Have you ever felt the weight of grief so heavy that it seems to slow down time itself? That’s the question Argentinian director Sofía Petersen’s Olivia attempts to answer—or perhaps, deliberately leaves unanswered. Set in the stark, almost otherworldly landscape of Tierra del Fuego, this film is a slow-burn exploration of loss, loneliness, and the elusive nature of grief. Personally, I think what makes this particularly fascinating is how Petersen uses the environment as a character in its own right—the desolate wind, the rugged terrain, and the unlit gloom all mirror the emotional landscape of the protagonist. But here’s the thing: while the film’s ambition is clear, its execution left me feeling more baffled than moved.
One thing that immediately stands out is the film’s visual style. Shot on 16mm film, it leans heavily into still-life compositions, with lingering close-ups of old spoons, watch faces, and pinned insects. From my perspective, these moments are meant to evoke a sense of timelessness, a way to freeze grief in amber. But what many people don’t realize is that this approach can also feel self-indulgent. I found myself wondering if the film was more interested in its own aesthetic than in truly exploring its central theme. Grief, after all, is not a static thing—it’s messy, unpredictable, and often unphotographable. By trying to capture it in such a deliberate, painterly way, the film risks losing the very humanity it seeks to portray.
The protagonist, Olivia, is a character shrouded in ambiguity. Played by Tina Sconochini, she seems to exist in a state of perpetual unreality—her childlike mannerisms, her narcolepsy, and her fixation on collecting insects all contribute to an air of detachment. What this really suggests is that Olivia is not just grieving her missing father but perhaps also disconnected from the world itself. Her search for him, particularly her ghostly roaming of the abattoir, feels less like a quest and more like a ritual. But here’s where the film loses me: the employees at the abattoir, played by real workers, deliver a line that feels almost too on-the-nose—‘the past is the past.’ It’s a moment that should be profound but instead comes across as faintly exasperating, like the film is trying too hard to be symbolic.
What makes this particularly interesting, though, is the introduction of Mari (Carolina Tejeda), who becomes Olivia’s friend, lover, or quasi-mother figure. Their moment of intimacy in the abattoir is one of the few scenes that feels genuinely tender, a brief respite from the film’s otherwise heavy-handed symbolism. If you take a step back and think about it, this scene is the closest the film comes to capturing the essence of grief—not through stillness or silence, but through human connection. Yet, even here, the film feels hesitant, as if it’s afraid to fully commit to emotion.
In my opinion, Olivia is a film that aims to expose the meaning of grief but ends up burying it under layers of aesthetic choices and ambiguity. It’s a funeral ceremony that feels seriously intended but ultimately dispiriting. What many people don’t realize is that slow cinema, when done well, can be a powerful tool for introspection. But when it’s formless and inert, as it often is here, it risks alienating even the most patient viewer. Personally, I believe the film’s greatest strength—its commitment to its unique visual style—is also its greatest weakness. It’s a beautiful but baffling meditation on loss, one that left me admiring its ambition but questioning its execution.
This raises a deeper question: Can grief ever truly be captured on screen? Or is it something that must remain, like Olivia herself, forever just out of reach?
