There is something magical about Portugal, a sense of whimsy and wonder that is often undercut by a lingering melancholy that is as much a part of the national consciousness as the celebrations that have come to define the country. I once heard someone say, in passing, “One does not visit Portugal, one settles into it”, which is as accurate a summary as we can get about the mystique and beauty of this beautiful country, which may be small in size but makes up for it in deep emotional resonance. Avelina Prat uses this as the starting point for The Portuguese House (Spanish: Una quinta portuguesa), in which she tells the story of Fernando, a university lecturer who leads a relatively happy life – he lives in a big city, enjoys his work (where he teaches curious students about maps and their origins, an irony considering he’s been very limited in his own travels), and who is happily married to Milena, who up-ended her life in Serbia to start a new one with him in Spain. However, after his wife suddenly vanishes (which he soon learns was very likely her decision to retreat back to her home country, not informing him of her plans until he discovers it for himself), Fernando falls into a deep depression. In an effort to cheer himself up, he goes on a small holiday to the Portuguese coast. It is here that he meets a charming man who is about to start working as a gardener on a farm in Ponte de Lima, owned by the enigmatic Amalia – but after he suddenly dies, Fernando takes a risk and presents himself as “Manuel”, becoming the trusted gardener and close confidante of Amalia (a woman of unknown origins, and whose own story has remained entirely ambigious, which adds to her mystique) and those who surround her, realising that there are more paths to healing than he initially expected. A quaint and charming film about recovering from a loss, particularly those that are most sudden and inexplicable, The Portuguese House proves to be a very effective, character-driven story of two lost souls finding each other when they need it the most, and proving that the most unexpected encounters tend to be the most important to our spiritual and existential development.

At a glance, The Portuguese House seems to be mostly quite derivative, following a familiar pattern and revisiting very common themes. Prat is quite open about her intention to not reinvent the form or challenge conventions, but rather to tell a story that is more focused on resonating with a wider populace of viewers than it is reworking the medium in any notable way. To achieve this, she looks at a few core concepts, which constitute the majority of this film – primarily, we find a film that is built from the foundation of grief. Normally, when this subject is explored, we tend to look at it from the perspective of someone dealing with the death of a loved one, since this is usually far easier to explore, based on the inevitability that we have all lost someone close to us at some point. However, this film takes a slightly different approach, positing that even something like the sudden departure of one’s significant other, who believes that their life can be better elsewhere, can resemble grief in some way. The focus here is not entirely on Fernando’s loss (which is treated with an almost brutal honesty), but rather the steps towards recovery, which prove to be far more significant. Perhaps the idea of getting up and taking flight, reinventing oneself anew in another country through adopting a new name and hiding your background, may be very far-fetched (the film never purports to be entirely realistic), but it does contain some fascinating observations that are still intriguing in their own way. The film builds itself from the premise that the sadness and longing that the protagonist feels are contained within “Fernando”, the man who everyone sees as some sage but stuffy academic, and that through adopting the persona of “Manuel”, a more mysterious man who reflects a sense of deep intrigue and curiosity in those who encounter him, he can live more freely, liberating himself from the past. The idea of a metaphorical rebirth is interesting and very much applicable to many of us, and something onto which The Portuguese House builds many of its most fascinating and moving moments, both formally and in terms of the story being told.

The Portuguese House is a very character-driven film, and Prat finds two very capable leads in the form of Manolo Solo, whose distinct style of acting has been the root of many tremendous films over the years, and the always reliable Maria de Medeiros, one of the most striking and enigmatic figures in film history. They make for a very interesting pair, and the film builds so many of its most memorable moments from their underlying differences. At the very heart of the film, we have Solo’s quiet and meditative performance as a man who chooses to restart his life, not realising that he is gradually becoming far too accustomed to the feeling of leaving himself behind. The master of subtle but forceful emotions and wielding the ability to almost entirely deconstruct the human psyche with seemingly effortless ease, Solo has always been one of our greatest actors and someone who we can always appreciate as a vital voice in contemporary Spanish cinema. Similar, de Madeiros has spent decades quietly defining herself as an unforgettable presence – her ethereal charm and ability to so carefully put together these complex women has always been the root of her popularity – but yet, so few films in recent years have known quite how to use her without relying too heavily on some of the innate quirks that have always been vital to her style of acting. Needless to say, she delivers exceptional work in The Portuguese House, where she takes a seemingly simple character like Amalia and makes her so much more complex than we could have imagined. Instead of shrouding herself in mystery, she chooses to quietly bring the role to life with such extraordinary delicacy and nuance that we often forget we are watching an actor perform, rather than someone relaying their own lived-in experiences. It’s stellar work from both leads, whose incredible chemistry and ability to so carefully tackle these complex roles have often been the root of some of their most exciting and exuberant choices.

The great benefit of working with skilled actors is that a director can tackle more complex themes without the risk of it becoming an opportunity for heavy-handed emotions, since only less-skilled actors will deliver work that leans towards the overwrought. In the case of The Portuguese House, Prat finds herself telling a story that could have very easily been brutally one-dimensional and bland, since there is very little story on which the film can sustain itself on its own. Much of the film relies on the moments of quietness and silent curiosity between the characters, and while the actors are a big part of the film’s success, they’re not the only aspect that warrants our attention. Instead, we see a film that builds itself as a quiet, subtle examination of two people who find each other at what they think is an inopportune moment, but reveals itself to be a very important event for them both, since while they may not be in each other’s lives for terribly long, they do have a kinship that lends itself to something much deeper. The filmmaking itself is very simple, and therefore leaves a lot of room for the film to develop its tone and atmosphere, which is ultimately vital to its overall success. This is not the kind of film that thrives on being excessive, and instead spends its time developing the quieter elements that ultimately come together to form the foundation for a poignant examination of two wayward souls developing a relationship built on nothing but sheer affection for one another, formed from discovering common interests that gradually and methodically become part of their budding friendship. The Portuguese House does resist going for the low-hanging fruit wherever possible, generally choosing the more subtle path rather than resorting to more obvious emotions, which gives the film a deeper and more poetic sincerity that we simply cannot overlook and which becomes the foundation for a truly terrific piece of character-based storytelling.

The Portuguese House is by no means a major film, nor is it one that necessarily demands our attention (at least not any more than we can see on the surface), but what it lacks in originality it more than makes up for in sincerity, telling a wonderfully endearing story that isn’t particularly challenging, but still leaves an impression, however small as it may be. Prat is not someone who we often see emerging in conversations about promising young filmmakers, but her deeply moving approach to this narrative, coupled with here willingness to explore deeper themes for no reason other than to reflect the underling beauty of the human condition, is truly incredible and makes for a profoundly compelling work that may seem small on the surface, but has an abundance of heart and soul, most of which emerges in the quietest and most seemingly simple moments. A heartfelt, moving ode to the human condition, acted incredibly well by a pair of wonderful performers, who deliver stellar work, and driven by the desire to unearth a few deeper and more profound secrets lingering beneath the surface, The Portuguese House is a tremendous film, the kind that we don’t often see being made nowadays, since we’ve grown far too reliant on these one-dimensional depictions of humanity, where broad emotions and predictable plots are the usual approach, and where subtle, human filmmaking is seemingly endangered. Far from revolutionary, but compelling enough in terms of its core themes to compensate for any such shortcomings, The Portuguese House is a tremendous piece of cinema, and certainly worth the time of anyone who wants to see something simple but extraordinarily beautiful.