Mauro Herce

Paris, a pivotal day in the life of Bianca, Thalat and Peter.

The inhabitants of a small village lost in the woodland between Galicia and Portugal play their own life mixed with dialogues from O bosque, a play by Galician writer Marinhas del Valle. Arraianos portrays a rural community in its obstinate resistance against disappearance.

Men of different ages converge in an indeterminate room. We do not know much about them, whether it is day or night. Only some signs spread out along the footage will allow us to know something about their circumstance.

Huelva, Spain, an isolated region lost in time. The grass, the sand and the sky are the same that those foreigners saw in the spring of 1895, when they crossed the sea from a distant country to mark the unspoiled terrain and extract its wealth, when the tower was new, when people could climb to the top of the highest dune and imagine that the city of Tartessos was still there, in the distance, almost invisible in the morning brume.

A freighter crosses the ocean. The hypnotic rhythm of its gears reveals the continuous movement of machinery devouring its workers: the last gestures of the old sailors’ trade disappearing under the mechanic and impersonal pace of 21st century neo-capitalism. Perhaps it is a boat adrift, or maybe just the last example of an endangered species. Although we don’t know it, the engines are still running, unstoppable.

Paris, a pivotal day in the life of Bianca, Thalat and Peter.

The inhabitants of a small village lost in the woodland between Galicia and Portugal play their own life mixed with dialogues from O bosque, a play by Galician writer Marinhas del Valle. Arraianos portrays a rural community in its obstinate resistance against disappearance.

Men of different ages converge in an indeterminate room. We do not know much about them, whether it is day or night. Only some signs spread out along the footage will allow us to know something about their circumstance.

Huelva, Spain, an isolated region lost in time. The grass, the sand and the sky are the same that those foreigners saw in the spring of 1895, when they crossed the sea from a distant country to mark the unspoiled terrain and extract its wealth, when the tower was new, when people could climb to the top of the highest dune and imagine that the city of Tartessos was still there, in the distance, almost invisible in the morning brume.

A freighter crosses the ocean. The hypnotic rhythm of its gears reveals the continuous movement of machinery devouring its workers: the last gestures of the old sailors’ trade disappearing under the mechanic and impersonal pace of 21st century neo-capitalism. Perhaps it is a boat adrift, or maybe just the last example of an endangered species. Although we don’t know it, the engines are still running, unstoppable.

A freighter crosses the ocean. The hypnotic rhythm of its gears reveals the continuous movement of machinery devouring its workers: the last gestures of the old sailors’ trade disappearing under the mechanic and impersonal pace of 21st century neo-capitalism. Perhaps it is a boat adrift, or maybe just the last example of an endangered species. Although we don’t know it, the engines are still running, unstoppable.

A freighter crosses the ocean. The hypnotic rhythm of its gears reveals the continuous movement of machinery devouring its workers: the last gestures of the old sailors’ trade disappearing under the mechanic and impersonal pace of 21st century neo-capitalism. Perhaps it is a boat adrift, or maybe just the last example of an endangered species. Although we don’t know it, the engines are still running, unstoppable.