From Omeleto.

A man faces his past.

A groundskeeper working at a quiet countryside inn, going about the ordinary tasks of his job, day in and day out. He tends to the landscaping and lawns and deals with the wildlife at the margins of the property.

His life is quiet, a refuge from some sad and troubling events of his past. But even with the distance of time and far from home, his past refuses to stay silent.

Directed and written by Nick Dugan, this short drama is a deceptively meditative inner monologue that builds with deft sleight-of-hand into a gripping and suspenseful confrontation, made all the more absorbing for its unyielding, almost Biblical sense of morality. The groundskeeper is an enigmatic character at first — we often see him in the distance and are granted a look at his face in the film’s first half. But as his story and inner world come to the fore, so do its complicated themes of morality, forgiveness, accountability, mercy and justice.

At first, the storytelling seems almost rustic and pastoral, contrasting the narrator’s meditations on his past, family and background against his current everyday life. Seen almost exclusively in gorgeously rendered wide shots at first, the groundskeeper works at his outdoor labors against a serene, bucolic and well-tended countryside setting, even as the well-to-do guests arrive in the distance. The mood seems peaceful and unbothered, and the groundskeeper’s words seem heavy and pensive about how he’s gotten to his current place in life.

A viewer could easily believe the film will be a moodily introspective one on existence, time and aging at first, but gradually, a deeper, darker design comes to the fore. This is not just the groundskeeper’s story, as it turns out, but one about his wife Mary and her family. That story is complex, dark and harrowing, even told with the pensiveness of memory and from the point-of-view of a loving observer. As the groundskeeper, actor Armando Riesco keeps his cards close to his vest, essaying the role of a haunted man immobilized in some ways by his past. But eventually that past and his present converge in startling, jarring ways, and we discover that the past will not be ignored — and perhaps some things cannot be forgiven.

In the end, FOXHOLE reveals itself to be a uniquely told and modern take on the classic morality play, its sense of justice and violence made all the more unnerving for its contrast to the overall thoughtful storytelling. Brooding and philosophically minded, it asks tough, difficult questions about justice and forgiveness, such as who forgiveness is for and when mercy is merited, especially in the absence of remorse and accountability. It leaves us in the disquieting wake of one man’s response to these questions, and in our interpretation of his drastic actions, we might find the borders of our own answers.

FOXHOLE. Courtesy of Nick Dugan at https://nickdugan.xyz.