Mateus also introduces, subtly yet effectively, a political dimension that runs throughout the film. The presence of a young soldier, displaced in time and linked to the resistance against Salazar’s regime, adds a layer of reflection on the continuities of authoritarianism and the fragility of social achievements. It seems no coincidence that Fogo do Vento premieres at a time when the threat of extremism is once again looming over Europe; the film serves as a poetic warning about the need to remember past struggles.

Visually, the film is a feast for the senses. The texture of the soil, the light filtering through the branches, the cadence of the wind moving the leaves — everything contributes to creating a sense of a living, yet spectral, world. Mateus and Carvalho’s compositions at times evoke classical painting, while also engaging with modernity in their choice to maintain wide and prolonged shots. Within these almost static frames, life pulses with contained force, and the beauty of the bodies suspended in the trees takes on an almost sculptural power.

In terms of structure, Fogo do Vento embraces fragmentation and evocation rather than traditional narrative progression. The film allows itself long stretches of contemplation, where external action pauses but the internal flow of memories and emotions continues unabated. This commitment to a more meditative and sensorial cinema may challenge some viewers, but it is precisely what gives the work its unmistakable identity. Unlike other contemporary narratives about rural modernization, Mateus avoids both miserabilism and sugary nostalgia. Her gaze is deeply respectful but also critical: she shows how machines, though more efficient, fail to grasp the symbolic value of the land — the intangible wealth passed down through generations. Fogo do Vento celebrates the dignity of a threatened way of life without ever succumbing to sentimentality.