Visiting the family home in Caracas for the summer, Ena takes up her place again with her grandmother, Mamama, and her father. He literally lives in books and continues the crazy enterprise of saving, without anyone knowing exactly from what or why, the Venezuelan literary heritage. Following the discovery of a postcard hidden in a book, Ena sets off in search of the mysterious work of a writer, Rafael Coronado, who is said to have written under many pseudonyms. Los capitulos perdudos does not explore these promising intrigues. On the contrary, Lorena Alvarado sketches them out as so many false leads and prefers to leave the narrative dimension hanging. In an economy of retention, Los capitulos perdudos installs atmospheres, stases that result in a gentle melancholy. The character of the grandmother irremediably loses her memory. The young woman seeks to remember; her father runs after the rare works that he still has to find in the mass of dead leaves that books for Venezuela seem to have become – some great readers are dead, others have gone to the other side of the Atlantic. We learn little about the socio-political situation. She is an off-screen person who penetrates the family bubble through echoes, allusions, ricochets. The filmmaker deposits a touch of sadness on the imposing libraries, in the large hollowed-out rooms of the house, the desolate urban spaces. A diffuse feeling of abandonment then hangs over everyday life. From what story, intimate or collective, do the lost chapters of the film's title come? There remains what can be preserved from being swallowed up in the torpor of summer, which we feel threatens the characters to their very core: the tenderness between the members of this family, a motorcycle ride which offers to our lucky eyes the vital energy of the frescoes of Caracas, the modest sharing of a love for literature, a poem saved from oblivion.