The Acacia (a.k.a. thorn tree, whistling thorn, wattle) is a genus of shrubs and trees, often spine-bearing (outside Australia). Its name derives from the Greek word for thorn. The tree has long been associated with the shores of the Nile, although its varieties are found worldwide.
The Acacia's reputation precedes its début as film title. It has come to symbolize resurrection and immortality. Egyptian mythology ties the acacia to the tree of life. In Freemasonry it embodies purity, even endurance of the soul. Acacias also fill needs for timber and firewood.
Las Acacias opens as Rubén, a lorry driver, wanders among timber harvesters in Paraguay as they pile high his flatbed with acacia boles. He will cross the Argentine border to take acacia timber to market in Buenos Aires.
At the request of his boss, Rubén will also take Jacinta (of indigenous origin) and, to his surprise, her 8-month-old infant with him. Jacinta has arranged to visit her cousin in Buenos Aires and will probably look for work there.
It's a long trip. Much of the film is shot looking into the lorry cabin through the windows on either side of the flatbed tractor. Dialog is spare and deliberate. On the occasions when Jacinta is asked about the baby's father, for instance, she replies — without a trace of bitterness — "The baby has no father." Rubén and Jacinta exchange first names. She teaches Rubén some words in her native language. Rubén defers to Jacinta and the baby by smoking outside when the lorry is stopped. She waits patiently, as he does for her when twice he pulls his rig over so that she can phone her cousin.
The cast has only three members — one of whom can't yet talk and is prone to incontinence — but all are well chosen. It would be hard to imagine other actors who could fill the roles as well.
Rubén and Jacinta, hardened but not deadened, have gracefully resigned themselves to their lots. Each has an incomplete family. Neither seems to be expecting anything special from life. Both have facial contours that reward the repeated scrutiny of tight shots.
Whether by precocious talent or by NSA connivance, Anahí (that's the baby) puts in a stellar performance. Not only does she (the Actor) seem mysteriously disposed to respond on cue flawlessly, but her Character (much like the Actor) also brings out the best in Rubén and Jacinta. It's likely that the two of them would otherwise have passed the trip in awkward silence. (Those who, like me, consider all babies of Anahí's age to be more or less indistinguishable from one another have another think coming.)
Las Acacias extols, without exalting, the quiet delights that arise unbidden in everyday life. Pablo Giorgelli (director and writer) and writer Salvador Roselli acknowledge what is mundane about road culture. And they show us how prosaically enjoyable those encounters could still be in the Argentina of 2011, as they might have been in mythic 1950s America. Despite the vagaries and precariousness of that life, therein lies contentment of a sort. Speech figures far less prominently in it than do glances, gestures, civility, and trust born of experience.
Nothing explodes into flame in this film. No one gets shot or tasered or even spit at. No voices are raised. No one hoodwinks anyone else. No lawyers, no strivers, no moneychangers, no Mr Burnses. No phonies. In other words, another iteration of magical realism.
A hint of resolution comes just before the credits roll. We fade to black full of hope, if not change.
Las Acacias ends as it began: with shots of acacias. The kind that grow and are felled, and the kind that move about on two legs.
The Acacia's reputation precedes its début as film title. It has come to symbolize resurrection and immortality. Egyptian mythology ties the acacia to the tree of life. In Freemasonry it embodies purity, even endurance of the soul. Acacias also fill needs for timber and firewood.
Las Acacias opens as Rubén, a lorry driver, wanders among timber harvesters in Paraguay as they pile high his flatbed with acacia boles. He will cross the Argentine border to take acacia timber to market in Buenos Aires.
At the request of his boss, Rubén will also take Jacinta (of indigenous origin) and, to his surprise, her 8-month-old infant with him. Jacinta has arranged to visit her cousin in Buenos Aires and will probably look for work there.
It's a long trip. Much of the film is shot looking into the lorry cabin through the windows on either side of the flatbed tractor. Dialog is spare and deliberate. On the occasions when Jacinta is asked about the baby's father, for instance, she replies — without a trace of bitterness — "The baby has no father." Rubén and Jacinta exchange first names. She teaches Rubén some words in her native language. Rubén defers to Jacinta and the baby by smoking outside when the lorry is stopped. She waits patiently, as he does for her when twice he pulls his rig over so that she can phone her cousin.
The cast has only three members — one of whom can't yet talk and is prone to incontinence — but all are well chosen. It would be hard to imagine other actors who could fill the roles as well.
Rubén and Jacinta, hardened but not deadened, have gracefully resigned themselves to their lots. Each has an incomplete family. Neither seems to be expecting anything special from life. Both have facial contours that reward the repeated scrutiny of tight shots.
Whether by precocious talent or by NSA connivance, Anahí (that's the baby) puts in a stellar performance. Not only does she (the Actor) seem mysteriously disposed to respond on cue flawlessly, but her Character (much like the Actor) also brings out the best in Rubén and Jacinta. It's likely that the two of them would otherwise have passed the trip in awkward silence. (Those who, like me, consider all babies of Anahí's age to be more or less indistinguishable from one another have another think coming.)
Las Acacias extols, without exalting, the quiet delights that arise unbidden in everyday life. Pablo Giorgelli (director and writer) and writer Salvador Roselli acknowledge what is mundane about road culture. And they show us how prosaically enjoyable those encounters could still be in the Argentina of 2011, as they might have been in mythic 1950s America. Despite the vagaries and precariousness of that life, therein lies contentment of a sort. Speech figures far less prominently in it than do glances, gestures, civility, and trust born of experience.
Nothing explodes into flame in this film. No one gets shot or tasered or even spit at. No voices are raised. No one hoodwinks anyone else. No lawyers, no strivers, no moneychangers, no Mr Burnses. No phonies. In other words, another iteration of magical realism.
A hint of resolution comes just before the credits roll. We fade to black full of hope, if not change.
Las Acacias ends as it began: with shots of acacias. The kind that grow and are felled, and the kind that move about on two legs.