"Juan Moreira" by Leonardo Favio _

My mother used to drop me off in some dumpster movies with a pack of candy. She was going to meet some friend and have tea at some confectionery in the center for a chat.

So the room was a space of care, a cave that protected me and the projection (in addition to the candy) fed me and created in me an architecture of images that would become my memory even without knowing it.

At the end of the film, she'D pick me up on the way out and we'D go home. When I went to sleep I eagerly wished to dream of those adventures I had seen in the afternoon. Westens, pirates, jungles, the dream could magically lead me to those landscapes I had looked at in the afternoon. They were in me, they had entered through that enigma: the look.

Perhaps that's why I always feel something special when I see the spectators come in, sit (in the theater room), listen to Carolina (managing assistant) giving the warning to José our operator, who turns off the living light and enters with the first foot of light.

The gaze of each of these people begins to come into contact with the performance, there is no screen here but the living body of the person who acts. His most primary subject exposed to that look. There is the work, the dialogues, the actions, we have that architecture on which we sail, but there is something mysterious that exceeds us. A question that is always a mystery.

Will we be able to hold on to that other man's eyes? We will be able to penetrate in such a way that we become a personal memory of those who in that room, that day, gave us a moment of their life to "see" for an hour and a half. As a beautiful landscape that gives us horizon, I think that the work should give us that "effect" that is so notorious in nature. Just let yourself be in that act: "look." Or maybe the right word is "contemplate."

The landscape enters the gaze and constitutes us in the body. In my body, for example, I carry estuaries, from Corrientes and also the valley of the river turns in Fitz Roy and the beaches of Rocha in Uruguay. Our body is the memory of the childhood landscape. We can close our eyes, and "see them." They made flesh, as well as the images of those films and so many works, and phrases. Words, images, landscapes formed from the gaze.

Un director elige su película favorita | Página12 " title=""Juan Moreira", de Leonardo Favio | FAN > Un director elige su película favorita | Página12" >

And here I go to Juan Moreira de Leonardo Favio. Moreira, face the game. He comes out, he fights, he gets hurt, he dies, he wobbles, he bleeds, he walks his way through the Cross. Dressed in white, he walks under the bright sun, towards a small wall. He tries to rise, and receives the final spear, turns around and his cry melts with that of the executioner. Shoot and fall, without crossing that little wall.

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What was the last thing Moreira looked at before she received the spear? Where his gaze went, in that last one he peered above that wall.

We live full of images that stun us. Full of screens that turn on. We associate ourselves with platforms that are image deposits. But in the meantime we have lost our eyes, as an act of poetry, as a matter of serene contemplation, the one that makes us recover beauty and novelty.

Get your eyes back, get your word back, regain experience. To restore in ourselves and in that other one who looks at us the wonder of childhood, that we try every time we act, to be inhabited by the "homo ludens" and to vanish the "homo sapiens". Every function, of our dark night, we try to replenish that playful sense that amazes again, every essay of our new material we try to recover that living presence of power, play and humanity.

The look that gives us the echo of ourselves. The look that brings us back to childhood. That primal architecture of our being. The theatrical act allows us to reestablish that original and primary act of posing on the mystery of the body. The body, that primal fleshly matter we come with, and the one we bury. Birth and death. End and start.

After the fashions, and the snob of thinking that virtuality is the new skin. There will always be that staggering Moreira walk. The pain of the body, the blood shed, the injustice, there goes Moreira, rises to look once again at the Pampa, the field, fills the eyes of the horizon, receives the spear, screams and that cry is the eternal sacrifice. This staggering advance has the potency of the body and the dramatic, mythical sense of the way of the Cross. In this journey and in that body we summarize the mythology of our culture and our homeland. Your tragedy of injustice.

Every time I see that last scene of Leonardo Favio's Moreira, I get my eyes back. I want to "dream, dream" again, like another one of his movies. I return to the afternoons of childhood filled with candy, I try again to make the theatrical act an instant of gaze that peeps over a small wall where one receives a spear. I think again that it is finally what we carry as marks on the body. The pain, the fatherland, our moving forward staggering for life, towards that end... To rise up with effort and look at that nothingness of Pampa, to that void that will restore the sense of what seems lost.

When the child was a child, there were no ideas, there was only wonder, look, and candy. And a dark room that housed it like a belly. There will always be a room a Moreira, a cry that tears and makes appear the beauty that restores deep sense outside of snobism and fashions. There will always be civilization and barbarism, having been born here in a country of heartbreaking beauty.

Eugenio Soto studied the career of letters. He is currently a professor at the National University of the Arts. He formed with Laura Yusem and Ricardo Bartis. I'm part of the Berreta House collective. He directed Bufarra (grilled meat) currently rehearsing Der Kleine Fuhrer and directing the dark night, a play that is presented every Saturday at the people's Theatre, Lavalle 3636. 19: 00.