Watching a movie is, more and more, a banal experience, with no meaning other than filling an empty space with any random sound, with any image that represents anything other than really you. Anything but you. It is not the simple detachment from everyday life, it is the attempt to exclude yourself from who you have become, or intuit, that you will become. It is the numbness that hides the itch that is violently spread in the body. And making a film is, more and more, following a basic recipe step by step and mixing cheap ingredients together to create an amorphous, generic, addictive product.
Watching Carlos Gómez Centurión fills the void with the smell of clouds, snow, mountains and the colors of virgin land. It tells you in secret what you are not yet, but can and should be. It shows you the sacredness that will never be found in masses and the importance of solitude that fills. It is, in a pure sense, an exuberantly religious film, where art is faith and path. Where the Andes Mountains are temple and medicine. Where the micro merges with the macro, showing that the artist as well as his work and his surroundings are just words that are part of a gigantic prayer. A highly recommended film for all those who need to reconnect with what really matters. Beautiful, with a great soundtrack and of rare depth.