If you are a Catalan nationalist anarcho-socialist with unnuanced reverence for the mythologies of the Spanish republic, this movie may be for you. Two brothers, real-life ones (one of them being Marc Recha himself), re-enact a fictional version of a real-life journey they had made through the spectacular Catalan countryside, and history is evoked (pans of bullet-holed walls, artillery booms on the soundtrack) but not shown. There is very little dialog, and most of it is incidental: the story is told in a third-person voice-over, the voice being that of an actress impersonating the real-life sister of the real-life brothers. The images have little to do with what story line there is, which isn't much. Many are stunning, brooding pans across stark semi-arid mountains and rivers (think Terrence Malick or Gus Van Sant -- there's not a little of both "Gerry" and "Last Days" here), interspersed with some stunning still images and motionless frames. These are best enjoyed within the film's superb natural sound environment and without the ultimately tedious narration or even the occasional background music (some quite good, some rather odd, but all gratuitous). The best of what this movie has to say is said in these sequences, with their occasional comment-less inclusion of power stations and dams.<br /><br />The relationship between the brothers is left sketchy and generic; a major character is a man-biting catfish, never shown. The more the Catalano-nationalist anarcho-whateverist commitments of the director are suggested, the more the film's richer, unspoken message is subverted and the more irritatingly narcissistic the experience becomes. Though the director said at the NYFF screening that the film was conceived from the beginning with its third-person narrative, I'd like to see a version of it without the narrative or the music and with only the natural soundtrack and minimalist dialog -- the result might be more moving, and would in any case not be that much less baffling.<br /><br />Meantime, this is most likely the only film you will see this year in which a guy strides into the frame with a cloth object (the bathing suit he had been wearing?) dangling from his penis. This is one of the few moments in the whole movie in which your interest is (sorry) pricked by something that's actually happening on screen (what is that? why's it hanging there?), but, as usual, no answers are provided. Very Warholian, very sixties, and a not a little tiresome.