15 Jul. 2018
Sunlight on white tablecloths. The shade of an olive tree. A family feast, and a table perfectly graced with Greek island delicacies. All is in order; the adults sing happily, sad songs. Almost a dream, an idyll. Now we find eight years old Antonakis, a small boy with large curious eyes, and full of questions. He overhears their talk of him and their opinion that he is much too young to understand a thing. Holding back tears, he quietly leaves the table. Sad he joins the other youngster. A game is in progress; again and again, a small tower of sea pebbles is kicked apart by a football, and again rebuild. The ball lands at his feet, carelessly take a kick - only the football cannons at the overladen table. There is devastation; the dream is shattered. Food and broken glass are strewn over the cobbled street. The ball is confiscated, and the children flee.
Now our hero is in the middle of a tight circle, surrounded by bullies. He acts more like a teenager among his juniors, almost godlike, immortal. yet his childish heart is wounded by every accusing word. He is forced to retrieve the ball from the adults who are angry and preoccupied with the mess. The alley is blocked and narrow, but he sees an opened door, and makes his escape. The other children give chase, and he takes refuge in a nearby cathedral. He hides in tears amidst the dark and gloom of the saintly icons, as the voices of the other children surround him. Close to discovery, they notice the arrival of an old woman dressed in black, monstrously ancient and frightening. The others flee in terror. Holding his breath he hears the ominous footsteps of the Wailing Woman. She breaks into an improvised song.
Her very words will be a guide and guidemap to the boy and lead him to a new landscape where he'll begin his journey in. The song becomes a film, and the film a song. Here, his journey begins; a landscape, a vigil and vision of the future, a makeshift funeral, waves of the azure sea, a festival of shadows, and a ruined hilltop church. Finally, the spell is broken, and the song is over. There, in the most threatening silence, in the desolated hour of night, collapsed in the hug of the wailing woman, a new song will be born.