On October 2, 1968, a student uprising descends into violence after the Mexican government begins to use lethal force against the protesters.
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In the house where several gererations used to live no one is living anymore At least apparently. Because if any one intensifies hearing and view, he can see He sees the footprints of formers inhabitants. He sees the marks of life and death in the deserted spaces He is the witness of the persistence of voices , bodies, ligths and shadows.
An elderly couple debates whether to cut down an ancient acacia tree that has witnessed the major memories of our lives.
Between two rains, a film that is offered as a newspaper. Rains. It is night. The rain coils like a snake in the street lanterns. A neighbor, old lady, knocks on my door. It's eleven at night. She is desperate, ask for rivotril. A few days later he dies. Someone leaves their house. Objects are loaded coldly in a truck. The death of a neighbor, a move, the skies laden with clouds, the light on things and faces, the operation of an old man, a night trip ... It rains. The trees shake and tremble underwater. Between two rains, a look at human fragility.
Four distinct individuals — a filmmaker charting an autumnal trail of leaves, a mysterious girl wandering through the labyrinths of creation, a woman immersed in poignant reminiscences of autumns past, and a man devoted to nurturing the void left by a departed tree — converge in the multifaceted, polymorphic realm of Jorge Listopad (1921-2017), poet, essayist, teacher, mentor, theatre and television director, husband and father.
