All language subtitles for Balnearios

This is a film about bathing resorts.

Years ago,
in the days of the big ocean liners,

the big racing tracks, the big casinos,

men invented bathing resorts.

It was a hallucinatory
and festive idea. An innocent idea.

They believed that reaching paradise was
something possible, immediate and easy.

They'd take a strip of seashore...

and fill it with with palaces,
boardwalks and palm trees.

Only to then undress and spend
hours in the water or in the sun.

Bathing resorts surfaced like a game;

invented by a century
that still liked to play...

that was still a child.

That's why when we think of these
resorts, we always think of childhood.

The century's childhood.
Our country's childhood.

And also our own.

We think of a simple
and transparent happiness...

in times we evoke
as exalted and brilliant.

They're the place of
past things, of good things.

They are... probably... a bit sad.

And the strangest thing is that
everything about resorts is cheerful.

Bathing resorts were born
out of something old and deep,

almost animal in nature.

They were born
from the pleasure we feel in water.

To swim, dive or float in it...

to explore, defy and celebrate it.

To turn water into a celebration.

It's like fire,
like speed or like music.

Something primal. Something primitive.

And this quality still
survives in their essence.

The resorts are built
to be near the water.

These resorts are the only
cities that were born in the century.

And there's always
something epic about them.

First, there's
the struggle against sand.

The history of every resort
always includes battles against nature;

against the wind, against the sea,
against the sand, against salt.

Facing the sea in the middle of nowhere,
pharaonic, imperial cities were built.

Casinos were their palaces,
hotels were their temples.

Thus were the bathing resorts born.
In the beginning they were remote.

There were few people,
few buildings, few things.

Some years later
they had turned into monsters.

They had become a parody of themselves,

a cartoon of themselves.

The gold fever that struck
them every year, every summer,

slowly turned them into something else.

Something strange.

Everything in the
resorts became different.

Resorts are
extravagant, dreamlike worlds.

An unreal world.

When you visit a resort off-season,
it feels like an empty theater,

just empty stages and abandoned masks.

There's always something
mysterious and poignant about them.

Bathing resorts were
imagined in an arrogant, rash era.

And when that era was over,

when its ocean liners
ended up in the bottom of the sea,

and its airships caught fire,

bathing resorts
remained as its sole survivors.

Like castaways,
like beings from another world.

Like dinosaurs.

And this film
talks about all these things.

BATHING RESORTS

History of Mar del Sur

Everything mentioned
in this film is true.

Yet it doesn't seem that way sometimes.

This story, for example,
reminds us of some old terror fiction...

A story about a town built around a
castle, an unassailable, gloomy castle,

occupied by a single owner.

A dark, solitary, misanthropic loner.

In this case the castle is just
a hotel from the early century.

A gigantic and anachronistic giant
in the middle of a Southern resort town.

A sad forgotten town among so many
other sad forgotten seaside towns.

A town single-story houses and
dirt streets, where almost no one lives.

Where almost no one goes.

In this scenario,
the hotel stands out like an apparition.

Like a haughty and mysterious mountain.

The unlikely visitor is overwhelmed.

He's dumbfounded by its decadence,
its outrageousness, its majesty.

Nevertheless, that visitor
has no clue about the place.

The murders... deaths... and swindles.

He's never heard of
the female singer... or the lawyer...

or of the Uruguayan...

and least of all,
of the extravagant Mr. G.

Mr G's and the hotel's story
came together fifty years ago.

The hotel, had once been splendid and
successful, was about to be demolished.

The initial owners were bankrupt and
decided to sell it to save it from ruin.

Some businessmen from the area decided
to create a company to run the hotel.

Inexplicably, among these businessmen,

there was a young
and arrogant interloper,

with an in-your-face defiant attitude.

He had no business experience but was
extremely passionate about the hotel.

This "G" young man who
had until then been just a guest,

soon won the shareholders' trust.

And soon enough was invited
to become a part of the company.

However, once the deal had
been done and everyone had signed,

the partners discovered
that "G" had conned them.

The agreement they had signed,
which generously included "G",

was instead a transfer agreement in
favor of a lady who sang French songs.

A young lady who was known for making
the rounds in second-rate variety shows:

"G's" wife.

The members of the board
were flabbergasted and tried to sue "G".

It was useless.
They had all signed the document.

They had legally given the hotel away.

"G" and the singer locked
themselves inside the hotel.

They had won and were now the owners.

For over 30 years, "G" strolled around
the hotel as if it were his castle.

He almost never came out. Word was that
he related to the building strangely.

A borderline maniac.

The singer abandoned her career just
to perform sporadically in the ballroom.

Hardly any guests are allowed in:

"G" evaluates them,
chooses them, rejects them.

As if staying at the hotel was a
privilege for himself and a few others.

Stories start to spread.

It's rumored that he evicts
guests in the middle of the night.

That the singer
can be heard night and day.

That he doesn't greet back
and won't answer questions.

The hotel business sinks,
but "G" doesn't seem to care.

He seems to be content to just
amble through the aging building,

knowing that it's his.

At some moment rumors are heard that
the singer, who is the legal owner,

has gone mad.

This rumor reaches a certain
mean-spirited and unscrupulous lawyer.

A skilled criminal who,
after a short investigation,

discovers the forgotten
story of the original company.

With a couple of legal tricks,
and taking advantage of "G"'s absence,

he makes the singer sign a document
excusing herself from the hotel.

in order to avoid
going to a mental hospital.

That document, obviously, was the
property deed in favor of the lawyer.

After 40 years and hoisted
by his own petard, "G"'s reign was over.

"G" begins a strange
and enigmatic exile.

Meanwhile, the new owner turns
the hotel into a regional criminal hub.

A place for gambling, smuggling and
prostitutes, a shelter for criminals.

From the hotel,
this lawyer dominates the town.

A police patrol car visits local
ranch owners, looking for customers.

Every night ships
anchor close to the shore.

And the sailors come
to have fun with the hotel's women,

who are overweight and aging.

Among all the hoodlums that stroll by,

a Uruguayan painter wins the lawyer's
trust and becomes his right-hand man.

The lawyer and the Uruguayan man
dominate and terrorize the town.

Eventually, a humble baker decides
to take the bull by the horns.

Slowly, he starts
investigating the town's dealings,

monopolized by the lawyer's minions.

He discovers the huge irregularities
that mark the history of the town.

The favors. The thefts. The swindles.

In the middle of his investigation,
the community file is lost...

unexpectedly in a fire.

Ten years of history
go up in smoke in a matter of minutes.

Nothing's left.

The indignant baker decides to
fight on and continue his investigation.

A few days later, he is murdered.

The police investigate and discover that
the murder weapon belongs to the lawyer.

The fingerprints, on the other hand,
belong to the Uruguayan man.

The Uruguayan can be heard announcing
the murder in a recorded tape.

Incrimination is direct and irrefutable.

The Uruguayan
man is sentenced to life in prison.

The lawyer, astonishingly, is acquitted.

The title deed to the hotel is, however,
revoked and the hotel is returned...

to its previous owners.

After ten years in exile
Mr "G" is again walking the hotel halls.

There's a house by the sea

...dirty from the wind and the storms

...from ferocious years and long age

...and from sadness...

The old house by the sea

...in a sad southern beach...

...abandoned, sepulchral...

...almost deserted.

It sleeps, lulled by the sea...

...It sleeps like a wild beast...

...like a bear hibernating...

...an eternal siesta...

...It sleeps, there's no waking it...

...from its seaside lethargy...

...not by the flying seagulls...

...nor by the storms.

My sad house by the sea!

Who else suffers its solitude?

Dark prison by the sea!

Who's locked up inside you?

Who is that ghostly man?

Who's your house-mate by the sea?

Another nocturnal, lunar soul...

who dreams like you?

From that moment on,
"G" locks himself up in the hotel.

He's never seen again
outside of the hotel.

He becomes a shadow, a
silent ghost that wanders the building,

who avoids all human contact.
The hotel turns to ruin.

It becomes a fortress
with a lone prisoner.

Sleep! Your guardian's here,

...sad palace by the sea.

sleep through your dream,

...your sentinel's here!

Your sentinel!

THE BEACHES EPISODE

Far from the big urban centers.

Far from the industrial
and production hubs.

Surrounded by fertile
lands, grains and cattle...

in a narrow coastal
strip made up of dunes,

forests and sandy areas, in a remote,

windy, unproductive and useless area,

a new model of
urban location flourished:

the bathing resort city.

Aligned one next to the other,

identical, linked by their
strange marine names,

these cities provide surprises
to the unsuspecting observer.

There are no industries, no large
companies; the only business is local.

There's about three
to four dwellings to every inhabitant.

There are zero to one dwellers
to every apartment building.

There are no jails,
no trains, no courtrooms.

Despite being maritime
cities, they have no ports.

During most of the year,
these cities are empty.

The streets are deserted.

Businesses are closed.

Hotels are idle.

Large apartment buildings are vacant.

They are, literally, dead cities.

Abandoned... lifeless...

barren... useless...

phantasmagorical cities.

At the end of October,
however, the landscape changes.

Some signs of activity begin to be seen.

Cities begin to get populated.

Abrupt changes can be
glimpsed wherever we look.

A whole year of lethargy,
abandonment and forgetfulness...

is corrected in a few days.

Things turn hectic.

Work goes on day and night,
including Saturdays and Sundays.

Everything is repaired,
conditioned, modified.

At the end of November,
beaches begin to get transformed.

Parallel poles spring up on the sand.

They are even and symmetrical.

Later on, crossbeams
and supports are added.

The skeletons are arranged in rows.

These rows are soon duplicated...

and trebled.

By mid-December they're ready.

In the bathing resorts,
everything is prepared.

The cities, still silent,

are alert and awaiting...

anxiously.

At a given moment in late December...

the season officially kicks off.

The crowds begin to arrive
around the New Year holiday.

According to official
figures, every year...

2,709,066 summer
visitors arrive to the region.

1,700,000 from Buenos Aires,

45,000 from Tucum�n,

827,000 doctors,

650,000 senior citizens,

1,000 blind people,

1.2 million women.

40,000 gauchos,

300,000 babies,

890 priests,

a million blonds.

Beaches turn into something unique,

homogeneous:

beach umbrellas, tents and people.

Most Beach-goers arrive at the beach
a couple of hours before midday.

Long earnest
lines of families on foot...

trek toward the sea.

Each member with her or his load.

Carrying the beach umbrella
is usually the man's task.

Men carry them and
also decide where to place them.

The whole camp is
set out around the beach umbrella.

The summer visitor
goes where other people go.

And the beach umbrellas
soon make up impassable walls.

Once settled, summer visitors
immediately start their activities.

Grown ups will sunbathe,

and avoid all activity.

Later, a strange urge
will lead them to take...

long and pointless walks...

from one end to the other,

creating a steady, perpetual...

never ending traffic.

The kids will move
around the beach like a horde.

Their activity will be ceaseless.

They'll deploy an
irritating gamut of rituals.

They'll look for
mollusks, build castles,

and get "breaded" in sand.

They'll get buried in the sand,

practice new, outrageous,
exasperating games.

And they'll demand
their parents' attention constantly,

insistently and unceasingly.

At the beach, sand is ideal
medium for the most varied games.

It's like a multi-purpose stadium,

adaptable to the
most bizarre activities.

Fictional architecture. Fictional races.

Fictional race tracks.

It all seems possible in the sand.

It all seems easy.

Playing fields spring up from nowhere.

And fade into nowhere.

The classical beach
games are quite simple.

If there are rules,
they're usually sidestepped.

As a general rule, the games
consist basically of throwing something.

Not everyone dwells at the
beach with the same intensity.

The old folks, indifferent to
everything, will enjoy it mutedly.

They will prefer the comfort of a chair,

contemplation, and strategic sunbathing.

The dogs, on the other hand,
will invariably annoy people.

They'll suffer and
invade other people's territory.

They'll move around too much
and cause constant conflicts.

The whole vacation scene,
the joy of resting and idleness,

will be something totally alien to them.

They'll be totally dumbfounded
by this brand-new scene...

where everything that
surrounds them is different,

unexpected and remarkable.

Women will spend their
whole time on their bodies.

Their crowning moments are in the
massive groups of improvised gymnasts.

They get together in the afternoon
without knowing or greeting each other.

And they collectively and irrationally
subject themselves to strange rituals,

dances and swaying of their bodies.

They seem possessed by ancient gods.

And every afternoon they make up
a dispersed and ephemeral sect...

of infinite, unpredictable members.

The rest of the day
is dedicated to the sun.

Suntan lotions are the common thread.

For women, it's a kind of obsession...

that marks every hour
and every minute of the day.

When it comes to sunbathing, their
plan appears to be fixed and inflexible:

At a given time, they switch positions.

At some moment,
they turn their backs to the sun,

and untie their bikinis.

Suddenly, they feel cold and
cover their torsos with a t-shirt,

or shirt.

Later on, the ritual starts again.

An odd scale
governs the bathing rituals.

The sea is assessed
with an almost moral criterion:

"Good"

"Dubious"

"Dangerous"

The red flag: diabolical and scary,

represents the gravest threat.

Adults go for short and sporadic dips.

Women usually feel
cold and exit quickly.

Children are
the most conspicuous swimmers.

To them, the dip is less about cooling
off than it is a personal combat.

On the one side, they and their boards.

On the other, the waves.

The sand bars,
a minimum and recurrent novelty.

They cast an almost
infallible spell over the adults.

An excursion to the sand bar...

is a modest adventure which
lures even the least lively people.

A strange democracy rules the seashore.

There... somehow, everyone is equal.

Old folks, nevertheless, approach the
water timidly and with a certain fear.

They barely splash
themselves with their hands.

They seldom swim.

A day at the beach usually means
idleness, routine and tedium.

Days are seldom perfect.
There are always perils:

Jellyfish, sunstroke, sunburn, tar.

The hot sand burns the soles.

The wind fills the eyes
and the mouths with sand...

and makes everything impossible.

Another inherent risk
for beach-goers is boredom.

The days are all alike.

Any change to the scenery
brings crowds and commotion.

A banner plane.
A dolphin on the horizon.

A faraway ship.

A lost child
will prompt a curious ritual.

An adult will sit the child on his
shoulders while a crowd claps hands.

The lifeguard will raise a white flag.

People will come and merrily join in.

Beach gear includes objects that
oddly disappear the rest of the year.

Low folding chairs.

Tarpaulins and reed mats.

Wicker baskets with thermos bottles.

Towels, snacks, reading material.

Fruits. Hard-boiled eggs.

Outside beach hours,
adults engage in the siesta ritual.

Suddenly, the hustle and bustle
gives way to silence and tranquility.

Residential neighborhoods...

become depopulated
little by little until they're deserted.

The whole city seems to be asleep.

Streets are barely populated by
children, dogs and ice cream vendors.

Houses are silent and semi-deserted.

For three hours, like in a truce,
everything is like it used to be.

At sundown, empty beaches
give way to downtown activities.

As a general rule, the town's
center revolves around a single street:

Main Street.

Main streets are mostly identical.

Cluttered businesses.

Food vendors,
neon lights, street salesmen.

Clowns and flier distributors.

A sort of whirlwind of people,

kids, loud music, trinkets and sweets.

Vacationers walk up and down
these streets over and over again.

One day after the next.

Always seeing the same store windows,

the same sales, the same shops.

Vacationers stroll
by these places placidly,

like someone enjoying
a recently acquired routine.

Night after night,
for a fortnight or a month,

they will religiously
undertake the same pilgrimage.

Their night clothes are not
too different from the beachwear.

The two are separated by a shower.

And the appearance and
bearing of the vacationers...

implies a certain hygienic pride.

An exaltation of cleanliness. An
attitude of getting ready for nighttime.

Nighttime options are
usually of the massive kind.

Streets turn into a
sort of county fair, into a circus.

It's all full of people.
Demand seems to beat supply.

People, thirsting for variety,

go to any spectacle on offer,
without much discrimination.

Theater revue shows or "B" list
TV actor shows are both okay.

So are yesteryear's singers
and magic or hypnosis shows.

Improvised stages abound.

People, eager for spectacles,
eager for circus-type fun,

just turn up.

Another variation
are the compulsive visits...

to the huge sheds that house
electronic and mechanical games.

Game machines stand side by side.

And the typical sound of each one is
mixed with all the others. Chaos ensues.

The electronic game fauna
does not seem extensive.

Beyond the occasional visitors,

the dilettantes and
the permanent slackers who nest there,

the character who must be
taken into account in this world is,

beyond any doubt... The champion!

Fellows who, by investing a lot of time
and visiting the games compulsively,

have become absolute
lords over one of the games.

They can spend hours on end...

climbing levels,
annihilating comical enemies,

exhibiting their art for
art's sake in what has become...

for them a routine,
another form of tedium.

Their movements are usually elegant.
They show off their quality.

They're not pluralistic. A champion
chooses only one game to conquer.

And, like a faithful lover, he avoids
and discredits all the others.

These maestros rarely show joy or
fervor over their own achievements.

Their expressions are rather
dull, serious, concentrated.

As if their activity
were something solemn or sacred.

The electronic game fauna's
final member is the observer.

An infallible character
whose harsh mission is...

the mere
contemplation of another's game.

The observer enters
one of the big game halls.

He's not looking for available games.
He's looking for busy games.

He's not looking for his own fun,
he's looking for other people's fun.

Once his target has been identified,

he just stands silently behind him.

Standing motionless,
he examines the other's game.

He gets passionate
about the other's moves.

He approves or
disapproves of the other's skills.

Great champs can
usually count on a large court,

and occasionally a permanent one.

Businesses flourish
during the hot season.

And infinite stores that
have come out of nowhere...

offer everything that
the tourist might need.

The businesses are like
a metaphor for the summer.

Inside the stores you can
guess the summary of the season.

Everything inside them is massive.

Thousands of beach balls.
Thousands of beach umbrellas.

Thousands of beach pails and shovels.

Everything comes in thousands.

The clutter resembles
that of an army barrack.

Sometimes, these
stores fall into surrealism.

The gift shop is a case in point.

It provides a unique and dismal fauna,

befitting a medieval bestiary.

A chaotic bazaar that combines
the geographical, the zoological,

the family related,
the artistic, the religious,

the domestic, the climatic,
the humorous, the earthly,

the scientific, the naval, the vulgar.

A varied and grotesque
summary of the universe.

The summer industry
also blossoms in other fields.

The large army of beach
vendors is equally picturesque.

They carry aerial rows
of small Styrofoam airplanes.

The wafer vendor plays a
triangle and carries...

a large metallic cylinder on his back.

Once his services are required,

the wafer vendor will subject the
customer to a curious game of chance.

Just as extravagant as this
ritual is the product that sustains it:

The wafers: unattractive food...

that is very much absent
from stores for the rest of the year.

Other vendors are more orthodox.

The churro vendor can be
identified by his large basket.

The hot dog vendor by
his metallic box with hot liquid.

The ice cream man by his
weird, consonant-suppressing holler.

But the king of beach characters is,
beyond all doubts, the lifeguard.

The lifeguard constantly attracts
glances from both men and women.

As a general rule, they show off
satisfactory suntans and muscles.

Their posture is mostly heroic and
they're frequently escorted by a dog.

Their routine starts at dawn...

with a tour of the shore
to determine the condition of the sea.

During beach hours, they will
watch over every little thing.

They'll be in charge of keeping order...

among the general chaos
and crowds of vacationers.

Perhaps a drowning man will provide them
with a moment of adrenaline and heroism.

Lifesaver, whistle
and binoculars are his weapons.

Like all heroes they're usually, silent,
solitary, measured and melancholic.

Finally, a day, a day no
different from the previous one...

or from the following one,

all this cosmos, all this complex,
rural, self-sufficient world...

starts winding down, starts receding.

Little by little,
downtown streets start to empty.

Beach attendance starts to thin out.

Some apartments
and houses are now empty.

As days go by, fewer
and fewer businesses remain open.

There are less
and less active shop owners.

Slowly, solitude and
neglect take over everything once again.

By April,
there is nothing to remind you...

of the hustle and bustle
of a little more than a month earlier.

Once again,
they're just provincial towns.

With endogenous
commerce and no industries.

And nothing to make them stand out
except the proximity of the sea.

History of Miramar

WELCOME TO MIRAMAR

Our third story starts out like a hoax.

It starts out in a calm, peaceful town.

A nice beach resort
population frozen in time.

Far from the
maddening beat of the world.

A town that just expects,
year after year,

a modest amount of
vacationers, just like its neighbors.

Attracted to that huge salt
water lagoon that they call "sea".

But this placid
vista hides a horrendous secret.

A short time after arriving, the visitor
will start to notice strange things.

He'll be astounded by the way
the town seems to be cut off.

She'll notice that streets
lead directly into the sea.

Then, finally and with some
discomfiture, she'll learn the truth:

The real town lies beneath the water.

Well... right here underneath
we have the "Venecia" Hotel.

The beach is right
beside the Venecia Hotel...

It was called "Poor Folks' Beach".

And there was the "Garetto" Hotel.

Next to the Garetto
we have the "Mar Chiquita Hotel".

And to the right,
we have the hot springs.

They're all submerged.

Then... there was.. an inn;

"Nilo".

Then there was the "Marchetti Hostel".

Over there we had swimming
pools, when all this was dry.

So people could go bathing
without going into the sea.

Nobody seems to know
what really happened.

Some speak of a great storm.

Others, of the unforeseen
consequences of a faraway dam.

Still others speak of
the heat, the tides, the moon.

The majority just stood by
watching the sea rise and rise...

advancing like an army
and invading people's properties.

They watched the
land surface turn aquatic.

They barely caught
a last glimpse of objects,

as if they'd been a drowning man's arms.

They watched the houses,
hotels and shops become islands,

mere castaways' islets.

Eventually, there was
nothing more to watch.

When the flooding stopped,
people returned to see what was left.

They found ruins.

Their usual places, their
buildings, now reminded them of ships,

big fishes, or reefs.

Over time, like everything
else, the city was rebuilt.

Today the new city has
forgotten its aquatic episode,

and lives day to day
in a tolerably normal fashion.

But everyone knows
that the old stuff is near...

and next to them, just like in the old
days. All they have to do is dive in.

The plantations.
All these plantations down below...

The grove is all underneath.

And the "Argentino Hotel".

Over there we have the sea where
it was before. The beach and the sea.

Over there.

Pierucci could go on and on.

Here, for example,
there used to be a country fair.

Over here, a children's summer camp.

A drive-in movie theater here.

This was the municipal camping ground.

Right here, a few feet
underwater, is the old promenade.

Here was the dancing water fountain.

The carousel was here.

No big things around here.
No palaces or hidden treasures.

It is a humble Atlantis;
domestic and child-like.

A poor man's Atlantis.

Zucco's Episode

Now, this documentary turns weird.

It moves away from
beaches, hotels, and gloom.

It moves away from the sea.

It's the province's turn.
The sidelined minor resorts' turn.

It's Zucco's turn.

1. The Resorts

I'm about to cook
a meal that's partly invented...

partly copied, partly created,
kind of reflecting our resort's spirit.

And thus feel the pleasures...

that are possible on vacations,

both spirit and stomach-wise.

There are marine animals,
vegetables from the earth,

a bit of everything.

And thus... in the same way,
our resorts all have individual traits.

Among them are the underwater products,

and the products on the sand.

Zucco is talking about
other kinds of resorts:

The extravagant provincial resorts.

There's no sea here, just dikes.
No beaches, just large pools.

There's no sand, just cement.

Sometimes they're built on ruins.
Sometimes they take on heinous shapes.

They're like oases in the
middle of the desert. Ugly oases.

People jump in the water,
get comfortable on the rocks,

and stroll around as if
they were in Nice or Amalfi.

What is it about all of this
that fascinates Zucco so much?

We all have issues in life.

Some of us go this way,
others go the other way...

Where does it all
come from? I don't know.

The thing is that... my issue...

surrounds... the subject of resorts.

Because... resorts...

satisfy man's primal need.

The cleanliness...

the... satisfaction of getting
into an unusual liquid.

A liquid element.

In short, a return to the water.

Where we all come from.

1950
YEAR OF GENERAL SAN MARTIN

WATER FOR THE FATHERLAND

Thanks to executive thinking,

the National Water
and Energy Law was sanctioned...

to consecrate the efforts
of the men who cultivate the land...

or promote the industry of the country.

These were the sleepy rivers
that crossed the sterile sands...

and were lost to the sea.

There were times when their
currents did more harm than good.

and unstoppable catastrophic floods...

were followed by drought.

It was then when a realistic
government chosen by the people...

declared war on thirst and droughts...

and started to turn lazy
rivers that had been underused...

into swirls of power and life.

Controlled by dams,
channeled by irrigation canals,

their waters will bathe
the soil of the fatherland...

and turn it into a vast fertile meadow.

The millions of kilowatts
stored in their currents...

- will be extracted...
- Zucco's resorts are paradoxical.

They don't evoke
tranquility, leisure, or rest.

Instead, they come
from a harsh, gray, industrial world.

We are beset by iron, cement,
concrete, threatening frameworks;

an air of discomfort and public works.

The other resorts worship the sea.

These worship civil engineering
and hydroelectric power.

They're improvised,
extravagant and hazardous.

They're the resorts of the Iron Age.

Our country until now has been ill
with the attainment of little things...

and I want to make it ill
with the attainment of great things.

This is the Per�n Plan
and this is his truth.

The Artist

At first, Zucco comes off as the
classical provincial town dweller:

Agent, married, father of an only son,

member of the
Rotary Club, the Social Club,

the historical association.

On the board of the rugby team,

and the Peronist Party.

Pigeon keeper, stamp collector,

member of the
Italian Mutual Association.

Founding member of the
Friends of the Arts Association.

Consultant to the
Women's Charity Association,

and chair of the
Volunteer Fireman's Circle.

And he is also the author of several
strange and surprising works.

I don't know if I'm great
or a genius. It's not for me to say.

But I have painted
some water-related paintings,

products from the sea,
products from the rivers...

And I have one
which is my "posthumous" work,

which will be exhibited very soon
at the Buenos Aires Province Bank.

I'll take my fully-deserved place there.
A place for the great ones.

Anyone who's familiar with
Zucco knows his work is not predictable.

Beneath his smart alec
shell lies hidden...

an ancient, complex, terrible universe.

The Work

Zucco's personality contains a paradox.

On the one hand he
speaks wonders of his work.

On the other,
he acts as if his work didn't exist.

Sometimes he speaks
of himself as a genius.

Other times, he reminds you
of a typical provincial joker.

At times, he suggests
a disturbing mysticism.

Overall, he makes an effort to come off
as folksy, funny and simple-minded.

His work is the outcome of both faces.

Like these paintings, like this poem.

Blurred by the heat
I dream of you always first

With your flowers in bloom
My dear resort, I'm all thirst

I pursue you with ardor and laughter
does it all matter, master?

You're splendorous today
and to your waters I subscribe

Formerly sizzling!
Formerly searing!

You take away my urban muck

In your bosom
I'm a clean duck!

Deep river, broken river

Deep pool, makes me quiver

When it's hot I dream of you by day

On my way

Our date with you is still standing

The town and I will glimpse

Our reunion at the landing,

Is so slow, it limps

The B.A. Province Bank is
the last step in my pictorial creations.

There, and I won't say why,

there is a picture
exhibited which I think was...

the highest point
in my career as an artist.

The Gods

Old King Neptune,

former monarch of seas,
dikes, lakes and streams

You're not going back
to the bottom of the sea, to your realm.

It's mine now.
You'll stay on the land.

You'll adapt to the new roads.

Neptune, we'll talk about it later on.

Zucco's sculptures,
dispersed among the hills,

are chilling.

They look like ruins
from some distant civilization...

which worshiped sea-gods...

once powerful, now forgotten.

It's not easy to accept
that the sculptor is this man.

Bacchus' Triumph

There's a strange bathing
resort mystique about Zucco,

which connects his provincial world
of wine, jokes, leisure and siestas...

with unpredictable
mythological and pagan ideas.

An eerie water cult...

goes hand in hand with guitars,

celebrations, drink and food.

Zucco's pantheon is that complex.

MISTER RESORT

Local artist
will exhibit at B.A. Province Bank.

Leviathan

Leviathan.

Zucco's extremely peculiar world
reminds us of the world of dreams.

Perhaps this is
the reason why for years,

Zucco has written them down,

ordered them, titled them
and analyzed them.

Dreams

Dream date: January 18, 1985.

At the start of the dream, I'm in a car.

I'm on a winding
arid road in hill country.

Don't know where I'm coming
from nor where I'm headed.

Suddenly I come upon a direction sign.

I follow the arrow.

I find new signs...
and the road gets more populated.

The further I go, the hotter it gets.

Suddenly the road ends.

I get off the car.

A very strange place
materializes in front of me.

It's like an open pot
in the middle of the ground.

There are stairs everywhere.

There's a hole with a brownish liquid.
There are waterfalls and bridges.

There's also a whole bunch of people.

Laughing, looking,
diving into the pools,

lying in the sun.

For some unknown reason,
the place freaks me out.

Suddenly I realize that I'm in Hell.

The damned, nevertheless,
seem happy and carefree.

They seem to be having a good time.

I start my tour of Hell.

I quickly become one of them.

Then, I notice a group of people
that seem to be looking at something.

They're fascinated.

There's a carefree siren upon a rock.

She seems bored and cranky.

She looks around with
indifference and contempt.

All of a sudden she looks at me.

She seems about to tell me something.

Then I wake up.

DREAMS 1985/86

Laughs

Myself, an artisan for lakes and rivers,

can make out
my brothers from the crowd.

Winter or summer, rain or shine...

wherever laughter
from a comrade can be heard,

because to me living
with joy comes first.

Who is Zucco?

In his way, Zucco is a classical artist.

He's not that different
from the impressionist masters...

who painted the beaches at Trouville
and the Seine recreation areas.

He also has his muses,
his little rivers and his skies,

like Renoir, Monet, or C�zanne.

What is the difference between
them and him? Nothing. Nothing at all.

Epiphany

Boy, have I seen sundowns.

And life passes by.

Bathing resorts... paintings...

tinfoil works...

I don't know...

A brilliant life.

Paintings that were...
perhaps... brilliant.

We will try to light the flame...
by means of masterworks.

Now "my" story begins.

And I'll frame it
- the work has already begun -

in my paintings...

One of which, and I say it proudly,

is being exhibited
at the B.A. Province Bank.

Urbi et orbi
City and the World

THE END

subtitles: scalisto for KG