A Spanish queer epic, inspired by the work and life of poet Federico García Lorca, the gay and socialist icon who potentially succumbed to Franco’s firing squad, is the kind of distinguished award bait that every American producer would be fighting for were this script in English, and Lorca a household name in British literature. I don’t use “bait” here as a pejorative. La Bola Negra is expertly crafted by Javier Ambrossi and Javier Calvo, the two filmmakers who make their stand toward international recognition by ensuring they don’t take a single misstep in this long and complex narrative. The Javiers direct the shit out of this picture, as if they had something important to prove. Not to us. Not to themselves. But to the memory of García Lorca.
The story jumps between three protagonists. In 1937, during the Spanish Civil War, we follow Sebastián (Guitarricadelafuente), who survives an air raid in his village and joins the army on the side of the Nationalists. He gets appointed to the role of guarding a prisoner of war, Rafael (Miguel Bernardeau), a young and beautiful communist fighter who used to be part of a theatre group with Lorca.
In 1932, Carlos (Milo Quifes) wants to join the membership of a local casino, but he is constantly rejected by the board (a mix of businessmen, local politicians and clergymen) due to rumours that Carlos is either homosexual or that he fraternises with known homosexuals in the town. And finally, in 2017, Alberto (Carlos González), a young playwright struggling to write his next project, receives news of the passing of his estranged grandfather, who left him something important in his will, provided he meets with the lawyer in the small, remote village where he lived.
The three stories develop at their own leisure, with the Javiers giving more importance to Sebastián’s, as the most romantic, and Alberto’s, as the most dramatic. Carlos’ story, the simplest of them all, becomes an important key to connect the other two. It’s also the most poetic of them, and like all poetry, it cannot overstay its welcome.
The Javiers, with their co-writer Alberto Conejero (who also wrote the play that inspires one of the stories of the film) paint an important picture of Spain at a crucial time in its history. Standing up against the freedom of the artists is the oppressive intensity of fascism, religion, patriarchy, nationalism, monarchy and homophobia. When Sebastián meets Nené (Penélope Cruz), a sort of Spanish cabaret dancer who entertained the troops, he learns about a world where gender rules are broken. Yet he also sees how Nené, when performing, is violently objectified by the soldiers. Freedom to be oneself remains a secret.
In contrast, Alberto lives in a reality paved by Carlos, Sebastián (and Lorca). He lives in Madrid with his boyfriend, Juan Pablo (Julio Torres), and can openly express himself, though he’s struggling to do it artistically. The only problem he faces is the tenuous relationship with his mother Teresa (Lola Dueñas).
The biggest achievement in La Bola Negra is how perfectly directed it is. A visual tour de force that manages to surprise even after two hours. There’s a whole sequence near in the end, set in a mountain during a snowstorm, that felt like a reality I wasn’t expecting to see in a film like this. In another moment, the Javiers separate characters in their frames and reflect themselves in a mirror, using every available artifice to show how much they know their craft. And maybe, just maybe, that becomes the film’s limitation.
Neil Young is famous for rejecting the technically flawless takes of his songs because he sees the little mistakes as notes of unique personalities. Every shot in La Bola Negra is a visual flex. It gives the film this elevated, prestigious scent, but removes a little bit of sense of character. It’s strange to point at a film that its biggest flaw is that it’s too perfect, but this is exactly it. The Javiers come at this as if it’s the last film they’re making.
But as these intrusive thoughts crept on me, the film reached its conclusion with an overtly beautifully poetic sense of scope. It’s so emotional, it almost felt like cheating. In one simple detail, the Javiers focus on a bunch of papers falling on the floor (you’ll understand when you see it), and my cracking voice let out a “oh no come back” in despair. It makes sense that this, only the director’s second film, won the award for best director in Cannes this year. Not many other filmmakers approached their projects with this much academic reverence.
The plus: That beautiful soundtrack, especially Guitarricadelafuente’s La Nieve, which should be on everyone’s sad song playlist from now on. And those beautiful and exquisite shots.
The minus: It pays off at the end, but it’s maybe a little too 00s prestige drama for my sensibility.