About two-thirds of the way into Margot Benacerraf’s Araya, there’s a mesmerizing slow, 360-degree pan of two shirtless young men pushing boats of gleaming salt through the sparkling water. Graceful and effortless, the camerawork and framing are impeccable in this moment, utilizing space to capture the extreme force with which the relentless workers of the small coastal village battle every day and night—nature. Unfortunately, this superb sequence is mostly bookended by excessive repetition. Benacerraf is clearly aiming to mimic the monotany of the villagers’ lives with his deliberate pacing and editing, but she regrettably achieves tedium instead of poetry.

Tonally, Araya is a bit of an odd duck—it’s not exactly a documentary in the way we think of them (as in, there are no interviews or direct contact with the subjects, and multiple segments are shot as if it’s a drama). Set on a tiny peninsula in Northeastern Venezuela, Araya tracks a community of tireless villagers who toil endlessly, day and night, to tap into and live off the literal salt of the earth; an abundant, natural marsh of it (they also tap the sea for fish). The film predominantly follows two groups of young men who perform the same actions over and over…and over. And over. Occasional moments are beautiful (four boys rhythmically pounding salt with sticks in perfect harmony) or interesting (the young age at which these folks begin their contributions), but most of the runtime involves listening to a monotonic narrator drone on and on, often nearly repeating sentences from a few minutes earlier or discovering new ways to use the word “salt” in a sentence. As a result, Araya never achieves any sort of emotional resonance—by the time the industrial revolution sweeps in and renders the relentless salt-miners and fishermen obsolete, we’re past the point of caring.

Benacerraf deserves credit for aiming high with Araya—her talents with the camera aren’t those of a goofy amateur who stumbled upon an intriguing-looking beach town. It’s a shame the rest of her filmic skillset doesn’t match her visual eye; clichéd phrases and extreme repetition of story severely damage the script and sap a potent story of any juice. Glimpses of character traits beyond work ethic (pride, for instance) are fleeting, and quickly lost in the bland extollments of a dull narrator. And yet, while Araya was quite a disappointment for me, I confess to feeling some pangs of regret upon learning that Benacerraf never made another picture after it. She showed enough ambition and flair that I would have sought out future cultural portraits she might have painted, hoping she turned the specks of talent into something more fulsome.

39/100