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Helena invites some of her twenty-year-old friends to her house, with a mysterious purpose. Everyone lies: the three men, the four women, even the house in the countryside that hosts them. Every plot twist, every line of dialogue, could be a lie, so much so that any distinction between false paintings and false feelings, or between readings of fictional texts and references to real events, is lost.

If there is a director who is able to transform an outdoor scene into a theatrical comedy, or in a small chamber concert, that director is Matías Piñeiro. His characters move through unpredictable trajectories in and out of the image, they shake as if in an anthill, while his eye passes through them with a clarity that’s worthy of Jacques Rivette. It’s as if they all always had an objective to accomplish, a task, a function, and while they struggle in an intellectual game of feelings they lose the general picture of reality. The effect is that it is not clear whether a kiss is just a kiss or hides a secret agent in the shadows. Cinema as lucid and polite conspiracy.

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