California

Renata presents herself to the camera like one of these fascinating film noir heroines: a beautiful woman with a nondescript accent, with assured gestures, who looks people right in the eyes. Sentenced to a prison term for a man’s murder, Renata has not lost her charisma behind bars. Does she accept the crime she committed? Does she regret having killed someone. A neighbour? A lover? Is she aware of her imprisonment?

Little is known about the figure of Isabel Santaló, an old artist, today fallen into oblivion. But occasionally some visitors come to her flat. Through them and the voice of Antonio López (Dream of Light, Víctor Erice), the only painter who remembers her, we shape a multifaceted film. This is a cinematic portrait, which well into the film takes a surprising turn. A film that reflects on memory and oblivion, art and the creative process; posing the question of what it means to be an artist and a woman.

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.

Every morning Manolo Aldeguer opens his business: an old-fashioned, tacky furniture shop located in a small Spanish town. Another working day begins: once again Manolo has to face eight endless hours to kill.

In a little village in the heart of Serbia Mirko takes care of the old and small Serbian Orthodox church of the community. Every day he opens the church and with strong dedication prepares all details for the service that the priest will give. When everything is ready, Mirko rings the bells. Only an old and devoted woman enters the church: she is the only person attending the service. But one day not even the old lady arrives.

Chorrojumo’s body in ruins has been wandering silently through the streets of Granada for one hundred and eighty-three years. Under the scorching sun, he waits, with his hand raised, for some currency. The infinite limbo in which he lives is interrupted with the arrival of a young Moroccan who brings an ancient key in his hands. Together they begin a search through the Ruins, spaces that have disappeared or are in transition, of present-day Granada, in search of the house of the young man’s ancestors; the last expelled Moriscos, of whom he still retains memories.