Miro. Traces of Oblivion

In the north of the pampas, the remains of a population lie hidden under the soil; they've been this way for more than a century. Their casual discovery is the starting point with which the film tries to puzzle out that mystery. There where soy reigns, one more battle is fought in the constant struggle of film against oblivion. This old town buried serves the director to expose an investigation on lost things, those no one remembers, or those that barely reverberate in the present, like echoes of distant voices or the persistent brightness of an extinct star. With testimonies from past inhabitants, from neighbors from nearby towns to descendents for which Miró becomes even more fabulous -as though the words would bring back for an instant the taciturn glow of past progress, of disillusion and of resigned journeys through time-, the film becomes a vitalist portrait of the need for memory and the recovery of traces that were considered to have disappeared. Always restrained, it reaches, in its well-mannered levity, an extraordinary form of lucidity.