Home is now a landscape leveled; people cloaked in masks and protective garb have been gradually allowed back briefly to gather belongings from splintered homes. But it's the sight of the rotted, mummified corpses of livestock, left behind to die a slow death from starvation, that sickened me most, and that tacitly carries the film's message: the inhabitants who worked the plants have been left behind in the dark, not knowing what's to become of them.
The film is most effective when the camera stands steadily by these refugees, the lens in close on their faces, to capture long-held emotion making its way to the surface.
A parte mais eficiente do filme é quando a câmera para ao lado dos refugiados e as lentes se aproximam de suas faces, para capturar emoções há muito guardadas vindo à tona.
We meet a man and his son still agonized over the loss of the mother, "a sweet woman," who was swept away, still in her home, by the tsunami. The sight of the son holding back tears is painful, but even more disturbing is watching him come to the realization that but for the power plants, his mother would be alive.
And this is the undercurrent that is never fully explored, what at some level everyone connected with the film—filmmaker and villagers alike—are dealing with.
