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