You don’t expect a film about a broken air conditioner to feel so weighty—or so oddly lyrical. In Air Conditioner, machines rain down from Luanda’s balconies while a quiet security guard and housemaid embark on a slow, drifting mission to retrieve a fallen unit. Around them, life continues with a kind of dreamy weariness.
The story is threadbare, but that’s not really the point. What matters is the mood: warm, woozy, and gently surreal. Jazz plays. Lights flicker. People speak in silences as much as words. Matacedo, our aimless guide, encounters a man who claims to have built a machine that can collect Angola’s memories. It’s hard to tell if he’s joking.
Magical realism doesn’t feel like a flourish here—it feels like a necessity. In a postcolonial city fraying at the edges, reality itself seems out of reach. Not everything in Air Conditioner works. It meanders. It mystifies. But it also leaves a faint charge in the air, like something switched off but still warm to the touch.