Gustavo Fontán

His name is Ramón Vázquez. He comes from La Pampa and wants to reach Soto, near Córdoba, to reunite with his father. He has not seen him in thirty years. The difficult journey gives rise to a series of encounters on the threshold. And the light blinds.

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A man leaves the hospital. He sets out on a journey, perhaps a final one. Alongside the mystical landscapes drift the verses of Hospital Británico (1986), the last book by Héctor Viel Temperley. And the words of those who have been marked by reading it over the years.

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A man knocks on my door. I ask him what he needs. He doesn't answer. He looks at me for a few moments, with enormous eyes. He looks at me as one looks at an apparition. Rivers are born in that silence, in those hallucinated eyes, and they unfold a memory of water, a fragmented knowledge of tornadoes and banks, of creaking trees, of birds bathing in the rain, of men lost on some island, of drowning in the backwaters, of the splash of oars, of the shadow where the river narrows. A man knocks on my door. He says to me: You're not here, we're not here.

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Bathed in the half-light, a bus station north of Cordoba in Argentina. Waiting, and the arrivals and departures of the local buses punctuate the lives of these workers and travellers. Far from making an observational documentary, Gustavo Fontán crafts the ghostly portrait of a place of transit where the traces of those who bring it alive resonate and are muffled, blending mystery with everyday life.

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A couple builds a space to live. When it is finished, before inhabiting it, they invite a group of people to visit it. The invited people circulate individually through this new and empty space. They look, they walk, they talk. The film tries to rescue the effect of that experience in each one of them. So the space itself becomes an experience. What will they leave of themselves? What will they take? What will they show of the human? What is a house? What do you do with the past? The series of people who briefly inhabit that place, recently built, still free of all traces, could be thought of as infinite. The space fills and empties. The residual of that transit remains: a luminous fragility.

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"Several times a day, for many months, I went out to the terrace of my house to look at the terrace next door, which is the terrace of a nursing home. I went out as soon as I got up and before going to bed, as in a ritual. And soon, over the course of the weeks, I went out several times a day to look at that space, a window between two concrete blocks, a mysterious door, the light on the ceilings." (Gustavo Fontán)

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"During several months of this senseless year I went out to the terrace to look at the ceilings. I would go at different times of the day, as in a ritual, perhaps trying to find at those ceilings some kind of explanation. Something that mitigates grief." (Gustavo Fontán)

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Mónica did not make a client's payments of the office where she works. The missing 15K pesos not only commit her but also a colleague, who is the one who discovers the fault. It seems that is not the first time that this happens, but the colleague, despite his anger, kept silence and chose to believe her again: Mónica commits to replenish the sum of money the next morning.

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Between two rains, a film that is offered as a newspaper. Rains. It is night. The rain coils like a snake in the street lanterns. A neighbor, old lady, knocks on my door. It's eleven at night. She is desperate, ask for rivotril. A few days later he dies. Someone leaves their house. Objects are loaded coldly in a truck. The death of a neighbor, a move, the skies laden with clouds, the light on things and faces, the operation of an old man, a night trip ... It rains. The trees shake and tremble underwater. Between two rains, a look at human fragility.

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A journey through everyday’s life. Streets, squares, zoos, houses, roofs, men, women, roads, but all of it seen as if that world was someone else's, as if it was lost in time. The world is there, but there is no place to settle. A film that speaks about everyday’s life, but with the voice of the sleepwalkers. Some sort of blind, nocturnal continuum that no one knows for sure what it is.

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A family gets together for New year. Three sisters and their families who live by the river. One of them does not attend because she is still in mourning. Her sisters and her nieces try to convince her but she remains firm in her refusal.

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A mixture of documentary and fiction as seen through the eyes of a non-participant observer, this drama presents the life of the fisherman Maldonado. After his wife Celia leaves him, we watch his lonely life in a series of cyclical everyday activities as we listen to Celia's voiceover. Although it tends to repeat itself, it reveals something new every day. We always observe a different part of the daily work of a fisherman, or see it from a different angle. This sense of conflict is heightened by contradictory motifs on-screen and in the voiceover. Words clash with images, the everyday with the extraordinary, space with time.

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The omnibus feature SUCESOS INTERVENIDOS consists of shorts by a who’s who of Argentine documentary and experimental-film giants, including Edgardo Cozarinsky and Gustavo Fontán but also Claudio Caldini, Andrés Di Tella and Gabriela Golder. Each one of them created a piece of a few minutes in length using archival footage from SUCESOS ARGENTINOS (“Argentine Events”), a popular newsreel series from 1938 to 1972 whose episodes have recently begun to be digitized by Buenos Aires’s “Pablo C. Ducrós Hicken” Film Museum.

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A man in a small boat reaches an island on the Paraná River. He heads towards a site where there used to be a house or small village. Now there is nothing. Slight signs of something old and lost: the place where he was born. His presence allows the things in the abandoned spot to materialize: huts and tables, animals and canoes. Soon others arrive on the island: his wife, father, friends, and children. This is a meeting of the Man and his loved ones. With the dead, the birds, the river's music and his pain.

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In the house where several gererations used to live no one is living anymore At least apparently. Because if any one intensifies hearing and view, he can see He sees the footprints of formers inhabitants. He sees the marks of life and death in the deserted spaces He is the witness of the persistence of voices , bodies, ligths and shadows.

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The poet Salvador Merlino didn’t live to see published April’s elegy, his last book, as he died when it was still in the printing press. His daughter Mary (72) and his son, Carlos (74), kept the parcels of copies of their father’s book stashed away for 50 years, high up, on top of a wardrobe. The curiosity of young Federico will force them to come face to face with themselves.

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Sonia (45) and Jonatan (18), mother and son, share the house: a place for the mother's grief, a place for the son to escape. The husband is absent, gone, and attempts to find him lead nowhere. The son will leave at any moment. Anguish clouds the hours, shapes the mother's perception. Sonia drinks, gets drunk, tells strange dreams, and commits dangerous acts. Jonatan feels responsible. He takes care of her. If the episodes continue, if the mother becomes increasingly fragile and vulnerable, will the son be able to leave?

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La orilla que se Abisma is conceived as a journey, a trip along a river. Like rivers, like all journeys, the film has meanders, small riverbeds, detours and moments of rest.

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An elderly couple debates whether to cut down an ancient acacia tree that has witnessed the major memories of our lives.

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A story between a 65 years old man and a woman who is thirty years younger that him. The film, explores the human relationships through fully identifiable human beings, taking also into account the prejudices, the lust of life and all those everyday defeats.

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In front of the camera, the face of the poet Jorge Calvetti (Jujuy, Argentina, 1916-2002) is shown serene, worthy, deepened by the signs of the life.

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The life of the writer Leopoldo Marechal through various testimonies collected at the Café Izmir, where Adán Buenosayres and his bar met, and which closed its doors a while ago in Villa Crespo, which includes the dramatization of some fragments of his works.

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Fatherland brings a rigorous structural approach to a site of monuments that is also a place of movement, criss-crossed daily by tourists and locals. The grounds are laid out like city blocks, with wide avenues branching onto laneways filled with elaborate mausoleums. The film does not attempt to tour the cemetery as one would on foot, however, but rather moves chronologically through the history enshrined there. A series of individuals are framed in static compositions as they read aloud excerpts from the writings of noteworthy Argentines interred within. (Some license has been taken, as the final resting places of certain figures represented - such as journalist Rodolfo Walsh, who was among the "disappeared" - remain unknown. The result is both poetic and political.) Beginning in the early 1800s, this history comprises civil war, battles with the country's native population, the conflict between the city and the provinces, and years of military dictatorship.

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An elderly couple debates whether to cut down an ancient acacia tree that has witnessed the major memories of our lives.

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A man leaves the hospital. He sets out on a journey, perhaps a final one. Alongside the mystical landscapes drift the verses of Hospital Británico (1986), the last book by Héctor Viel Temperley. And the words of those who have been marked by reading it over the years.

Open details →

A man knocks on my door. I ask him what he needs. He doesn't answer. He looks at me for a few moments, with enormous eyes. He looks at me as one looks at an apparition. Rivers are born in that silence, in those hallucinated eyes, and they unfold a memory of water, a fragmented knowledge of tornadoes and banks, of creaking trees, of birds bathing in the rain, of men lost on some island, of drowning in the backwaters, of the splash of oars, of the shadow where the river narrows. A man knocks on my door. He says to me: You're not here, we're not here.

Open details →

Bathed in the half-light, a bus station north of Cordoba in Argentina. Waiting, and the arrivals and departures of the local buses punctuate the lives of these workers and travellers. Far from making an observational documentary, Gustavo Fontán crafts the ghostly portrait of a place of transit where the traces of those who bring it alive resonate and are muffled, blending mystery with everyday life.

Open details →

A couple builds a space to live. When it is finished, before inhabiting it, they invite a group of people to visit it. The invited people circulate individually through this new and empty space. They look, they walk, they talk. The film tries to rescue the effect of that experience in each one of them. So the space itself becomes an experience. What will they leave of themselves? What will they take? What will they show of the human? What is a house? What do you do with the past? The series of people who briefly inhabit that place, recently built, still free of all traces, could be thought of as infinite. The space fills and empties. The residual of that transit remains: a luminous fragility.

Open details →