Directed by Sorin, the films stars Antonio Larreta, and it is a quiet tone poem, centered upon an 80-year old writer, dying of cancer, waiting for a visit from his son, who for reasons particularly unique to any family, has been estranged from his father, while a piano is being re-tuned and re-imagined, and housekeepers are tending to the needs of the aging artist’s last moments on this terrestrial body we call Earth.
A man dreams an image, a face, a memory, as a child, and, lo and behold, many decades later, he has a similar dream, looks outside the window, into the window of his world, his soul, his art, and his life, and gains one more lasting perspective, before returning, like some South American Ulysses, to his home, and sensing the dream, the memory, again, in a moment of independence, a moment of pure clarity, which in any life is but a fleeting glimpse of eternity before, again, one drifts inwards, into that reserved area of mystery we all will occupy at one point (there is no “Why?”, only “How?” and “When?”—ahhh…yes, Malcolm McDowell in yet another devious little role?) at the tail (tale?) end of our lives in this little dead end street called Life (LOST?, or is it Purgatory?).
The Window rises above its brevity, proving the axiom that big films can come in small tone poems. And with this much sublime, complex beauty, why use three hours to tell it?