about Gabor, the person. And just when you thought you knew what Gabor is all about, you realize it’s also a film about how the many elements the language of cinema can be put to play with when a creative mind is behind the camera. Sebastián Alfie resorts to many smart ways to narrate this singular story. There are cartoons, a disruption of chronological time, a film within a film, his voice-over letting viewers know how subjectively this story is being narrated, camera movements such as travellings which are shot in the simplest ways, Alfie himself is seen both in front and behind the camera, and the story of Gabor is narrated in a most clever way. It’s all done with a firm, yet gentle hand, that of a sensitive filmmaker who’s met another equally sensitive filmmaker in a very unexpected and rewarding manner. It has nothing to do with the original assignment, which Alfie believes was a cinematic disaster from the get go. It wouldn’t be fair to tell viewers much more about the film, since a lot of the fun has to do with the discovery. Let’s just say that Gabor is filled with surprises, not only because it’s quite creative and inspired in cinematic terms, but above all because it casts an understanding, easygoing but also profound gaze on a complex issue in all its nuances.
New Argentine documentary offers a glimpse into the darker history of Ushuaia Traditionally known as the southernmost city in the world, Ushuaia in Tierra del Fuego used to centre around a prison created in 1904 by the government in order to increase the population as well as to guarantee sovereignty over Tierra del Fuego. What this prison meant to the town is at the core of La cárcel del fin del mundo, an Argentine documentary by Lucía Vasallo that manages to draw a quite good panoramic view of a legendary place on earth. For starters, this prison became a most infamous home to two kinds of convicts. On the one hand, there were repeat offenders locked away with serious criminals, meaning murderers, thieves and embezzlers. On the other hand, there were the political prisoners, the victims of the many dictatorships that scourged the country. According to their social status, they remained inside the prison or were sheltered outside in small houses, since the city of Ushuaia was considered a prison in itself at the time. Among the prison’s many famous inmates, there was Mateo Banks, the first Argentine serial killer. Yet perhaps the most infamous one was Cayetano Santos Godino, nicknamed “el Petiso Orejudo,” another serial killer who at the early age of 16 murdered four children, attempted to kill another seven children, and was responsible for the arson of seven buildings. Regarding the political prisoners, the most notorious was Simón Radowitzky, an 18-year-old Ucranian anarchist who killed Chief of Police Ramón Lorenzo Falcón on May 1, 1909, after he ordered a brutal repression of a mass anarchist protest which left eight people dead and over 40 injured. Other well-known names include Peronist congressman and poet Ricardo Rojas, and politician Honorio Pueyrredón. The penal colony of Ushuaia was also well known for its cruelty and brutality toward convicts, who were usually tortured, beaten up, and locked up in solitary confinement for several weeks or even months. They were fed very poorly and had to endure the merciless extreme cold of the southernmost city in the world, from the first day they entered the prison to the very last. It was only in 1947 when the President Juan Domingo Perón shut it down for humanitarian reasons, and so convicts were then transferred to other penitentiaries. As far as being informative and educational, La cárcel del fin del mundo is a decent document. It does convey the most important facts as well as some details that add different layers to the big picture. It’s well narrated, it has an appealing pace, the testimonies are quite telling — even chilling at times — and its narrative almost never gets off track. But it’s not only didactic as it also conveys some of the atmosphere of the place, as well as a sense of space, as the interviewer and the documentary maker go around what’s left of the prison and stop at key spots. Plus the testimonies from elderly women, the daughters of former prison guards, are as valuable as they are believable. In fact, they come across unexpected findings which add a personal edge to the overall story. However, considering how rich the material to work with is, La cárcel del fin del mundo is rather at odds when it comes to probing deep into any given aspect of the whole scenario. Many stories are addressed, but none is given a more in-depth analysis as to elicit other meanings than those you can see at first sight. It’s also true that you get to feel a sense of place and mood thanks to its subdued cinematography, and yet it’s not strong enough as to plunge you right into the most obscure shades. It’s as if you were watching the whole thing from the outside, as a witness who is not so much involved with the picture. As long as you want to be acquainted with a story you didn’t know anything about, then La cárcel del fin del mundo will surely do the trick. That’s its main achievement. Production notes La cárcel del fin del mundo (Argentina, 2013). Written and directed by Lucía Vasallo. With: Carlos Pedro Vairo, Margarita Wilder, Julio Canga, Ana Maria Segovia. Cinematography: Guido de Paula. Editing: Meritxell Colell Aparicio. Running time: 67 minutes.
Martin Provost’s Violette is monotonously explanatory and unnecessarily educational It’s World War II in France. Violette Leduc (Emmanuelle Devos) works in the black market. She’s married to Maurice Sachs (Olivier Py), who’s gay and not at all in love with her. But she is — and madly so. Not that she knows how to have a loving relationship, since she’s too demanding, excessively obsessive, and annoyingly neurotic. Yet one thing makes her feel alive: writing. She wants to become a published writer. That’s why Maurice encourages her to write non-stop. Violette is a woman consumed with sadness and unfulfillment, so no wonder her writings are so emotionally arresting. She writes about her childhood, her unhappiness, the broken relationship with her mother, her abortion, and most important, about being born a bastard. It’s a painful task, but at the same it might be setting her free from so much pain. After much work, Violette writes her first book. By then, Maurice has left her and fled to Germany with the promise of coming back, yet she knows he won’t return. As the war ends, she moves to Paris and learns of the existence of Simone de Beauvoir, whom she instantly feels drawn too. She decides to meet her, and so goes to her house and introduces herself. Most important, she gives her the book she’s written. Simone agrees to read it, which she quickly does. It so happens that it’s a good book. So she first suggests some editing, and then she’ll she that it gets published. Violette couldn’t be any more ecstatic. From then on, a strong and loving relationship develops between the two women. But not without some conflict, for Violette falls in love with Simone too. Once again, unrequited love. Nonetheless, their friendship will last throughout their whole lives. Thanks to Simone’s continuous support and sponsorship, Violette’s first novel L’Asphyxie was published by Albert Camus and earned her praise from Jean-Paul Sartre, Jean Cocteau and Jean Genet. In time, she will become a very personal feminist voice reflecting upon the condition of women and their sexuality, their oppression and liberation. Then, a literary success ensues. Martin Provost had already examined the life and work of a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown in his previous feature Seraphine, about French painter Seraphine de Senlis, who spent her last days working and living in a state of peaceful mental insanity. In a sense, her art had set her as free as she could possibly be. The title character in Violette never goes mad, but also finds salvation through literature as it turns her into a life-affirming, caring and grateful person. In different ways, her life was as turbulent as that of Seraphine. Violette also excels when it comes to the performances, with Emanuelle Devos as Violette, Sandrine Kiberlain as Simone de Beauvoir, and Olivier Gourmet as Jacques Guérin. They all have some remarkable moments which glue the film together in a seamless manner. Whereas other actors would have approached their characters as illustrious figures with a very defined persona, these actors opt to render very humanized and recognizable versions, all of them really involving. But the narrative many times fails to be that engaging, since it addresses many fronts at once and can’t consistently plunge deeply into most of them. Sometimes it’s also too informative and explanatory, quite monotonously paced and unnecessarily educational. So from time to time the story drags, and you may feel you are stuck in a tedious history lesson with no genuine pathos. Most scenes are cut off short right after the basic information is stated, not allowing for a compelling emotional atmosphere to surface. Oddly enough, the film is definitely overlong at 139 minutes — perhaps because it has too many scenes that say too little. Moreover, the inexpressive, flat cinematography (even if technically correct) can only be prosaic to the extreme (not beautifully austere, just prosaic) so all visually poetic insights have to be left aside. Except for the last 30 minutes, when Violette gains considerable dramatic weight as it becomes a more introspective, reflexive film and scenes are given the time to unfold to the fullest. Too late though. Production notes Violette (Belgium-France, 2013). Written by Marc Abdelnour, Martin Provost, René de Ceccatty. Directed by Martin Provost. With Emmanuelle Devos, Sandrine Kiberlain, Olivier Gourmet, Olivier Py, Nathalie Richard. Cinematography: Yves Cape. Editing: Ludo Troch. Running time: 139 minutes.
Hernán Roselli’s Mauro is an unpretentious and true-to-life portrait of human nature “From the start, I wanted to avoid some topics of classic realism, but I also wanted to avoid that entomologic distance typical of a certain realism usually seen in film festivals, that kind of gaze that confuses distance with cruelty as regards representation, and so it condescendingly stands above the characters. That’s why emotions are indeed very present in Mauro, but they don’t build a closed system between what happens and what the characters feel. I wanted to strike a balance and achieve tenderness without patronizing,” Argentine filmmaker Hernán Roselli told the Herald about his perceptive debut feature that won the Jury Special Prize at this year’s BAFICI and is now being screened at the Malba Museum. It couldn’t be any more true that a large number of indie features showcased in festivals have a realistic, documentary-like approach that strips their subjects bare, as though they were scientific material for cold scrutiny. But when Roselli tells the story of Mauro, a wary man who hustles counterfeit money, he does something different. He draws a character study in all its human nature, even if he casts an acute observational gaze at the same time. It’s only a matter of observing close enough, and so you’ll see apparently ordinary occurrences that are the signs of hidden sentiments and unfulfilled yearnings. Mauro effortlessly eschews a psychologist approach to account for the protagonist’s predicament. Little is known about Mauro’s feelings towards his girlfriend, Paula, whom he met at a bar. You can tell he likes her, but how deep his love is or how it affects him, that remains for viewers to figure out. Accordingly, the dialogue is never revelatory, and neither are the actions and reactions. The point is that simple rules of cause and effect don’t apply in this universe. After all, human behaviour goes beyond that. The characters here are indeed very real, and so performances must be finely-tuned, or otherwise artificiality would hinder realism. Mauro Martínez, Juliana Simoes Risso, José Pablo Suárez, Victoria Bustamante, and Pablo Ramos fill in the shoes of their characters with ease, and so the drama becomes all the more compelling. Plus an ascetic, a seemingly simple yet elaborate mise-en-scene is the perfect setting for these characters to bond. And something else that sets Mauro apart from other films that have similar goals, but fail pathetically, is how unpretentious it is. No big meanings, no enlightening ideas, no messages for viewers. That is to say no underestimation of its audience. On the minus side, an aspect that somewhat lessens the film’s leisurely paced dramatic progression is its tendency to repeat, from time to time, some things that have already been apprehended and understood. This is when the film loses some of its momentum. Otherwise, Mauro is the work of an accomplished novel director who clearly knows what he’s doing and where he’s going. Production notes Mauro (Argentina, 2014). Directed and produced by Hernán Rosselli. With Mauro Martínez, Juliana Simones Risso, Victoria Bustamante, José Pablo Suárez, Pablo Ramos. Screenplay and cinematography by Hernán Rosselli. Editing: Delfina Castagnino, Hernán Rosselli. Running time: 80 minutes.
Mexican drama Los insólitos peces gato is not a tearjerker, it’s the real deal Claudia (Ximena Ayala) is a 22-year-old woman who lives alone and works in a supermarket. One night, she’s rushed to the hospital because of a bad case of appendicitis. There, she meets Martha (Lisa Owen), the woman resting in the bed next to hers. She’s a 46-year-old-widow with four children and plenty of joie de vivre, in spite of her severe illness. In no time, Martha wins Claudia’s trust and invites her to go home with her family as soon as they leave the hospital. At first, Claudia feels disoriented by the singular dynamics of this new family, but she soon starts feeling at ease. Actually, for the first time ever she senses she belongs to a place with people she cares for and who care for her. As Martha’s health weakens, the bond Claudia has established with each member of the family grows deeper. All of them are now making the most of their time together since the future won’t bring a brighter tomorrow. If you think the Mexican feature Los insólitos peces gato, written and directed by Claudia Sainte-Luce, is yet another family drama with illness at its core, with cries and whispers and tears left and right, then think again. For starters, you won’t find traces of melodrama here. Nothing is ever over the top. Nobody is larger than life. There are no sudden reversals of fortune. Nothing is either black or white. Of course there’s pathos here, but not without a light and most appropriate touch of comedy that renders the characters and their universe all the more believable. No circumstances or situations are ever contrived, as they steam out naturally from a very organic screenplay. It goes without saying that the very convincing performances are a great asset too. That’s why you can easily get involved in the drama and care for the characters as you are genuinely touched by their fate. Call it a most inspired naturalistic drama and you’d be right. And within this smoothly accomplished naturalism, Los insólitos peces gato succeeds at being a serene, luminous film about the imminence of loss and the advent of profound sorrow. Sometimes, the comfort of strangers is all it takes to allow life and death to take place in their due time. That’s why this affectionate story is about exchanging places, saying goodbyes, and opening new paths. But with no sugarcoating, no enlightening messages, no big meanings. It’s the real stuff.
A 50-something lonesome, worn-out man arrives at an isolated spot in the delta of the Paraná River looking for a place to stay. Any fairly decent cabin will do. He meets a middle-aged woman who offers him room and board in exchange for little money. So he settles there. He’s got one sole purpose in mind: to find the money he stole in his last job, now hidden somewhere in the area. Eventually, a young woman who also lives there enters the scene. She and the older woman share a carnal relationship and almost no words. For better or worse, the stranger slowly becomes the third party. Since the man has betrayed his partners in crime who are now looking for him, it’s only logical that soon there will be blood. You can think of Marea baja, the new opus by Argentine director Paulo Pécora (El sueño del perro, Las amigas) as an atypical example of film noir. Not that it has an intricate plot, corrupt cops, detectives of dubious reputation, or even a femme fatale. But there is a criminal with a dark past on his shoulders, thugs, dirty money, a shootout and some corpses. Above all, what makes it a noirish piece is its downhearted mood, its sense of ominous menace, its continuous feeling of entrapment. When it comes to atmosphere, Pécora’s feature hits the right notes quite naturally — as though this pregnant environment was just waiting there for the right filmmaker to capture it. By means of a remarkably melancholy photography of drained out tones and soft textures, dim lights and harsh shadows that echo the characters’ feelings, a realistic all-encompassing sound design, and a seductively austere mise-en-scene, Marea baja creates an ambiguous universe that feels timeless and slightly dreamlike. Of course, it’s all very alluring as well. However, just like it’s skilfully shot in technical terms, it has a couple of problems as it regards the screenplay. It’s a great thing that little is known about the characters so that they have an air of mystery throughout the entire film, but nonetheless they are underdeveloped. Considering the rich dramatic circumstances they are immersed in, it would have paid off really well to have them interact more and somehow unveil their murky tempers. Which is to say that if the story had gained in dramatic impact, it would have been more visceral. What’s most enjoyable about Marea baja is how it draws you into a world you didn’t even know existed, a world that is examined through the eyes of an outsider who turns things upside down only to end up in the worst possible shape: the story of a rugged man whose future is doomed from the get-go. Production notes Marea baja (Argentina, 2013). Produced, written and directed by Paulo Pécora. With Germán de Silva, Susana Varela, Mónica Lairana, Marcelo Páez Abel Ledesma. Cinematography : Emiliano Cativa. Editing: Mariano Juárez. Running time: 73 minutes.
Betting on seven boxes full of surprises It’s a scorching day in Asunción, Paraguay, and the general goods marketplace is as busy as it gets. Víctor, a 17-year-old wheelbarrow carter whose life is far from happy, is struggling to make some money. It’s quite hard since the marketplace is a hostile, competitive place with countless carters who do the exact same work. So he always ends up making very little money. However, out of the blue, he gets some good news. Víctor is asked to carry seven medium-sized boxes to a hidden spot. He has no idea what’s inside the boxes, but couldn’t care less. Why would he ask when he’s going to be paid 100 dollars for the task? For Paraguay, US$100 is a hefty sum and, for Víctor, it’s enough money to buy the awesome cellphone he longs for. So the boy takes up the job and off he goes. 7 boxes, directed by Juan Carlos Maneglia and Tana Schembori, is an unusual film for at least two reasons. It’s from Paraguay, a country with a very small industry whose films are almost never released in Argentina. And it’s a very well executed urban thriller with a vivid portrayal of the country’s reality in a working class environment. In this regards, it’s not to be missed. Consider that a good thriller calls for a well-thought-out plot, effective action sequences, an interesting investigation, some energetic fights, occasional deaths, nerve-wrecking chases, and enough suspense and surprise to keep viewers on the edge of the their seats. And 7 boxes features all of the above in generous doses. Plus the characters, both the leads and the supporting cast, are fleshed out and so become individuals you can identify with and care for. The vicissitudes they go through are also plausible, just like the way they behave, talk, and think. Through them, the filmmakers also draw a portrayal of a bigger scope, that of a harsh social reality. Perhaps one of the drawbacks is that sometimes the turns of the plot, especially when there are action sequences, overshadow what’s happening to the characters. It’s as though the filmmakers were showing off the quality of their production values more than anything else. This is where 7 Boxes becomes mechanic and repetitive, making you lose some interest. Otherwise, it’s a good piece of entertainment that fulfills most of the expectations it arises in quite a creative manner. And you will be surprised when you learn what’s inside the boxes, that’s for sure.
Chasing meteorite chasers all over the US Whatever happened to El Chaco, the second largest meteorite in the world weighing over 37 tons that landed on Earth some 4,000 years ago? What about El Mesón de Fierro, which weighs over 60 tons and is the largest meteorite in the world? These are some of the questions at the heart of El color que cayó del cielo (The Colour Falling From The Sky), the second documentary written, directed and produced by Sergio Wolf, a film critic, theoretician, professor and former director of the BAFICI, whose 2003 debut film co-directed with Lorena Muñoz, Yo no sé qué me han hecho tus ojos, a brilliant documentary of the famed tango singer Ada Falcón, was embraced by critics and general audiences alike. Though the questions that trigger Wolf’s feature have no conclusive answers, the investigation on such an unusual topic is conducted in so exhaustive a manner that a few minutes into the film you become aware of the fact that what really matters is taking the trip, and not arriving at the final destination. Call it a meteoritic road movie, if you will, and you’d be right. Beginning at Campo del Cielo, Chaco, Argentina, and then travelling to Pittsburgh and Tucson, US, Wolf goes after meteorite experts who provide some interesting angles on the whole affair. You soon realize there are so many unexpected revelations behind the existence of something as prosaic as a meteorite that you may feel like starting your own private research. As far as the testimonies go, on the one hand there’s Professor William Cassidy, whose approach is scientific. On the other hand, there’s Robert Haag, a millionaire “businessman” (more of a dealer, actually) known as “The Meteorite Man.” But it’s not only about scientific or commercial fare, as the importance of the myths and legends about meteorites is also taken into account quite seriously. One great finding at the very beginning of the film is a handful of scenes from La Nación Oculta en el Meteorito, a film about the Mocovi indigenous tribe shot by Juan Carlos Martínez, a Mocovi native himself. So what you get to see, as Wolf rightfully stated, is their story as seen by themselves, not by outsiders. With Wolf’s voice-over as a precise guide, some appealing stock footage from decades ago, a stunningly restrained yet most expressive cinematography by Fernando Lockett, El color que cayó del cielo largely succeeds at neatly interconnecting different angles and characters associated with the universe of meteorites, and in so doing a canvas of rich colours is drawn. Other filmmakers would have probably gone for an exclusively analytical, solemn approach that would supposedly do justice to science, statistics and figures. But Wolf knows better, and instead of focusing solely on the meteorites, he opts to mostly cover the ground trod by all those interested, fascinated and mesmerized by meteorites. El color que cayó del cielo is about those involved in the phenomenon, not so much about the object that causes it. It’s about very singular individuals that you would want to meet personally if you had the chance.
It’s hard to go for the heart and the brain at once: La forma exacta de las islas does it “We like to think that La forma exacta de las islas is a film that explores and takes to the extreme the possibilities of narrating traumatic experiences. The islands in our movie exceed the Malvinas War and its aftermath, and instead become a space for pain and transformation. How do you go back to a space of pain and loss? What does living on an island mean, more precisely on one of the most remote islands in the world”,” say Daniel Casabé and Edgardo Dieleke about the second documentary they’ve made together — they first teamed up for writing and directing Cracks de nácar (2011). Indeed, trauma is at the core of Casabé’s and Dieleke’s lucid documentary. That is to say, trauma in its many shapes and colours: on a political level, on social terms, but surely most important, on a deeply personal level. For that’s where the most telling and scarred testimonies lie. With an outmost perceptive eye, a truly discerning mind, and an admirable way with words, the filmmakers follow Julieta Vitulio, a young Argentine historian who first travels to the Malvinas back in 2006 in order to finish her thesis on literature and cinema about the 1982 war. Upon arrival there and by sheer chance, she meets two Argentine war veterans, Carlos Enriori and Dacio Agretti, who’ve returned to the islands after 25 years. It goes without saying, theirs is not going to be an easy visit. But it doesn’t have to be an ominous one either. Drawn by the richness of their experiences, the young historian changes her plans, and decides to film them during a week instead. From then on, not one but many stories gradually begin to take shape. All of them remarkably narrated, all of them invaluable, all of them unforgettable. Stories embodying the effects of the war on Argentine veterans, kelpers, local residents, and even one that Julieta carries on her shoulders. Aside from its sound achievements in cinematic terms — remarkably atmospheric and alluring cinematography, a smart use of sound to convey an unsettling undercurrent, the perfect pace to allow for introspection and emotional involvement, a skilled sense of storytelling — I’d say that arguably the greatest trait of La forma exacta de las islas is its point of view. It’s how it tackles a most complex issue in a manner that is as sincerely emotive as it is admirably analytical. It’s hard to go for the heart and the brain at once. It’s even harder to get it right. So the merit is double here. Incidentally, there’s also a second, and brief, trip that Julieta takes to return to the islands in 2010. But this time the reasons are entirely personal, and the trip proves to be unexpectedly luminous.
Slices of provincial life in Argentina In a very unusual move, two Argentine independent features by Iván Fund have been released together this week: Me perdí hace una semana and AB both of them respectively featured at the Mar del Plata film festival and the BAFICI. And while you could say that in terms of their stories the two films are not connected, when it comes to their formal values you can easily see they belong to the same auteur. Fund’s features take place in unnamed provincial towns and boroughs and follow the everyday routine of ordinary people engaged in simple matters. In Me perdí hace una semana, there are four protagonists: Pepo and Yasu, a young couple who has just moved to a working-class neighbourhood; Eva, a policewoman who lives with her young daughter; and Michi, an effeminate fortune teller (not a clean-cut gay man, but a real queen) who’s lost his dog a week ago. Each of them with their own minimal story. Like Eduardo Crespo and Celina Murga, two other Argentine filmmakers who eschew all kinds of artifice, Fund goes for pure realism (even if it’s not dirty realism) in depicting snippets of time and space from the lives of his characters. With a documentary edge to it, Me perdí hace una semana warmly portrays intimate, introspective moments in the lives of its protagonists, but also significant fragments of their laid-back, apparently anecdotic conversations. It’s the type of movie that invites viewers to become a part of a moderately rewarding emotional experience, provided viewers know in advance that no major twists and turns are to be found here. In fact, none of the protagonists are fully developed characters either. But the minute they talk about or go through something that touches them deeply, several dimensions are unveiled. However, what makes the “stories” most appealing is not only their particular shades and nuances, but how these scenes have been filmed: with an inconspicuous, lucid camera that finds beauty in the simplicity of barren spaces while capturing, at the same time, feelings and moods in compelling close-ups and wide-open general shots of the environment. Add a multilayered sound design that reproduces the actual feeling of being there, and you have an up-and-close personal look at a minimal universe that is as tender and joyous as it is melancholic and lonely. On the other hand, AB places its gaze upon the friendship between Arita and Belencha, two older teenagers for whom the monotonous, restricted small-town life is becoming too confined. For Belencha, Buenos Aires seems the place to go in order to step into a new world. For the time being, a single activity takes up most of their time: walking around and around to find homes for the seven puppies Belencha’s dog has just had. So they go around in circles, stopping at every neighbour’s house to tell them about the cute puppies. AB is equal to Me perdí hace una semana in how subtly the different and particular traits of the everyday are captured, but the former purposely lacks the sense of minimalist narrative the later one has. Meant to be some kind of road movie on foot, AB elicits some interesting scenes from some of its characters, but otherwise it’s repetitive and kind of ineffective — including the last 15 minutes filmed in 3D, for no visible purpose. However, when seen together, these two pieces by Iván Fund not only establish a poetry that joins them, but also complete one another in what they express about certain places that enfold seemingly invisible lives.