León (Pedro Inês) and Elvira (Clara Riedenstein) are a high-spirited artist couple in 19th-century Portugal, but without a stable roof over their heads; instead, they tour the local villages as self-described “troubadours”, staging two-character plays at any drinking den or town square that will accommodate them, and concluding with a folky-punky acoustic guitar singalong. They’re good company for the two hours of Joåo Nicolau’s IFFR opening film (also in the Limelight section), Providence and the Guitar, never falling into the bickering moroseness or cynicism often plaguing these character types; instead, the uncaring world (including one seen in a present-day flash-forward timeline) is their antagonist, with their struggles amounting to a moving manifesto for creativity as its own reward.

A past collaborator of Miguel Gomes’ and João César Monteiro’s in the country’s auteur film scene, Nicolau’s own directorial work hasn’t received the international exposure it’s deserved. Providence and the Guitar shows full evidence of his genre-switching vibrancy, musicality and good cheer, although it’s a smoother and less provocative watch than his Locarno competition entry Technoboss [+lee también:
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entrevista: João Nicolau
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ficha de la película]. Its message of solidarity with artists, no matter their prominence or audience size, is easy for the viewer to be convinced by: their work is rightly seen as a salve in these challenging times, with the flash-forward strand asserting a thematic emphasis on art’s perennial battle against market forces.

Adapted from a little-known short story by Robert Louis Stevenson, much of the plot concerns rambling, screwball-ish digressions where León and Elvira’s attempts to work are frustrated or subject to bad luck, whether at the hands of unsympathetic town bureaucrats, artistic rivals from their extended family, or demonic curses. Mysteriously locked out of their hotel following a performance, they’re grateful for the shelter given by another struggling artist – a depression-stricken painter – coincidentally living in the area, and the screenplay reaches a new level of richness as Elvira commiserates with the painter’s wife whilst they warm their hands at the fireplace. The two women concede that their significant others aren’t particularly talented, but have integrity for being in thrall to their quixotic targets of artistic fulfilment. León, according to Elvira, can’t even sing or act, but has great “taste” – the latter quality shared by Nicolau, with his flair for aesthetic curation, yet his talent is in no doubt.

Further enjoyment also derives from the film’s “puzzle” element, where a single cut or scene transition suddenly lands us in 2025, with explanation for how the two strands dovetail always deferred. With the characters enjoying an uncensored leftist political voice – through their acidic song lyrics, and their advocacy in Portuguese parliament and in street demonstrations – artistic expression is indivisible from proactive social concern. Endearingly, Nicolau’s whimsical 19th century and the present feel similar in their virtues, and not separated by a gulf in time.

Providence and the Guitar is a Portuguese production, staged by O Som e a Fúria. Its world sales are handled by Shellac.