Llamas de rebelión

Amid the ochre sierras of an unnamed Latin-American republic where the air itself seems to crackle with gunpowder and gossip, two sisters—Carmen and Josefina López, playing mirror-image rebels—harness a stampeding herd of llamas as their cavalry against a neon-lit dictatorship that televises executions between soap-operas. Alfonso Labat’s bereft lighthouse-keeper-turned-cameraman smuggles their uprising through pirated signals, while Eleazar Reina’s one-eyed street-poet etches their manifesto on kites that rain slogans over barrios like incendiary confetti. The plot detonates in triptych: first, a moonlit exodus across salt flats where the animals’ spittle frosts to glass; second, a cathedral-turned-television-studio where confession booths become editing suites; finally, a surreal coronation on a crumbling rooftop, the sisters draped in film-reel cassocks, crowning a mute child who releases every channel’s final broadcast—a looping clip of flames spelling ‘we were here’. The narrative folds time like damp origami: past and future splice, colour bleeds to monochrome, sound drops out so the audience hears only the thud of hooves inside their own ribs. It is less a story than a controlled brushfire, scorching the retina until the viewer questions whether revolt or cinema itself is the more volatile hallucination.