Fiume O Morte!

 

Gabriele D'Annunzio

D'Annunzio (in the middle with the stick) in Fiume, 1919

D'Annunzio (in the middle in uniform) with Italian publisher Arnoldo Mondadori

Director Igor Bezinović

Gabriele D’Annunzio, September 1919

Elon Musk Roman/fascist salute during Trump inauguration, January 2025

FIUME O MORTE!               B+                                                                                         Croatia  Italy  Slovenia  (112 mi)  2025  d: Igor Bezinović

Director Statement, Igor Bezinović

By making this film I wanted to get to know the past of my hometown Rijeka/Fiume, but also to get to understand its present state from a new perspective. During this process I’ve met hundreds of my fellow citizens who wanted to work on the film in front of the camera or behind it. I’ve met drivers, politicians, dustbin collectors, archivists, doormen, cooks, musicians, professors, translators and waiters who all had ideas about what this film should be like. I’ve also met historians of all kinds, from those who saw D’Annunzio as the crazier version of Mussolini to the ones who saw him as the Italian Che Guevara.

Besides meeting new people I’ve also read thousands and thousands of pages on D’Annunzio in Fiume, and while doing it I was not only gathering facts but was also shaping my own political ideas.

One idea, however, stayed clear to me all the way. That idea is formulated in a political pamphlet published in Fiume in 1922, soon after D’Annunzio’s departure: “Long live Fiume, free and independent from any kind of rescuers, liberators and protectors!”

I made a film with my fellow citizens and for my fellow citizens, building a chronological story that we’ll be able, I hope, to retell to new generations. I also hope that our film will help the audiences outside of Rijeka think about how much they know about the histories of their own hometowns and about how these histories got remembered and retold.

In his lesser-known essay from 1960, Pier Paolo Pasolini calls D’Annunzio’s occupation of Fiume a “pagliacciata narcisistica,” “a narcissistic farce.” D’Annunzio saw Fiume as a personal playground, as a place where he could experiment and practice everything that came to his mind.

By making this film I wanted to keep D’Annunzio’s idea of Rijeka/Fiume as a playground, but this time the citizens of Rijeka are the ones who are playing.

Far-right authoritarianism is on the rise around the world, threatening democracies everywhere, with its fascist clutches gripping even the United States, as this film conveys a timely warning against the rise of global far-right authoritarianism.  Hungarian Prime Minister Viktor Orbán was the blueprint model for the American right wing, apparently enthralled by the ease in how he systematically dismantled the country’s legal system and changed the election system to ensure future election victories.  By rigging the elections and at the same time stripping the nation’s legal authority to challenge the results, Orbán was also withdrawing media licenses for independent journalists, with ownership of the media increasingly shifting to oligarchs allied with Prime Minister Orbán’s government, making state-owned broadcasters controlled by the ruling party.  If this doesn’t sound like what’s happening in America right now, then you haven’t been paying attention.  But it’s not just happening here, as there are examples throughout history, with this Croatian filmmaker taking a look back at his own country’s turbulent history one hundred years ago, where he decides to recreate a little-known moment in history, while having a little fun in the process, creating a visionary, boldly inventive work of art that is original and genuinely eye opening, while at the same time informative.  Coming from the last generation of Tito’s pioneers, Union of Pioneers of Yugoslavia, Igor Bezinović is a filmmaker born in Rijeka, graduating in film directing at the Academy of Dramatic Art in Zagreb and in Philosophy, Sociology, and Comparative Literature at the Faculty of Humanities and Social Sciences in Zagreb.  Nestled in an inlet of the Adriatic Sea, Rijeka/Fiume is now the third largest city in Croatia, but it has frequently changed hands throughout history, changing its country of origin at least nine different times in the 20th century alone, as just after WWI it belonged to the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia, before that partly the Kingdom of Italy and partly the Kingdom of Yugoslavia, and before that the Kingdom of Serbs, Croats, and Slovenes, before that the Free State of Fiume, before that the Italian Regency of Carnaro, and before that the Austro-Hungarian Empire. 

That’s a bit of a swallow, so to make things easier to comprehend, Bezinović asks citizens of his own city if they know who Gabriele D’Annunzio is, getting many different answers, but most do not, as he’s a forgotten footnote in history, which the filmmaker delightfully brings back to life with the participation of around 100 non‑professional actors and extras, not unlike what Robert Greene constructed with Bisbee '17 (2018), where it’s 30-minutes in before the title card appears, named after his political slogan.  What defines our identity?  What makes us who we are?  Combining archival footage of one of the most photographed events of the time, including video footage, interviews, and reenactments, Bezinović engages about three hundred locals to re-enact a rather surreal 16-month occupation in 1919 when D’Annunzio declared himself the de facto dictator of Fiume, the Italian name for the city, as the decadent Italian poet, playwright, orator, journalist, aristocrat, flamboyant public persona, and Royal Italian Army officer during World War I preached an ultra-right Italian nationalism after the war that was a predecessor to Benito Mussolini’s full-blown fascism.  Bezinović ironically remarks at the beginning of the film that the “film represents a mirror of today’s time,” while visually exploring buildings and streets that bore D’Annunzio’s name during the fascist period, noting “My Italian colleagues warned me not to mention fascism too much in the intro for the sake of Italian viewers, so I’ll stop here.”  But if truth be told, he doesn’t exactly heed their suggestion, as the film is praised in Croatia while attracting little attention in Italy, where D’Annunzio is still celebrated in Italy as a national hero, erecting a statue in Trieste about seventy kilometers away on the 100th anniversary of the occupation of Fiume, with Italian Prime Minister Giorgia Meloni photographed in front of it, praising D’Annunzio as a man who ruled “with courage and audacity,” while in Croatia he is remembered as a megalomaniacal fascist occupier. 

Amusingly shot by Gregor Božič, there are seven different bald-headed actors drawn from the city streets who play D’Annunzio, with Bezinović announcing each change, while the narrators keep changing as well, each adding a different aspect.  The story of D’Annunzio’s occupation is narrated in the local Fiumano language, a variety of the Venetian dialect historically spoken by the Italian community of Fiume, yet as Bezinović notes in the first parts of the film, this is “no longer spoken or understood by most people in Rijeka,” yet the changing languages is a realistic aspect that reflects upon the city itself, part of the cosmopolitan, multi-cultural history of Rijeka and part of the linguistic tapestry in present-day Croatia, where that diversity is something D’Annunzio despised yet the film revels in, pretty much rubbing our noses in it.  Like Romanian filmmaker Radu Jude, it’s the irreverent absurdity that stands out, where modern-day re-enactments show how the events of the past are still a living reality, yet restaging history in this way also makes it easier to remember, as despite the dry facts on display, what stands out is the mocking tone of the filmmaker, who is not making fun of history, but how it can be remembered today, as the film is much more entertaining and fun than any description implies, where D’Annunzio is a model for contemporary right-wing populists across Europe and elsewhere.  Nearly ten years in the making, Bezinović draws from a treasure trove of 10,000 archival photographs while also using ordinary citizens from town to restage those same images, starting in the present, showing historical pictures of demolished bridges and buildings, and then showing those same sites in Rijeka today, a port city on Kvarner Bay in the northern Adriatic Sea, with plenty of cars and pedestrian traffic buzzing by.  Yet it’s the tongue-in-cheek narration that stands out, continually conveying a message where reviving interest in the city’s history is an essential message, as it makes us pause and take notice, reminding us this has happened before, so maybe we should pay attention to see how this plays out. 

Employing a hybrid, experimental format and satiric restaging technique used in Radu Jude’s I Don't Care if We Go Down in History as Barbarians (Îmi este indiferent daca în istorie vom intra ca barbari) (2018), this is a performative historiography that reconfigures memory through reenactment, documentary observation, archival reappropriation, and collective performances in which contemporary residents of Rijeka restage the historical events.  Focusing on the 1919–1921 occupation of the city of Rijeka/Fiume by the Italian writer and political rabble rouser Gabriele D’Annunzio, who ruled without being elected, the film critically examines the tactics of performance, manipulation, and propaganda employed during the siege, as D’Annunzio was one of the biggest masters of ghastly political showmanship of his time that would ultimately lead to Mussolini, using political theater as a staged reality where the power of pageantry is showcased through a masquerade of images, gestures, and myth as much as through force, exposing the constructed and contingent nature of historical narratives by fragmenting identity, transforming the city into a living memoryscape, FIUME O MORTE! Clip YouTube (1:29). Reflecting on the persistence of extremist ideologies in contemporary society, this is skillfully achieved through participatory performances involving those who live in the city today, as history and memory emerge, skillfully and cohesively edited together by Hrvoslava Brkusic.  At the same time, the film articulates a critical stance towards militarism, political spectacle, and nationalist imagery, positioning memory as a site of communal engagement and critical confrontation with both the past and the present, subversively diagnosing the legacy of fascism.  Winner of the 1st place Tiger Award and Fipresci Prize at the 2025 International Film Festival of Rotterdam, this is the most-watched film in the sixteen years of existence of Rijeka’s 300-seat arthouse Art-kino Theater, and the most-watched documentary in Croatia of all time.

The end of WWI transformed Rijeka/Fiume into a politically contested terrain, where at the time the Rječina River divided it from Sušak, an adjacent town with a predominantly Croatian population which has now been united into one larger city.  Entering the city in a caravan of trucks carrying guns, ammunition, supplies, and soldiers, the so-called legionnaires, D’Annunzio wanted to annex the city for Italy in defiance of his own government, dissatisfied with the outcome of the Paris Peace Conference which proposed handing over the city to the newly formed Kingdom of Serbs, Croats, and Slovenes (later Yugoslavia), angered by what he considered to be the surrender of an Italian city.  Italy had not, however, made any demands on Rijeka/Fiume, but had instead forgone it in favor of Croatia, leading to a transitory period, the rule of D’Annunzio, where the Italian Regency of Carnaro was a self-proclaimed independent state, as they were successful in seizing control of the city and forced the withdrawal of the Allied occupying forces.  The Italian government opposed this and attempted to pressure D'Annunzio into withdrawing by initiating a blockade of Fiume.  When Italy sought a referendum in Fiume on D’Annunzio’s government, he first agreed but, realizing the vote was against him, sent in the troops to disrupt the vote and nullify the result.  Is anyone in America paying attention?   The song Giovinezza (Youth) is frequently performed, a piece sung by D’Annunzio’s legionnaires during the occupation and later adopted as the anthem of Mussolini’s Italian National Fascist Party (Partito Nazionale Fascista), anthem of the PNF (1924 lyrics, two verses only) YouTube (2:29).  In what was a dry run for fascism, developing in the early stages, D’Annunzio was never formally a member of the fascist movement, though virtually the entire ritual of fascism was invented by him during his occupation of Fiume where he popularized the black shirts (the Arditi), the Roman/fascist salute, the cries of “Eia, eia, eia! Alala!” taken from Achilles’ cry in The Iliad, and the balcony speeches featuring flamboyant rhetoric engaging with a frenzied crowd, all of which later became symbolic pillars of fascism.  

Later ruling with similar charismatic flamboyance, Mussolini was impressed, adapting many of the same strategies, from D’Annunzio’s authoritarian interventions like censorship and violent repression, to the regulation of public life, including the prohibition of the Rijeka Carnival, strikes, and unauthorized public gatherings, while also having his hand in the promulgation of ambitious charters and the entire choreography of uniformed street parades and ceremonies.  Yet while amassing his authoritarian power, D’Annunzio also personally enjoyed cocaine and lavishly eccentric parties, which the Italians reduce to avant-gardism and an eccentric personality, always considering him a great poet, completely overlooking the violent impact of his fascist rule.  While he’s the star of the show, the protagonist in every sense of the word, and a worshipped celebrity, the film is really about the city of Rijeka, the city’s historically fluid and multi-layered identity, and how it survived this occupation, where over the end credits we see the cast celebrating the lively Carnival together after the shooting ends.  In embodying this more complex plurality, the filmmaker subverts the exclusive and homogenizing nationalist agenda advocated by D’Annunzio himself, who described the non-Italian residents of the city as “Slavic bastards” and “filthy Croats,” destroying their buildings in a hate-based agenda aimed at a radical Italianization of the city.  A true “essay film,” Bezinović foregrounds the instability and performative construction of historical identity, while at the same time reveals how interpretations that focus exclusively on the aesthetic or eccentric dimensions of D’Annunzio’s occupation ultimately lead only to confusion, obscuring its darker sides of violence, repression, the dangers of political idolatry, and especially its protofascist tendencies, foreshadowing the many other authoritarians who are yet to come, where we are reminded that billionaire Elon Musk performed the Roman/fascist salute at the second inauguration of U.S. President Donald Trump.   

Nuestra Tierra (Our Land)

 

Director Lucrecia Martel

director on the set

Mercedes Sosa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

NUESTRA TIERRA  (Our Land)                 A-                                                                          aka:  Landmarks                                                                                                                      Argentina  Mexico  France  Netherlands  Denmark  USA  (123 mi)  2025  d: Lucrecia Martel

This film works with our mother tongue and its racist complexities, which prevent many from accessing a vital space.  The language of documents.  The lives of people expelled by papers of dubious value, lives lost in hours of useless procedures.  A historical document is the script of a scene that never existed, but that suits those who sign it.  Here, cinema can be useful.                  —Director Lucrecia Martel

Lucrecia Martel is a largely self-taught queer director who is part of a New Wave of Argentinian filmmakers coming after decades of political and economic crises, including a brutal Dirty War military dictatorship responsible for the disappearance of 30,000 people between 1976 and 1983, which remains prominent in collective memory, opening up new avenues to explore what was previously forbidden.  After gaining acceptance to the country’s only state-sponsored film school, the National School of Film Experimentation and Production (ENERC), with only 30 accepted out of more than a thousand applicants, just as classes were about to begin the school shut down due to lack of funds, leaving her on her own to follow her pursuits, which meant she simply immersed herself into watching and analyzing as many films as possible.  After winning a public script competition, this led to one of her first short films, THE DEAD KING (REY MUERTO) (1995), a feminist western about a woman who escapes her abusive, alcoholic husband with her three children in a small town called Rey Muerto, exhibited in Argentina as part of a larger omnibus film, a collection of short films from all across the country, something that was unprecedented at the time, as it showcased a compilation of new voices.  Since then, Martel has gone on to make four features, LA CIÉNAGA (2001), a masterwork of claustrophobic cinema, THE HOLY GIRL (2004), a coming-of-age psychological drama, THE HEADLESS WOMN (2008), a metaphysical ghost story about Argentina's refusal to acknowledge a widening economic disparity between the middle and lower classes, a trio known as the Salta Trilogy, each having been filmed in her home province and focusing on women and girls who operate outside the social norms, followed by Zama (2017), a period commentary on colonialism and masculinity.  Martel began working on the film in 2010, so if anything ZAMA is the sequel, yet if the extensive credits indicate anything, there was a massive amount of research and more than 400 hours of film to comb through.  Her first feature in eight years, a scathing rebuke to the atrocities of colonialism, past and present, Martel denounces how Argentina has been built on the plunder of indigenous peoples and how history is actually a fiction, a systematic construction of lies meant to conceal and legitimize crimes.  For the director, a country cannot be built on plunder and injustice, where hundreds of years of history have been systematically erased.  The real question this films asks is why do these things happen, as the filmmaker is committed to returning to this indigenous Chuschagasta community what has been stolen from them, their stories and their images, drawn from about 5000 photographs, some, very moving, taken by Javier Chocobar himself, a man at the center of a murder investigation.  Martel is known for her elliptical storytelling, sensory sound design, and hypersensual cinema, with a focus on class and colonial decay, immersing viewers in intimate, humid spaces, leaving out standard exposition for avant-garde techniques, forcing the audience to figure out what is going on.  Martel’s atmospheric films can sometime do the unthinkable and unimaginable as they explore the moral, physical, psychological, and social decay of characters willfully blind to the historical violence and the continuing social costs that pay for their privilege.  Rarely using background music, where the sound design offers a richer meaning, her subtle, minimalist films often take place in her native Salta, Argentina, the province just north of Tucumán, where the hot, sticky environments act as metaphors for social inertia and trapped desire.  It’s important to point out that in Spanish, “Nuestra tierra” means both “our land” and “our Earth,” something that gets lost in the English translation.  This is a film that not only counters the nation’s official history, but is most remarkable in revealing how that truth has been fabricated.

In her first documentary feature, Argentine auteur Lucrecia Martel investigates the 2009 murder of indigenous activist Javier Chocobar, who was shot and killed while defending his community’s land and from being forcibly evicted from their land by a local white landowner Darío Amín, a wealthy rancher and miner and two former police officers, one of whom can be heard on a video recording, “Nobody listens to them in court,” leaving two other community members seriously wounded as well.  Alternating between footage of this controversial, long-delayed (9 years after the incident) trial, which hinges on a shaky cell-phone video, testimonials from Chuschagasta community members who have called the Tucumán Province in northwest Argentina their home for untold generations, and aerial drone footage of the stunning province Chocobar fought to defend.  What’s truly unique about this film is how it not only puts the accused men on trial, with footage of public court testimony, but the entire country of Argentina on trial through extensive research into the thefts of land over centuries, turning bureaucracy into a weapon that entirely sanctions murder of indigenous life, expanding into a searing examination of centuries-old colonial violence, eviction, land exploitation, and cultural erasure that continue to shape Latin America today, essentially turning indigenous communities invisible and wiping them off the map with proclamations that they no longer exist, while then opening up their lands and resources to the highest bidder.  Co-written by Martel and María Alché, who was the star in THE HOLY GIRL, working with historian Milena Acosta, the film poses the question, who really owns the land, which once belonged exclusively to the indigenous until colonialist intruders took the land by force, literally stealing it right out from under them with no legal consequences, as the law typically ignored indigenous rights, where the country never faced investigative scrutiny - - until this film, which starts out as one thing, examining what happened in the killing of a Chuschagasta leader, questioning the evidence and court testimony in this specific case, where at one point, we see Chocobar’s widow pleading, “Is God a witness to all this?”  Martel then broadens that search into an existential question of who really owns the land, as those who claimed to hold the titles obtained them by unscrupulous means, through land auctions by sellers who never actually held them either, an egregious example of state-enabled land theft, premised on the fiction of Terra nullius, or “nobody’s land,” that has justified the colonial invasion of indigenous lands for centuries.  To the Chuschagasta community, no one person owns the land, as it belongs to all of them.  It’s a bit surprising when the actual murder trial begins asking these unanswerable questions, with historians brought in to describe the evolution of bogus titles, while the indigenous communities themselves have lived on that land for as long as they can remember, providing photographs, family memorabilia, and personal accounts of growing up there, where even the native people were unaware they were indigenous.  “We were taught what the books said,” as according to Argentine history, the indigenous peoples, those who were called the “indios (Indians),” disappeared after the Spanish colonization, yet their existence is undeniable, with Martel paying cinematic tribute to people who were systematically erased from history, revealing how the historical fractures of Argentina continue to manifest in the present.  History has been present in all of Martel’s earlier films, all but this one taking place in the northwest Salta region, yet this happened just 300 kilometers from where she lives, where so many have indigenous heritage, but never explored with this degree of investigation that incorporates meticulous historical research.  Since the end of the military dictatorship, the reconstruction of democracy has depended on an ongoing public and political negotiation of just what constitutes history.

Because historians denied the very existence of indigenous peoples, perpetuated by the Church and academics, this opened up avenues to legitimize land appropriation, leading to collusions between landowners and the police, as farmers and developers were allowed to harvest the land, using indigenous workers as unpaid labor, basically stealing their crops and animals, and then charging them for it.  As it turns out, the three men who happened to visit the Chuschagasta community land were land developers there to drive the native community off the land they had been living in for almost 400 years to recover a mining quarry located in the center of their territory.  This is a tactic that had been used for decades, so for generations, this is what indigenous communities faced and were used to, acknowledging that as soon as the developers indicated they just wanted to talk, this was a sign that they would eventually lose something, as they never just wanted to talk.  Implicit in these tactics is the underlying belief that the indigenous have no sovereignty on their land, that white privilege allows them to take what they want.  And on this occasion as well, the day of the murder, this is how the conversation began, yet these three were also the only ones to bring guns and use them, firing nine shots, threatened by the larger crowd that was gathering, though no one, not a single individual, was armed, used force, or actually threatened them in any way, as they simply witnessed what was happening, and took pictures, which was the best way to deal with developers who want to conduct their business in private, out of sight and away from any accountability, where they could simply take what they wanted by force, incident by incident, thoroughly convinced of the righteousness of their cause, and in the inferiority of the native peoples, an example of racism, paternalism, and infantilization.  No legal channels had ever stopped this type of conduct and behavior before, but this murder was different, as there were so many witnesses, even a jagged cellphone video that was presented at trial, allowing the entire world to see for themselves and make their own determination, though once a series of shots was fired, the camera remained fixed on the ground, where all you can hear are screams, heavy breathing, and the chaotic sounds of a physical struggle.  This wider scope, as well as the filming of the trial, and a recreation of the crime scene itself, which drew plenty of publicity, with the police flying their own drones, placed a different kind of pressure on the courts, where “the whole world was watching,” to quote Haskell Wexler’s Medium Cool (1969), so it required that they dig a little deeper in their examination of who really owns the land, and just what constitutes a crime.  Martel deviates from anything resembling standard documentary filmmaking, allowing the Chuschagasta community to speak for themselves, offering a heavily archived rebuttal to the axiom, “history is written by the victors,” creating a visceral space that lets viewers absorb the racist, colonialist complexities of the legal and social systems in Argentina, connecting the past and present.  Opening with NASA space station images of Earth accompanied by the Kyrie from Misa Criolla, composed by Ariel Ramírez and sung by the legendary Argentine folk singer Mercedes Sosa, Mercedes Sosa - Misa Criolla - Kyrie YouTube (5:02), an indigenous woman from Tucumán, and a member of the communist party, forced into exile in Europe after facing censorship, arrests on stage, and severe death threats from the military regime in Argentina.  Martel chose this piece because it represents the Catholic faith embraced by the local indigenous communities, yet sung by a non-believer, and, to an Argentine ear, highlights an indigenous voice, perhaps for the very first time.  By the end of the film, we hear her sing another song about the land, a beautiful homage to the working class, nature, and the dream of justice and peace, Mercedes Sosa - Cuando tenga la tierra HD (Alta Calidad) YouTube (3:38)

This actually recalls a similar languid style of Chilean filmmaker Marcela Said’s The Summer of Flying Fish (El verano de los peces voladores) (2013), where the visualization of the immense landscape is paramount, drawing attention to its vast permanence, where its primordial existence came long before any human beings set foot, creating this elusive realm that is difficult to understand, as it existed in all its glory before any human communities were established.  But once schools, railroads, and newspapers began telling tales, stories were told only from the point of view of the colonial invaders, never from the indigenous people who actually lived there.  To that end, this film is eye-opening, beautifully shot by Ernesto De Carvalho, as it tends to accentuate the land through extensive drone footage sweeping across the mostly untouched hills and valleys, where cows or horses may be seen in their native habitat, yet after a bird smashes into a drone, things suddenly appear upside down, suggesting the truth may be more complex and harder to comprehend than we realize.  This extreme visualization draws viewers into the subject matter, allowing the land itself to become a central character, where the question of “ownership” becomes a touchy subject, as Argentine citizens once legally “owned” slaves from the 16th to the 19th centuries, having brought them across an ocean to their shores to perform most of the heavy work, living in brutally harsh conditions where they had no rights whatsoever, but were routinely punished or shackled for the most minor infringements.  There are no books in school that were told from the point of view of the slaves, as they were not allowed to read or write, so their historical perspective, like the indigenous, was never told.  Earlier this year, Argentina made international news for being one of only three countries (the other two being Israel and the U.S.) to vote against a UN resolution declaring the transatlantic slave trade a crime against humanity (The myth of white Argentina still shapes the nation | Slavery), while in November 2024, Argentina was the only country to vote against a United Nations draft resolution on indigenous rights.  Some from the indigenous communities described the long distances and dangerous river crossings they had to endure just to get to school, where they were continually abused and disrespected and treated like garbage, yet they exhibit no hostile or angry reaction, as they are essentially peaceful and adaptable.  Their input is invaluable in this film, as it exposes an entire culture that has been declared dead and remained invisible for centuries, yet behind these individual stories, which have never been told, there are literally hundreds of thousands of other stories behind them, without which today’s voices would never be heard.  While Argentine President Javier Milei has systematically defunded the INCAA, Argentina's National Institute of Cinema and Audiovisual Arts, as his government is very much against cinema and its new generation of filmmakers, Martel has raised a topic that is absolutely crucial to her provincial region, opening a dialogue with an otherwise silenced indigenous collective memory that is historically marked by plunder, placing in the foreground the social cracks of Argentina.  For Martel, cinema is “a tool of transformation,” where this is a deeply humane documentary posing legal and existential questions that really have no answers, forcing viewers to make their own determinations.  One of the most memorable shots takes place inside a massive Catholic church, where one of the stained glass panels exhibits a shot of God hurling thunderbolts at the presumably “bad” indigenous people, as if by divine order, to make way for the Argentinian heroes.  And while this may not be what anyone would describe as a riveting account, with plenty of meandering along the way, as if getting lost in the questions, this does have a unique and distinct point of view that makes it essential viewing.