The Sonic Exile: How 'Far From the Trees' Redefines Memory and Belonging
There’s something profoundly intimate about sound. It slips past our defenses, lodges itself in memory, and becomes a bridge—or a barrier—between us and the world. Far From the Trees (Lejos de los árboles), Meritxell Colell’s latest film, doesn’t just explore this idea; it lives and breathes it. Premiering at Locarno, the film is a meditation on exile, memory, and the languages we use to navigate both. But what makes this particularly fascinating is how Colell turns these abstract concepts into a visceral, almost tactile experience.
The Art of Listening
At its core, Far From the Trees is about Adela, a Mexican sound artist who traverses the Peruvian jungle and Andes, recording endangered languages. Personally, I think this premise alone is genius. It’s not just about preserving words; it’s about capturing the essence of cultures on the brink of erasure. What many people don’t realize is that language isn’t just a tool for communication—it’s a vessel for identity, history, and emotion. By centering the film on a sound artist, Colell forces us to reconsider how we engage with the world. Are we truly listening, or are we just hearing?
This raises a deeper question: What happens when the act of listening becomes an act of resistance? Adela’s work is a continuation of her exiled grandfather’s legacy, a man who fled Catalonia during Franco’s regime. Here’s where the film’s brilliance lies. It’s not just a personal story; it’s a political one. The suppression of languages under Franco wasn’t just about words—it was about erasing entire ways of life. By connecting this history to the endangered Indigenous languages in Peru, Colell highlights a global struggle. If you take a step back and think about it, the film becomes a powerful statement on the resilience of marginalized voices.
Memory as a Sonic Tapestry
One thing that immediately stands out is the film’s use of sound. Colell and composer Angélica Castelló weave a sonic tapestry that is as much a character as Adela herself. From the whir of a sewing machine to the thud of a tree trunk, every sound is deliberate, every silence meaningful. In my opinion, this is where the film transcends traditional storytelling. It’s not just about what we see; it’s about what we feel.
A detail that I find especially interesting is how the film’s Super 16mm passages, which depict Adela’s memories and visions, were shot without synchronized sound. This decision wasn’t just technical—it was philosophical. By separating image from sound, Colell invites us to inhabit Adela’s fragmented psyche. What this really suggests is that memory isn’t linear; it’s a collage of sensations, emotions, and echoes.
The Weight of Inheritance
Adela’s journey is also a reckoning with inheritance—both cultural and familial. Her strained relationship with those caring for her grandmother forces us to confront uncomfortable questions: Who bears the responsibility of care? What does it mean to leave, and what does it cost to stay? From my perspective, this tension is the heart of the film. Exile isn’t just a physical act; it’s an emotional one. Adela’s hybrid identity—shaped by migration and art—is both her burden and her refuge.
What this really suggests is that belonging is never static. It’s a constant negotiation, a dance between roots and routes. Castelló’s own words—“I am a permanent foreigner. My home – my refuge – is sound. Music.”—capture this beautifully. Sound becomes a home for those who are always elsewhere, a way to carry memory without being tethered to it.
The Future of Cinema: Open and Unsettling
Colell describes her film as “open cinema,” and I couldn’t agree more. Far From the Trees doesn’t hand you answers; it invites you to sit with questions. It’s the kind of film that pierces you, settles deep in your gut, and lingers long after the credits roll. Personally, I think this is the future of cinema—not just as entertainment, but as a space for reflection and connection.
What makes this particularly fascinating is how the film challenges younger audiences. Colell hopes it will inspire them to investigate their own histories, to ask the questions that were never answered. In a world where memory is often commodified, Far From the Trees reminds us of its fragility and its power.
Final Thoughts
If you take a step back and think about it, Far From the Trees is more than a film—it’s an experience. It’s a reminder that exile isn’t just about leaving a place; it’s about carrying it with you. Sound, memory, and language become the threads that bind us, even as they pull us apart.
In my opinion, this is Colell’s masterstroke. She doesn’t just tell a story; she creates a space for us to inhabit. And in that space, we find ourselves—our histories, our silences, our longings. What this really suggests is that cinema, at its best, isn’t just about watching; it’s about listening. And Far From the Trees is a film that demands to be heard.
