Nicolás Pereda adopts two seemingly opposing approaches and elegantly meshes them together to form Minotaur, a strange film that only grows as it progresses. One approach is a studiously formal, almost clinically realistic style of shooting, using almost exclusively static medium shots (there are only two pans, both close to the end) and what appears to be natural light throughout. The other is what may be loosely described as surreal, as the film centers on three nebulously defined people, though it is unclear how long they have known each other—the woman says she hasn’t seen the main man before—and their languid existence over what might be a few days. Various people come and go, but the bulk of the interactions is taken up by the three characters’ slow, almost arbitrary movements throughout the apartment, and they seem to communicate almost entirely by reading books aloud, broken up by long fits of narcolepsy. The final third perhaps delves too deeply in this, as they seem to be confined to one bed as even more people come and go, but Minotaur is nevertheless invigorating, making the two styles blend (most notably by frequently placing the characters in shadow, obscuring their expressions) in an immensely satisfying manner.