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Set along Mexico's beautiful Oaxacan coast, it's about the ways in which stories, myths, legends, etc. can be creatively projected onto the physical/natural world, creating webs, or constellations, of meaning, yet never (in Fausto's case) at the expense of the essential, intractable mysteriousness of that landscape.

The narration often feels like a sly counterpoint, or an unreliable tether to the surreal images flashing across the screen, like a dream slowly fading into dawn.

Not so much a retelling of the “Faust” story as a meditation on the Faustian bargain itself and its implications for epistemology, Fausto is a film that bears traces of Borges, Ruíz, Duras, and Apichatpong, but remains wholly original.

Our narrator, rather than a traditional guide, is soon revealed to be the voice of the terrain itself. “I am the woods, the air, the water,” it calls out. For 70 beguiling minutes, it’s a voice well worth heeding.