Las Acacias, or: Pablo Giorgelli's four key pieces of imagery

Las Acacias (2011)

Directed by Pablo Giorgelli

***SPOILERS***

Las Acacias begins with a staff of tree-choppers working in a forest. A soft light grows behind a canopy of trees as a chainsaw rips in the background, until a lone tree falls over the frame. It’s one tree of many that will continue to be chopped down, bound to another, and loaded onto the back of Rubén’s (Germán de Silva) truck. It seems fitting that a large staff of workers is required to help Rubén procure such a load, as we’ll come to find out the near-silent and non-confrontational Rubén has a troubling amount of baggage and a past he refuses to confront. Loading the lumber onto the back of his truck, Rubén seems content in keeping his beleaguering past behind him, yet safely within sight of his ever-present side-view mirror, simply to remind him of—no matter how far he drives—what he cannot escape. It’s what makes Rubén’s impossibly large load of lumber—as revealed in the final frame—such an unshakable presence in Las Acacias, a film that utilizes its imagery so succinctly and so intimately that such imagery is inescapably tied to Rubén and his driving companion Jacinta (Hebe Duarte).

Howard Hawks mastered many genres, but with each new venture he carried with him a notable trait: his scarcity of close-ups. It spoke of Howard Hawks' discipline that such a seemingly inconspicuous detail speak volumes of the given themes and motifs at hand. Only four close-ups appear in Rio Bravo: a revolver, a cigarette being rolled, whiskey being poured back into the bottle, and a lone drop of blood falling into a glass of beer. Coinciding with Rio Bravo’s established and textured gender politics accompanying it, these four shots essentially tell a story all on their own. Likewise, Las Acacias director Pablo Giorgelli utilizes four key pieces of imagery in his film: the load of lumber, the mirrors in Rubén’s truck, a cigarette, and the baby accompanying Jacinta.

Hawks’ four close-ups were strikingly reminiscent of Rio Bravo’s given themes, but Giorgelli’s four key pieces of imagery carry a different aura than the grittiness of Hawks. Cleanly established within the quiet world of Rubén and Jacinta, these pieces of imagery are anything but silent, constantly surrounding Rubén and creating an alarming sense of claustrophobia. Rubén slowly begins to reveal snippets from his past, but at the speed of a tortoise carrying an extra 100 pounds on a hot day. It’s what makes Giorgelli’s imagery so arresting in its dullness, as Rubén and Jacinta’s journey slowly nears its ultimate destination, these images grow louder with force, pressing down on the silence and creating an undeniable sense of urgency in this budding yet fading friendship. Urgent because time is physically running out on their friendship, but also because it seems absolutely critical for Rubén to finally confront his past so he can move forward with the present, all conveniently represented by Rubén's chosen line of work.

As aforementioned, this is continually stressed by his load of lumber and the mirrors that won’t let the image escape Rubén, who keeps his distant from his past physically in this instance, while also through his silence. If there’s any word to attach a definable connection between these four pieces of imagery, it would be “pressing”. If the load of wood is Rubén’s past and the mirrors are his reminder of his past's inescapability, than Jacinta’s baby Anahí is the physical embodiment of his nonexistent relationship with his family—particularly his son, whom Rubén hasn’t seen in eight years. The tender memory Rubén speaks of regarding his son and a bicycle suggests it’s a relationship he wholeheartedly misses, yet inexplicably runs away from. Perhaps a coward in the most depressing sense of the word, the exact meaning behind Rubén’s absence as a father remains hidden. The painful look on Rubén’s face tells the story more than anything, and such distress is amplified tenfold with Jacinta’s daughter staring wide-eyed right at him. The incessant cries from Anahí—including a particularly long, painful episode—physically bother Rubén, more so for her looming reminder of Rubén’s physically bound past…safely loaded onto the bed of his truck…and always within sight in his mirrors.

The final piece of imagery is perhaps the most subtle, inconspicuous factor throughout Las Acacias, yet represents the most depressing and telling moments in Rubén’s journey. Rubén’s first cigarette is smoked seemingly to pass the time, and to some extent it always is. But time functions differently for Rubén. Time passes slowly on the road—to the point where eight years has passed from your son, two months has passed since your sister’s birthday, and two days in a truck with a crying reminder of your past seems entirely too much to handle. The second time Rubén smokes a cigarette in the truck, Jacinta looks on in disapproval and rolls down her window. A simpler moment, it certainly marks Rubén’s detached presence as a father through its sheer irresponsibility, yet more importantly—as seen with each of these pieces of imagery—its unrelenting grasp on the dulled atmosphere keeps in line with Rubén’s level of comfort. 

Rubén says, “I’ve been driving for 30 years and I’ve never fallen asleep behind the wheel,” suggesting Rubén has found a state of content in his profession because it allows him to drive away from his past. But this line also exposes Rubén’s loose grip on time, which has in turn led him away with the people who matter most. Tragedy strikes Rubén and enhances the brevity of such detachment when Jacinta begins conversing with another man from Paraguay. The man looks to Rubén for a friendly face, but Rubén shies away in awkwardness. Content in keeping the world and all its problems within the confines of his truck, this venture into the real world and a simple moment of human interaction reminds Rubén of his detachment from it. So as Rubén witnesses Jacinta speaking with the man through a slit between two vehicles, it’s understandable that the one constant human presence in his life suddenly seems so far away. Rubén doesn’t deal with this problem directly, but instead as he always does—he greets Jacinta with silence, distances himself, and eventually resorts to smoking a cigarette. But as he smokes his cigarette with vigor, continuously puffing before the last breath can escape him, we see that Rubén has to return to his truck and face Jacinta and Anahí. He constantly chooses to run from his problems, but as inevitable as reaching the end of a cigarette, Rubén must confront this physical presence that reminds him so strongly of the past. 

As Jacinta slowly drifts away from Rubén, hugging the family he doesn’t have and entering their home, it seems tragically inevitable that Rubén will continue in his ways and never see Jacinta again. In a striking moment, Rubén pulls out his cigarettes, but never lights one, as Jacinta returns and gives Rubén his chance. Hesitant to invite Jacinta and her baby to a weekend at the alek, Rubén bestows upon her a tin cup that Anahí had toyed with in a glorious moment of imagery—it seems fitting that after enduring such pressing physical objects, he then create one of his own. But this tiny cup suddenly carries a different weight than the pressing nature of the aforementioned objects—a freeing, liberating weight that lightens Rubén’s impossibly large load. If Rubén needed one thing, it was hope, and he found it with Jacinta and the prospect of seeing her and Anahí again. So while the physical weight of the lumber cannot be compromised, the final shot of the load leaving the frame suggests Rubén is readier than ever to face it. Like everything else in this film, no further words need to be spoken to understand how powerful such an image is.