Pedro Pinho’s I Only Rest in the Storm unfurls over three-and-a-half hours of sunbaked landscapes and crowded barrooms, staking its claim as a polylingual co-production between Portugal, France, Brazil and Romania. Set against the shifting terrain of present-day Guinea-Bissau, the film follows Sérgio, a bearded Portuguese environmental engineer dispatched to finish an abandoned impact report on a new road slicing through rice fields. What begins as a seemingly procedural assignment soon mutates into a layered exploration of neo-colonial power plays, cultural collision and personal discovery.
Pinho leans into novelistic pacing, blurring documentary realism with scripted drama: handheld wide-angle shots linger on shimmering horizons, while candid conversations feel casually improvised. Dialogue shifts seamlessly between Portuguese, Crioulo and French, underscoring both the region’s fractured history and its vibrant, contemporary pulse. At the heart of the story lies Sérgio’s outsider status—his whiteness granting both privilege and precariousness—and the unanswered fate of his mysteriously vanished predecessor.
From the delirious bar trio of Sérgio, the queer Brazilian Gui and the fierce local Diára, to the film’s mix of explicit intimacy and overheard field interviews, every scene amplifies questions of belonging, gaze and agency. Pinho doesn’t just craft a road movie; he builds a living cultural artifact that invites us to grapple with the very tension between observer and participant.
Shifting Sands and Shifting Alliances
Sérgio’s arrival feels almost biblical: we meet him at dawn, headlights slicing through desert dust as he edges toward Guinea-Bissau’s hinterlands. Tasked with finishing an abandoned impact report on a proposed highway, he enters a world where every handshake and whispered promise carries weight.
Inside a vibrant, dimly lit bar he finds Diára, the owner whose fierce wit masks deep skepticism, and Gui, a free-spirited Brazilian whose queerness and quick humor unsettle as much as they charm. Early scenes cast Sérgio as a blank slate—an engineer whose polite detachment prompts Gui to joke, “He colonised, I was colonised.” Yet this is no simple drinking buddy trio: Diára and Gui quietly test his assumptions, making him an unwitting player in their private wager about his true intentions.
The mystery of his predecessor’s disappearance hangs over every conversation. In a tense roadside exchange, villagers speak in half-coded phrases, reminding Sérgio that power here is uneven and watching. His first impulsive kiss with Gui at a crowded party sparks admiration, confusion and a wager that forces him to reconsider each gesture. Later, a car-ride confrontation with Diára flares into a raw debate about accountability—his polite compliance meets her unfiltered anger.
These moments—desert standoff, barroom dare, midnight confession—mark Sérgio’s turning points. Each tests his innocence, reshapes loyalties and raises the question: can a visitor ever truly blend in when every favor carries a hidden cost?
Under the Dust: Power, Identity and Ecology
From the moment Sérgio’s dusty jeep crests the horizon, the proposed highway in I Only Rest in the Storm stands in for the persistent shadow of Portuguese sway. More than a backdrop, the road is a living testament to neo-colonial influence: every survey marker and rice-field sample carries the weight of history.
I’m reminded of my own travels through Angola, where you could almost hear the echoes of colonial edicts in the hum of reconstruction machinery. Here, Sérgio’s white skin grants him both deference and blind spots—locals defer to his expertise even as they chafe under his unspoken authority.
That tension extends to race and identity. Sérgio’s polite awkwardness—so milquetoast it verges on endearing—stands in stark relief against Diára’s fervent gaze and Gui’s wry defiance. Pinho resists the temptation of a white-savior arc: rather than rescuing the community, Sérgio often becomes the foil in their private games, a mirror reflecting assumptions he can’t fully grasp. This refusal to center him as hero flips mainstream narratives on their head, recalling the bittersweet ambivalence of Lucrecia Martel’s Zama.
Sexual politics ripple through the film’s steamy interludes. The ménage-à-trois and that sudden kiss at Gui’s party aren’t mere ornaments; they unsettle power dynamics, forcing both Sérgio and the viewer to question consent, desire and the unspoken commerce of attraction. The unpredictability of those scenes reminded me of Gaspar Noé’s willingness to shock—but Pinho subordinates spectacle to emotional complexity.
Meanwhile, Pinho’s quiet jabs at NGO culture feel pulled from firsthand reporting: casual bribes exchanged over tea, off-camera testimonials that blend documentary realism into fiction. These vignetted interviews expose moral gray areas, revealing a humanitarian sector as flawed as any corporation.
Finally, the rice-field impact report itself anchors the film’s environmental stakes. It’s not just a MacGuffin but a genuine locus of ecological tension—every soil sample and farmer’s lament underscores the precarious balance between progress and preservation. In that sense, I Only Rest in the Storm doesn’t just observe its world; it digs in and demands we rethink our own.
Frames of a Journey: Crafting Atmosphere and Momentum
Visually, I Only Rest in the Storm luxuriates in 35 mm grain, with handheld wide-angle takes that let the landscape breathe and characters feel truly embedded in the environment. Interiors carry warmer, more saturated tones—wooden bar beams glowing under lamplight—while exteriors shift to sun-bleached, almost washed-out hues, echoing the desert’s relentless glare.
Editing leans into expansiveness. The first three hours unfold with deliberate languor, each scene given space to settle—reminding me of Béla Tarr’s willingness to let time stretch. This patience pays dividends, drawing you deeper into local rhythms. Yet by the final act, moments begin to drift, risking viewer fatigue. A writer might frame this as both immersive scope and a slight loosening of narrative grip.
Sound design deserves its own spotlight. Ambient chatter in the bar punctuates heavy silences, and the use of a Chinese-language cover of Laura Branigan’s “Self-Control” during a club sequence underscores globalization’s cultural remix. Occasional field recordings—cranes against desert wind, whispered testimonials—blur fiction and reportage.
The overall tone is that of a monumental, occasionally unwieldy meditation that rewards those willing to surrender to its pace. This film earns its epic length for arthouse audiences primed for slow-burn exploration—but newcomers should brace for its marathon demands. I Only Rest in the Storm premiered at the 2025 Cannes Film Festival in the Un Certain Regard section.
Full Credits
Director: Pedro Pinho
Writers: Pedro Pinho, Miguel Seabra Lopes, José Filipe Costa, Luísa Homem, Marta Lança, Miguel Carmo, Tiago Hespanha, Leonor Noivo, Luís Miguel Correia, Paul Choquet
Producers: Pedro Pinho, Tiago Hespanha, Filipa Reis
Cast: Sérgio Coragem, Cleo Diára, Jonathan Guilherme
Director of Photography (Cinematographer): Ivo Lopes Araújo
Editors: Rita Pestana, Karen Akerman, Cláudia Rita Oliveira
The Review
I Only Rest in the Storm
I Only Rest in the Storm is a daring, immersive exploration of neo-colonial tensions and personal reckonings, pairing lush 35 mm cinematography with raw, documentary-inflected moments. Its deliberate pacing and structural ambition may test patience, but those who embrace its rhythm will find a richly layered cultural portrait that lingers long after the final frame.
PROS
- Rich, immersive 35 mm cinematography that captures both desert vastness and intimate interiors
- Nuanced exploration of neo-colonial power dynamics without descending into didacticism
- Naturalistic performances that blur fiction and documentary styles
- Bold, unpredictable narrative turns—especially in its sexual politics
- Soundscape and music choices (like the “Self-Control” cover) that reinforce cultural juxtapositions
CONS
- Three-and-a-half-hour runtime can feel overlong and occasionally unfocused
- Final act drifts, weakening narrative momentum
- Heavy reliance on expository dialogue can undercut subtlety
- Dense themes might overwhelm casual viewers
