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Credited cast: | |||
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Lisa Fávero | ... |
Rita
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Sonia Guedes | ... |
Madalena
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Ricardo Merkin |
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Luiz Serra | ... |
Antonio
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Each citizen of Jotuomba plays an integral role in village life. Madalena is responsible for baking bread; each morning she stacks her rolls as Antonio prepares the coffee. The two share a morning ritual of arguments and insults, followed by an amicable cup of coffee on the bench outside Antonio's shop. At midday the church bells ring, summoning the villagers to mass. In the early evening, they all share a meal together. And so life proceeds in Jotuomba, the days languidly drifting into one another. The only variations seem to be in the weather. One day Rita arrives looking for a place to stay. She came upon the village while traveling through the valley, following the unused railroad tracks. She is a photographer, intent on capturing the village's special allure. Initially reticent, the townsfolk gradually open up to her, sharing their stories and allowing themselves to be photographed. Rita is comfortable with technologies old and new, and Madalena teaches her to knead dough by the ... Written by TIFF
This Brazilian film has some amazing cinematography, including several scenes seemingly lit only by lantern that are truly unique and impressive. I don't know how the DP pulled it off, but I'd like to know! It's about a small, dying community in rural Brazil where only the old-timers remain, due to death or diaspora. The setting seems from another century until a very modern city girl, infatuated with photography, arrives. Like other recent Brazilian films I've seen, this flirts with the language of magical-realism without resorting to it in any absolute way. However you interpret the narrative, the film implies that one's memories are only meaningful if one has someone else to subjectively interpret them- if one can become a story-teller. Indeed, time can only proceed if there is an other to testify to what has transpired, to what has been lost to time. Implicitly, then, life, being-in-the-world, is impossible without death or, as Derrida would say, unless there is an other to sift through the inheritance one leaves behind.