Who but Patricio Guzman would match the political woes, abuses and lasting traumas of Augusto Pinochet's regime with the philosophical questioning of a group of astronomers studying the vast universe from Atacama Desert in Chile. The tenuous connection, as the documentary states, is their shared study of bodies; one ravaging the desert sands for the remains of their loved ones and the other scanning the skies for the larger, celestial wonders. And yet in some ways, Guzman has made the two narratives similar in their evocations of time passing and what those spaces are filled with. We know, for example, that some of the galaxies and stars that the astronomer's massive telescopes are pointed at are so far away that even light's travelling speed does not escape the passing of time; like the Pillars of Creation, these bodies may have already been eroded at the moment of study. So in a sense, both these groups are studying the past, but they move in different directions with each discovery.
Guzman's voice-over narration is the filter in which we judge these events. It's words are not light; in fact they are full of philosophical posturing and grandiose, sometimes pretentious ideas and metaphors about the very nature of discovery and the vastness of the universe. The problem is that it also affords the victims of Pinochet the same tone - the flowery, poetic language describing the heavenly bodies in the skies and in the furthest reaches of the galaxies and beyond is also applied to the bodies and minerals buried in the sands of the desert. The cinematography here, when not concerned with authenticity and vigorously shaking the camera whilst it follows these human beings in their daily activities, tries to match the majesty of the time-lapses of the stars and the supernovas flying by, but of course that is impossible, so to substitute Guzman awkwardly inserts archival footage to attempt a power balance. But not before he gives an exhumed corpse the same insufferable treatment: a slow, meandering gaze, the camera moving as patiently as possible, as if to milk every last drop of profundity even as we do not hold the same emotional perspective as the real victims and their loved ones.
Much of the documentary is filled with these moments. The opening is the agonisingly long sequence of events of machinery and gears grinding and whirring around to begin another day of stargazing. And in the end too, it seems to facilitate the same objective, but also the joining of the two groups in a mutual admiration of the stars. It adds what I assume is a digital effect, portraying the very essence of being caressed by star dust, little golden particles floating around in the air. This does not look particularly convincing - it instead renders a magical, fairytale like effect. For all the faux awe-inspiring images this film gives us, none are as effective as the simple recount from Valentina, who is amongst those still mourning the unseen losses from Pinochet's dictatorship. She connects the two strands much better than any whispered, ostentatious figurative language could. It is not a link that hurtles across universal spaces to force a similarity but rather a personal, determined one, borne out of her own grief and emotional bargaining. There is not a hint of posturing here. The same might not be said of her grandparents, whose director's staging instructions were probably 'stare silently and forlornly at the camera'.
Guzman's voice-over narration is the filter in which we judge these events. It's words are not light; in fact they are full of philosophical posturing and grandiose, sometimes pretentious ideas and metaphors about the very nature of discovery and the vastness of the universe. The problem is that it also affords the victims of Pinochet the same tone - the flowery, poetic language describing the heavenly bodies in the skies and in the furthest reaches of the galaxies and beyond is also applied to the bodies and minerals buried in the sands of the desert. The cinematography here, when not concerned with authenticity and vigorously shaking the camera whilst it follows these human beings in their daily activities, tries to match the majesty of the time-lapses of the stars and the supernovas flying by, but of course that is impossible, so to substitute Guzman awkwardly inserts archival footage to attempt a power balance. But not before he gives an exhumed corpse the same insufferable treatment: a slow, meandering gaze, the camera moving as patiently as possible, as if to milk every last drop of profundity even as we do not hold the same emotional perspective as the real victims and their loved ones.
Much of the documentary is filled with these moments. The opening is the agonisingly long sequence of events of machinery and gears grinding and whirring around to begin another day of stargazing. And in the end too, it seems to facilitate the same objective, but also the joining of the two groups in a mutual admiration of the stars. It adds what I assume is a digital effect, portraying the very essence of being caressed by star dust, little golden particles floating around in the air. This does not look particularly convincing - it instead renders a magical, fairytale like effect. For all the faux awe-inspiring images this film gives us, none are as effective as the simple recount from Valentina, who is amongst those still mourning the unseen losses from Pinochet's dictatorship. She connects the two strands much better than any whispered, ostentatious figurative language could. It is not a link that hurtles across universal spaces to force a similarity but rather a personal, determined one, borne out of her own grief and emotional bargaining. There is not a hint of posturing here. The same might not be said of her grandparents, whose director's staging instructions were probably 'stare silently and forlornly at the camera'.