Pedro Costa abstracts grief and hardship into stylised images of electrifying beauty—sensuous and gritty at once. Cavalo Dinheiro’s dramatic lighting is almost reminiscent of a late caravaggesque chiaroscuro. Its staging is designed with still photo sensitivity. Figures emerge like statues from the darkness, they are surrounded by it—perhaps they should be called models, à la Bresson. Statues belong to the night, and the deranged creatures who live in it, says Costa in an interview. Cavalo Dinheiro is not about spirits and dreams but rather the coexistence of present and past—the physical being of the latter, the torturous attempt at feeling it in order to leave it behind. Films themselves are made to forget, according to Costa. Dialogues are few, their economy makes them even sharper. The contrast between sensuous and raw is always there, taking at times a moving shape, others ironic. ‘Showing off your ruffle shirt, embroidered slacks, high-heeled boots . . . razor in your back pocket,’ whispers Vitalina to Ventura in a vaguely hallucinative scene—and it’s almost an artistic statement.
