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Miocard (Miocardio), directed by José Manuel Carrasco, was screened in the competition section of the 24th Transilvania International Film Festival in Romania—a relatively compact film that recounts a single event four times, from different angles and in various forms: a simple event, the meeting of a man with a woman who separated from him fifteen years ago, and now, it seems, a romantic rekindling is about to occur. But the film veers away from this predictable path and reaches a point the audience does not expect.

Everything could have unfolded in a clichéd fashion, but the filmmaker skillfully weaves his story with numerous twists, embedded in carefully written dialogues that reveal different facets of the characters. At the same time, in the end, through its final twists, the viewer is drawn into a world that, in fact, never existed from the beginning—and the only reality is the bitter and cold hand of life, where even the relationship between a couple—or a simple conversation between a man and a woman—becomes a dilemma.

The film begins with a writer, one who speaks in front of the camera about his story. Soon we are pulled into the story itself: the story of a man named Pablo, who has written only one book and hasn’t been able to write anything for ten years. He is battling severe depression and medication. Suddenly, the doorbell rings, and standing there is none other than Ana, who separated from him fifteen years ago. The woman enters, and it seems they still care for each other, but their conversation leads to painful memories, and she leaves. The writer gives them another chance, and everything happens again in the next take. This happens four times, and finally, when we return to the writer, we realize that not everything we were watching was real.

The repetition of events each time reveals subtle, intriguing details about the characters. In fact, each character becomes more and more familiar to the audience with each iteration—and, in turn, each time, both characters become increasingly aware of one another’s emotional states until we arrive at their fourth encounter: a confrontation this time stripped of any pretences, bold and exposed, progressing through the tears of both characters, revealing bitter truths about them.

One striking point is that the film doesn’t intend to appease its audience or send them home with a happy ending. Everything unfolds in a somber atmosphere, growing more bitter as the film progresses. In the end, we realize that the omniscient narrator is not the writer in front of the camera but rather us—examining the writer’s life and his relationship with his own work, and uncovering its sadness. Thus, we are faced with an engaging interplay of literature/cinema/reality that unfolds in several layers and draws the viewer in.

However, near the end, we encounter a sentimental scene in which the writer cries, and the interviewer sympathizes with him. This scene illustrates the film’s departure from its straightforward and compelling narrative—now dipping into overt and superficial emotional display, something the film doesn’t need—which somewhat undermines it. It seems even the filmmaker is aware of this, as the main character says in this scene: “Critics don’t like endings like this.” Fortunately, the film doesn’t end there. With one final twist, we witness another phase of the writer’s life, continuing the story he has written—and the bitterness he has endured in real life through his solitude—thus saving the film from a clichéd conclusion.

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