Rubicón
On the days before a departure, the mysterious characters of Rubicón take us around the streets of a town, any old town, in an unknown country. The burning light of the afternoon, a suitcase that is packed, whisperings... A film suspended in time, like a sense of dizziness before the departure.
We are in an unknown country, perhaps in South America, in a large city—any old city. To get inside, we follow the motorway that is used as an entrance. It is nightfall, and the road is full of cars. We allow ourselves to be carried away by the gentle rhythm of the traffic, the first notes of a bossa nova, the voice of a woman telling how she swam to arrive on the coast, and how she managed to enter the country without papers. From this point, the whole film becomes a sort of underground game. We do not have much information about the life of these characters who appear on screen, and who move around the city like the heroes in a spy film, shot under the burning light of the afternoon, but we have a few clues: a suitcase that is packed, a half-opened window, a last telephone call. We then guess that a departure is imminent. Manuel Muñoz invites us to consider the dizziness of exile, the sentiment of being a stranger, and uprooting. More than a film, Rubicón is a poem on the uncertain movement at the heart of every departure.
Elena López Riera
