Original subtitles

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