15/08/2024 - The first feature by Marta Mateus, a wonderful form of cinematic reminiscence, shines bright in the race for the Golden Leopard

Vine leaves are glimpsed against a clear blue sky; some are green, some fiery red. The wind blowing feels rather ominous. The opening shot of Fire of Wind [+see also:
trailer
film profile], the marvellous debut feature by Marta Mateus, playing in the Locarno Film Festival competition, carries a mood of unpredictability. Its colours are vivid and ripe, as ripe as the grapes that are being picked, row after row, by the people of Alentejo in southern Portugal. A young girl named Soraia is the one we see first, and she cuts her hand on the shears. A black bull appears, and suddenly, everyone is up the nearby oak trees awaiting help.

There are drops of blood on the ground, on stones, on the vine leaves, but we never see blood actually dripping. Similarly, Fire of Wind prefers to gift us the close-up of an aftermath, instead of the action itself. Though such ellipses can solidify a film’s structure as more static than dynamic, in this case they only emphasise its hypnotic qualities. Mateus’s film also looks stunning, to say the least. The crispness of the slightly wide-lens-shot digital image accentuates every detail of its meticulous mise-en-scène. Quite literally, the film – lensed by Mateus and Vítor Carvalho – paints with light. But not just any old light: harvest season is hot, but not scorching. Every frame is sun-drenched, but never sun-burnt – the light illuminating people’s faces has a gentle touch, like an ethereal caress. More importantly, what seems like formalism is not just that: instead, the visuals are rich, imbued with ethical responsibility and undying respect for the people filmed. They are steeped in so much love that even the sun has to be tender in its touch to reflect it.

Fire of Wind can be described as a meditative film, but it is more fitting to call it a reminiscence in cinematic form. Mateus wanted her debut to be both drawn and shaped by the memories of her community, the people of Alentejo, who declare, recite, sing and sometimes remain silent about their past in a polyphony of static, long takes. Bringing in people from various backgrounds, Fire of Wind becomes a meeting ground for Estremoz’s people, those of the surrounding areas and the Roma inhabitants of Bairro das Quintinhas: communities that don’t otherwise mingle. Maria Catarina Sapata, known from Mateus’s 2017 short Barbs, Wastelands, is at the heart of this film, too. In one scene, she opens her own wallet to show its contents: a four-leaf clover, saints and old photographs. The role of objects in Fire of Wind is not simply Proustian, but they literally carry the past as much as the people in the frame do: in their rough hands, on their dry skin, in their shared histories.

Mateus edited the film with Chantal Akerman’s editor, Claire Atherton, and they both achieve a rhythm that swells and retreats ever so gradually. It’s phenomenal how well Fire of Wind resists all stasis – being a “slow” film with little “plot” to speak of – that may be imposed on it by formal constraints. Stasis does exist, however, as a temporary respite from life-long labour, a suspended time and place that invites reflection and a ritualistic form of sharing that never feels forced or staged. Mateus is surely someone who is equally attuned to working on the surface and in depth, in both visual and metaphorical terms, and her feature debut stands as a monument of gratitude towards the people who made it possible in the first place.

Fire of Wind was produced by Clarão Companhia (Portugal) in co-production with Switzerland’s Casa Azul Films and French company Les Films d'Ici. Portugal Film - Portuguese Film Agency handles the film’s international sales.