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A stormy night in Porto Alegre, until the beginning of this century, was a succession of mundane discomforts: flooded streets, broken traffic lights, frightened animals, fallen branches, or monotonous leaks. A stormy night, now, is an archetype.

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The architecture of archetypes predates words and dreams (perhaps even the human race): they are the collective foundations upon which we organize our thoughts, emotions, and symbols. An archetype exists outside of time, as if it were an annunciation and a memory in a single flash, allowing us to turn concrete things—such as a tree, a bull, or a storm—into living immaterialities that whisper in our ears.

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Thus, a stormy night becomes a Möbius strip, where the boundaries between inside and outside intertwine. The "outside" of the torrential rain, unbridled lightning, uprooted trees, winds, and flooding becomes the intimate, unfathomable identity of who we are, a sign of our personality; but also of our Zeitgeist, which shapes us and remains ever elusive. A stormy night occurs in the present—and nothing is more efficient at bringing us to the rough surface of the present than fear—but it is also a metonymy for a future of climate change: the first future built exclusively by humans and capable of destroying itself.

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In Noite de Temporal, by Alex Domingues, there is a leitmotif (or a ritornello) that torments the creator: the duck-rabbit. Less an image than a metaphor for how our brain (and consequently, our reality) is organized. The union of opposite animals: the rabbit, a creature of nocturnal habits that frequenta the underworld, signifies cunning and adventure; the duck, diurnal in habit, which glides across the surface (but also through the air), represents loyalty and a peaceful life. The figure of the duck-rabbit opposes dream and reality, the unconscious and the conscious, and the very contradictions of our perception.

The ten films of Noite de Temporal are like a Russian doll, concentric circles of a droplet breaking the surface of reality, as if each fragment of a single night gradually seeped into the next. In a night that will repeat itself hundreds of times, until we no longer know whether the storm heralds the world to come or merely returns to us, with violence, that which was always within us.​[​​​