Esteros (2016)
At first glance, Esteros might appear to be a quiet, intimate drama about childhood friends reuniting as adults. Yet beneath its delicate surface lies a film that captures something far rarer: the fragile, intoxicating intersection of memory, desire, and the inexorable passage of time. Set against the lush and humid backdrop of Argentina’s marshlands, the film transforms a story of love and longing into something achingly universal.
The narrative unfolds through two timelines. In the past, we meet childhood friends Matías and Jerónimo as they spend endless days together, exploring the estuaries, swimming, and discovering not only the beauty of their surroundings but also the stirrings of something deeper between them. Their innocence gradually collides with unspoken feelings, fleeting touches, and that unnameable tension that defines the cusp of adolescence. Yet circumstances—family expectations, societal pressures, and the chaos of growing up—intervene, leaving their bond fractured.
Years later, fate reunites the two men as adults. Matías has built a life seemingly far removed from his youthful summers, carrying with him the weight of denial and unfinished emotions. Jerónimo, meanwhile, embodies a different trajectory, one less constrained by expectation but equally scarred by the past. Their reunion, initially tentative, quickly blossoms into something undeniable, as though time has collapsed and the marshlands themselves conspire to draw them back into each other’s orbit.
What gives Esteros its strength is its restraint. The film resists melodrama or overwrought declarations; instead, it thrives in silence, glances, and half-finished sentences. The chemistry between the two leads is remarkable, conveying volumes in the way they hold a gaze or hesitate before a touch. Their intimacy feels authentic, fragile, and deeply human. The audience is invited not to watch grand gestures but to witness the slow unraveling of years of repression.
The cinematography is a character in itself. The marshlands are bathed in golden light, with water reflecting both the innocence of the past and the murkiness of suppressed desire. Long, lingering shots of reeds swaying in the wind or ripples across still waters mirror the turbulence beneath the surface of the characters’ lives. The visual palette is warm, nostalgic, and at times dreamlike, reinforcing the sense that we are watching not just a love story, but a memory revisited.
Thematically, Esteros is about more than romance. It is a meditation on time, on how the past never truly disappears but lingers, shaping and haunting the present. It is also about courage: the courage to confront who we are, who we were, and who we might have been had we chosen differently. For queer audiences especially, the film resonates as a reminder of how external pressures—family, culture, and tradition—can fracture love before it has a chance to fully bloom.
While the pacing is intentionally gentle, some viewers may find it slow. The narrative drifts much like the river it depicts, more interested in atmosphere and emotion than plot twists. Yet this is precisely where its strength lies. Esteros is not a film about what happens, but about what is felt—and what is left unsaid.
Verdict: Esteros (2016) is a tender, evocative portrait of love rediscovered and the lingering shadows of youth. It is both specific to its Argentine setting and universal in its emotional reach. Quiet, poetic, and deeply moving, it leaves a lasting impression—like the faint outline of a summer memory that refuses to fade.
