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Rating: A label that has never convinced me, the few times the film has been analyzed, is the surrealist branding. But in my opinion, surrealism is fought with surrealism, or rather with an appearance that misleads this attribution.
And indeed, there is a mystical baroque of overlays that deceives in that direction but to lead us into total nullification: there is no story, there is no romanticized entertainment, there is no chronology nor flashbacks, there is no measurement of time thus, even using cinema, there is no "action, camera!" in this product that divine grinds you by opening on views of the real world.
The illusion of a hypnotic spiral shatters against the rocks of a line where an archaic game dances. The director guides us by letting his hoopoe fly from Knossos as an essential bridge between here and there. And the atmosphere of suspended absence and lack of rational continuity carries us into an immobile flow where everything is in front of us. The invisible reality that surrounds us is "narrated" with movements that accommodate the truth, and glimpsing the inscrutable even for a moment makes us understand that our nature, that lives from our soul, is never tied to the organization of time. Marking time is our greatest deception while Raúl Ruiz never more than in this film makes us stay inside, and transparent, to the accumulation of eternity. And what do you want to plan in front of eternity?
Throughout the film hovers a suspension, a veiled apathy of "everything happens," which tells us that most of our lives is suggested by external invisibilities and through a limited tool like cinema the director manages to capture psychic images. The latent discomfort during the entire film is that we are constantly on the dreamlike-astral plane and the story is told with a filter not influenced by the ego, there is no presence. Lids are lifted on pots full of interlinked universes that live with us, we finally express ourselves with a language closer to our essence, where the acceptance of what surrounds and manipulates us transfigures the perception of communication where a sound or a symbol replaces Babel and brings us closer to unity.
There is a clear feeling that the distance between body and soul increasingly narrows where the protagonists, spectators of themselves, can only annul the pseudo-human that belongs nowhere to embrace the opaqueness of an impersonal vanity that tries to gain strength by acknowledging the condition of eternal return. All this is filled with an oriental aroma, with a South American magical touch, that mitigates the active psychopathies of a Western family tree.
Everything becomes grainy in a maritime landscape that reflects continuous déjà vu that swings situations in a dark, perpetual dawn. A transcendent dream of open matryoshka dolls esotericizes the plot of life denying "good feelings" and cutting off the lifeline to free will, in exchange giving us drops of dew. The language of the soul breaks in like waves and blocks the mockery of representation, there are no holds, no "projection," no seeking to proselytize in proposing to "leave everything," no temptation is induced in this disintegration, it is a right for everyone. Everything that appears has the same value, everyone is indispensable, teamwork, the lens films the atoms of the total stripping a DNA of the beyond.
The misleading education imparted to all of us takes a hard hit, which for some will open a breach in the wall of unawareness. Courage. Misplaced is the worry on the part of some "intellectual brains" of the failure to gain consideration of the external to so much revelation, but it is clear that this is something that can never be successful at the box office, for the good peace of induced and calculating intelligence. The conceit of an elitist and sophistic, ergo materialistic teaching, is swept away where Ruiz brings into play entities of higher levels, aware of their past and evolving reincarnations, that mystify the space with duplications of company in front of the dismay of the "forever."
The cold atmosphere is truthful in indicating that the perception of a tending audience, and still anchored, to the ground floor, to the base, is necessarily cold: the more superior situations are told the more one is up, and in acquiring impersonality in the ascent, the rarefaction that arrives creates a detachment through the misrecognition of a force that produces an abandonment of the seat, become a piece of ice, "points of view"... But the temperature of the summit of this mountain measures absolute zero that goes hand in hand with the realization that "everything is One." Those who resist recognize themselves in the "freeze."
There is the presence of very ancient souls that sit "at the window" to mock and mock oneself in an absent compassionate cynicism, telling themselves reflections of eternal returns after having met the corpse of a glorious past. A comprehensive Rosicrucian discernment measures dead vanities and plays ball with the skull returning it to life "collecting the spirit that animates the mystically resurrected Master."
Raúl Ruiz dares the unthinkable and appears in the evening performing wonders with a "discreet" but penetrating light, as it illuminates the interior of things: "All of my everything, empty of my void"... This is the fairy tale told to our child God who only eats garlic to flee from an adulterating vampirism trying to convince him of "cogito ergo sum."
Visions of one's known unknown, fallout of infinity, the noise of eternity: the city slashes buccaneer raids into our dark places. The director filters through a black opal an androgynous gnosis tempered by the company of a constantly present Sphinx with its question and outlines the definitive borders of this universe that concerns us.
Revisionism of the extreme memory is the quintessence that expands space to embrace the creation, we are not this body but we are here: "How long to personify the solitude of Paradise. How many efforts to conquer the purity of this boredom. How would my carcass yawn if everything did not mix. What a life! What a life.
Look... Again... My God... how long will it last? Patience... everything starts again.
Sometimes I tell myself that childhood must be this: Living and reliving, only for all these enormities. Patience, Mom. Patience, my daughter. Everything starts again.
We are here... We are here... We are here... We are here... We are here"...
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