In many regions of Argentina, the malambo exists not only as a dance but also as a cultural inheritance etched into the body – a percussive ritual passed from father to son, from dust to bone. Each step lands with such force that it feels like the earth itself is trembling. The more you watch the dance, the more the body feels like a drum, moving to its own beat. To grow up inside that tradition is to be claimed by it long before you understand what it asks of you.

It is from this soil that The River Train rises, directed by Lorenzo Ferro and Lucas A. Vignale. This beautiful work sees childhood not as innocence, but as a state of inner unrest.

The film follows Milo (Milo Barria), a nine-year-old boy living in a remote village, who is trained to master the strict footwork of malambo while secretly dreaming of trains and the distant mirage of Buenos Aires. But to describe the premise is to miss the point. Plot, here, feels almost incidental; what matters is the sensation of time passing through a small body.

Shot in a 4:3 frame, the image feels intimate as though the world has been slightly narrowed to fit the dimensions of memory. The countryside is vast, but Milo’s existence within it feels predetermined. The camera observes in silence, letting scenes develop during which the raw presence of life, before words can explain, comes through.

What makes the film a good watch is the presence of young Milo Barría, whose performance is simply superb. There is no trace of precociousness, none of the theatrical mannerisms that often betray child actors. Instead, his face carries a beautiful concentration, and he runs like a child, genuinely testing the edges of the world.

Barría possesses that rare cinematic quality: opacity. We are never quite sure what Milo thinks, and the film wisely refuses to explain him. This mystery drives the film’s emotional heartbeat: in one extended sequence, he moves through the house at night, tending to the sleeping bodies of his family with an almost priestly gravity. The scene borders on the surreal, yet he imbues it with such sincerity that it becomes something else entirely.

Trains, when they appear, feel mythic. They are not simply vehicles but philosophical propositions: the possibility that life might be otherwise. The tracks carve lines through the pampas like veins through flesh, promising movement yet also suggesting inevitability. A train implies escape and return, and the film understands this paradox very well. Milo’s longing isn’t so much rebellion as a curiosity about what lies beyond the horizon, which always seems to move farther away.

Philosophically, the film circles a simple but unsettling idea: that growing up is not really about leaving home, but learning how to endure solitude. Milo tests freedom in increments, a glance at the tracks, and a moment of disobedience. Each gesture carries the “terror” of separation, as the world expands and so does his loneliness. By the time the film reaches its final passages, nothing monumental has occurred, yet everything feels irrevocably altered. That’s the miracle of The River Train: even the smallest movements feel like big, life-changing moments. Like the malambo that opens its world, it builds meaning through rhythm and contact with the ground.

What remains is Milo, a child caught between home and the unknown that calls him. In his eyes, there is fear and courage, the look of someone stepping onto a train, unsure where it goes, trusting the journey itself.

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Written by Maggie Gogler

Featured image © Cinco Rayos

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