Castelling is the 200-year old Catalonian tradition of people-stacking. The original castells, or “castles,” a mere two or three men high, were the grand finale of a ploughmen’s dance, the halftime pyramid of the late 1700’s.

However, castells soon became the main attraction, and today the tiny children who clamber to the top commonly surpass third story balconies at a staggering eight-to-ten humans high.

I didn’t learn most of that from the film.

I also didn’t learn that there are around 10,000 castellers in Catalonia, organized into about 60 local clubs (or “collas”) across the north eastern corner of Spain.

In the direct cinema style of Grey Gardens and Salesman, German director Gereon Wetzel does away with such documentary conventions as narration and the interview. Even title cards are nowhere to be seen. Instead Wetzel makes like the bros. Lumiere, pointing the camera at the action and letting ‘er roll.

Which is not to say there isn’t ample craft here. The film opens with a series of tight close ups of a tower in progress. “You’re pushing too hard,” someone says. A pair of hands grip a man’s butt in a most indelicate manner. “Like that, yes, like that,” a casteller says. Men’s faces fill the screen, shoulder presses against shoulder. The frames look as snug as the hundreds of castellers who make up the bottom “basis” must feel.

In the next scene, men gather around a television to watch a recap. It’s the coaches meeting, the post-game. On the TV screen, castellers caterpiller up the outside of the tower in groups of three to form each subsequent layer.

“I can’t even bear to watch it,” one man says, riveted to the screen. “Look at his hand,” another says, convinced that someone let go too soon. “Look at his hand,” he insists, and the tower collapses.

The castellers go down like water, like sticks, and the fall is absorbed by the tightly packed crowd below.

What narrative arc there is – a conflict among members of the club over management style, competition with rival clubs, a five-year-old star climber with the frights, and the ongoing efforts to shame and bribe her into ascents – is conveyed through dialogue between the castellers, and the occasional long shot of a sign on an empty cobblestone street, or a wall of hall-of-fame portraits glimpsed through a window.

To a certain extent this minimalist touch works. The audience already knows the trajectory of the “underdog team” narrative. Much of the facts about castelling noted above are non-essential to a visual poem, which is what this film often feels like.

But then poems don’t usually last 88 minutes. And while themes of community and exclusion have a subtle presence, the material seems rich enough to warrant a more accessible exploration.

One of the treats of Castells is how rarely the omnipresent modern seems to enter the frame. Much of the action takes place in the old parts of town, amid a wonderland of stunning architecture. A dozen enthusiastic reporters cover the competition that serves as the climax of the film, yet the coverage is exclusively for radio. The red collared shirts of the castellers, some faded, some crisp, are set out to dry on a balcony over cobblestone streets. Even the trestle tables that the colla meets around are marble-topped.

When the familiar trappings of the modern do appear, as a caravan of white tour busses crossing the countryside, or couple of dreadlocked drummers in a café, it serves to contrast Catalan culture with our own.

In the end it’s hard not to be impressed by this multi-generational sport cum national project, by it’s rare physicality and the lifestyle that allows Catalonians so much time to devote to it.

Castell. Gereon Wetzel. Germany, 2006. 88 minutes.