Argentinian director Sofía Petersen’s film is a mysterious depiction of loneliness and loss in the stark landscape of Tierra del Fuego; it is extended and unhurried, unfolding often to the sole accompaniment of a thin, desolate wind. It was well-received at last year’s Locarno film festival, but despite believing in the importance of slow cinema, I have to admit that this defeated me.

Often formless and inert, I found its still life painterly compositions shot on 16mm film, heavy on lingering closeups on old spoons and watch-faces, redundant and self-conscious. The film seemed to be hibernating within its own heavy unlit gloom and its central theme – the meaning of grief – was not really exposed.

Tina Sconochini plays Olivia, who lives with her aged widower father (played by nonprofessional Dario del Carmen Haro Santana) in the rugged foothills in a small, pyramidal hut. Olivia appears to have narcolepsy and perhaps a kind of learning disability, or maybe her unworldly, childlike mannerisms are simply attributable to the film’s overall unreality. Her father departs every day for his job at the abattoir, and Olivia busies herself with the collection of bugs and insects that the pair have amassed, pinned to various bits of card.

Her father then goes missing and Olivia begins a search for him. She shows up at the abattoir, but she doesn’t just ask the employees if they have seen her dad, or if they can help her look for him; she just furtively roams this stark building like a ghost. The employees themselves, also played by real employees, placidly and chorally assemble to urge Olivia to accept that the “past is the past” – another faintly exasperating, dreamlike gesture. Yet it is in the abattoir that Olivia finds Mari (Carolina Tejeda), who is to be her friend, or lover, or quasi-mother figure; they have a moment of intimate tenderness together. In some ways, this film itself feels like a funeral ceremony, seriously intended but also baffling and dispiriting.