Montreal Nouveau 2023 Review: CIELO ABIERTO, Slow Textures Reveal Quiet Truths

We often tend to think of the ravages of colonialismin terms of forests ravaged, animal populations decimated - but colonialism was built with stone. The cities, and especially the moments to white supremacy, came from the stone and hard labour of the colonozed. In this somewhat empty volcanic white stone quarry in Peru, two men, Johnny and a friend, quietly work away, chiseling the stone away from its mountain, to carve it into something (it's never quite defined).

Some of those stones likely ended up in the huge and ornate churches that are constant reminders that the value of the land and people was put towards such momuments (as opposed to say, often proper roads and homes for the living). In one of these churches, Johnny's son is tasked with digitizing the space - taking pictures to allow for a 3D model on a computer, presumably for archiving and digital exploration. The son and the father are estranged, one working in a very old profession, the other with the latest technology. And yet, both must encounter that which has been left behind.

Felipe Esparza Pérez's Cielo Abierto is part documentary, part fiction, wrapped in slow cinema that introduces us to a landscape of exteriors and interiors, the latter seeming mostly barren and dry, the former rich and deep. And yet, appearances are deceiving - a place takes on its history, and our eyes can adjust to see the textures and layers that might hide from the naked eye.

Touch is a difficult sense to convey via the audiovisual, but Esparza Pérez takes his time - the first shot sees a hammer hitting a spike, splitting apart the slabs of stone. We can taste the dust that rises off the stone, we can feel the textures as Johnny breaks apart and moves the small pieces, or as he chisels it into blocks that will be used to create small structures. Is this what he is building, a home? We seem him one night as he is preparing for bed, in a small concrete structure, with only his cat for company. Is he lonely? Does he miss his son? Is this what he is left with in his middle life? He doesn't seem unhappy - well, perhaps there is a small stream of melancholia as he contemplates this existence, in this barren yet imposing landscape.

His son, meanwhile, exists (for a time) in a world of golds and wood, textures which are smooth and cold, seemingly meant to glorifying a god yet really about colonial power through religion. Yet this church feels as empty of life as the quarry, and is not warmed by the sun. The digital work he must do does require his hands, but it's clicks of the fingers and smooth motions across a computer pad - the textures, for the son, are on the screen, rendered strange and moulded as the software attempts to interpret. Can we see the stone that lies beneath this layers of gold? Can we see the blood shed upon that stone for its creation?

The only thing that seems to join father and son, is a small memorial to the wife and mother, in one corner of the quarry. Her photograph is faded almost completely, yet both father and son would know her anywhere. Each has a separate time with her, speaking of their longing for her presence, each changing slightly where the flowers and stones that surround her marker will rest. It is here, rather than the church, that marks where they can mourn for her, perhaps find her spirit. This is the land of their people, not the place that represents what was stolen.

Esparza Pérez gives a intimate and quiety profound story, the kind that sneaks up on you, as you find the questions you hadn't realized were waiting to be asked. Cielo Abierto is slow and beautiful, with textures both rough and deep.