Ritesh Batra’s debut feature is a masterly controlled story that never feels contrived Though Mumbai’s famous lunchbox delivery system is supposed to be flawless, an unexpected mistake takes place when the food made by Ila (Nimrat Kaur), a young and unhappily married housewife, does not reach her husband’s workplace, but the office of Sajaan (Irrfan Khan), a embittered older man about to retire. What starts as an innocuous error soon becomes a warm exchange of notes between two lonely souls looking for some meaning in their loveless lives. If you think that Indian filmmaker Ritesh Batra’s storyline for The Lunchbox (Dabba), his debut film that became a sensation at last year’s Cannes film festival, is the stuff corny love stories are made of, think again. Or, better said, that’s exactly what it is when Hollywood makes the movies. But here nothing could be further from that. Batra achieves three most difficult things at once: a realistic gaze, emotional honesty, and genuine depth. So make no mistake: there’s no room for melodrama here. And yet, this is not to say that The Lunchbox is a cerebral, intellectual film. On the contrary. It’s just that it approaches these characters’ hopes and longings in a touching fashion without ever going over the top. As soon as Sajaan and Ila start exchanging notes, without ever meeting, it becomes clear that they share some unfortunate realities: the loss of loved ones, a sense that everyday life is passing them by, a feeling of anguishing solitude, and not having anybody to truly talk to. In Hollywood, these two strangers would eventually meet, would like each other, and fall in love. In the meantime, their lives would be transformed, and in the end they would live happily ever after. In a sense, something like that happens in The Lunchbox too. But not really. There are transformations, but only due to subtle insights and unpretentious observations. There’s gradual awareness, but not sudden wisdom. There are some hints at how to see with new eyes. Most importantly, there’s some kind of awakening in the characters’ inner selves that feels very real. There’s true optimism, but only as long as it doesn’t outdo realism. Whether they meet and live happily ever after is not to be disclosed here. Much of the pleasure of Batra’s remarkable debut feature lies in the discovery of what happens next (precisely when you thought you knew, but you were wrong). Last but by no means least: the absorbing, seductive performances by the two leads are in perfect sync with a masterly controlled narrative that never feels contrived. Not for a single cinematic second.
Gustavo Fontán’s award-winning El rostro pushes the boundaries of film language “Can there be a somewhat innocent gaze, as though we looked at the world for the first time? Can a shot, in that innocence, film a dog, a boat, a body, a face, with a simple and raw expression? Can joy exist in this simple encounter with the world?”, wonders Argentine filmmaker Gustavo Fontán (El árbol, La orilla que se abisma, La casa) about his new work El rostro (The Face), for which he won the Best Director Award at this year’s Argentine competition of the BAFICI. A very well deserved prize for an artist who has consistently and successfully pushed the boundaries of film language in order to come up with an enticing, warm poetry of his own. In his new opus, what you first see is a man arriving on a boat to an island on the Paraná River in the province of Entre Ríos. He goes to a certain place, where it seems there once was some kind of a house (or a home). But there’s nothing left now. At a closer look, we can see traces of something old and forever lost, perhaps his birth place. It appears that the presence of the man makes some things become visible: animals and canoes, ranches and tables. You can feel a space is being re-constructed. Soon, others arrive: a woman, a father, a few kids, and some friends. A face. More faces. Some kind of party is underway now. You could say it’s a long-awaited reencounter between the man who came on the boat and his loved ones, who were waiting for him to come back to life. Now nature and the people who inhabit it reveal themselves in their full splendour. The filmmaker casts a serene gaze on the passing of time, the imminence (or not) of death, and the nature of memories. El rostro is, above all, the type of experience where we immerse ourselves into a cinematic universe that somehow resembles the one we live in, and yet at the same time it’s altogether different in the ways it feels, looks, and sounds. It’s also a meditation on the emotional and evocative power of images that may first present themselves with a certain degree of literalness, but then largely transcend said literalness and become something else as unforeseen nuances take centre stage. Let’s say that life (or reality) is re-examined, time and again, with new eyes. Shot in grainy black and white 16mm and Super 8mm, with a multilayered sound design, and at very leisured pace, Fontán’s award-winning work is to be apprehended by your senses, never by your intellect (take the impressive textures, shapes and shades). In any case, free association is always welcome as long as it doesn’t shut down its many possible meanings. The fact that El rostro is a non-narrative feature, which instead works within the realm of the cinema of poetry, doesn’t prevent viewers from building their own story — or stories. For Fontán, cinema has to leave some room, areas of exploration if you will, for viewers to recognize and discover themselves so they are free to think their world all over once again. Most importantly: with an innocent gaze.
El tercero raises the stakes on Argentine homoeroticism on film but fails to deliver El tercero, the debut film of Rodrigo Guerrero, tackles a topic that could have given way to a good story (perhaps even more so because it’s a first in Argentine cinema). In fact, it does well in a couple of parts, but its screenplay largely rings false and the ending is too easy to imagine. After contacting a gay couple via web cam at a gay chat room, Fede (Emiliano Dionisi), a young man in his mid-twenties, arrives to the couple’s apartment for a threesome. Enter Hernán (Carlos Echevarría) and Franco (Nicolás Armengol), both in their mid-thirties and partners of eight years. Face to face, Fede likes them and viceversa. So it should be party time, right? Not so fast. In El tercero, the threesome finally takes place after a ludicrously long verbal foreplay that exists only on the big screen. Of course, fiction and reality are two different things. But if a movie goes for realism, then its fiction must be built realistically. Otherwise, the singularities of the characters and situations should be noted. Yet when a couple has a threesome with someone they’ve only met in a chat room, it’s very unlikely that they would prepare a full course dinner to break the ice. The usual scenario would run more along the lines of having something to drink, maybe playing some music, lowering the lights, and having small talk. And that would lead to the sex — the one and only reason for the gathering. And afterwards, maybe, just maybe, a more interesting conversation will arise by itself. But in Guerrero’s film, the trio talk endlessly during their long dinner. Hernán and Franco tell Fede how they met and what they feel for each other, what they like and dislike, how they relate to each other’s families, how their families relate to them, whether they go out or stay at home, and so forth. As for Fede, he’s more of a listener, but he talks a bit about his dad and the traits he’s inherited from his parents. Also, he unexpectedly tells the couple that his mum killed herself by swallowing pills — the couple hold hands gently as to cope with the news. Not a smart, dramatic move. Had the characters been off-beat, emotionally repressed, incomprehensible, illogical, or slightly psychotic, then they could rightfully behave in unpredictable, unusual, illogical ways. But these characters are run-off-the-mill — even uninteresting stereotypes, if you will. So why have such a contrived endless dinner sequence? Perhaps because it’s necessary to show some seduction among the characters to justify the predictable ending: the morning after, Fede feels something has changed inside of him following the encounter with the couple (or, better said, with Franco). But not everything is a mess: the sex scenes are believable, engaging. Finally there’s some real action as the three young men kiss, caress, touch and devour one another. There’s tenderness, but also a wild, carnal side. Most important: the actors look comfortable in their roles, as they did in most of the previous scenes. At times, the viewer can really feel the heat. In comparison to the first two thirds of the movie, this tiny last third is some kind of a triumph — and the introductory chat session is true to life as well.
Piñeyro shows trivial take on serious matters Argentine Marcelo Piñeyro is a curious case of a filmmaker: half of his films are downright forgettable and simplistic — even for feel-good mainstream cinema. But the other half includes accomplished and somewhat inspired works. His debut film, Tango Feroz (1994), was an unprecedented success: 1,500,000 youngsters flocked to see the mythical story of legendary national rock star Tanguito. It’s true that Piñeyro’s overly sentimental and one-dimensional story has undesirable differences with the life of the real Tanguito. Yet, since it’s unabashedly easy to like and never pretentious, it works out in its own right. On the contrary, Caballos salvajes (1995) and Cenizas del paraíso (1997) are very disappointing. They have lofty ambitions and seek to insightfully explore existential matters. But trite dialogue, poorly developed characters, and corny dramatic situations don’t go far at all. But his following movie, Plata quemada (2000, an adaptation of Argentine writer Ricardo Piglia’s eponymous novel), is quite well filmed and much credible. It features fleshed-out characters, the action sequences are convincing, and the homoeroticism is ever present in a seductive manner. And the spirit of the novel is well preserved. Then came Kamchatka (2002), which subtly and skillfully portrays the struggle of an Argentine family to hide from the military police during the 1976-1983 dictatorship. Very good acting, a seemingly simple story very well told, great insights, and an appropriately intimate tone do make a difference. But it all went downhill once again with El método (2005), based on a play about the recruitment of a top executive from seven ferocious applicants. Shot with little visual imagination, too talky and poorly acted, El método is simply unmemorable. With Las viudas de los jueves (2009), which deals with the unhappy lives of unhappy people living in gated communities, things get much, much worse. Awful acting, contrived dialogue, a poorly narrated storyline, an unnecessary slow pace — and the list goes on. And now there’s Ismael, Piñeyro’s first Spanish production, which tells the story of an 8-year-old mulatto kid who travels from Madrid to Barcelona hoping to meet his biological father, come what may. Once in Barcelona, some other stories begin to take shape around his own: one involves the relationship between Ismael’s father and his own mother; another one is about a friend who lives with Ismael; the third focuses on Ismael and his mother; then yet another one involves Ismael and his grandmother. Of course, there’s the relationship between Ismael and his absent father, which started the whole affair. So now you have too many stories for one film — unless, of course, there’s a strong narrative focus and a good deal of depth to get to their very essence. But that’s not the case here. The narrative moves along a rather superfluous and imprecise path that doesn’t do justice to the complexities and subjectivities of the material. As in some of his previous films, Piñeyro’s new opus simplifies serious matters in order to render them more accessible — and in a bad way. It’s also sentimental, but in the wrong parts, that is to say, when a degree of emotional restraint was called for. This is not the grand story of a mythical and legendary rock star, but a character study that’s meant to be serious and perceptive. And it’s not. And when some big meanings are spelled out for viewers, the dialogue becomes lethal, if not risible. And to think that during the film’s first half the conflict is properly set up, all the events make sense and are somewhat gripping; a couple of possible subplots are introduced promptly, and so you are eager to see how they will unfold; the overall pace is accurate, for it’s neither hectic nor languid; the characters get some appealing nuances, and thus they start to have personalities of their own. But you’ll be watching a film that goes somewhere. It’s clear it’s not going to be a groundbreaking work, but it seems it will pay off. Not too long afterwards, you realize you were dead wrong: throughout the rest of the film, Piñeyro barely scratches the surface of the heart of Ismael. This story has enough potential to make two movies. Too bad not nearly half of that potential is fulfilled. The more the film progresses, the flatter it becomes. Granted, in formal terms Ismael is accomplished — the attractive cinematography, the fine editing, or the successful art direction. No doubt that when it comes to production values, Piñeyro’s new work is well done. But perhaps the most annoying problem is that Ismael is too talky, which turns out quite unfortunate here. In real life, people don’t utter perfect dramatic lines that sum up their dilemmas and show discerning opinions of every issue around them. Likewise, the performances begin to lose momentum as the film becomes more and more flimsy and artificial. Ismael himself, played by Larson do Amaral, is too smart (as was to be expected) and too mature. Since the kid’s performance is akin to the character, don’t expect a confused and worried real life boy: this Ismael is a boy made for the movies.
Simón’s Franco Boca de pozo is professionally shot, but its screenplay is flat and superficial A brief synopsis of Argentine filmmaker Simón Franco’s Boca de pozo could say that it tells the story of Bruno (Pablo Cedrón), an oil worker in Comodoro Rivadavia whose life is split into two: half of the time he’s at the toil plant, working monotonously with only one workmate. Loneliness and lack of company is what seems to trouble him the most. Of course, during these two weeks, he lives there too — and it’s not a happy life. In the other half of his life, he’s at home with an unhappy wife and a kid, an occasional sex partner, and some big debts, so let’s say: another unhappy life. Wherever he is, he’s severely anguished, discouraged, skeptical, and depressed — but also mean and despicable. One of the film’s main problem is that while it’s professionally shot in terms of technique, its screenplay is flat and superficial. Such a contrast does not show at first since the set up of the story is well structured and developed. It properly introduces the lead character, a supporting character, the central conflict, and where and when the story takes place. And it shows all these factors in interaction. Soon, some kind of story begins to take shape. So far, so good... Yet as the minutes unfold, no sense of gripping drama appears. But the surface still looks good. Not that it is groundbreaking, because it’s not and it doesn’t have to be. It’s professional in a conventional, effective manner — and that’s OK. Take the low key cinematography, which creates an atmosphere of gloom and despair. Or the sound design, which conveys a sense of isolation, with long silences and occasional noises. But in narrative terms, time passes, and the very minor happenings and events that take place don’t add up to much. You could say it’s meant to be an observational character study. The thing is that there’s very little to observe. I guess the idea here is that Bruno is facing an existential crisis, no matter where he goes or what he does to ignore it. And now the equally important second (and unsolvable) problem: nothing in the film truly expresses or analyzes an existential crisis. There’s not nearly the neccesary dramatic density. There’s not much beyond the anecdote. Instead, there’s much commonplace and overworked dramatic situations, not enough depth to delve into complexities and subjectivities, a tedious pace that wants to be taken for gravity, and too rehearsed dialogue that ends up saying nothing at all. For a true examination of a particular man confronting such a severe existencial crisis, Boca de pozo lacks all particularities, a good deal of insight, and a personal gaze upon the drama. Needless to say, a screenplay embodying all that could be of much use
It’s the 1960s in Poland, and young Ida (Agata Trzebuchowska) is a noviatiate nun a few steps away from taking her vows. But she is told she has to go to visit her aunt Wanda (Agata Kusleza), her only relative alive. Such news comes as a big surprise to Ida, but nonetheless she goes to visit her. Little does expect that Wanda is so different from everybody she’s met before — granted, given she lived almost her entire life in a convent, her view of the world is utterly limited. Wanda is a woman in her 40s with a taste for cigarettes, booze and sex — but not necessarily in that order. She has no sentimental companion, and no next of kin. Not only is she a loner, but she’s also a bit of a doubter — as the film unfolds, it becomes clear that she has more than enough reasons to be unhappy. In any case, even if she’s not very welcoming, she never mistreats Ida. It’s the news that she tells the noviatiate that’s really disturbing. It turns out thata Ida is, of all things, Jewish by birth. Her parents were killed by the Nazis, or perhaps Jewish collaborators, or they just died during WWII. Nobody seems to know for sure. But somehow she survived (precisely why and how is not to be disclosed yet). And while Ida doesn’t have a single reminiscence of her parents, she now strongly feels she must know where they are buried and visit them. As for Wanda, she has reasons of her own to accompany her niece on a trip of painful discoveries. So off they go. Ida, the new film by Polish director Pawel Pawlikowski, is a sensitive, subtle approach to a complex scenario in the shape of a historical drama, a character study, and also of a journey of revelations and transformations. If not of the history itself (for that’s impossible), then transformations are to be found in the ways these two women will connect with their past, which still casts a dark shadow on their present. Ida is a superb emotional, spiritual and an aesthetic experience like those of Bergman or Rossellini. From a very moving (but never sentimental) perspective, viewers are meant to be fully immersed into the story, largely thanks to the nearness and intimacy shared with the leads. Not to mention the stunning performances by Kulesza and Trzebuchowska, who fully flesh their characters out in unforeseen manners. Ida’s tone is many times contemplative, and rightfully so, for it allows meanings to sink deeper. Starkly filmed in enticingly melancholic black and white, with a soft focus, powerful compositions in every single shot, and an enveloping sense of time and space, Pawel Pawlikowski’s delicate, yet heartbreaking outing is a small gem not to be missed.
A fantasy world better left unexplored “Why is it that there are people who get what they want, and others who strive hard and don’t get anything? — I don’t know, it must be destiny — Do you believe in destiny? — I don’t know, when I was little I believed in love.” This is one of the many verbal exchanges that go for big meanings in Amapola, the debut film as a director of US-based Argentine production designer Eugenio Zanetti, who’s worked extensively in many formulaic Hollywood films such as There Be Dragons, The Haunting, What Dreams May Come, and Last Action Hero. According to the press release, Amapola is a romantic comedy narrated in the vein of magic realism, featuring a musical version of Shakespeare’s A Midsummer’s Night Dream (and some other musical numbers which include mambo), and with a lead, Amapola, who has a gift for seeing the future and time travelling, so she can make amends for her mistakes (and those of others) and dream of a better world where she can be happy and win back a long-lost love. As a background, are the 1976-1983 Argentine military dictatorship and the Malvinas War (including some lines from a speech by ex-president Leopoldo Galtieri). Unfortunately, the press release is right as Amapola is all these things — but put together in a contrived, senseless manner. Not that it could have been something different, for it’s the type of film doomed from the very start. It’s very clear that Amapola takes place in a universe far away from reality, but even a fantastic environment calls for some originality and a sense of real magic instead of having pretentious characters, plots, subplots, occurrences and dramatic turning points that are corny, trite, and arbitrary. A fantasy world needs a personality of its own, not a constant explanation of what the movie wants to convey. As for the casting, Ana María Picchio and Adriana Aizemberg only appear in one shot each. Why bother having good actresses if they don’t get to act? Same thing with Nicolás Pauls, who doesn’t utter a single line — although considering his limited acting ability, maybe it’s better off like this. Then there’s Geraldine Chaplin, who hasn’t had a decent role in a decent movie for ages. Needless to say, Amapola is no exception. As for Luciano Cáceres, he does his best, but there’s always so much he can do. François Arnaud, the good looking long-lost love of Amapola, comes across as more of a model than an actor Last but not least, there’s the glossy, polished cinematography typical of a certain kind of advertising cinema, which is ok for commercials of expensive cars, fine clothing or pricey summer resorts, but it’s quite tacky and formulaic here — all the more so because it pretends to be refined and elegant. Just picture golden, yellowish surfaces and reflections covering it all — literally — as though there were sunsets and sunrises left, right, below and above. For the sequences taking place in the future, the palette is bluish and greyish since the future is cold and bleak. Such a tacky, unimaginative set of aesthetics is hard to digest. But there are two good things about Amapola: first, in terms of technique, it’s professionally shot — like a Hollywood movie, if you will. Secondly, it only runs for 84 minutes. Yet, it wouldn’t be a surprise if it still feels too long.
Plotless urban tale goes nowhere in Lumpen Bruno (Luis Ziembrowski) has a teenage son, Damián (Alan Daicz), and a girlfriend, Ruth (Analía Couceyro), and they live in a working class, kind of shabby, neighbourhood. He used to know better days, but he’s been down and out on his luck for quite some time now — only God knows why and how his life changed so much. In front of his house, there’s an abandoned factory — which I guess symbolizes the ruins of a past economic bonanza. That’s where Cartucho (Diego Velázquez), a squatter worker, lives. He represents the current and impoverished state of things. Bruno befriends Cartucho, but only because he needs someone to take care of a used car he’s just bought. He even tips Cartucho for the task. By the way, most of the bigot, fascist neighbours want to kick Cartucho out of the neighbourhood. And they harass everybody, just for the sake of it. But Claudia (María Inés Aldaburu), a Marxist activist — or something of the sort — who’s in a wheelchair and records slices of everyday life with a video camera, is on Bruno’s and Cartucho’s side. She also tapes herself talking about Sergei Eisenstein’s October — why she does it beats me. Incidentally, Damián begins to spend too much time with Cartucho, just the two of them. Which is not a good thing in this movie, for anything can come out of that. There’s also the police, who come to the neighbourhood to arrest Cartucho. And there’s much, mucho more, but it’s quite hard to put all the pieces together. Not because Lumpen, the debut film as a director of Argentine actor Luis Ziembrowski, is an intricate and dazzling puzzle, but because of a more elementary reason: the story is so disjointed, so arbitrary and rambling that in order to sketch a synopsis, you have to wait until the very end of the film, recall what you’ve seen, and even see it again — which is definitely not a pleasant experience. This confusion is clearly involuntary; the idea here was likely to accumulate a series of situations shot in autonomous sequences within the aesthetics of gritty realism (which is somewhat well achieved, thanks to an ambiance of pervasive gloom), and then have them express the many facets — the pain, the oppressiveness, and the isolation — of this bleak universe. Too bad it doesn’t work at all. Yet, it’s only fair to point out that the performances of Couceyro and Ziembrowski do have some remarkable moments. They do make a difference amid such an ill fated screenplay. There’s an attempt to build a narrative, but then there are no dramatic connections between the scenes. Moreover, viewers are never told of certain important facts, as though there was some mystery lurking around the corner. Then the facts are revealed and they amount to almost nothing in dramatic terms. Or by the time they are revealed, you just don’t care about the whole thing anymore. Let alone the supporting characters that have no personality, no distinctive traits. Or the Marxist activist — or whatever she is — who seems to come out of a David Lynch movie. Better said, of a bad copy of a David Lynch movie. What’s worse is how the film aims to be a metaphor, or an allegory, or just a mediation, of a generalized state of social and economic turmoil in the Argentina post crisis of 2001. Lofty ambitions for a film that fails at the most basic level: telling a story, be it in a linear or fragmented manner.
A change is coming in Saudi Arabia on a green bike Wadjda (Waad Mohammed) is a ten-year-old-girl who lives with her mum (Reem Abdullah) in a suburb of Riyadh. She attends a state-run school for girls only and does pretty well in most of her classes. Her father is seldom home, and though he says he loves her mum dearly, the truth seems to be that he’s looking for a second wife because Wadjda’s mum hasn’t been able to give him a son. And while the mother can only think of her husband, the daughter is worried about something entirely different: she wants to buy a very nice green bike at a local store. Wadjda has befriended a young boy, Abdullah (Abdullrahman Al Gohani), who has his own bicycle, so now she wants to beat him on a race. But there are two huge problems. For starters, it is prohibited for girls to ride bicycles in Saudi Arabia — men fear it could jeopardize their virginity. And secondly, Wadjda hasn’t got the money to buy it. But there is a solution for the second problem: a Quran-reading contest at school with a prize in cash. As for the first problem, let’s say Wadjda is not exactly the kind of obedient girl who would simply leave aside her craving without putting up a fight. There are quite a few remarkable traits that make Wadjda an exceptional film, although not a superb one by any means. As it’s well known, it’s the first feature ever to be shot entirely in Saudi Arabia, and by a woman, Haifaa Al Mansour, who had to hide in a van and direct several scenes via walkie-talkie. Think that movie theatres are also banned, so the only screening of the film in Saudi Arabia was, in fact, in the premises of the US Embassy. So first and foremost, Wadjda is an straightforward indictment on the status and roles of women in an intolerant, repressive society. It’s a detailed account of many of the constraints and prohibitions they have to endure, a socially and politically conscious feature that cries for much-needed freedom. However, I believe the key issue here is the trust in the possibility of a change thanks to awareness: Wadjda’ story is a coming of age story, and as such it involves growing up and transformation. By the end of the film, she’s not quite the same girl you get to know at the very beginning. She’s learned quite a few things that would benefit her greatly in the years to come. She may look like a girl, but she’s going to be a woman anytime soon. Moreover, there’s the subplot involving her mom, who suffers the silent humiliation of unrequited love and not having a real place of her own in anybody’s life but her daughter’s. And here’s a minor flaw: the screenplay could have explored their bond deeper, considering how much there is to unveil. The same goes for the story of the Wadjda’s strict teacher, a hypocritical woman who seems to be too old to even hope for a change — even if she’s young in chronological years. But none of these missteps makes Wadjda, the film, any less compelling. They only make it less nuanced. Shot with remarkable gentleness, with a very inconspicuous camera and smooth editing, Haifaa Al Mansour’s feature says a lot in a low voice, with occasional touches of humour, and plenty of emotion — but not a hint of melodrama. It may be argued that it’s a bit sugarcoated at times, and perhaps that’s true. It sometimes gets too universal and a bit simplistic as to draw large audiences. But for the most part, Wadjda is the type of film that touches you and makes you think about a complex situation in very simple terms. And that’s to be celebrated.
El cielo otra vez: Long live the Andean Condor “Clearly, the focus is on the breeding of condors in captivity and their posterior freeing in order to reinsert them into their natural habitat, but I was interested in drawing an account about the motivation and commitment of a group of biologists and volunteers who donate their time to a scientific activity turned into a ritual,” says filmmaker Gustavo Alonso about his documentary El cielo otra vez, starring no less than the Andean condor, the largest flying bird in the world that is again alive and well in the skies of Patagonia thanks to the latest biotechnological advances together with the cosmovision of the indigenous communities, the millenary guardians of these sacred birds. El cielo otra vez is not your predictable documentary about nature and its creatures, meaning it’s not a clinically scientific examination of a situation or a phenomenon. It’s not a dry account at all for it brings forward the subjectivity, feelings and sentiments of those involved in the breeding and freeing of the Andean condor. Instead, it’s about they dialogue they establish with the condor, the rituals for its growth and well being, and the heartfelt devotion of scientists very much in touch with what they do. Plus it’s also very informative in an accessible, informal manner. In a matter of minutes, you see a world you never imagined it existed. And there’s something else that sets El cielo otra vez apart from other similar documentaries: the affection and togetherness shared by scientists and members of indigenous communities alike in their joint efforts. So, in these regards, it works out quite well. There’s an involuntary distance between the film and the viewers, most likely due to very schematic formal structure, be it in the too linear script, the mechanic pace, or the conventional visuals. At times, it feels as though you were watching a good television report on an interesting subject, but with no alluring aesthetics whatsoever. Not that the subject calls for or needs an avant-garde approach per se, but it wouldn’t have hurt to go for something more stirring. That said, El cielo otra vez does somewhat fulfills the basic expectations: it’s informative, it’s didactic, and it’s well shot. And that’s it.