Modes of the Tragic in Spanish Cinema 3031193245, 9783031193248

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Modes of the Tragic in Spanish Cinema Luis M. González

Modes of the Tragic in Spanish Cinema

Luis M. González

Modes of the Tragic in Spanish Cinema

Luis M. González Hispanic Studies Department Connecticut College New London, CT, USA

ISBN 978-3-031-19324-8    ISBN 978-3-031-19325-5 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-19325-5 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive licence to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors, and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. Cover illustration: © Volodymyr Melnyk / Alamy Stock Photo This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG. The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland

Acknowledgments

Support for this project came from the National Endowment for the Humanities, the R.F. Johnson Faculty Development Fund, and Office of the Dean of the Faculty at Connecticut College. The staff of the Connecticut College Library has been instrumental in locating, providing, and acquiring relevant and hard-to-find materials for my research. Every book benefits from the comments, criticisms, and suggestions of colleagues. I would like to particularly thank Ángel Berenguer, Tom Deveny, Kathryn Everly, Simon Hay, Francisco LaRubia Prado, Lynn Purkey, and Alejandro Yarza. I am indebted to all of them for their comments and suggestions at the different writing stages of the manuscript and for their friendship and encouragement. My colleagues at Connecticut College also provided important support. Bridget Baird, Chris Colbath, Marc Forster, Benjamin Panciera, and Bridget Pupillo read some of the chapters and gave me very helpful feedback. I also got necessary support for this project from my colleagues Jeff Cole, Leo Garofalo, Anthony Graesch, Monika López Anuarbe, Karolin Machtands, and Larry Vogel. My gratitude goes also to Hispanic Studies Department administrative assistants Nancy Lewandowski and Rosa Woodhams. I have shared some of the ideas of this book with my students at Connecticut College. Their comments have made it better and more accessible. I appreciate their contributions. Special thanks to Jessica Koehler, a colleague and friend from the Department of Hispanic Studies who ensured a polished rendition of my ideas in academic English. Apart from this important task, her constant support has been key to the success of this study. I am also grateful to Andrew López who compiled the Index for this book. v

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Additionally, thanks to the series Hispanic Issues On Line (HIOL), and specially Luis Martín Estudillo for granting permission to include a revised version of my article “El trágico camino a la modernidad: La hija de Juan Simón” in Chap. 1. Not only colleagues in the academic field deserve mention and my deepest gratitude. The scholar needs other outlets to be successful and sane during the writing process. It is impossible to recognize all those who have shared my passion for cycling and given me inspiration. One person who stands out is Monika Dreslin, who has consistently given me support the last few years. I would like to thank the editorial team at Palgrave Macmillan for their careful handling of the project and their constant guidance and encouragement. I am also grateful to the reviewers for their suggestions and their constructive criticism. These acknowledgments would not be complete without thanking my parents, sisters, brothers-in-law, and nieces, as well as many friends, who have offered me unconditional support. Elizabeth, my wife, deserves special mention. A partner in everything, her faith in me and in this project gave me the inspiration to successfully finish this project. She tirelessly edited different versions of the study and helped me to refine my ideas. Finally, our son Rodrigo, who was on playdates when I started this project and now is in college, has watched most of the films analyzed in this study with me. I dedicate this book to both of them with love and gratitude.

Contents

1 Introduction: The Tragic Mode and Spanish Cinema  1 2 The Fallen Woman: A Tragic Approach 13 3 The Condemned Land: Tragedy and the Rural World 47 4 Tragedy, Power, and Resistance 81 5 Tragedy and Social Exclusion117 6 The Recurrence of the Tragic147 7 Epilogue181 Works Cited187 Index205

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List of Figures

Fig. 2.1 Fig. 2.2 Fig. 2.3 Fig. 2.4 Fig. 2.5 Fig. 2.6 Fig. 2.7 Fig. 3.1 Fig. 3.2 Fig. 3.3 Fig. 3.4 Fig. 3.5 Fig. 4.1 Fig. 4.2

Acacias’ guilt and shame. La aldea maldita (Florián Rey, 1930) Acacia receives her father in-law’s forgiveness. La aldea maldita (Florián Rey, 1930) Acacia singing a lullaby at the beginning of the film. La aldea maldita (Florián Rey, 1930) Acacia singing a lullaby to an empty crib at the end of the film. La aldea maldita (Florián Rey, 1930) Antonio and Carmela, trapped. La hija de Juan Simón (Gonzalo Delgrás, 1957) Carmela’s calvary. La hija de Juan Simón (Gonzalo Delgrás, 1957) Carmela’s aestheticized death. La hija de Juan Simón (Gonzalo Delgrás, 1957) Juan’s overwhelming sense of guilt. La laguna negra (Arturo Ruiz-­Castillo, 1952) A big cross and a castle in ruins in the background. La laguna negra (Arturo Ruiz-Castillo, 1952) The fetish and Juan’s desire gaze. Condenados (Manuel Mur Oti, 1953) Aurelia eroticizes her husband’s violent hand. Condenados (Manuel Mur Oti, 1953) Aurelia kills her object of desire. Condenados (Manuel Mur Oti, 1953) Tula’s inner conflict. La tía Tula (Miguel Picazo, 1964) Ramiro’s first advance on Tula. La tía Tula (Miguel Picazo, 1964)

24 25 27 28 38 42 43 54 55 67 73 78 85 90

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List of Figures

Fig. 4.3 Fig. 4.4 Fig. 4.5 Fig. 4.6 Fig. 4.7 Fig. 4.8 Fig. 4.9 Fig. 5.1 Fig. 5.2 Fig. 5.3 Fig. 5.4 Fig. 5.5 Fig. 6.1 Fig. 6.2 Fig. 6.3 Fig. 6.4 Fig. 6.5 Fig. 6.6

Tula resists Ramiro’s intent to rape her. La tía Tula (Miguel Picazo, 1964) 93 Ramiro rapes Juanita. La tía Tula (Miguel Picazo, 1964) 97 The circle closes. La tía Tula (Miguel Picazo, 1964) 98 The devilish face of Spanish fascism. 7 días de enero (Juan Antonio Bardem, 1979) 104 Adelaida as a “patriarchal mother.” 7 días de enero (Juan Antonio Bardem, 1979) 108 Atocha Massacre. 7 días de enero (Juan Antonio Bardem, 1979) 113 Grief and rage. 7 días de enero (Juan Antonio Bardem, 1979) 115 Ángela’s violent response. Deprisa, deprisa (Carlos Saura, 1981) 127 Life is a party. Deprisa, deprisa (Carlos Saura, 1981) 129 Angela’s and Pablo’s farewell. Deprisa, deprisa (Carlos Saura, 1981)131 A radiant Marina stares at her beaten friend. La buena estrella (Ricardo Franco, 1997) 137 Daniel and Rafael as both sides of the same coin. La buena estrella (Ricardo Franco, 1997) 141 Waiting for the bride and the deceased young men. La novia (Paula Ortiz, 2015) 151 A hand full of ants. Un chien andalou (Luis Buñuel, 1929) 156 The bride is coughing blood and pieces of crystal. La novia (Paula Ortiz, 2015) 156 Julieta receives news about her daughter, Antía. Julieta (Pedro Almodóvar, 2016) 167 Julieta trying to put back together her relationship with Antía. Julieta (Pedro Almodóvar, 2016) 168 Julieta identifies Xoan’s remains. Julieta (Pedro Almodóvar, 2016) 174

CHAPTER 1

Introduction: The Tragic Mode and Spanish Cinema

Le tragique est impensable, et nous avons pourtant à le penser. The tragic is unthinkable, but nevertheless, we must think about it. —Michel Maffesoli

This book focuses on expressions of the tragic in Spanish cinema. Its main premise is that elements from the classical and modern tragic tradition persist and permeate many of the cultural works created in Spain, especially the films on which I center this study. The inscrutability and indolence of the gods, the mutability of fortune, the recurrent narratives of fall and redemption, the unavoidable clash between ethical forces, the tension between free will and fate, the violent resolution of both internal and external conflicts, and the overwhelming feelings of guilt that haunt the tragic heroine/hero are consistent aspects that traverse Spanish cinema as a response to universal queries about human suffering and death. Using the term “tragic mode” I broaden the scope of my analysis to reach beyond restrictive categories.1 Rather than concentrating on the blurry delineations between different genres or subgenres, I favor a more productive approach that focuses on the persistence of key elements of  Reflecting on the advantages of using this term, Alistair Fowler highlights the fact that, unlike other categorizations, the concept of mode is not circumscribed to a specific moment in history, and it concentrates those features marked by permanence (Kinds of Literature, 111). 1

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 L. M. González, Modes of the Tragic in Spanish Cinema, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-19325-5_1

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both the classical and modern tragic tradition as seen in Spanish film. I argue that tragedy is not an artistic genre with set characteristics but rather a dynamic/evolving mode that has reinvented itself over more than twenty-­ five centuries.2 Thus, when I refer to the tragic mode, I allude to an artistic expression that emerges at critical moments in the evolution of cultural, political, and intellectual history, and that is characterized by the staging of a myriad of characters—men and women with diverse backgrounds and circumstances—abandoned and lost in a hostile and senseless world. Conflicted and trapped, they futilely attempt to overcome the incomprehensible socio-political norms to which they are subjected. Furthermore, they inhabit a world dominated by extreme feelings: unfulfilled desire, destructive jealousy, irrational devotion to tradition, indecisiveness, frustration, and hate. These feelings inevitably lead to suffering and, on many occasions, death. Finally, in this desolate and bleak universe, it is not clear if human beings are responsible for their actions or if they are cursed and condemned from birth. This tragic mode was first crystallized in the Attic tragedies of Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides; later it evolved and materialized, first in the theater of William Shakespeare, Pierre Corneille, Pedro Calderón de la Barca, and Jean Racine, and later in the more modern works of Henrik Ibsen, Anton Chekhov, and Federico García Lorca. Today, we continue to find manifestations of this tragic mode in all the arts, including film. Following Jennifer Wallace in the conviction that every culture generates particular art forms in response to specific experiences of pain and suffering, I believe that film, being the most popular contemporary artistic expression, plays a significant role in tailoring our response to present-day experiences.3 As I hope to demonstrate in this book, this tragic mode has been a key ingredient in Spanish cinema from the silent era to the present. In addition to its standing

2  My study shares with Raymond Williams the belief that, rather than “a single and permanent kind of fact,” tragedy is “a series of experiences and conventions and institutions” (Modern Tragedy, 45–46). In a similar vein, I agree with Annamaria Cascetta’s assertion that “the tragic is a permanent structure of human consciousness” and that “tragedy is a form into which that structure has historically been translated” (Italics in original) (Modern European Plays, 1). Finally, along the same lines, Simon Critchley establishes that, “rather than consisting of a dramatic genre, tragedy is a “dialectical mode of experience” that exists not just in theater but also in visual media, politics and, most importantly, in everyday life” (Italics in original) (Tragedy, 28). 3  Wallace, Cambridge Introduction to Tragedy, 172.

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as a reminder of and a reflection on the tragic history of contemporary Spain, I consider the tragic mode to be an essential element of these films and part and parcel of their allure. The tragic mode heightens the aesthetic, ideological, and commercial effectiveness of these films by evoking an emotional response, as opposed to a rational one. It stirs up in the audience, who traditionally derives a certain amount of pleasure by witnessing the suffering of others, the feelings of pity and fear that have defined tragic art since its birth in Greece twenty-five centuries ago. The tragic and its various artistic manifestations have been the protagonist of literary and cultural studies since Aristotle. Yet, as Rita Felski pointed out not long ago, one can speak of a scholarly silence on the relationship between tragedy and cinema.4 For Felski, while literary studies have traditionally privileged tragedy, considering it the highest and most perfect of artistic creations, and have concomitantly despised melodrama for considering it a degeneration of the former, film studies have done just the opposite.5 This study will fill a gap in the field of Spanish Cultural Studies by closely observing the relationship between the tragic and the cinema produced in Spain through the study of ten important films that span almost a century of Spanish cinema, from the silent era to the present: La aldea maldita [The Cursed Village] (Florián Rey, 1930), La hija de Juan Simón [Juan Simon’s Daughter] (Gonzalo Delgrás, 1957), La laguna negra [The Black Lagoon] (Arturo Ruiz-Castillo, 1952), Condenados [The Condemned Ones] (Manuel Mur Oti, 1953), La tía Tula [Aunt Tula] (Miguel Picazo, 1964), 7 días de enero [Seven Days in January] (Juan Antonio Bardem, 1979), Deprisa, deprisa [Fast, Fast] (Carlos Saura 1981), La buena estrella [Lucky Star] (Ricardo Franco, 1997), La novia [The Bride] (Paula Ortiz, 2015), and Julieta (Pedro Almodóvar, 2016). Representative of the time in which they were produced, these films stand out not only because of their artistic and cinematic interest, but because of their popular reception. All of them were critically acclaimed and have been recognized by numerous awards, by the interest they have elicited among film scholars and critics alike, and by their great popular success, as evidenced by their continuous presence on Spanish television screens. I have opted not to offer a wide repertoire of films, preferring instead to focus on a detailed, close reading of a representative sample that vividly 4 5

 Felski, “Introduction,” 6.  Ibid., 6.

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showcases the recurrent motifs and themes paradigmatic of the tragic mode and offer a diachronic approach to Spanish social and cultural history.

A World in Crisis This book proposes a historical reading of the tragic that, without diminishing the importance of the individual psychological dimension, focuses on the socio-political and economic forces that condition human beings and on the role that those factors play in tragic outcomes. Although the themes presented in the films analyzed in this book—female aspirations of independence, greed, male jealousy and aggressiveness, political violence, unfulfilled desire, and family conflicts, among others—transcend time and space, they are inscribed in narratives that are historically situated. Literary scholar Ken Newton states that what differentiates modern and classic treatments of the tragic is that in the modern era all conflicts are mediated by society and history.6 Thus, in this study, while acknowledging the universality of the stories portrayed in these films, I will emphasize the historical context in which they unfold. I primarily read them as symptoms of contemporary tensions, in which different and sometimes incompatible social models coexist, and as emissaries of social and political change. There seems to be wide agreement among scholars that tragic art is a symptom of social and political transformations.7 As shown in this book, the Spanish twentieth century was marked by a profound social and political turmoil that climaxed during the Civil War (1936–1939) and the long and repressive dictatorship that followed. Such moments of crisis require the immolation of one or several propitiatory victims to relieve the social  Newton, Modern Literature and the Tragic, 12.  Insights into tragedy as a genre also shed light onto the tragic mode. Jean Pierre Vernant and Pierre Vidal-Naquet were pioneers in pointing out that Greek tragedy was born in a society that was undergoing a period of historical transition (Tragedy and Myth, vii). From a cultural materialist perspective, Raymond Williams states that tragedy “attracts the fundamental beliefs and tensions of a period” (Modern Tragedy, 45) and Terry Eagleton considers that it “deals in the cut-and-thrust of historical conjunctures” (Sweet Violence, xiii). In a similar tone, Simon Critchley affirms that “[t]ragedy is the art form of between times, usually between an old world that is passing away and a new world that is coming into being” (Tragedy, 14). In short, as synthesized by Naomi Conn Liebler, “[t]ragedy always tells the tale of a culture in crisis” (“Introduction,” 3). 6 7

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tensions. The tragic heroes or heroines that populate this book become thus the necessary scapegoats—pharmaka in the classic terminology—to accelerate the transition to a new socio-political context. In this sacrifice, as stated by Walter Benjamin, “new aspects of the life of the nation become manifest.”8 It is as if these characters were the vanguard of their society, ahead of their time, misunderstood and unfairly treated. With their rebellious attitude and, above all, their sacrifice, they open new paths toward a better future. As claimed by Terry Eagleton, their performative act brings about a new social order.9 In other words, they embody in their troubled present what will be normal or acceptable in the not-too-distant future, proving Sarah Annes Brown correct when she claims that “[t]ragedy seems to have been most potent at moments of cultural or political upheaval, reflecting and anticipating change.”10 In a country like Spain, whose recent history has been marked by a deep social and political division, the tragic mode has found fertile ground. The extreme suffering faced by these films’ protagonists reveals the tremendous contradictions of the society that enables it. By empathizing with the sorrow and pain of the tragic hero or heroine, the spectator feels more inclined to accept the social changes required so that the circumstances that caused the tragedy do not arise again. In its capacity as denouncer of unfair social situations, tragic art allows for a progressive reading of a mode of expression that has often been accused of being conservative, if not reactionary. In this sense, I agree with Simon Critchley’s idea that tragedy is both polyphony and antiphony. For this reason, we need to engage in a reading of tragedy that considers all possible interpretations.11 It is, above all, in the subversive readings of what could be the more conservative original intentions of these films where I place the focus of this book.

 Benjamin, Origin of German Tragic Drama, 106–107.  Eagleton, Sweet Violence, 276. 10  Brown, “Introduction: Tragedy in Transition,” 1. 11  Critchley, Tragedy, 62. 8 9

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The Modern Tragic Subject Contrary to the trend of criticism which, inspired by the work of Nietzsche, postulated that tragedy died with modernity,12 this book agrees with Terry Eagleton’s assertion that the two concepts are not incompatible.13 This democratization of the tragic presupposes an ideological positioning that makes it possible to accept Raymond Williams’ view that “the tragedy of a citizen could be as real as the tragedy of a prince”14 and David Lenson’s claim that “[a] tragic hero may be drawn from any class, region, sex, or occupation.”15 Thus, in these films we do not witness the downfall of noble men and women or other powerful characters, as we do in classic tragedies by Sophocles, Shakespeare, Racine, or Calderón de la Barca, but rather a series of commoners: village women trying to make a life in the city in La aldea maldita and La hija de Juan Simón; greedy farmers in La laguna negra; drug addicts and prostitutes in La buena estrella; small-time crooks in Deprisa, deprisa; union members in 7 días de enero; women who do not conform with the traditional idea of motherhood in La tía Tula and Julieta; and finally, a young bride caught between the love of two men in La novia. Much of the emotional effectiveness of these characters lies in their affinity with the viewer, proving eighteenth-century German philosopher Gotthold Lessing correct when he stated that we are moved by the tragic characters’ misfortunes because they resemble our own and not because of their social standing.16

12  In his influential study The Death of Tragedy, published in 1961, George Steiner claims that the secularization of the West in the eighteenth century, as a result of the rationalist agenda set in motion by the Enlightenment coupled with Romantic optimism, made the continuity of tragedy impossible because it based its arguments on the belief in one or more superior, arbitrary and unattainable spiritual entities that, ultimately, would be responsible for the fortunes and adversities of human beings. More recently, Steiner, confirming his original idea states that “[i]ts decline was concomitant with the democratization of western ideals, with the eclipse of imperative destiny in the power relations between mortals and the supernatural, between men and women and the state” (“‘Tragedy,’ Reconsidered,” 37). 13  As Eagleton writes: “Tragedy, however, did not vanish because there were no more great men. It did not expire with the last absolutist monarch. On the contrary, since under democracy each one of us is to be incommensurably cherished, it has been multiplied far beyond antique imagination” (Sweet Violence, 94). 14  Williams, Modern Tragedy, 49. 15  Lenson, Achilles’ Choice, 163. 16  Lessing, Hamburg Dramaturgy, 72.

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It is precisely the marginal status of most of the protagonists in these films that makes them ideal candidates to be the scapegoats that their society in crisis needs. Rene Girard’s idea that “the woman qualifies for sacrificial status by reasons of her weakness and relatively marginal social status”17 could be easily applied to other characters in the films studied in this book. Examples of this are the young delinquents in Deprisa, deprisa and La buena estrella or the Communist Party’s militants in 7 días de enero. Most of the tragic characters considered here have a subaltern status, a mark of alterity that makes them an easy target for a society in constant search for scapegoats to purge its contradictions by means of their sacrifice. As we will see, women are more often than not the target through which society prefers to resolve its tensions. In her feminist reading of classic tragedy, Froma Zeitlin postulates that women are never at the center of the stage but rather operate as enablers, blockers, or destroyers for the male characters.18 However, as we reflect on female characters and their relation with the tragic mode in the films analyzed in this book (with the exception of 7 días de enero), it is apparent that all of them have a clear female protagonist. When considering the abundance of female characters in tragic art, Edith Hall states that, as anthropological symbolism suggests, cultures often resort to the figures of women to visualize their social order, even when women are not particularly visible in public life.19 This is clearly the case in a country like Spain in which, until the end of Franco’s dictatorship, women occupied a subordinate space where they were mostly invisible. This idea is reflected in all the films analyzed in the first part of this book. Their female characters are the victims of a society that places them in a secondary position. Hall adds as well that, because women were considered more prone to passions than men, they were the adequate vehicles to explain tragic events and generate an emotional response in the viewers.20 The success of films such as La aldea maldita, La hija de Juan Simón, Julieta, or La novia is best explained by their highly emotional content, for which their female protagonist is, for the most part, responsible. In a similar feminist vein, Helen P. Foley affirms that tragedy confirms the audience’s prejudices and fears about independent female behavior. For the American classical scholar, women’s  Girard, Violence and the Sacred, 141–142.  Zeitlin, Playing the Other, 347. 19  Hall, Greek Tragedy, 127. 20  Ibid. 17 18

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supposed lack of self-control, judgment, and social abilities are features men acknowledge and fear in themselves but prefer to project onto ­women.21 As we will see throughout this book, the more imbued a society is with a patriarchal ideology, the greater the fear and anxiety generated by certain female behaviors. That is the reason why, in the films produced under the Catholic ultraconservative Francoist regime, we witness a greater hostility toward women.

Rebellion, Transgression, and Suffering All the films analyzed in this work feature an initial transgression as the motor of the tragic action that provokes immense suffering and, in some instances, death.22 La aldea maldita, La hija de Juan Simón, and La novia revolve around a sexual indiscretion as their protagonists break one of the most sacred commandments and have sex out of wedlock. On other occasions, this contravention is marked by bloodshed. Greed, jealousy, and political fanaticism are, respectively, the cause of the tragic outcome of La laguna negra, Condenados, and 7 días de enero. In La tía Tula, the main protagonist refuses to submit to the patriarchal/Catholic ideology imposed by Franco’s regime and sets herself on the path of ostracism and solitude. Both in Deprisa, deprisa and La buena estrella, the main characters rebel against an economic system that has marginalized them and left them with a life of crime as the only alternative. Lastly, the protagonist of Julieta, overwhelmed by a deep sense of guilt, inverts the traditional mother-daughter relationship that will ultimately result in a long and painful separation. These contraventions provoke extreme agony and pain.23 The agony is so deep and profound that it makes it impossible for the spectator not to  Foley, Female Acts, 116.  For Walter Benjamin, defiance and suffering are “the pillars of the tragic edifice” (“Trauerspiel and Tragedy”, 107). In a similar tone, Walter Kaufmann states that a play becomes a tragedy not simply when it ends badly but when it portrays on stage suffering so extreme that it leaves in the spectator an everlasting impression (Tragedy and Philosophy, 313). 23  In Totem and Taboo, Sigmund Freud writes that suffering is an essential component of tragedy and that the hero/heroine’s “tragic guilt” is usually the consequence of a rebellion against a divine or human authority (Totem and Taboo, 201). In a similar tone, Edith Hall states that, together with death and familial ties, suffering is a key ingredient of the tragic. She furthers her claim by saying that this suffering makes “audience members feel pity for the sufferer and fear that the same thing could happen to them” (Greek Tragedy, 3–4). 21 22

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empathize with these conflicted protagonists. By the end of each film, the tragic hero/heroine is redeemed in the eyes of the viewer who realizes that, in most cases, the punishment is totally disproportionate. Reflecting on this aspect, British scholar Edward Forman states that tragedy explores moral or ethical gray areas in which the protagonists or their social circle are aware of the existence of extenuating circumstances that problematize the justice of a world where their errors of judgment are so harshly punished.24 This is the case in the films that I deal with in Chap. 1, La aldea maldita and La hija de Juan Simón, in which the ideological intentions of the film can falter. The suffering and agony of their protagonists, Acacia and Carmela, is so excessive that what at first is presented as a cautionary tale about the dangers of the emancipation of women from the patriarchal yoke might instead be interpreted as a feminist praise that cries out against the injustices suffered by women under the patriarchal system.

Fate and Freedom In his book about early modern tragedy, Blair Hoxby points out that the twentieth century’s most influential criticism of tragedy locates at the heart of this literary genre either an inevitable clash between ethical forces or a tension between freedom and necessity.25 However, as Terry Eagleton states, liberty and necessity are inseparable. According to him, both concepts can be combined by embracing one’s destiny as one’s choice.26 None of the characters that populate this book are free in the strict sense of the word. They do make their own decisions at specific times, but they are subjected to a series of conditioning factors, both external (socio-political) and internal (genetic and psychological), which are responsible for the tragic outcome. On the lack of personal freedom, Michel Maffesoli is categorical: rather than acting by themselves, individuals are “acted out” as destiny forcefully and ruthlessly controls them and, obliterating their will, aligns their actions with a previously written script. In sum, this preeminence of destiny negates the foundation of modern Western philosophical thinking: free will.27

 Forman, Guilt and Extenuation, 3.  Hoxbi, What was Tragedy? 3. 26  Eagleton, Sweet Violence, 115. 27  Maffesoli, Instante eterno, 33. 24 25

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The relevance of the external factors in the tragic outcome of these films contributes to the historicized reading of the tragic mode that I propose. A less restrictive honor code might have prevented Acacia’s ordeal in La aldea maldita. In the same way, Carmela’s calvary in La hija de Juan Simón and Tula’s tribulations in Miguel Picazo’s film are consequences of the oppressive atmosphere for women that Francoism created. Similarly, we could blame capitalism for the calamities that befall the protagonists of Deprisa, deprisa and La buena estrella. And yet, the universality of the internal constraints that shape some of the characters allows for a reading of these films that goes beyond the space-time coordinates in which they were conceived. Thus, the tragic consequences of the brothers’ greed in La laguna negra, the jealousy of José in Condenados, the quarrels between mother and daughter in Julieta and the unsatisfied desire in La novia are as old and universal as the world.

A Meaningless and Impenetrable World The characters that traverse this study are often lost in a changing world that they cannot fully grasp, in synch with Simon Critchley’s claim that “[t]ragedy reveals a world only partially intelligible to human agency.”28 That is the case with Acacia and Carmela in La aldea maldita and La hija de Juan Simón, respectively, who are unable to understand and find their place either in a rural world that is dying or in an urban setting that prevents the fulfillment of their dreams and is the source of immense humiliation and suffering. In a similar situation we find Juan, tormented due to his heinous act in La laguna negra; an incredulous Tula, in Picazo’s film; a hopeless Daniel in La buena estrella; and a generally absent Julieta, in Almodovar’s film. These protagonists are lost in a world that is changing rapidly, at a pace they cannot keep up with. The promises of modernity of an orderly, intelligible world, marked by permanent progress in which the subject can find happiness collide with a reality that is quite different. The characters feel increasingly alienated, unprotected, alone, unhappy, and overwhelmed by a feeling of guilt the origin of which is sometimes not very clear even for them. In short, as Peter Hammond suggests, the tragic character feels “estranged,” and through his estrangement and decomposition, “we are brought face to face with the fragility of our identity.”29  Critchley, Tragedy, 34.  Hammond, Strangeness of Tragedy, 5.

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Circular Structure Most of the films analyzed in this book present a circular narrative that I find characteristic of the tragic mode. They challenge a teleological narrative of progress favoring repetition or simply returning the narrative to the starting point. In Condenados, La novia, and 7 días de enero, violence is used recurrently as a way to solve personal, familiar, and national problems respectively. Thus, the protagonists of these films are trapped in an endless cycle of violence that will only end, as in Bardem’s 7 días de enero, when justice is invoked as a way to solve conflicts. In other films, the story returns to the point where it started. In La aldea maldita, Acacia and Juan reunite in the familiar space of the home kitchen in which Florián Rey’s film opens. The final scenes of La hija de Juan Simón repeat almost exactly the opening sequence of Delgrás’ film. The murderous brothers of La laguna negra drowned in the same place where they had dumped their father’s corpse, and in Miguel Picazo’s film, Tula is hopeless and left alone again. Similarly, Almodovar’s Julieta is structured upon the repetition of tragic events such as male infidelity and the drowning of both the protagonist’s husband and grandson. In sum, themes, motifs, and topics from both classic and modern tragedy permeate a substantial number of Spanish cinematic productions, as seen in the close reading of this group of paradigmatic films. Representations of the tragic in different forms and with different intensity have been a constant in Western culture since classical Greece. What we will see in this book is that, from the very beginning, cinema was a vehicle for telling stories in which protagonists needed to endure conflicts, suffering, and even death to illuminate the more critical aspects of their times. With their sacrifice, they open new venues and opportunities for social change but at the expense of significant pain and sorrow. Their agony on the screen connects with an audience looking for a cathartic experience of pity and fear, a key element of the tragic mode since classic Greek drama, and enables them to problematize the standing social order.

Book Layout With the passing of the 1978 Constitution, the return to democracy after forty years under Franco’s dictatorship marked a before and after in contemporary Spain and encompassed a radical socio-political and cultural shift. Considering these key transformations in the ethical, ideological, and

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aesthetic arenas, I have divided the films analyzed in this work into five chapters. The first two chapters reflect how conservative/fascist thinking appropriates the tragic mode in an ideological manner. In Chap. 2, “The Fallen Woman: A Tragic Approach,” through a close reading of La aldea maldita and La hija de Juan Simón, I analyze the sexual transgression, suffering, and final redemption of their female protagonists from a tragic perspective. Chapter 3, “The Condemned Land: Tragedy and the Rural World,” focuses on two rural tragedies set in the dry lands of Castile. La laguna negra and Condenados, with their rhetoric of greed, fatal love, jealousy, revenge, violence, and death, deconstruct the idealist vision of rural Spain built and promoted by Franco’s regime. Chapter 4, “Tragedy, Power, and Resistance,” analyzes La tía Tula and 7 días de enero, directed by ideologically progressive filmmakers who use the tragic mode to denounce conservative/fascist ideology as being responsible for unhappiness, suffering, and death. The films studied in this first part of the book reflect individual challenges and tragic conflicts that are an expression of the struggle between modernity and tradition that characterized Spanish culture during the years leading up to the Civil War (1936–1939) and through the late 1970s. By this time, the country was taking its first steps toward a liberal democracy similar to those in Western Europe. Spanish society became more secular, less morally rigid, and more open to outside influences while still maintaining its strict National Catholic ideology. In Chap. 5, “Tragedy and Social Exclusion,” I question whether the tragic circumstances in which the characters in Deprisa, deprisa and La buena estrella find themselves are caused by socioeconomic conditions that can be solved through more progressive social policies, by an intrinsically conflicted human nature or simply by the whim of the gods. Finally, Chap. 6 “The Recurrence of the Tragic” examines two recent examples of Spanish films imbued with the tragic mode. La novia revamps and modernizes the universe of García Lorca’s tragedy Bodas de sangre, and Julieta, by Pedro Almodóvar, revolves around the idea that tragedy deals with toxic material from the past inherited by the present. These four films, produced after the recovery of democracy in 1978, are evidence of the enduring presence of the tragic mode in films created between the last decades of the twentieth century and the present. During this time frame, while enjoying the benefits of being a democratic country and a member of the European Union (since 1986), Spaniards confronted different individual, social, and political challenges such as gender discrimination, social inequality, and economic uneasiness, and the reckoning with a traumatic past hidden from the official narrative that, as reflected in these films, oftentimes acquired a tragic tone.

CHAPTER 2

The Fallen Woman: A Tragic Approach

Oh! N’insultez jamais une femme qui tombe [Never ever insult a fallen woman] —Victor Hugo

La aldea maldita and La hija de Juan Simón tell the story of two women who, trapped in the narrow space between societal expectations and their desire for independence and self-realization, feel compelled to leave their rural town and venture into the city. In this hostile and adverse environment, these women will suffer the ignominy of prostitution until returning home. This rural space becomes a lost paradise for the “prodigal daughter” in which she redeems herself after paying a high price for her transgression. These films are paradigmatic of a subgenre that has been very popular in literature and art since the 1850s which centered on the motif of the “fallen woman,” a woman outcast from society as a consequence of her loss of sexual purity. The fallen woman follows a typical path that initiates with a sexual transgression, such as adultery or premarital sex, for which she is expelled from the family home. Marginalized from society, she often engages in prostitution, and her path of decadence usually ends in her death.1 The plot lines of the two films analyzed in this chapter adhere to this pattern. 1

 Jacobs, Wages of Sin, x.

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 L. M. González, Modes of the Tragic in Spanish Cinema, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-19325-5_2

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Thus, the central thesis of this chapter is that, with the purpose of consolidating, promoting, and preserving the ideological, moral, and cultural agenda supported by conservative thinking, these texts resort to what I call a “restorative narrative” for which the tragic mode—with its dynamics of fall, suffering, death, and redemption—offers an extraordinary platform. This “restorative narrative” is a kind of exemplary or cautionary and disciplinary tale for women that initially presents an “anomalous” social and family situation which, as the narrative develops, is amended and made acceptable for the prevalent conservative ideological matrix. This process shows that Spanish society of the twentieth century is much more complex and problematic than the monolithic and homogeneous image of Spain portrayed in the official conservative rhetoric.2 In other words, if a “corrective” is needed, it is because there are deviations from the norm, and these deviations are precisely the focus of my analysis. I also argue that, despite the original intentions of these texts, the tragic mode that traverses them, with its insistence on showing human suffering and despair, allows viewers to create alternative readings that ultimately undermine the original ideological objective of these productions because—as shown in these films—someone is always willing to risk everything to pursue his or her dreams. My analysis is based on several theoretical premises: ideology is more effectively disseminated through works which are products of the imagination;3 texts absorb the ideological atmosphere in which they are produced, thus becoming valuable sources in identifying what Raymond Williams calls the “structures of feeling” of a specific time; and, finally, the meaning of a filmic text is subject to a continuous negotiation by its potential spectators because, as Barbara Kingler states, “under different circumstances, films assume different identities and cultural functions.”4

2  Both films were produced during a period in which Spain was controlled by conservative governments that were strongly influenced by the Catholic Church. In 1930, when La aldea maldita was released, the dictatorship of General Primo de Rivera was reaching its conclusion. La hija de Juan Simón, released in 1957, coincides with the period when Franco’s ultra-right-wing dictatorship is experiencing a slow process of defascistization brought about by Franco’s agreements with the Vatican and the United States. 3  Althusser, Lenin and Philosophy, 165. 4  Kingler, Melodrama and Meaning, xvii.

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La aldea maldita: Fall, Forgiveness, and Redemption Directed by Florián Rey, La aldea maldita is one of the most important silent films produced in Spain before the Civil War.5 With Carmen Viance, Pedro Larrañaga, and Amelia Muñoz in the leading roles, the film stages the popular theme of the “fallen woman” framing it within the context of the conflict between tradition and modernity, characteristic of much of the Spanish cultural production of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Due to the huge success of the film, Florián Rey shot a new version in 1942. However, imbued with the artificial and rigid fascist aesthetic hegemonic at the time of its release, this second version was clearly of an inferior quality. In the following pages, I analyze La aldea maldita as paradigmatic of a branch of modernism, inspired by the work of Nietzsche, that in the early twentieth century revives forms and motifs of the tragic tradition to challenge the rationalism, secularization, democracy, and urbanization of modernity. I base my analysis of Rey’s film on some motifs and concepts derived from the tragic tradition, such as the divine curse, the tragic flaw, or hamartia, that eventually leads to the hero’s/heroine’s downfall, overwhelming feelings of shame and guilt, and, finally, the excessive and unnecessary suffering of characters unable to overcome both their own contradictions and the challenges inherent to modernity. Inclement Heaven In contrast to other productions examined here, the title of the film suggests a collective protagonist rather than an individual character. Nevertheless, there are several key characters: Juan Castilla (Pedro Larrañaga), a peasant; Acacia (Carmen Viance), his naïve wife; their son; Juan’s father (Víctor Pastor), an old blind man; and Magdalena (Amelia Muñoz), Acacia’s friend. The symbolic charge of the characters’ names is apparent, as they determine their fate. To emphasize the universal scope of the story, Rey gives the male protagonist the very common first name, 5  Before shooting La aldea maldita, Rey directed the popular La hermana San Sulpicio [Sister San Sulpicio] (1927). During the Spanish Civil War, he directed Carmen, la de Triana (1938) and La canción de Aixa [The Song of Aixa] (1938) in Nazi Germany. All of these films featured the popular Spanish star, Imperio Argentina. In 1998, Fernando Trueba recreated the political and cinematographic collaboration between Franco’s Spain and the Nazi Regime in the film La niña de tus ojos [The Girl of Your Dreams].

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Juan, and the last name, Castilla, anticipating for the family the same destiny as that of the nation.6 In the same way, Acacia’s name is a symbol of the innocence which she will ultimately lose once she leaves the rural space for the city. Similarly, her name is also associated with the cross in the Christian world, thus foreshadowing her future calvary. More obviously, Magdalena’s name is associated with prostitution in the Bible. The story takes place in Luján, a small farming community in the heart of Castile. The neighboring towns call it the “cursed village” because their harvest has been lost for the last three years. Nobody can explain why, but the film suggests that the heavens wanted to punish the small Castilian village. As often happens in classic tragic art, Rey’s film presents the idea of a cruel and arbitrary God whose wrath has no reason.7 At least two readings can be made of this fact. The first would consider the Catholic background in which the film takes place and would point to a literal divine presence that for unknown reasons decided to punish this village. A shot of the church tower standing out and another one of a huge cross on which an old man is resting leave no room for doubt about the Christian setting in which this story unfolds. The other reading, with which I am more inclined to agree, is that, as Simon Critchley claims, “(t)he gods are names for powers not under our control.”8 In this way the “Heaven” mentioned in the intertitle, despite being capitalized, would refer to Nature as an untamed element, which time and again will prove the futility of humanity’s attempt to control everything. From a gender perspective, La aldea maldita endorses a conservative/ misogynistic image of women that, highly influenced by the Catholic Church, portrays them as irresponsible and materialist, obsessed with ornamental accessories and negligent of their duties. As an example of this idea, early in the film Acacia joins a group of women in the village square. 6  Rey’s film is part of an artistic tradition that, in the first decades of the twentieth century, uses the decline of Castile as a poetic motif. At the turn of the century, a group of writers such as Miguel de Unamuno, Antonio Ruiz “Azorín,” Ramiro de Maeztu, Antonio Machado, and José Ortega y Gasset, among others, create a stark Castile whose landscape reflects the past and explains the present decadence of the nation. 7  Donald Mastronarde states that the gods in myth and religion have a fluctuating role. While sometimes they are seen as predictable agents of justice and order, at others they become the explanation for uncanny events that would otherwise remain inexplicable. The gods of Greek tragedy are also imbued with this duality of function. In fact, the preponderance of destructive divine interventions sets the foundation for the common assumption that ill-fortune is an inherent characteristic of the tragic genre (“Gods,” 321). 8  Critchley, Tragedy, 68.

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Magdalena holds the central position of this group showing off her clothes and jewels that, as an intertitle says, have been brought to her from the city. Simultaneously, back in Acacia’s kitchen, an infant cries in the absence of his mother. His weeping awakens the grandfather. Acacia, attracted by Magdalena’s stories of life in the city, has momentarily neglected her role as mother, which results in her portrayal as an unsympathetic and negative character in the eyes of her conservative social setting and the audience. Through the use of parallel editing, the shots of the darkening sky are interspersed with traditional images of the villagers performing different tasks in the field. Juan comments on the situation with another peasant who complains that villagers no longer resort to religious faith in the face of inclement weather. He echoes the idea that, as a consequence of the rationalist agenda of modernity, more and more people are abandoning traditional religious practices. As noted in the introduction, it is precisely in these moments of historical transition when tragic art flourishes as a witness to the changes in social practices. The divine punishment characteristic of the tragic tradition announced at the beginning of the film materializes in the form of a hailstorm that destroys the crops and unleashes the unfortunate events that follow. Some of the villagers are seen praying and asking God to spare their crops from the storm. However, instead of joining the other women in the chapel, Acacia is home reading one of the serial novels that were so popular in the first decades of the twentieth century. The title of the novel is El castigo (The Punishment), and the cover shows a man abusing a woman, an interesting metafictional twist that anticipates the dramatic events in the second part of the film. Acacia’s decision not to participate in the community prayer, a behavior that goes against the expectations of the times, likens her character to that of Juan and his father who also set themselves apart from the rest of the community. Juan’s lack of respect for religion is highlighted when he utters a blasphemy. The absence of both Juan and Acacia from the communal prayer could be seen as a challenge to the spiritual order and to social conventions that would later explain their suffering. Donald Mastronarde states that in modern societies there is a clear gap between conventional religious rites and blasphemous or parodical practices which are reserved for the private sphere.9 This is especially significant in a country like Spain in which there was a strong public presence of the church almost until the end of the dictatorship, in sharp contrast with  Mastronarde, “Gods,” 331.

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the habitual expressions of anticlerical feelings in a community in which blasphemy was a common practice in the domestic realm. Thus, it is surprising that Juan and Acacia’s openly irreverent acts in the film were not questioned by the censorial apparatus. One possible explanation is that, similar to what Mastronarde expressed for Greek tragedy, their inclusion was intended as negative examples. On this issue, Peter Brooks states that: “No longer the source and guarantor of ethics, ‘God’ has become an interdiction, a primitive force within nature that strikes fear in men’s hearts but does no move them to allegiance and worship.”10 In any case, Acacia and Juan’s atypical attitudes and their disdain for religion can be seen as the reason why their punishment will be heavier than that of their neighbors. As Juan goes out to check the damage caused by the hail, Acacia remains detached from everything that happens without realizing the magnitude of the misfortune that her family is about to endure. Acacia will show the same disengaged and absent-minded attitude in the scene that takes place at the brothel, which I will analyze later. Her son’s crying will remove Acacia from this state in a scene which is crucial to establish the circular structure characteristic of the tragic mode. We see her cradling her son singing a lullaby, happy and motherly. This scene helps Acacia become more sympathetic in the eyes of the spectator and anticipates her final reconciliation with her family and the audience as well. In addition, this narrative device destabilizes a teleological view of time and history based on the idea of continued progress promoted by modernity and against which cultural artifacts such as La aldea maldita revolt. With the loss of the harvest, the peasants despair. Faced with this situation, the villagers’ last recourse is to go to “tío” Lucas, a greedy local money lender who refuses to help them. Frustrated and angry, Juan resorts to violence against Lucas, thus provoking his own fall (he is sent to prison) and, inadvertently, that of Acacia (he is unable to persuade his wife to stay in the village with her family and prevent her disgrace). One of the most popular topoi in tragic literature, the downfall of men (and women), is usually attributed to hubris which can be defined as an excess of pride, disrespect toward your peers, and the inability to master one’s own

 Brooks, Melodramatic Imagination, 18.

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impulses and desires.11 Juan’s tragic flaw makes him suddenly fall from a state of happiness and comfort to one of despair and suffering. Later in the film, we will witness Juan’s transformation when he tames his pride and controls his violent impulses. A poor peasant with the ideas and feelings of a great lord, as stated in one intertitle at the beginning of the film, he will have to work as a foreman in the city and constantly restrain his violent impulses against Acacia after her misstep.12 As the villagers frantically prepare their exodus to the city, Magdalena presses Acacia to leave her family and join the rest of the town in their search for a better life. Magdalena’s proposal causes a great dilemma for Acacia. It is precisely her inner conflict and the consequences that ensue which make Acacia a tragic figure.13 Aware of her obligations as a wife and a mother, she initially rejects Magdalena’s plan but eventually the allure of a new life in the city causes Acacia to lose her resolve, and she leaves Luján. Characteristic of the tragic mode, Acacia’s dilemma also serves as a trope for Spain, a country which, at the time that Rey’s film was produced, was similarly divided between two worlds: the traditional, associated with the rural which was based on hierarchical values and regulated by Catholic morals with strongly defined gender roles; and that of modernity which adhered to more democratic and egalitarian ideals associated with the urban. When she shares her plans with her father-in-law, he makes her aware of the rigid value system still in place in traditional Spain that places

11  Generally associated with an excess of pride, confidence, and self-importance, Michael R. Halleran defines it as an “act of violence” (“Episodes,” 170). Similarly, Douglas Cairns defines this key ingredient of tragic art as “youthful impetuosity” and compares this term with its antonym, sôphrosunê. While it literally means “sound-mindedness” or “safe thinking,” in a more general context it refers to “the virtue of self-control or self-restraint in the face of temptations such as food, drink, sex, power, or prestige” (“Values,” 313–315). Finally, Edith Hall states that hubris “is something that you do to someone of equivalent or equal status by disrespecting them” (Greek Tragedy, 188). 12  Like Don Quixote, Juan is a hidalgo, a member of the Spanish low nobility often ridiculed in literature for its airs of greatness. 13  Robert B. Heilman states that the tragic character is marked by dividedness as an identifying feature: he is claimed by coexistent opposing forces, motives, or values that play a significant role in the dramatic situation (Tragedy and Melodrama, 89). In a similar vein, Doreet LeVitte Harten has expressed that the conflict of the tragic hero acquires an internal dimension, thus creating a ruthless inner battle between himself/herself and his/her soul (“Melodrama,” 100).

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women in the position of preserving the family honor.14Anachronistic and at odds with the challenges of modernity, this archaic honor code is responsible for the suffering and despair of both Acacia and Juan.15 The old man, who represents the traditional conservative ideology that equates life in the city with decadence and corruption, closes his speech about family honor by solemnly declaring that, in Castile, the one who stains the family name is never forgiven, but, as we will see later, these words will be proven false.16 This obsession with an unreachable idea of honor will appear again in Condenados, a film that I will discuss in the next chapter. In Mur Oti’s film, the quest for unblemished honor will derive in a tragic clash between the three protagonists with deadly consequences. Determined to abandon the town, a desperate Acacia makes the heartbreaking decision to leave her child with his grandfather and joins the caravan of villagers seeking a better life in the city. This is the kind of conflict that, according to Thomas Kuhns, tragedy addresses. For this scholar, the clash “between private psychological need and public political obligation,” like the one we see in many instances of this work, goes to the heart of political life.17 That is the reason why I privilege a historicist reading of the tragic in this work. Interestingly, the only time we see Acacia make use of a certain agency, she makes a decision that will ultimately cause immense pain and suffering both to herself and to those around her. As Simon Critchley claims, it is not just fate and the will of the gods that destroys us. Our own complicity collaborates in our demise and, in that sense, freedom is involved in this process.18 With the freedom that her husband’s imprisonment concedes her, Acacia makes a resolution that will prove erroneous. Rey’s film supports the idea that women are incapable of making rational decisions, that they are dominated by emotional impulses, and that they 14  Julian Pitt-Rivers defines honor as “the value of a person in his own eyes, but also in the eyes of his society. It is his estimation of his own worth, his claim to pride, but it is also the acknowledgment of that claim, his excellence recognized by society, his right to pride” (“Honour and Social Status,” 21). 15  The theme of honor connects the film with the Early Modern Spanish theater of Lope de Vega and Calderón de la Barca. On this topic see Margaret R. Greer, “Spanish Golden Age Tragedy” in Rebecca Bushnell (ed.) A Companion to Tragedy, Blackwell, 2005. 16  Reflecting on the concept of honor, the French sociologist Pierre Bourdieu has stated that “[i]nasmuch as its real subject is a collective—the lineage or the house—itself shaped by the demands immanent in the symbolic order, the point of honour presents itself as an ideal, or, more precisely, as a system of demands which inevitably remains, in many cases, inaccessible” (Masculine Domination, 50). 17  Kuhns, Tragedy, 2. 18  Critchley, Tragedy, 12.

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are dazzled by material things. Thus, they need the constant supervision, control, and advice of men to avoid the chaos that would provoke the destruction of the family. The scene portraying the caravan of villagers as they move away into the distance is one of the most memorable moments of the film. A mix of long shots, medium shots, and close-ups displays in great detail the precision and planning of the villagers as they begin their exodus from the condemned land. Among all of these stunning shots, one of the most powerful is of a man with his arms stretched out, reminiscent of the crucifixion of Christ, a recurrent leitmotif in the film as observed in the opening scenes with the stone cross. Once again, Rey’s film emphasizes the eminent Christian character of Spanish culture from which at least a part of society is fleeing as well as the path of suffering on which Acacia embarks. The first part of the film closes when Juan, pardoned by Lucas, is released from jail to find that Acacia has left the village and is alone in the city. Three years have passed, and Juan is now living with his son and his father in the city of Segovia. He is working as the foreman of a farm, and he is financially comfortable. It seems like the wheel of fortune—topoi akin to the tragic mode—has taken another turn. A clear symbol of modernity, we now see Juan winding up a toy airplane for his son. The camera then shifts to the old man who blesses the food that they are about to eat. Nevertheless, the most important aspect of this scene is Acacia’s absence from the family setting. This soon becomes the central topic of conversation. Acacia’s absence highlights the inherent dangers of modernity which, by giving women more freedom, undermines the traditional family order. From a conservative point of view, this family is an anomaly because of Acacia, who has subverted the sacred bond that holds this group together and has chosen to abandon them. After three years without any news from her, Juan tries to explain her absence, suggesting that Acacia is probably dead; yet his father doubts this. In many instances of tragic literature, the blind characters are attributed intense inner vision, giving them the ability “to see things” with more clarity than characters with complete vision. In La aldea maldita, Juan’s father plays the role of the “the blind seer” who was able to foresee the tragedy that his family faces after Acacia abandoned the village. Walter Kauffman points out that the theme of human blindness “is not merely one that lends itself to tragic treatment” but is “one of the archetypes of tragedy.”19 Like Tiresias in the best known of Sophocles’ tragedies, Juan’s father is able to see what the rest fail to: the dangers of  Kauffman, Tragedy and Philosophy, 140.

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city life for unaccompanied women in the oppressive and patriarchal context of early twentieth-century Spain. Kauffman also sees man’s blindness as “representative of the human condition” and more importantly as “his radical insecurity.”20 Thus, in this film we can talk about two different kinds of blindness, a physical one, which ironically allows Juan’s father to see what the others cannot see, and a more “spiritual” one (to use Kauffman’s terminology) that prevents both Acacia and Juan from seeing the harsh reality as it is rather than through the lens of idealization. This last kind of blindness will ultimately be the cause of the couple’s tragedy. The story now shifts to a key scene in a seedy tavern, a heterotopic space in Michel Foucault’s terminology, where Juan will unexpectedly discover Acacia’s whereabouts.21 At the brothel we observe Juan acting relaxed, drinking, and chatting with his coworkers for the first time. Suddenly, Juan realizes that a woman has placed her hand on his shoulder in a provocative manner, which confirms to the spectator that he is in a house of ill repute. He turns and is shocked to discover Acacia’s best friend, Magdalena. The camera then shifts to her, using a shot/reverse shot. She tries to pull away from him, but he has her in a tight grip. Finally, she falls to the ground and, staring at Juan with a wrathful gaze, insults him. Magdalena stands up defiantly and runs to a curtain to reveal that his wife is “entertaining” another man. Magdalena’s objective is not to humiliate her friend Acacia but rather to disgrace Juan publicly. Nevertheless, it is Acacia who feels ashamed and disgraced by her husband’s harsh look of condemnation and reproach. Juan, also feeling offended and disparaged, lowers his head in sorrow. Many themes of interest emerge in this scene, the most striking of which is the opposite manner in which the two women approach their new lifestyle. On the one hand, Magdalena seems to have adapted to life in the brothel naturally and with ease. In stark contrast, Acacia appears to be lost in thoughts that originate from a different time and place. These two distinct attitudes are crucial because they allow spectators to see Acacia as a more sympathetic character. Her apathetic attitude portrays her as a victim  Ibid., 137.  In opposition to utopia as unreal spaces that “present society itself in a perfected form, or else society turned upside down,” Foucault proposes the existence of other spaces that, by contrast, he calls heterotopias. For the French philosopher, heterotopias “are like counter-­ sites, a kind of effectively enacted utopia in which the real sites, all the other real sites that can be found within the culture, are simultaneously represented, contested, and inverted.” Significantly, the brothel would be an extreme case of heterotopia (History of Sexuality, 24). 20 21

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of the socioeconomic circumstances that surround her rather than as an evil Eve guilty of causing her family misfortunes. As for Juan, his actions are in line with what one expects during the early twentieth century. Humiliated and dishonored by his wife, his first impulse is to resort to violence to punish Acacia. Nevertheless, Juan demonstrates more control than in the past, and when he appears ready to attack her, he stops himself. This is a clear example of the virtue of sôphrosunê, to which I referred above. It looks like Juan has learned the high price that he paid for the sin of hubris in the first part of the film and he is now resolved to restrain his aggressive impulses and to exhibit temperance and moderation. In any regard, Juan drags his wife out of the brothel and takes her to his house where he forces her to change clothes. Through this, Juan pretends, at least symbolically, to transport Acacia to a pre-fall stage in which she still was without blemish. Naïvely, he seems to believe that modifying her outer appearance erases her past transgressions.22 Once at home, Juan forbids Acacia to touch or see the little one and proclaims that, after the grandfather is dead, she must leave the house. Juan’s decision not to expel his wife from home immediately aims to prevent his father from learning about her fall and the family’s subsequent dishonor. In this scene, cinematic technique reinforces the spectator’s perception of power relations. Juan is on the stairs looking down on his wife who, with her lowered head, submissively accepts her sentence with resignation and shame (Fig. 2.1). American sociologist Helen Merrell Lynd states that “shame is defined as a wound to one’s self-esteem, a painful feeling or sense of degradation excited by the consciousness of having done something unworthy of one’s previous idea of one’s own excellence. It is, also, a peculiarly painful feeling of being in a situation that incurs the scorn or contempt of others.”23 In a similar vein, Erica L.  Johnson and Patricia Moran state that “(i)n contrast to guilt, which is evoked by an action or behavior about which one feels badly and for which one might hope to make amends, shame

22  Fred Davis states that clothing expresses our social identity, shaped by cultural values with regard to gender and sexuality, among other categories (Fashion, Culture and Identity, 191). John Carl Flugel, in his seminal book The Psychology of Clothes (1930), and more recently Anne Hollander in Seeing Through Clothes (1978) have established theoretically how, at least in Western culture, women’s sexuality and their manner of dress, either to hide or to accentuate the former, are inseparably connected. 23  Lynd, On Shame, 23–24.

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Fig. 2.1  Acacias’ guilt and shame. La aldea maldita (Florián Rey, 1930)

resides so deeply within one’s sense of being that it cannot be absolved.”24 They continue this line of reasoning by concluding that “the shame affect notably evokes a ‘doubleness of experience,’ involving not just an intrapsychic apprehension of the self as diminished, but an intersubjective apprehension of the self as diminished in the eyes of another.”25 In the scene at the top of the stairs mentioned above, this duality of experience can be clearly appreciated as Acacia not only thinks less of herself but also feels that she is being looked down on by her husband, both literally and symbolically. In any regard, shame implicitly suggests the internalization of a system of values expressed in La aldea maldita through an anachronistic honor code that makes females the bearers of its oppressive weight. Faithful to his prior stipulations, Juan emphasizes the idea that Acacia is dirty and contaminated and should not be permitted to infect the next generation of the family.26 For the symbolic universe of traditional conservative Spain, Acacia is a dangerous, dirty, and corrupt element that has  Johnson and Moran, The Female Face, 2.  Ibid., 4. 26  As noted by Sigmund Freud, “dirtiness of any kind” is “incompatible with civilization,” and “the demand for cleanliness” extends beyond “civilized society” to encompass the human body (Civilization and Its Discontents, 46–47). Along similar lines, Mary Douglas states that “our ideas of dirt also express symbolic systems” (Purity and Danger, 36). 24 25

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Fig. 2.2  Acacia receives her father in-law’s forgiveness. La aldea maldita (Florián Rey, 1930)

violated several central taboos: she abandoned her husband, son, and father-in-law, and she had sex outside of marriage. Due to the strict rules that Juan has imposed, the domestic life and delineation of tasks is altered significantly in this household, which ironically demonstrates that the division of domestic chores based on gender is purely a social construction. The scene in which Juan’s father is dying is a perfect example of the dilemmas and conflicts that the Castilla family is facing. On his deathbed, the old man keeps living in the illusion that nothing will ever change. Addressing his son, he proclaims that his grandson will lead the same kind of life that they and their ancestors had. Directing his attention to Acacia, he stresses once again the importance of honor, stating that it is their only wealth and should be inherited by future generations. Even if life brings hunger and misery, honor should prevail. In an interesting turn, it seems as if he always knew of Acacia’s disgrace. With great tenderness, he caresses Acacia’s head resting his hand on top of it, in a clear Christological symbol of forgiveness (Fig. 2.2). The next scene presents the family at the old man’s wake. Juan and his son are at the foot of the bed, and Acacia is in the background, hesitating to approach and join them. The entire family is framed by two candles,

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and a crucifix stands in the middle of the mise en scène, highlighting the Catholic nature of the society in which they live. Interestingly, the shot is taken from the old man’s point of view, as if he were witnessing and controlling this crucial moment even after his death. After taking a few steps forward, Acacia realizes that she will not have her husband’s forgiveness and that she must leave home. In the eyes of the community, Acacia must be outcast because she has stained herself, her family, and those close to them by her immoral behavior. If, as Critchley states, Oedipus is a monster because he has breached the proper political order of the city through parricide and incest,27 Acacia becomes a monster as well in conservative Spanish society. Thus, she acquires the status of tragic hero that, in Critchley’s reckoning, can be defined as “the monster who is the source of the pollution in the city that must be expelled.”28 In Plato’s Pharmacy, Jacques Derrida states that by violently outcasting the member who represents an external threat or aggression, the pharmakos, the city’s body regains its unity, security, and purity. For the French philosopher, this expulsion restores sôphrosunê.29 In any regard, it seems that, like his father, Juan is ready to pardon Acacia and welcome her back into society, but he also knows that, in order for her to be forgiven, she needs first to endure a penance commensurate with her sins. The Return of the Prodigal Daughter The last segment of the film focuses on Acacia’s journey to atonement. As we witness her wandering about the towns near Luján in an extreme physical and psychological condition, a worried and pensive Juan reads of her lamentable state in the newspaper. Perhaps, at this moment, he is already thinking about forgiving his wife to reestablish the family’s lost harmony, but before that, Acacia needs to purge herself through extreme suffering for her sins. In the Catholic universe in which the film moves, forgiveness is possible as long as a penance is carried out according to the nature of the offense committed. The next shot shows Acacia walking toward another town as part of her journey of expiation. In the next scene, the social rejection of Acacia reaches a high point. She is stoned by a group of boys when

 Critchley, Tragedy, 217.  Ibid., 217. 29  Derrida, “Plato’s Pharmacy,” 348. 27 28

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Fig. 2.3  Acacia singing a lullaby at the beginning of the film. La aldea maldita (Florián Rey, 1930)

she caresses a child that resembles her own son which evokes the biblical universe. The last scenes of the film exemplify the circular structure characteristic of the tragic mode. An intertitle informs the spectator that the story is set again in the “dammed village.” An establishing shot brings back the huge stone cross seen at the beginning of the film. Then a medium shot shows Juan rereading a note by Lucas urging him to return to the village with his son. Upon their arrival, he shows Juan to the kitchen where he finds an unhinged Acacia staring at an empty crib. Acacia’s portrayal as a mad woman does not come as a surprise.30 The camera shifts to a medium shot of Juan brought to tears by this heartbreaking scene. It seems that he now understands that not only is she not completely guilty, but that in some ways she is a victim of social conventions and an anachronistic idea of honor. The camera shifts to Acacia who, noticing the presence of the two men, raises a finger to her lips entreating their silence not to wake up the baby and sings the lullaby that we hear at the beginning of the film, which serves as yet another example of the circular structure that characterizes the tragic mode (Figs. 2.3 and 2.4). 30  As Amanda Anderson claims, “(a)n emphasis on instability, linked to madness, often appears in Victorian depictions of fallenness, as a distinct element of the woman’s fate or destiny” (Tainted Souls, 76, n24.).

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Fig. 2.4  Acacia singing a lullaby to an empty crib at the end of the film. La aldea maldita (Florián Rey, 1930)

A remorseful Juan urges his son to go give his mother a kiss. It takes Acacia a few minutes to recognize him. When she lifts her gaze and sees Juan, her feelings of shame and guilt reappear. The film closes with tío Lucas sanctioning this final act of forgiveness. As a key character in the tragic events that the Castilla family endures, he metonymically represents the conservative community that has previously condemned the couple. In addition, Juan’s final forgiveness marks the last step in a sequence of damnation and redemption that, as Friedrich Ohly states, “fulfils an enduring human desire, from Antiquity through the Middle Ages to our own time, to see the hero who has been brought low, but accepted his fate, led back once more into light.”31 It is also important to highlight that Acacia’s final pardon can be seen as a critique of patriarchal and premodern values that prevent women’s fulfillment in society. As noted by Marta García Carrión, this “happy ending” deeply upsets some sectors of the Catholic Church due to the absence of a harsher exemplary punishment against Acacia.32

 Ohly, The Damned and the Elect, 141.  García Carrión, Sin cinematografía, 119.

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To sum up, La aldea maldita is paradigmatic of the tragic mode analyzed in this book. With the exception of Magdalena, the rest of the main characters of the film—especially Acacia, Juan, and his father—move in a space where gray tones dominate. They are neither guilty nor completely innocent. Their misfortunes have to do with both external agents—the extraordinary transformation that Spain is undergoing in the early decades of twentieth century—and internal ones, where frustration and the impossibility of realizing one’s personal dreams lead both Juan and Acacia to this tragic situation. All of these characters in the film feel guilty to some extent. They are human, with their flaws and virtues, and it is precisely this humanism that makes the timelessness and universality of Florián Rey’s film possible. The topic of the “fallen woman” continued to fascinate Spanish audiences as evidenced by the enormous success of the film that I will analyze next, La hija de Juan Simón. Delgrás’ film offers a new reading of this topic in a story imbued with the fascist obsession with redemption through death that permeates the culture of Spain in the decades that follow the Civil War.

Poetics of Fall and Redemption: La hija de Juan Simón La enterraron por la tarde A la hija de Juan Simón Y era Simón en el pueblo Y era Simón en el pueblo ay, El único “enterraor” (They buried her in the afternoon Juan Simon’s daughter And in the town, Simon was And Simon was, pity him, The only gravedigger.) —Lyrics from the song “La hija de Juan Simón”

Directed by Gonzalo Delgrás and starring María Cuadrado and Antonio Molina, La hija de Juan Simón debuted in 1957 and was an instant hit at the box office. The extraordinary success of the film, then and now, can be attributed to the presence of Antonio Molina, an extremely popular

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“cantaor” (folk singer) during Franco’s dictatorship. The film is the second screen adaptation of the theatrical work of the same name by José María Granada and Nemesio M. Sobrevila that premiered in 1930. José Luis Saénz de Heredia, who later became one of the most influential filmmakers during Franco’s regime, directed the first screen adaptation in 1935. The internationally acclaimed Spanish film director Luis Buñuel was the producer of this first adaptation.33 Set in the 1950s when Franco’s dictatorship was fully established, Delgrás’ film narrates the story of Carmela, a young woman who, disgusted by the oppressive atmosphere of a small and traditional Spanish town, leaves her family and moves to Madrid. In this metropolitan setting, she hopes to become an actress with the assistance of a young actor with whom she has fallen in love. Her initial naïve illusions quickly evaporate when she is jilted by her fickle lover, leaving her no other recourse than joining the world of mistresses and kept women of post-war Spain. Eventually, after having repented, she will return to her hometown where, scorned by everyone, finally succumbs to death. Carmela’s fall fits the description of some tragic stories in which, as stated by Judith Thompson, the dramatic journey of the heroine “follows a common pattern, which begins always with mythically elevated expectations, followed by inevitable disillusionment, and the physical corruption of the soul’s transcendent dreams.”34 Delgrás’ film strictly adheres to this scheme. Thus, in the following pages, drawing on the interpretations of the classical concept of the pharmakon by Naomi Conn Liebler and Terry Eagleton, among others, I analyze Carmela as a tragic character. I hold that Carmela’s aestheticized death—right in line with fascist art—converts her into the scapegoat of a society in crisis where the conflict between modernity and tradition reaches its apex. Finally, I argue that the tragic 33  The first version, produced in 1935 by Luis Buñuel and with Angelillo, one of the most popular artists of the 1930s, and Pilar Muñoz as the leading actors, showcases some aspects of the progressive agenda that, especially in the field of women’s rights, marked the social policy of the tumultuous Republican Spain. Heredia’s film emphasized the degree of culpability of society in Carmela’s tragedy, making her a victim of the patriarchal system that strongly limited women. This version’s plot is very similar to the original play. One significant change is that it adds an extra scene at the end of the film in which Carmela survives her failed attempt at suicide. In my opinion, this creates a forced happy ending that serves the purpose of making it more acceptable to the consumer and of incorporating the more open attitude toward women established by the Second Spanish Republic. 34  Thompson, Tennessee Williams’ Plays, 26.

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mode that permeates this film, with its emphasis on human suffering and desperation, enables the spectators to create alternative readings that, as seen in La aldea maldita, ultimately undermine its original ideological purposes. La hija de Juan Simón opens with an interesting metafictional scene that converts Delgrás’ film into a self-reflexive postmodern text. At first, during the opening credits, the spectator hears the lyrics of the popular song which tells the story of a gravedigger who is faced with the sad task of burying his own daughter. The first scene of the film shows a funeral procession, in which a priest and three altar boys, one of whom carries a huge iron cross, lead the solemn march. After them, four men carry the coffin followed by the rest of the mourners, the women walking ahead and the men behind. The camera now shifts to a close-up of the iron cross that guides the crowd and watches it for a few seconds. After a cut, the camera returns to the funeral procession that is abruptly stopped just as the people are about to enter the cemetery gates. The appearance of the film director marks the moment when the spectator realizes the “fictional” nature of the scene. The director insists on having Juan Simón, the gravedigger, lead the procession. The parish priest, who is an extra in the film, questions the authenticity of this proposed scene because it alters the order prescribed by the church. The director defends his decision and states that reality is one thing and cinema is another. The purpose of this scene is twofold: it unmasks the artificial nature of cinema and reminds the spectator of the popular story and its tragic ending. For the spectators viewing La hija de Juan Simón at the time it was released, what made this familiar story so unique was not so much what was told as how it was told. Moreover, as I will analyze in detail later, this scene helps Delgrás infuse the film with the circular structure characteristic of the tragic mode. The film opens and closes practically with the same scenes and the same soundtrack. In short, this metafictional device underscores the fact that, if fiction normally imitates life, in this film life imitates fiction. In addition, it is ironic that, given the negative role of the world of cinema in this story, here it is precisely a film that criticizes show business as a corrupting element of society and as an expression of a certain way of understanding modernity which opposes Franco’s regime. The camera then shifts to the other side of the cemetery wall where we are introduced to Carmela (María Cuadrado) and Alfonso (Mario Berriatúa), the young daughter of the gravedigger and a handsome young film star. They are embracing and kissing, which seems out of place with

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the rigid moral values of Franco’s Spain. However, Carmela’s outward appearance conforms with the strict dress code of Spanish society with her dark baggy overcoat, plain hairstyle, and long scarf. Her conservative clothing is in stark contrast with Alfonso’s cosmopolitan and tailored style. The young woman recognizes that rural life offers very limited options. Carmela is not alone in her assessment of rural Spain as a place with no future. Since the early 1950s, Spain witnessed the migration of many citizens from the countryside to the big cities (Madrid, Barcelona, Bilbao, and Valencia, among others). Franco’s officials observed this movement and were concerned about the political consequences of these changes. In their opinion, this migration represented the beginning of the destruction of the traditional way of life and threatened the very pillars of Franco’s reactionary, patriarchal dictatorship, and the strict moral codes of the Catholic Church. Films such as Surcos [Furrows] (José Antonio Nieves Conde, 1951) or La ciudad no es para mí [The City Is Not For Me] (Pedro Lazaga, 1966) became the mouthpiece of those who feared these changes. Alfonso sees Carmela’s aspiration to escape her tedious life as an opportunity to fulfill his sexual desires and offers to help her start a career in film. His invitation to move to Madrid to develop her career presents Carmela with a difficult decision given her family obligations to her father, her aunt, and Antonio (a young man who, even though he is not a member of the family, has been raised in the same house as Carmela). As we saw with the character of Acacia in La aldea maldita, it is precisely this internal conflict between her inner wishes and her familial and societal duties, and her future path of suffering, that inspired me to consider Carmela as a tragic character.35 Carmela’s dilemma stems from the fact that what she considers to be the best opportunity for her clashes with what Spanish society deems to be the proper behavior of a young woman living in a rural town. For Carmela, the dream of going to Madrid, becoming a successful actress, and marrying Alfonso represents freedom from the oppressive environment in which she was raised. Aware of the obligations and restrictions imposed on her by this conservative society, Carmela resists at first. However, Alfonso’s relentless temptations coupled with the stifling atmosphere at home ultimately triumph over her will and she succumbs to 35  In a Hegelian reading of tragedy, Simon Critchley states that: “(w)hat the experience of tragedy invites is neither the blind impulsiveness of action, nor some retreat into a solitary life of contemplation, but the difficulty and uncertainty of action in a world defined by ambiguity, where right always seems to be on both sides” (Tragedy, 5).

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Alfonso’s wishes. Like the rest of Spanish society, Carmela struggles between two worlds: one that is traditional, associated with rural values, a clear social hierarchy and regulated by strong Catholic morals in which gender roles are clearly defined; and the other of modernity, associated with urban ideals that offer greater freedom, equality, and opportunities. As I have already stated, it is precisely in these transitional moments in history when tragic art flourishes.36 Carmela’s Defiance After a scene at the church that reinforces the Catholic background in which Carmela’s story develops, the film shifts to one of its key moments. It is dinnertime, and Carmela has not yet arrived. The spectator observes the typical setting of a traditional Spanish family about to share a meal beside the hearth with the table set. Occupying the center of the screen, Antonio is portrayed in an agitated state. The gravedigger’s sister announces Carmela’s arrival. In a gentle tone, Carmela’s father reprimands her for arriving late. At this moment, Antonio intervenes authoritatively for the first time. In reaction to Antonio’s menacing behavior, Carmela rebels against the oppressive political and moral code of rural Francoist Spain by getting up from the table, leaving the kitchen and slamming the door. This important scene exemplifies both the gender policy imposed by Franco’s regime, which relegated the woman to a subordinate role, and Carmela’s attempt to subvert it. Within the conservative mindset of the times, men considered themselves entitled to regulate and control every aspect of women’s lives. Representing a generation of women who, after the Civil War, were stripped of the rights they achieved during the short Republican period (1931–1939), Carmela’s desire for independence

36  In the 1950s, the beginning of an opposition to Francoism was growing in both universities and factories. In universities, the majority of the student population consisted of people who were born or were young children during the Civil War, and they started to oppose Franco’s policies in favor of democracy. In factories, the clandestine labor unions that were crushed during the Civil War started to rebuild and show opposition to the economic agenda of Franco’s regime.

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generates fear and anxiety in the male figures in her environment.37 As for Antonio, reflecting a common practice of Franco’s Spain, he will invoke violence as the only argument against his “stepsister’s” desire for freedom.38 Carmela’s defiance of the established order is key to understanding her tragic status and its consequences in terms of the extreme suffering that this challenge eventually entails. As I will analyze later, Tula in Picazo’s film and la novia in Ortiz’s will also challenge the status quo and face a similar outcome. Carmela’s final slamming of the door reminds the spectator of a similar scene in A Doll’s House, Henrik Ibsen’s best known tragedy, in which Nora leaves her family behind in search of a new life. In both works, conflict arises between women’s individual desire for freedom and a society in which the rigid limits of gender roles prevent their growth. In my analysis of La aldea maldita, I already addressed this clash of interests as a crucial feature of the tragic mode. As Acacia, Carmela is torn apart by two imperatives, one related to the public sphere and the other to the private one. John Drakakis and Naomi Conn Liebler perceive this type of conflict in two different ways: as a psychic struggle that translates the character’s inability to adapt to the challenges imposed by the metaphysical order or as a crisis of character determined by a flaw in the psychological constitution of the tragic hero which causes their extraordinary behavior.39 Both Acacia and Carmela are subject to an oppressive atmosphere that converts them into second-class citizens under the rigid patriarchal order of traditional Spain. In addition, both women’s naïveté makes them believe that, by moving to the city, they will fulfill their inner desires. This inability to see reality arises as a tragic flaw that will eventually be responsible for their suffering. Reflecting on Greek tragedy, Mark Griffith states that “when a female character does decide to take action on her own initiative, the result is almost always disastrous.”40 This is the case in the 37  Reflecting on women’s social status during the first years of Franco’s dictatorship, Giuliana Di Febo and Santos Juliá state that, for women, gender difference represented marginalization and subjugation to men. Education played a significant role in restricting their role to the domestic sphere, thus erasing the pre-Civil War emancipation conquests (El franquismo, 73). (Unless otherwise indicated translations are mine) 38  As Mary Vincent points out, despite the centrality of self-control in a context of ultra-­ conservative political hegemony, the fact that masculine identity is construed through domination and superiority inevitably fosters violent behaviors (“La reafirmación de la masculinidad,” 140). 39  Drakakis and Conn Liebler, Tragedy, 7. 40  Griffith, “Authority Figures,” 342.

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films analyzed in this chapter. They both support the idea that a woman’s place is in her hometown with her husband or family and that any attempt to subvert this traditional axiom will have tragic consequences. I will return to this idea later in the analysis of La novia, where the elopement of the bride with her former boyfriend on her wedding night will have bloody consequences. Determined to leave, Carmela meets Alfonso in a forest on the outskirts of the town giving the scene a mysterious and transgressive tone. The discovery that they have been followed by Antonio renews the young woman’s doubts about the step she plans to take. Since Antonio threatened her physically a few minutes before, a scared Carmela wants to make sure that the young actor will soon leave town with her and that he is willing to marry her. For the ingenuous Carmela, Alfonso represents an opportunity to escape the oppressive atmosphere of the village. She does not know yet that the repressive rules of patriarchy also apply in the city, where she will face a reality very different from the one she has envisioned. Further complicating the matter is Antonio’s ambiguous relationship with Carmela. Adopted as a child by her family, Antonio has grown up as her sibling, and it is perhaps this quasi-incestuous relationship that Carmela wants to avoid in her escape to the capital. As cultural anthropologists suggest, some cultures have seen endogamy as a state of transition necessary to avoid a negative path of cultural development or, in other words, to protect the group from outside influences that could undermine its sociocultural foundations. The film clearly favors the relationship between Antonio and Carmela. In this way, it is not difficult to see it as an allegory of the attempts of Francoism to prevent a closed group—rural Spain as the epitome of the traditional and ideological bulwark of the dictatorship— from opening up to new ways of understanding modernity that could challenge its moral and social agenda. Transgression and Fall As one might suppose, Carmela’s future in the city will not end happily. On the bus that takes the film crew back to Madrid, Alfonso acknowledges that he has no interest in Carmela, whom he dismisses symbolically with a “good-bye.” The use of this English word in this scene is certainly relevant. What Alfonso has done is not typical of a Spanish gentleman. In addition, in this intentional use of the language there is a veiled allusion to the 1953 agreements with the United States. For the most conservative

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sectors of the regime, the “Pacto de Madrid” signed in 1953 between Eisenhower and Franco would bring, besides the necessary economic aid and the recognition of Spain on an international level, a loosening of moral customs mimicking those portrayed in the American films that were very popular during the dictatorship.41 Meanwhile, Carmela is the subject of ridicule for her aspirations with the movie star. They cannot believe that the young actor is interested in the daughter of the gravedigger, who holds the lowest rank in the social ladder. Carmela, however, is not satisfied with the mediocrity of her life, and her efforts to advance and cast off her family stigma will be read as an unforgivable attempt to subvert the social and moral order sanctioned by Francoism. The camera then shifts to Carmela’s bedroom where she is writing a good-bye note to her father. In the opening lines of her letter she pleas for her father’s forgiveness, which shows a profound feeling of guilt. The agonizing guilt that consumes Carmela and, as I will discuss later, Juan in La laguna negra, Jose María in 7 días de enero, or Julieta in Almodóvar’s eponymous film, will be a key feature of the despair that distinguishes the modern tragic hero/heroine.42 Upon hearing her father at the door, Carmela quickly hides the letter and her suitcase, and gets into bed. Using a still medium shot, the film shows a tender conversation between father and daughter. Aware of his daughter’s consternation, the father explains that he understands her feelings but also believes that she has been misled by Alfonso who has filled her head with fantasies. As Acacia in La aldea maldita, Carmela’s tragic flaw is her naïveté and her inability to accurately read reality, together with her desire to leave behind the mediocre reality that surrounds her. In a powerful moment, she confesses that she has never liked the village. Following this, her father unwraps a medallion that belonged to her mother. Carmela is obviously moved by this tender gesture and initially refuses to wear it, but at her 41  The “Pact of Madrid” was an important step in the efforts by Franco’s regime to reestablish Spain as part of the new international order after the isolation imposed on the fascist dictatorship after WWII. 42  In his reflections on the tragic in modern drama, Soren Kierkegaard states that what differentiates ancient from modern tragedy is that even though in the first one the wrath of the gods is terrible, the pain that the tragic hero suffers is not as great as in modern tragedy, where the hero “suffers his total guilt, is transparent to himself in his suffering of his guilt” (Either/Or, 147). Along the same lines, Drakakis and Liebler claim that, in modern tragic art, “forces such as Fate are replaced by the guilt which the hero feels as a consequence of his actions” (Tragedy, 22).

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father’s insistence, she allows him to place it around her neck, foreshadowing the final dramatic scene on her deathbed. Once her father leaves the room, we witness a distraught Carmela lying in bed consumed by the inner conflict that, as I stated above, characterizes the modern tragic hero. The next shot shows Carmela’s empty bed. The camera shifts slowly to the right and focuses on the open window. Carmela has finally decided to pursue her individual aspirations although she is aware of the risk. The film enters now a new chapter which takes place in Madrid. This segment opens with an aerial establishing shot displaying the chaotic traffic patterns—a metaphor of the hustle and bustle of urban life—and the famous Atocha train station.43 Carmela arrives in Madrid with the idea of marrying Alfonso and becoming a movie star, a futile hope that will not materialize. Forced by her adverse situation, she will end up “entertaining” a marquis and moving to a boarding house for females. Her lodging is in fact a disguised bawdy house, a Foucauldian heterotopic place as discussed in La aldea maldita, representing the common world of mistresses and kept women in Franco’s Spain. Here the gender politics of the dictatorship that makes women an object for male consumption becomes explicit. It also highlights the hypocrisy of a society that, while limiting the possibilities of action for women, has normalized prostitution through the institution of the mistress. In this space, the norms of society are relaxed, and a certain freedom, very restricted elsewhere, opens for men at the expense of women. The unexpected arrival of Carmela’s father and Antonio, prompted by a singing competition in Madrid which will change Antonio’s life, unleashes a harsh family confrontation. Carmela tries to hide her dishonorable condition, but, in the end, the truth is revealed. Antonio fights with Alfonso, injures him, and ends up in jail (note the parallelism with La aldea maldita in which Juan also ends up in prison for attacking Lucas). The scene closes with an emotional argument between Carmela and her father who, disappointed with her conduct, rips the medallion off her neck. With this gesture, Carmela is banished from the sacred family space. Michael J.  Anderson points out that Greek tragedy explores key social institutions and values dramatizing instances of “extreme crisis, violent conflict, and emotional distress, moments in which traditional values are 43  During Franco’s dictatorship this iconic site represented a new beginning for many people who, from the 1950s, moved from the impoverished rural areas of the country to the industrial capital city.

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threatened and social bonds break down.”44 According to him, these family crises are often associated with the characters’ sexual maturity and the ensuing change in kinship and social relations.45 In this scene, we witness the peak of a conflict that started when Carmela, who has awakened to her sexuality, confronts her father and Antonio and challenges the conventional unity and purity of the family, and that climaxes now that her dishonorable behavior is exposed. Like Acacia, Carmela has stained her family’s name and must be outcast. Edited in the classic Hollywood shot/reverse-shot style, the tense prison scene between Carmela and Antonio is key to the analysis of the tragic mode that permeates this production. As I have already indicated, the tragic mode is expressed through the staging of a universe populated by characters who are lost, abandoned, trapped, and subjected to a series of political, cultural, and social conditions whose rules are foreign to them and which, as in this case, they will ultimately try to resist without success. The sequence is filmed in such a way that it seems that both Carmela and Antonio are imprisoned, and it is not clear which of the two is in jail (Fig.  2.5). For the viewer, it soon becomes evident that Antonio is

Fig. 2.5  Antonio and Carmela, trapped. La hija de Juan Simón (Gonzalo Delgrás, 1957)

 Anderson, “Myth,” 124.  Ibid., 125.

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physically in a cell which he will eventually leave, but Carmela is in a prison woven with a symbolic web of socio-political and cultural forces from which only death can free her. Antonio reproaches her harshly for her past behavior, and Carmela acknowledges her error, stating that it is very hard for her to continue her life knowing that he and her father despise her, thus embodying her initial dilemma and her struggles to choose between freedom and independence or her family obligations. When the young singer reveals that he has been in love with her, Carmela, oblivious of the codes of conduct imposed by the rigid morals of the time, naïvely hopes they can still be happy together. Antonio, influenced by the hegemonic conservative ideology of the time, whose effects he ultimately suffers, answers that their reconciliation is not possible. Then Carmela seeks at least his forgiveness. By refusing to forgive her until after her death, Antonio, a victim of a society in crisis and an anachronistic concept of honor, commits an error of irreparable consequences in a very similar way to the one we witnessed in La aldea maldita. Male privilege is also a trap, and it has its negative side in the permanent tension and contention imposed on every man by the duty to assert his manliness in all circumstances which at times verges on the absurd.46 Delgrás’ film perfectly captures this idea by placing Antonio in a prison that is both literal and metaphorical. After Antonio’s rejection, Carmela abandons her life as a kept woman and tries without success to survive on her own in Madrid until the “prodigal daughter” returns to redeem her sin and, with her death, obtain Antonio’s forgiveness. As Jonathan Dollimore notes, “the sexually dissident have known that the strange dynamic which, in Western culture, binds death into desire is not the product of a marginal pathological imagination, but crucial in the formation of that culture.”47 In Spanish culture, this link between desire and death can be observed in early works like La Celestina (Fernando de Rojas 1499), as well as in more contemporary works such as La casa de Bernarda Alba (Federico García Lorca 1936), just to give two examples. In both texts, Melibea and Adela, respectively, must pay with their lives for their subversion of social norms and their decision to place their own desires above the moral conventions of their time. Carmela, as we will witness here, will soon be added to this list.

 Bourdieu, Male Domination, 50.  Dollimore, Death, Desire and Loss, xii.

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Carmela as the Scapegoat The last section of the film focuses on Carmela’s return to the town in search of forgiveness from her family and, by extension, the entire community that feels aggrieved and violated by her transgression. Forgiveness, as discussed in La aldea maldita, requires penance. Filled with a profound feeling of guilt, Carmela’s atonement starts with her proverbial walk of shame through the streets of her village while receiving merciless stares from people she has known her entire life. As I have already stated in my analysis of La aldea maldita, shame entails a sense of inferiority for having fallen short of one’s own standards.48 Contrary to guilt, it does not cease as it is deeply nested in one’s sense of being.49 Furthermore, shame implies a “doubleness of experience” as it involves both an internal perception of the self as diminished and the realization that one is being externally perceived as diminished in the eyes of the others.50 In Carmela’s case, we witness this “doubleness of experience” inherent of shame when, abandoned by Alfonso, she is forced into prostitution, as well as when she is treated as an outcast by her family and most of her fellow villagers. The sequence to which I am referring begins with a medium shot where a wobbly Carmela walks across the village toward her house. Through a skillful handling of the subjective camera, we see how her former neighbors look down upon her. Women and men, old and young, move away from Carmela, who now appears stained, contaminated, and impure. As noted in the analysis of La aldea maldita, Freud stated that dirtiness and civilization are irreconcilable and that this claim for cleanliness surpasses civilized society and extends to the human body.51 For the symbolic universe of Francoism, Carmela is a dangerous, dirty, and corrupt element that has violated one of its central taboos: the prohibition of having sex outside of marriage. In its totalitarian desire to control all aspects of Spanish society, Francoism, which was highly influenced by the Catholic Church, imposes a vision of sexuality that, at least for women, is circumscribed to its biological reproductive nature. Carmela’s transgression undermines the core of the value system of the dictatorship. Since the ultimate goal of any totalitarian regime is to perpetuate the values and  Lynd, On Shame, 22–23.  Johnson and Moran, The Female Face, 2. 50  Ibid., 4. 51  Freud, Civilization and Its Discontents, 47. 48 49

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ideals on which it is based, this “pathogenic” element has to be eliminated, sacrificed, thus enabling the continuation of the community.52 Carmela becomes a metaphor for the difficulties encountered by Franco’s regime with its insistence on rigidly maintaining an outdated system of values while concurrently trying to promote steps toward modernization. This contradiction is what will expose the unviability of a regime that—as we will see in the analysis of La tía Tula—was disconnected from large sectors of Spanish society as early as the beginning of the 1960s. These challenges and contradictions are even more evident when observing the practices and policies regarding women’s rights at this time. As noted in the analysis of La hija de Juan Simón, Francoism, with its rigid standards that limit the role of women to wife, nun, or prostitute, ultimately causes immeasurable unhappiness and pain for precisely the members of society that it is supposedly trying to protect. In the closing scenes of this segment, despised by the same community whose hypocrisy is largely responsible for her tragedy, the character of Carmela acquires a Christ-like dimension. We see her as she stumbles and falls once more, hardly enduring the accusing glances of her neighbors. Thus, the film displays the circular structure that characterizes the tragic mode and reminds the spectators of Carmela’s initial “fall from grace” (Fig. 2.6). Under these painful circumstances, the protagonist of this story receives the help of her only friend, a modern version of the biblical Simon of Cyrene. Deceived by Alfonso, prostituted by an aristocrat, humiliated by Antonio, despised by her father, and, finally, harassed and mocked by her neighbors, Carmela’s only exit as a woman is death, which echoes Nicole Loraux’s view of women’s role in ancient tragedy.53 There Is No Redemption Without Death A suggestive close-up shows Carmela lying on her deathbed and receiving the scarce light that illuminates the scene. With a lost look, the young 52  Drawing on works in cultural anthropology that connect ritual sacrifices and tragedy and on Jacques Derrida’s reflections on the topic, Naomi Conn Liebler concludes that the tragic heroine, (s)erves as pharmakos, the sacrificial victim required by all purgative rituals. As symbolic embodiment of the threats perceived by a community in crisis, she must be destroyed (The Female Tragic Hero, 12–13). In a similar tenor, Terry Eagleton adds that “Rebuffing the claims of the symbolic order, (…) (s)uch figures (…) incarnate the inner contradictions of the social order, and so symbolize its failure in their own” (Sweet Violence, 280). 53  Loraux, “The Rope and the Sword,” 241.

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Fig. 2.6  Carmela’s calvary. La hija de Juan Simón (Gonzalo Delgrás, 1957)

woman seems to have found inner peace. After a cut, the camera is placed on the opposite side of Carmela’s bed while she receives Extreme Unction. She is the central figure in the shot, which is completed with the image of the priest’s forearm and hand. Next, the camera is positioned behind Carmela’s headboard. The scant light that illuminates this image shows the priest’s hand bringing a crucifix to Carmela’s lips. The next cut returns the camera to its initial position to show a close-up similar to the one that opened the sequence. This time, Carmela has her eyes closed, and it is her father’s shaky hands that place a medal on her neck. With her final sacrifice, the protagonist recovers, along with her mother’s medal, the place lost in the family and within the Catholic Church, spaces from which she was expelled because of her transgression. This sequence closes with a new cut that takes us away from Carmela’s room to show a shot of the church bell announcing the death of the young woman. Carmela is finally free because, as Nicole Loraux states, women’s liberty resides in tragedy and death (Fig. 2.7).54

 Loraux, “The Rope and the Sword,” 240.

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Fig. 2.7  Carmela’s aestheticized death. La hija de Juan Simón (Gonzalo Delgrás, 1957)

Carmela’s death scene stands out for its extraordinary emotional power.55 Carefully shot and with an emotive soundtrack, Delgrás offers the viewer a glamorous portrayal of the agony of the young woman.56 Carmela’s highly aestheticized death serves a double purpose. First, she is the pharmakos whose sacrifice serves to purify her community. Her female condition in Francoist Spain contributes to this purpose because, as Rene Girard observes, “woman qualifies for sacrificial status by reasons of her weakness and relatively marginal social status.”57 Second, her death also works as an act of self-purification through which she is seeking Antonio’s forgiveness. In any regard, as Dollimore highlights in Shakespeare’s 55  On the artistic representations of dead women, Jonathan Dollimore points out that they are at once violently voyeuristic, as the viewer contemplates death from a safe position, and fetishistic, as these representations separate the body from its materiality and its historical context. Even more important for my analysis of this film is the fact that, as Dollimore states, this link between femininity and death “harbors and even intensifies a fascination with precisely what has been repressed” (Death, Desire and Loss, 331 n13). 56  Olga Taxidou writes, “tragedy presents us with a discourse and a practice that claims death for the purposes of the aesthetic” (Tragedy, 9). In addition, this representation is in tune with the fascist totalitarian kitsch that, as Alejandro Yarza has stated, marks a large part of Francoist cultural production (Making and Unmaking, 33). 57  Girard, Violence and the Sacred, 141–142.

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Measure for Measure, “(w)hat is being dramatized here is the way in which a philosophy of death appears to work as an ideology of social control, converting transgressed desire into complete submission to authority, even to the point of welcoming death.”58 With Carmela’s death, the symbolic universe of Franco’s Spain achieves her total submission to patriarchal rule. Tragedy presents a double reading: on the one hand, it underscores the distortions to the norms and system of values effected by the deviant, while, on the other, it “lends an ear” to the “occasional dissenting voice” of the transgressor.59 It is precisely this “dissenting voice” that interests me. As we will see later in my analysis of La tía Tula, in the cinema produced in Spain during Franco’s dictatorship, it is not uncommon to see women who defy social rules. Their rebellion takes place even though they know that their actions will ultimately provoke the criticism of the society against which they have risen and, in cases like Carmela’s, their own death. By winning the sympathy of the viewer, Carmela’s death destabilizes the value system that condemned her. Speaking of a series of films produced in the first decades of Franco’s regime, Annabel Martín points out that “The order demanded will never settle completely without first revealing the tremendous violence demanded by the process of systematization, violence that can awaken a critical subtext in sensitive spectators, provoking in them a visceral rejection of the solution imposed by the film’s outcome.”60 With its vivid display of human suffering and misery, the tragic mode that permeates these films activates viewers’ alternative ­readings that challenge films’ original intentions and subvert their conservative ideological objectives.61 Following the circular structure that characterizes the tragic mode, in the final segment of the film the action returns to the cemetery. This scene, which includes several images of the funeral procession that carries Carmela’s coffin to the churchyard, is shot from her point of view. Delgrás repeats the formula of the subjective camera editing used when Carmela  Dollimore, Death, Desire and Loss, 115.  Loraux, “The Rope and the Sword,” 248. 60  Martín, La gramática de la felicidad, 108. 61  Film scholar Barbara Kingler points out that some melodramas “surpass the genre’s cathartic aims and reactionary tendencies to achieve aesthetic complexity and social commentary” (Melodrama and Meaning, xii). For his part, Tomas Elsaesser states that “the best American melodramas of the 50s are not only critical documents but genuine tragedies” (“Tales of Sound,” 67–68). 58 59

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returned home and her neighbors received the “prodigal daughter’ with disdain and contempt. The difference is that they now show an attitude of profound respect and grief. After an editing cut, the enormous cross that leads the funeral procession into the cemetery is shown from behind and in the foreground. Then the camera offers a close-up of the face of Carmela’s father who, sad and pensive, carries on his shoulder the coffin of his daughter. A shot of the iron cross with the figure of the Crucified Christ reinforces Carmela’s Christ-like attributes. After a new cut, the camera offers a frontal shot of her father who cannot suppress his tears. The camera stops over Carmela’s grave where only her name can be read, but there is no reference to the dates of her birth or death. Carmela has entered the timeless universe of myth.62 In tragedy, funeral processions and rites are a sustained “source of conflict, spectacle, and pathos.”63 As Carmela’s spectacular and emotional funeral shows, her tragic death produces the mixture of pity and terror which Aristotle saw as indispensable ingredients of tragedy. This is not the only instance in which we will see funeral representations in this book, as death is a central feature of the tragic mode. As in the film analyzed here, in La tía Tula and 7 días de enero, mourning, both private and public, will be a key element of the filmic narrative. In the next scene, a few months have passed since Carmela’s death. The popular song which gives title to this film is still playing in the background. In a new establishing shot of the cemetery, the clouds, the cypresses, and an Easter cross make up a peaceful landscape. Habitual elements in Spanish cemeteries, the three have been traditionally associated with death and the afterlife. The Easter Cross, a symbol of God’s forgiveness, stresses once more the parallelism between the figures of Carmela and Jesus Christ. Everything seems to indicate that Carmela in death has found the inner peace and forgiveness that her family and friends denied her. La hija de Juan Simón closes with Antonio, now a world-renowned popular singer, entering the cemetery. In a tracking shot, we see his shadow approaching Carmela’s tomb where he kneels. The camera is raised several meters to show the diminutive figure of Antonio forgiving 62  Another very popular film, Marcelino pan y vino (The Miracle of Marcelino) (Ladislao Vajda, 1955), also concludes with a shot of the tombstone of a little orphan boy, raised by twelve friars, who asks Jesus to take him to heaven to be with his mother. Jesus honors his request. On his tombstone, there are no dates to indicate his birth and death. All that appears are the boy’s proper name, Marcelino, and his nickname, Pan y Vino (Bread and Wine). 63  Hall, Greek Tragedy, 74.

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her, as he promised in the prison scene discussed previously. The price that he has to pay for his defense of an archaic code of honor is a life of solitude and guilt. The image of a huge white cross, in which Carmela’s purity is now implicitly recognized, is the last shot of the popular film. This scene proves correct David Daiches Raphael’s claim that tragedy manages to find a spiritual victory in a natural defeat.64 Since the beginning of the film, the viewers know that Carmela has no chance. Perhaps, she is also aware that by rebelling against the status quo she will likely perish in the endeavor and be defeated by a series of socio-political forces (patriarchy, the symbolic system of Francoism, etc.) that are much stronger than she thinks. In any regard, Carmela’s triumph involves taking the step that few women in her time dared to take. In closing, both La aldea maldita and La hija de Juan Simón, following the artistic tradition of the “fallen woman,” are paradigmatic of the tragic mode that is central to this book. Contrary to their initial intentions (a cautionary tale against the perils of modernity), these dramatic stories based on the tragic motifs of fall, suffering, death, and redemption underscore the fears and anxieties of traditional Spain. Acacia’s and Carmela’s sexual transgressions reveal the fallacy of an absolute social control that is the foundation of this conservative ideology. The heroines’ tortuous path to final redemption elicits the sympathy of an audience who may question the value system that the films supposedly supported. Finally, the popularity of both films still today heightens the aesthetic, ideological, and commercial effectiveness of the tragic mode on which this book focuses.

 Raphael, The Paradox of Tragedy, 28.

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CHAPTER 3

The Condemned Land: Tragedy and the Rural World

During the early years of Franco’s dictatorship, in which its fascist components are presented with greater clarity, the “imagined community” of the regime was situated in the rural world. Spanish fascism built a highly idealized image of rural Spain and its traditional way of life, similar to Nazi Germany and Fascist Italy.1 This vision of a Spain not touched by the transformative agenda of modernity is opposed to the extensive political and social reform promoted by the Second Republic (1931–1939). During the short republican experience, the successive progressive governments implemented laws to narrow the gap between Spain and western Europe in political, social, and economic grounds. First the Civil War and then the dictatorship that followed reversed this process with the goal of maintaining a political and social model with a premodern tone. With an economy primarily dependent on agriculture and an industrial base that was relatively small in comparison to the other Western European countries, the goal of the first phase of Franco’s regime (1939–1959) was to perpetuate an authoritarian, patriarchal, and Catholic society that was located in the rural areas of the country, a space not yet contaminated by the perceived 1  The British historian Mark Neocleous points out that nature plays a prominent role in the fascist political agenda, to the extent that some of its main principles are centered on the idea that peasantry and agriculture represent the true spirit of a nation (Fascism, 76). In a similar manner, Alice Kaplan suggests that fascist literature, as is common with other movements against modernity, reveres nature and expresses a desire to revolt against modern life (Reproductions of Banality, 26).

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 L. M. González, Modes of the Tragic in Spanish Cinema, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-19325-5_3

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negative effects of modernity. It is precisely in this pristine setting that Franco’s dictatorship will encounter the ideal citizen of this national and Catholic “New Spain.” This imaginary Francoist space will favor the local over the universal; open spaces with a limited number of inhabitants over the city and its unruly masses; and finally, an economy based on agriculture over industrial development and technology. In the following pages, I focus my attention on two rural tragedies set in the dry lands of Castile. Paradigmatic of the tragic mode, La laguna negra and Condenados, with their rhetoric of greed, fatal love, jealousy, revenge, violence, and death, deconstruct the idealist vision of rural Spain built and promoted by the authoritarian regime.

Family Business: La laguna negra Thou wouldst be great Art not without ambition, but without The illness should attend it —Shakespeare, Macbeth

Directed by Arturo Ruiz-Castillo, La laguna negra is an adaptation of Antonio Machado’s ballad La tierra de Alvargonzález (Alvargonzález’s land), published in 1912, which tells the story of two siblings who, coveting their father’s inheritance, murder him.2 Forty years after the poem’s publication, Maruchi Fresno, Tomás Blanco, Fernando Rey, José María Lado, and María Jesús Valdés were in charge of bringing Machado’s text to the screen.3 The film was released at a time when cinematographic productions based on select moments of Spanish history, which were strongly promoted and supported by Franco’s regime, were becoming less popular in the eyes of both the public and political officials. Historical cinema, which had been the crown jewel of the film industry during the early years of the dictatorship, began to make room for other types of film that, like

2  Arturo Ruiz-Castillo was very active on the cultural scene during the Spanish Second Republic. In 1932, he co-founded La Barraca, a university theater company, with Federico García Lorca. After the Civil War, he dedicated himself to film production. The following films are some of his most noteworthy works: Las inquietudes de Shanti Andiá (1947), Obsesión (1947), La manigua sin Dios (1948), El santuario no se rinde (1949), María Antonia, “La caramba” (1950), Catalina de Inglaterra (1951), El guardián del paraíso (1954), and, finally, El secreto del capitán O’Hara (1964). 3  For her role as the pure and kind Ángela, Valdés received the “Círculo de Escritores Cinematográficos” award as best actress. This same institution also awarded Jesús García Leoz a prize for the soundtrack.

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the one analyzed here, exploit the prestige and reputation of the literary works on which they are based as a way to attract their audiences. In the following pages, building on the theoretical work on parricide by Sigmund Freud and René Girard, I analyze how La laguna negra tells a story with Oedipal undertones in which the “father’s law” is violently transgressed. In addition, I examine the ghostly atmosphere that permeates the film as an allegory of the Spanish political situation of the 1950s. During this time, thousands of people who were assassinated by Franco’s repressive regime were still being denied a proper burial. Finally, drawing on the research on feminism and tragedy by Froma Zeitlin, Elizabeth Bronfen and Nicole Laroux, among others, I focus on the character of Candelas to examine the relationship between gender and the tragic mode. Catherine Belsey argues that in literature, “(g)hosts are largely confined to prologues, choruses, dumb shows or dream. They foretell conflict and then stand aside to watch the action.”4 This is precisely what happens in La laguna negra, which opens with the sound of church bells tolling the death of a villager and a brief intertitle stating that the action takes place in Castile and that it could happen anytime and anywhere in the world, thus appealing to the universal scope of tragic art.5 The camera then guides the spectator through a house which, even though its large size suggests the lofty economic status of its inhabitants, is empty and imbued with a phantasmagoric atmosphere. The ghostly voice of the dead father, whose name is surprisingly never mentioned, has the entire house under his spell and curses his sons in the following way: No podréis sentaros tranquilos en mi puesto. No tendréis hijos que os hereden después de daros ternura y obediencia. Vuestras manos se avergonzarán malditas al partir el pan sobre la mesa de vuestros mayores. Jamás acudirá la abundancia a vuestros manteles y no caerá la bendición de Dios sobre vuestra fatiga. (You will never be able to take my place. You will never have children who will inherit your wealth after showing you tenderness and obedience. Your hands will be cursed with shame as you break bread at the table of your elders. Your tablecloth will never see abundance and your hard work will never be blessed by God.)6  Belsey, Tales of the Troubled Dead, 27.  As was the case in La aldea maldita, Castile works as a synecdoche of the rest of the country. Antonio Machado, the author of the ballad that served as the inspiration for this film, is one of the most prominent members of the famous group known as the Generation of 98. This group consisted of intellectuals, writers, and philosophers, who, reflected upon the decadence of this Spanish region. 6  La laguna negra, 0:02:32. 4 5

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This harsh condemnation has biblical undertones and echoes classical Greek tragedy. Oedipus, in the opening scene of Sophocles’ best known tragedy, asks the gods to deliver an exemplary punishment to those who do not assist in the search for Laius’ assassins: “For those who do not do as I command, I pray / the gods send them no harvest from the earth, / no children from their wives. / Let them be destroyed / by the very fate upon us now, and by one/ worse still.”7 The words of the ill-fated king in Sophocles’ Oedipus foreshadow the future that awaits the protagonists of this film who will witness both the barrenness of their lands and their wives. Just as the murdered patriarch concludes his condemnation, the camera shifts to the lagoon where his sons have just thrown his corpse. As we will see, the whole community is deeply affected by the death of the head of the household. Like the murdered King Hamlet’s specter, the father’s ghost will haunt his family. Literary scholar Roger Pogue Harrison underscores the fact that choosing to dispose of a corpse in the water instead of burying the body is completely inhumane. According to him, it is our desire to bury our dead that differentiates us from the rest of the species on this planet.8 By tossing their father’s corpse in the lagoon, Juan (Tomás Blanco) and Martín (José María Lado) are attempting to rid themselves of the pressure that their deceased father is imposing on them in this present moment. They are also removing the possibility of having a marked gravestone potentially trigger the discovery of their crime. In any case, this anomaly prevents their father’s spirit from resting in peace, and consequently the murdered patriarch’s presence is felt in the form of a ghost that has cast its spell on his family. On the symbolic relationship between water, the lagoon, and death, Juan Eduardo Cirlot states that water conveys the transition between life and death.9 In La laguna negra, this liminal state between life and death is reinforced by the presence of the spirit of the assassinated father. Throughout the film, he refuses to leave the world of the living and will not rest in peace until the guilty have been punished and his corpse has been removed from the lagoon so that he can receive a proper burial. Ruiz-Castillo’s film opens with one of the classic motifs of tragic art: the murdering of a family member. From Oedipus to Hamlet, from the Oresteia to Woyzeck, the killing of a relative has been a recurring theme of tragic literature. Of all the examples mentioned, La laguna negra is closer to the first one. However, in Sophocles’ masterpiece, Oedipus is  Sophocles, Oedipus the King, 235–236.  Harrison, The Dominion of the Dead, 12. 9  Cirlot, Dictionary of Symbols, 256. 7 8

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completely unaware that he is a blood relation of Laius, while Juan and Martín are fully cognizant of the fact that they are killing their progenitor. In Totem and taboo, Sigmund Freud establishes the symbolic structure of the Oedipus complex and theorizes about the violent murder of the father by his sons. According to Freud, even though the brothers love and admire the father, they also hate him for standing against their sexual demands and desire for power. Once they kill him, they are overwhelmed by guilt and remorse.10 In Ruiz-Castillo’s film, the sons’ primary motive for killing their father is their desire to “possess” and control his land. I have given the verb “possess” a sexual connotation because in this film the land—as we will also see later in the analysis of Condenados—works as a feminine symbol that can be penetrated and fertilized. In La laguna negra, the transgression of the brothers, which allows them to “fertilize the land” and yield a fruitful harvest, will be futile because the fruits of their labor “will die” at “birth” in a fire that destroys all of the crops. In the end, not only are the lands infertile, but also Juan’s and Martín’s wives echo the dire predictions of the father’s curse. In regard to the sense of guilt that according to Freud follows the killing of the father, in La laguna negra the brothers have completely different attitudes and reactions. Portrayed as a weak character who is dominated by his older brother Martín, Juan can be seen on several occasions contemplating his hands with horror after committing the atrocious crime. As a consequence of this feeling of guilt, he believes that he can hear his father’s voice calling from the bottom of the lagoon. On the other hand, Martín, acting calmly, tosses his father’s hoe into the water. This tool, being a phallic symbol, represents the “law of the father” from which he feels liberated. At no time, through the film, will he show any kind of regret. Anne McTaggart contends that “(g)uilt (…) is connected with moral responsibility and is generated when we break a moral rule more often than not, a written moral rule (as opposed to transgressing a physical boundary or taboo), commit a wrong action, or fail to act when we should.”11 She continues to state that “(i)n the Freudian tradition, guilt originates as a fear of punishment or retribution from parental authority, and this fear is increasingly internalized in the development of the superego.”12 Instigated by his brother, Juan has broken two of the cardinal rules of the Christian code of morality: “Honor your father and your mother” and “you shall not kill,” which are the fourth and the fifth of the  Freud, Totem and Taboo, 185–186.  McTaggart, Shame and Guilt, 12. 12  Ibid., 12. 10 11

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Ten Commandments, respectively. Parricide, though very popular in tragic art, represents one of the most heinous forms of murder.13 Through this study we will witness other family conflicts that will acquire a tragic tone. That is the case in La tía Tula and Julieta, but in neither of those films will the clash between family members attain the brutal nature of the one analyzed here. The film moves on to portray the same empty, lifeless, and phantasmagoric room from the opening scene, haunted by the spirit of the dead father. The camera focuses on the patriarch’s chair at the head of the table, which now resembles an empty throne. At this point, the film introduces the three main female characters: Rosario (Irene Caba Alba), Ángela (María Jesús Valdés), and Candelas (Maruchi Fresno). The first is the old housekeeper who has diligently served this family her entire life. She has taken care of the brothers since they were infants and has witnessed the family tensions that trigger the tragic outcome. The old woman sees and knows everything, but never intervenes, allowing events to follow their course, and always hoping that justice will reign and peace will be restored. Ángela is Juan’s wife, an her name embodies all of the virtues associated with the conservative view of the ideal woman: kindness, obedience, dedication to her family, and never straying from the home or church. Martín’s wife, Candelas, is the polar opposite of her sister-in-law: ill-humored, dour, barren, and ultimately the instigator of the parricide. As the mastermind of the crime, this modern Lady Macbeth is one of the most fascinating characters of the film. Surprisingly, there is never a mention of the mother of the sons. Perhaps the absence of the motherly figure who typically acts as a mediator between fathers and sons accounts for the tragic outcome of this story. The female characters’ actions in this film conform to the idea that in tragedy women are never at the center of the stage, and “(r)ather they play the roles of catalysts, agents, instruments, blockers, spoilers, destroyers, and sometimes helpers or saviors for the male characters.”14 The three of them are subsidiary characters, even though Candelas will acquire some relevance toward the end of the film. 13  Michael J. Anderson claims that “(b)y far the most widespread instances of crisis and conflicts in tragedy are those that threaten the institution of the family. Not only did the tragedians frequently dramatize disputes between family members (…) they repeatedly drew upon myths in which one family member kills or nearly kills another, thus dramatizing the most transgressive violations of the most fundamental human bonds” (“Myth,” 124). 14  Zeitlin, Playing the Other, 347.

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While all the characters are wondering about what happened to the old man, his presence will be felt twice in this scene. First, Ángela, visibly preoccupied, hears a knock at the door which she interprets as the father’s return. She quickly approaches the door, and when she opens it, all that is visible is darkness. The action now moves to Juan and Ángela’s room where Juan is becoming more and more agitated. In what could be considered a Freudian slip, Juan talks about his father in the past tense. A dramatic change in the soundtrack suggests that there is something mysterious and eerie in the room. Once again, Juan hears the voice of his dead father calling his sons from the depths of the lagoon. As he backs up covering his ears, the window flies open on its own giving the impression that the old man’s ghost has just entered. To reinforce this idea, the film cuts to a shot of the lagoon from which the dead father’s voice hauntingly continues to call. Just as the window opened on its own, it slams shut in front of Juan, who is completely overwhelmed by his sense of guilt (Fig. 3.1). The intense atmosphere created by the phantasmagoric presence of the dead father is heightened by the constant clanging of the church bells. Peter Buse and Andrew Stott remind us that ghosts “are predominantly symbols of lack, disquiet and unmediated tragedy.”15 More importantly, the presence of the father’s specter serves to destabilize the teleological vision of time that Simon Critchley sees as a characteristic of tragedy: “In tragedy, time is out of joint and the linear conception of time (…) is thrown into reverse. The past is not past, the future folds back upon itself, and the present is shot through with fluxions of past and future that destabilize it.”16 In addition, taking a more materialistic approach, La laguna negra shares some aspects with the British ghost stories from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries as characterized by Simon Hay, who states that it is fundamental “to look for historical rather than psychoanalytic explanations of how trauma functions in ghost stories.”17 According to Hay, these stories present not family trauma, but rather the challenging transition from feudalism to capitalism, and they are particularly interested in issues concerning property and inheritance.18 Hay’s general approach can easily be applied to the plot of this film. As evidenced on several  Buse and Stott, Ghost: Deconstruction, Psychoanalysis, History, 13.  Critchley, Tragedy, 14. 17  Hay, Modern British Ghost Story, 5. 18  Ibid., 6. 15 16

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Fig. 3.1  Juan’s overwhelming sense of guilt. La laguna negra (Arturo Ruiz-­ Castillo, 1952)

occasions, the brothers’ principal motivating force is to obtain their inheritance and change the manner in which they work the land. Thus, they take a more modern and capitalistic approach, similar to the one that Spain was implementing when the film premiered after the failure of the autarkic model proposed by Spanish fascism.19 A quick glimpse of the lagoon serves as a nexus to a new scene that opens with a shot of an enormous cross that is partially buried in the ground displaying a castle in the distance. This image bears a strong resemblance to the cross that appears at the beginning and the end of La aldea maldita. As in Florián Rey’s film, this highly symbolic image reminds the spectator of the staunch Catholic world in which this story takes place (Fig. 3.2). In the next cut, we see what appears to be the same castle from a different perspective. As the camera zooms in, what from a distance appears to be strong and pristine, is actually in ruins. In some ways, we can 19  Beginning in the early 1950s, some groups in Franco’s regime will support a shift from the autarky that characterized the early years of the dictatorship to a capitalistic and industrial economic model resembling what existed in the other countries of the Western Hemisphere. The film takes place in the early 1950s during the transition from the typically premodern methods of production and the appearance of a gentle start to modernity which is represented in the film through the figure of Miguel, the brother who emigrated to Latin America and became wealthy there.

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Fig. 3.2  A big cross and a castle in ruins in the background. La laguna negra (Arturo Ruiz-Castillo, 1952)

read this as a metaphor of this family that from the outside looks healthy and functional, but is actually in ruins marred by corruption and greed. Ruins will play an important role in several films analyzed in this study, including La aldea maldita, La laguna negra, Condenados, and La novia. In all of them, images of buildings in ruin serve to represent both the decadence of Castile/Spain and the internal state of mind of some characters. In some ways ruins, like tragic art, remind us of our contingency and finitude; in other words, they put forward the idea that what is waiting for us is death and dissolution in space and time.20 The rumors in the town that the brothers are responsible for their father’s death continue to arise. At this point, everyone suspects that Juan and Martín are behind their father’s disappearance. To highlight his absence, the film once again returns to the old family house. The camera 20  Robert P. Harrison has stated that “(r)uins in an advanced state of ruination represent, or better they literally embody, the dissolution of meaning into matter” and “(t)hat is why the sight of ruins is such a reflexive and, in some cases, unsettling experience.” He adds that, “(b)y revealing what human building ultimately is up against—natural or geological time— ruins have a way of recalling us to the very ground of our human worlds, namely the earth, whose foundations are so solid and so reliable that they presumably will outlast any edifices that we build on them” (Dominion of the Dead, 3).

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pauses briefly on the patriarch’s empty chair to reinforce the idea that the father’s “throne” is unoccupied. A group of village women, playing the role of the chorus from Greek tragedy, moves the action forward by declaring that it is unacceptable that the authorities have not been able to locate the missing old man after a full week of searching. Edith Hall has stated that, in the majority of the plays, the chorus members are part of the community that the tragic family inhabits. As such, they are major stakeholders in the keeping of the peace and the adherence to the law, and this agenda is the motor governing their actions.21 Though brief, their presence in the film serves to reinforce the idea that the communal order, broken with the father’s disappearance, needs to be restored as soon as possible so the whole community can go back to normal. Summer has arrived. The crops are growing well and the siblings expect to have a prosperous season. Nevertheless, Juan is visibly unhappy and unhinged due to his overwhelming feelings of guilt. This corrosive emotion, extremely important in Christianity and, especially, in Catholicism, has not even begun to dissipate and has intensified to the point that all his actions are marked by it.22 The scene closes with a loud clap of thunder that appears normal for a summer storm but reminds us that, as analyzed in La aldea maldita, there are forces beyond our control that are constantly threatening our sense of security. Finding shelter from the storm, Juan enters the house and believes that he sees the ghost of his father slumped over in his chair at the head of the table. It turns out to be Pascual, the judge in charge of the case, who has come inside because of the storm and is waiting for them. The scene ends with a close-up of the empty chair of the patriarch in the foreground, a symbol of the father’s absence that we have witnessed repeatedly, and in the background, it is evident that the storm is becoming more violent. It is worth noting the centrality of the forces of nature in some of the films analyzed in this study. In La aldea maldita, La laguna negra, and, as we will see later, Julieta,  Hall, Greek Tragedy, 30.  As I noted in Chap. 2, in Soren Kierkegaard’s reckoning, guilt is a central aspect in modern tragedy to the point that, as Drakakis and Liebler contend, guilt has nowadays replaced fate as key feature of the tragic (“The Philosophy of Tragedy,” 22). For his part, Peter Brooks claims that “(g)uilt, in the largest sense, may itself derive from an anxiety produced by man’s failure to have maintained a relation to the Sacred; it must now be redefined in terms of self-­ punishment, which requires terror, interdiction of transgression, retribution” (Melodramatic Imagination, 18). 21 22

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nature, in its most extreme expressions, serves both as a reminder of the defenselessness of human beings against external threats and as a mirror of the inner feelings and emotions of the main characters. Back in the fields, we see a group of men completing the traditional tasks associated with farming. Proving that the father’s curse is true, Martín acknowledges that the harvest is not as abundant as they originally thought it would be. Upon the arrival of Daniel, an avaricious local moneylender, Juan and Martín suspend their activities in order to negotiate a substantial loan for which they are willing to accept very harsh terms hoping to receive the inheritance that their father has left them. However, the judge informs them that due to the fact that no cadaver has been found, the brothers will have to wait up to thirty years to receive the money. The relevance that money acquires in the three films analyzed to this point is significant. First Acacia, in La aldea maldita, later Carmela in La hija de Juan Simón and now Juan and Martín in La laguna negra seek in material possessions the happiness promised by capitalism. Many conservatives in Spain, at least from a rhetorical point of view, were always uneasy with this economic system and privileged a more precapitalistic approach to the national economy based in the countryside. In fact, during the years in which these films were produced, Franco’s regime implemented a selfsufficient economic system in order to reduce external political, economic, and cultural influence. The system, which was in place until 1959, proved to be an absolute failure. I will address this issue in more detail in the analysis of Condenados, where Aurelia makes an explicit defense of this autarkic formula. Eager to receive the inheritance money, Martín and his wife, Candelas, are resolved to drag the lagoon and find the old man’s corpse. However, Juan, overwhelmed by guilt, refuses to help them. His refusal provokes Candelas’ ire and, confronting him, she accuses her brother-in-law of being a coward. Continuing her vehement rant, she says that she resents having married Martín and suggests that her father-in-law shared her negative perception of both siblings. Upon hearing Candelas’ bitter rebuke of the brothers, the viewer gains a better understanding of the magnitude of the family’s conflict that culminates with the murder of the head of the clan. It looks like the disagreements between father and sons started much earlier and that the murder was just the last episode in a series of virulent fights among them. As we can infer from the dialogue in the film, conflict

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and violence between father and sons were staples in the family’s interactions.23 This violent confrontation between members of the same family will resonate with the audience recalling the bloodshed of the Civil War that ended a decade before the premiere of La laguna negra. In spite of the intended ahistoricism of the film, it is difficult to separate it from the political and social context that surrounds it. Released in 1952, when Francoism was firmly established, it is nearly impossible to watch the events unfold in this violent family conflict and not to find echoes of the civil battle that devastated Spain from 1936 to 1939. If Antonio Machado’s poem serves as a foreshadowing of the bloody Spanish Civil War that resulted in brothers killing brothers, reminiscent of the biblical story of Cain and Abel, then Ruiz-Castillo’s film only further confirms the disastrous predictions of the poet. In a similar fashion, the voice of the murdered father that haunts Juan throughout the film can be seen as allegory for the thousands of people killed during the Civil War and disposed in unmarked mass graves who are still awaiting a proper burial in 1952 (and, in many cases, even today). Following the same thread, Candelas, who is the one to blame for the blood that stains Juan and Martín’s hands, emblematizes the nation that set its men on the path to violence. Conforming with the misogyny characteristic of the time, Ruiz-Castillo’s film makes Candelas the mastermind of the murder of the old landowner with Martín and Juan as mere puppets under her control. It is important to note how, consequently, Candelas challenges the stereotype imposed on Francoist women since her character is not as passive and submissive as was to be expected in that society. In some ways, Ruiz-Castillo’s film deconstructs the idea of woman as a subaltern subject under male tutelage while converting her into the evil-intentioned antagonist who unleashes the tragedy. Divine Punishment The old man’s curse will soon become reality. During dinner, Ángela, who is pregnant, feels sick. Candelas, who is having trouble getting pregnant, decides to reveal all of the difficulties that she is experiencing. Blaming her 23  Mark Griffith writes that in Greek tragedy a father and a son are rarely seen together on the stage, and when they are, the scene represents a harsh conflict between them (“Authority Figures,” 342). In a similar vein, referring to this exchange of interfamilial violence, René Girard states that parricide is the result of a relationship of violent reciprocity between father and son. He uses Sophocles’ Oedipus to illustrate this idea and explain that Laius too resorted to violence against his son Oedipus (Violence and the Sacred, 74).

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husband for her barren state, we realize that the root of Candelas’ anger and frustration derives from the fact that she is not fulfilling the role that is expected of her in this traditional society. She shares many of the features of the film noir’s femme fatale that was popular in the early 1950s. In her seminal work on the figure of the femme fatale in American cinema, Mary Ann Doane claims that this character “is represented as the antithesis of the maternal - sterile or barren, she produces nothing in a society which fetishizes production.”24 This is especially important here because, following fascist ideology, men were in charge of saving the nation while women were supposed to bear children and educate them to love and serve the country.25 This illuminating conversation is interrupted abruptly by the announcement that a fire is destroying the harvest in which the family had placed their future hopes. Curiously, it will be Candelas who takes the initiative to extinguish the fire. Nevertheless, due to the scarce amount of cooperation from the neighbors, her efforts are in vain. Candelas, raising her fist in a fit of anger, resembling Scarlett O’Hara’s famous scene from Gone with the Wind, curses her neighbors for their lack of solidarity. Back inside the home, she reprimands Juan and Martín boldly declaring that with a different type of man the crops would not have been lost. This is the second time that Candelas calls into question the manliness of the brothers. First, she insinuates that it is not her fault that she is barren, and here she is accusing the brothers of not being manly enough to put out the fire. Returning to this crucial scene in which all of the terms of the father’s curse are coming to fruition, we witness the fulfillment of the last of the predictions when Rosario delivers the tragic news that Ángela has lost her baby as a result of the shock and trauma she experienced when learning about the fire. Juan suddenly realizes that their evil actions have consequences. Martín and Candelas have also witnessed the scene with great distress. Juan is incapable of comprehending why this divine punishment has fallen on Ángela. As the sound of bells are heard in the distance, they are all reminded of the existence of a God who sees everything, rewarding the good and punishing the bad. Juan’s reaction, to a great extent, is similar to that of the viewer who also cannot understand why Ángela, the character least deserving of divine wrath, is the one who loses the most.

 Doane, Femmes Fatales, 2.  Molinero, “Silencio e invisibilidad,” 70.

24 25

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The Return of the Prodigal Son Following the judge’s orders, Miguel, like a ghost from the past, returns from Buenos Aires without informing his family. Upon his arrival, he notices the downfall of the family and comments on the deteriorated state of their house. There is also a noticeable contrast between the elegant clothing that Miguel is wearing, typical of the 1950s, and the antiquated clothing of the other family members which implies that things have gone very well for him in Argentina. Upon learning about the difficult financial situation that the family is in, Miguel offers to help pay the loan and to recuperate the deeds and other items of value that their family put up for collateral. A preoccupied Candelas views Miguel’s return as a possible substitute of the murdered father. The unexpected fall of an individual, house or lineage are usual motifs in tragic art. In Ruiz-Castillo’s film the gradual decadence and impoverishment of the protagonists could easily read as a metaphor for the situation of rural Spain in the 1950s. As I have already discussed in the analysis of La hija de Juan Simón, the harsh conditions that a large rural population faced made them strive for a new beginning in the industrial cities. Miguel quickly becomes aware of the rumors that his brothers are involved in their father’s disappearance. He even hears a peddler whom his brothers had previously tried to incriminate in their father’s murder recite verses from the ballad bearing the title “The horrendous crime at Laguna Negra.” Meanwhile, Candelas, who is constantly trying to destabilize the family, plants the idea in Juan’s mind that Ángela and Miguel are romantically involved. This baseless accusation causes Juan to momentarily consider killing his brother, but he ultimately resists the temptation. Candelas pushes him to take the shotgun but he refuses. The scene closes with a medium shot of Candelas clutching the shotgun showing that she is the only “man” in this house. The phallic symbolism of this scene is reinforced by the shadow of the peg from which the shotgun was removed. Candelas keeps sending her “men” on the path of violence and murder. As Clytemnestra in Aeschylus’ Oresteia trilogy sending her lover Aegisthus to kill her husband, she is trying to convince her brother-in-law to kill Miguel to avoid him from finding out about their first crime and assuming the dead father’s place in the family.26 26  Reflecting on the masculine and feminine roles in tragedy, Sarah B. Pomeroy argues that “while in a repressively patriarchal culture most women—like Ismene- submit docilely, some heroines-like Clytemnestra, Antigone, and Hecuba—adopt the characteristic of the dominant sex to achieve their goals” (“Images of Women,” 218).

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Meanwhile, in order to preserve the family’s honor, Miguel proposes that the three siblings drag the lagoon in search of their father’s remains. There is an obvious contradiction between Miguel’s perceived modernity and his desire to adhere to an archaic code of honor. Once again, Candelas takes charge of the situation. She persuades Martín to kill Miguel and then blame Juan for both murders. In these closing scenes, this new Lady Macbeth becomes the true protagonist of this film. Back to the Beginning As they get closer to the lagoon, Juan once again verbalizes his apprehension about returning there. Just as I have made a connection between Candelas and Lady Macbeth in their role of instigators, one can also see similarities between Juan and the character of Macbeth. In the second scene of the second act of Shakespeare’s work, Macbeth also expresses apprehension about returning to the scene of the crime when he tells his wife, “I’ll go no more. I am afraid to think what I have done. Look on ‘t again I dare not.”27 Using parallel editing, the film shifts to the house where we witness a violent confrontation between Ángela and Candelas. This dramatic scene utilizes a series of close-ups and resembles D.W. Griffith’s melodramas during the era of silent movies. It concludes with Candelas locking Ángela in her bedroom so she cannot go alert the judge of Martín’s plans. In the final segments of the film, Candelas switches from a mere instigator to a more active role. Afraid of facing his father’s ghost, Juan unexpectedly returns from the lagoon and he runs up the stairs to kill Candelas. It is important to note that Juan chooses not to use the shotgun that is hanging on the wall—a clear phallic symbol of the “law of the father”—and instead decides to use his own hands. In Tragic Ways of Killing a Woman, Nicole Loraux states that in Greek tragedy men die by the sword and, usually, women die by the rope. By choosing to strangle his sister-in-law, Juan further underscores his guilt regarding his patricide since, throughout the film, we witness Juan contemplating his hands with horror after committing the terrible crime. By trying to silence her forever, Candelas’ fate fits the typical ending for a femme fatale, since, as Mary Ann Doane states, the femme fatale’s punishment or elimination is a desperate attempt to regain control on behalf of a male subject who feels threatened.28 After killing Candelas, Juan returns to the lagoon to save Miguel and thus achieve final redemption. Following the typical circular  Shakespeare, Macbeth, II.2.  Doane, Femmes Fatales, 2.

27 28

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structure of the tragic mode, the two patricidal brothers fight and end up drowning. From here, we can infer that Miguel, after recovering his father’s and his brothers’ corpses from the lagoon and properly burying them, will eventually marry Ángela and bring the house back to its original position. In this way, the order will be restored and the law of the father reestablished. The justice that the ghost of the father has been seeking from the first scene of Ruiz-Castillo’s film “will finally prevail and all the morally upright will be vindicated.”29 Adrian Poole argues that, “Ghosts in tragedy are invariably associated with judgment and retributive justice (…) Yet a story that simply vindicates the dead and approves the justice they seek is not going to be tragic.”30 From a different angle, Michael J. Anderson argues that though more often than not tragedies avoid simplistic approaches and portray ethical dilemmas without expressing unreserved approval or condemnation, still some of them present a Manichean world that rewards the virtuous and punishes the wicked.31 This is evidenced in this film. In any case, it is the killing of the father and Martín and Juan’s rebellion against his law that imbue this story with the tragic patina that covers the films analyzed in this book. In sum, a tragic story with Oedipal connotations embedded with the misogyny that characterizes the Francoist cinema, La laguna negra ends by restoring the “law of the father” broken with the murder of the head of the family. It presents a world dominated by greed, where the most heinous crimes are committed for material gain. By doing this, Ruiz-Castillo’s film, as we will see again in the analysis of Mur Oti’s Condenados, deconstructs the idyllic vision of rural Spain in which Franco’s regime laid the foundations of the fascist state.

The Law of Desire: Condenados Oh, beware, my lord, of jealousy! It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock The meat if feeds on —Shakespeare, Othello

 Psalms, 94:15–18.  Poole, Tragedy, 34. 31  Anderson, “Myth,” 124. 29 30

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Similar to La laguna negra, Condenados also has literary ties. It is an adaptation of José Suarez Carreño’s play of the same title which won the prestigious Lope de Vega award in 1951. The film was directed by Manuel Mur Oti,32 who, according to Alberto Mira, is “one of the most visually adventurous directors of the early Franco period.”33 Starring Aurora Bautista, José Suárez, and Carlos Lemos, Condenados debuted in Madrid in 1953, a pivotal year for the definitive consolidation of Franco’s dictatorship. Mur Oti’s is the first film analyzed in this book that gives a woman the absolute leading role. This is not a surprise since Spanish Cinema in the early post-war years gives women an unexpected role as protagonist, to the extent that, as Isolina Ballesteros writes, while women were ostensibly visible on screen, they were either absent or invisible in the political and social arena.34 Condenados’ plot revolves around a love triangle between Aurelia (Aurora Bautista); José, her jealous husband (Carlos Lemos); and Juan, a young servant (José Suárez). The time frame is post-war Spain. The setting, once again, is the dry lands of Castile. A short synopsis of Mur Oti’s film will be useful. Upon his return from jail for a crime of passion, José finds out that his estate has prospered enormously under the supervision of Juan, a hard worker who is also in love with Aurelia. Rebuffing Juan’s advances, she has made clear several times that she “belongs” to José. Even though there is no reason to feel jealous, José will eventually clash violently with the man whom he considers to be his rival. Surprisingly, in the last scene of the film, Aurelia kills Juan. Like the Macbeths, José and Aurelia are now united by a blood bond, apparently stronger than the bond of love. Through close analysis of the film, I interpret Condenados within the socio-political and cultural parameters existing at the time of its 32  Manuel Mur Oti also directed Un hombre va por el camino (1949), Cielo negro (1951), Orgullo (1955), Fedra (1956), El batallón de las sombras (1956), La guerra empieza en Cuba (1957), Una chica de Chicago (1958), Duelo en la cañada (1959), Pescando millones (1960), Milagro a los cobardes (1961), A hierro muere (1961), Loca juventud (1964), El escuadrón del pánico (1966), and La encadenada (1972). His last film, with the Shakespearian title Morir … dormir … tal vez soñar, debuted in 1976. In 1992, he was awarded the prestigious “Goya,” Spain’s main national annual film award, for his lifetime achievement, and the next year he won the Gold Medal of Merit from the Academy of Fine Arts. 33  Mira, Historical Dictionary, 218. 34  Ballesteros, “Mujer y nación,” 54.

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production. My interdisciplinary theoretical framework draws from ideas about masculine domination proposed by Pierre Bourdieu, Christina Wieland’s work on the psychology of fascism, and Louis Lo’s work on male jealousy. My goal is to show how the tragic individual errors in this story of loneliness, love, jealousy, and violence, are closely linked to the promotion of a fascist ideology that propagates models of masculinity and femininity that support control, possession, and domination. Consequently, violence and irrationality become the primary ingredients of a tragic universe that will ultimately result in the unhappiness, frustration, insanity, and death of its inhabitants. Condenados opens with a scene that takes place at twilight on the hard, arid, and harsh Castilian landscape that, as I have previously stated, works as a synecdoche of the entire nation. Discussing the relevance of the landscape in Manuel Mur Oti’s films, Julio Pérez Perucha has stated that in his pictures the land is a semi-mythical materialization of the characters’ mindset and aspirations.35 In the film analyzed here, the connection of its main characters with a hostile land that finally will be tamed is apparent from the first scenes of the film. With Beethoven’s Coriolan Overture as background—Mur Oti will use the music of this German Romantic composer on several occasion throughout the film—we see a woman venting her frustration with the hardness and dryness of the terrain that is making it impossible for her to break the ground with her hoe. Exhausted and defeated, she abandons this task and joins a group of male and female farmers who are heading home after an arduous day of work. Everybody walks ahead of her, and nobody acknowledges her presence as if she did not exist. Soon it will be revealed that she has been ostracized due to the absence of her husband. When the opening credits end, the music fades away. Once she is inside her house, the soundtrack returns to Beethoven, and on this occasion, the first movement of the Piano Sonata, No. 14, “Moonlight” is heard in the background. As she removes her work clothes, she climbs the stairs that lead to her bedroom on the second floor displaying her desperation and despair. Upon entering the bedroom, she gently caresses her absent husband’s jacket and then collapses on the large bed and begins to sob. While sobbing, she reaches out with her right hand and touches the pillow where her husband should be. Classics scholar Edith Hall states that all transgressive women in tragedy lack a husband. This is a generic convention that condenses male  Pérez Perucha, “Elementos introductorios,” 15.

35

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anxiety regarding the status of their households during their absences and the difficulty of keeping permanent surveillance of women in order to control their actions.36 Hall’s reflections on classic tragedy can be easily extended to the tragic mode that is the center of this work. The films analyzed in the first chapter prove Hall’s first assertion. Both Acacia’s and Carmela’s transgressions in La aldea maldita and La hija de Juan Simon, respectively, occurred because, at the moment of the initial wrongdoings, there was not a man to prevent them. Acacia’s husband was imprisoned and neither Carmela’s father nor her stepbrother had the required authority to stop her. In both cases, the control mechanisms imposed by the patriarchal society failed. In a similar fashion, Condenados portrays a situation where a patriarchal figure is not present. As we will see in the following pages, Aurelia’s loyalty to her absent husband and her adherence to the strict norms of heteropatriarchy will soon be tested. Next morning, the darkness which seemed so oppressive the night before, in both the literal and metaphoric sense, has lifted. At this point, the film introduces Juan who has arrived at the house looking for work. After confirming that he has good references, Aurelia hires him. These opening scenes clearly exemplify the prevalent National Catholic ideology hegemonic in Spain in the early 1950s. First, labor is presented as something gratifying and enjoyable to the extent that Juan is not concerned about the amount of money that he is going to earn and suggests that Aurelia observe his abilities before deciding what she believes he is worth. After the Civil War, the unions and the Marxist political parties were made illegal and fiercely persecuted. Juan, rather than being politically active, is an exemplary worker willing to do whatever is required to please his employer. In other words, he exemplifies the “pure” Spaniard, as defined by Alberto Ramos Santana, the poor but honorable and dedicated farmer, distanced from the contaminated urban spaces disparaged by Franco’s regime.37 The action now shifts ahead to summer. Juan and Aurelia are inside the windmill preparing to grind the grain in a scene with clear erotic

 Hall, Greek Tragedy, 128.  Ramos, “Casticismo y realidad cotidiana,” 17.

36 37

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connotations.38 A series of high-angle shots from Juan’s point of view demonstrates his attraction for Aurelia. When her hair comb falls on the ground Juan decides to keep it. Like Desdemona’s handkerchief in Shakespeare’s Othello, the hair comb works like a fetish that will play an important role later when it provokes her husband’s jealousy. As Henry Krips reminds us, “the function of the fetish is as much that of a screen as a memorial” in that it simultaneously represents and hides the repressed.39 In what follows, we will see that Mur Oti’s film revolves around the tragic consequences of Aurelia’s and Juan’s expressions of desire and their immediate repression (Fig. 3.3). This scene is also key to put the film in its historical context. Aurelia, unaware that Juan has been gazing desirously at her, utilizes this bucolic moment to defend a self-sufficient economic model in tune with the economic practices of Franco’s dictatorship. Directing her words to Juan, Aurelia passionately states: “Mi marido mandaba siempre el trigo a las fábricas modernas. Decía que allí lo muelen mejor y en un momento (…) pero yo siempre he creído que el trigo, molido así en la misma tierra en que nació, sin máquinas, solo con el aire, no sé, a mí me parece que lo muele Dios” (My husband always sent the grain out to be milled in modern factories. He said that they do it better there and all at once (…) but I have always believed that the wheat, milled on the same land where it was grown, without machines, only by the wind, I do not know, it seems to me to be milled by God).40 Her ideas mirror the economic autarkic model defended by the fascist government since the end of the Civil War until the end of the 1950s.41 In the next scene, the reason for Aurelia’s husband’s absence is revealed. It is time to harvest the crops, and Juan goes to the tavern with the hope of hiring some men, in spite of the fact that Aurelia told him that nobody  Agustín Redondo has stated that, “the world of the windmill is charged with sexual symbolism on account of many of its components: gyrating movement, water, flour (whiteness and projection), the transformation of one substance into another life-giving matter such as bread, etc.” (“De molinos, molineros,” http://www.cervantesvirtual.com/obravisor/de-molinos-molineros-y-molineras-tradiciones-folkloricas-y-literatura-en-la-espanadel-­siglo-­de-oro/html/). 39  Krips. Fetish, 7. 40  Condenados, 0:16:04 to 0:16:25. 41  Since the early 1950s, some groups in Franco’s regime supported a shift from the autarky that characterized the early years of the dictatorship to a capitalistic and industrial economic model resembling what existed in the other countries of the Western Hemisphere. This second stage of Franco’s regime, known as “desarrollismo”(developmentalism), started in 1959 and lasted until the end of the dictatorship. 38

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Fig. 3.3  The fetish and Juan’s desire gaze. Condenados (Manuel Mur Oti, 1953)

in the village will want to work her land. Just as she had warned, nobody will work for them. In the tavern, Juan is informed that Aurelia’s husband is in prison for having killed a man out of jealousy, and this is the reason why everybody refuses to help them. Juan receives the news with relative calm and defends both Aurelia and her husband. He states that it is not her fault if men find her attractive and that her husband did the right thing. On the one hand, Juan’s reflection departs from a conservative thought that put the blame on women proclaiming Aurelia’s innocence. On the other, reflecting on the idea that women are men’s possessions, Juan is in tune with the ultra-conservative gender dynamic of Franco’s regime. The refusal of the village men to work on Aurelia’s estate for fear of her jealous husband gives rise to one of the most interesting moments in the first part of the film. Frustrated and angry, Aurelia confronts her neighbors with an emotional and articulated speech in which she reproaches them for their cowardly behavior.42 Speaking of classic Greece, Judith Mossman states that it is surprising that a culture that advocated for 42  This scene is reminiscent of others from earlier historical films which made Aurora Bautista famous. Before shooting Condenados, she had starred in the following films directed by Juan de Orduña: Locura de amor (1948), Pequeñeces (1950), and Agustina de Aragón (1950) that solidly placed her among the most important actresses during the early years of Franco’s dictatorship. In all these films, Bautista played the role of a strong woman that challenged society’s expectations for females.

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the invisibility and silence of women generated a highly regarded genre in which women are represented as utterly articulate. Mossman adds that the female characters of tragedy are endowed with extraordinary power and emotional authenticity, and thus, they embody a “provocatively vocal and persistently Other” that cannot be relegated.43 In Franco’s Spain, women were facing a similar grade of invisibility, and their voices were, most of the time, silenced. This is especially true in the rural areas where all the films analyzed to this point are set. However, as seen in this powerful speech, Aurelia will have the opportunity to express her inner frustrations. The camera shifts to the church, another space privileged by Franco’s regime. Aurelia, who is piously praying, notices that somebody is entering the church. When she realizes that the man leading the group is Juan, her face lights up. Juan is not just an exemplary worker; he is also a devout Catholic who kneels at the altar to thank God for helping him recruit enough out-of-town laborers to gather the crop. Once again, the music of Beethoven—now the Ninth Symphony—engages and accompanies the audience to the next scene which depicts an idealized portrayal of rural chores. Repressing Desire With the windmill as a background and as a constant reminder of the erotic tension between Juan and Aurelia, we witness a key dialogue between them. After she acknowledges that the estate is now in better shape than it was under her husband’s care, Juan expresses his happiness because she is comforted by the fact that: “Hay en la casa un hombre que es tan hombre como él.” (There is a man in the house who is as much a man as he is.)44 Then Aurelia replies, “No echo en falta al amo y bien sé que hay un hombre en la casa que es para la hacienda tan hombre como él.” (I do not miss the master and I know very well that there is a man in the house who is as much a man as him in all things related to the estate.)45 (emphasis added). It is significant that the word hombre is used four times in this brief dialogue. The strong emphasis on this word highlights what it means in an authoritarian universe that, as stated by Pierre Bourdieu: it “makes the patriarchal family the principle and model of the social order  Mossman, “Women’s voices,” 352.  Condenados, 0:33:04. 45  Ibid., 0:33:12. 43 44

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interpreted as a moral order based on the absolute pre-eminence of men over women.”46 In any case, it is worth noting that Aurelia acknowledges Juan’s manhood when it comes to the estate, but nothing more. Beyond her relationship with him as a foreman, she will not even consider a comparison with her husband nor will she ever. It looks like she is attracted to him, but as Pierre Bourdieu reminds us, an ultra-­conservative society like the one portrayed in Mur Oti’s film identifies morality “with the strength, courage and self-control of the body, the seat of temptations and desires.”47 In this key scene, mistress and servant strengthen their relationship to the point that Aurelia proclaims if these fields were hers, half of them would belong to him. Aurelia’s statement causes Juan to reconsider his decision to leave Aurelia’s land and agree to stay on. When Aurelia places her hand gently on Juan’s shoulder, he responds by firmly grasping her hand. As she finally releases her hand, Juan moves his toward his heart and gazes at it with pure delight relishing the moment that Aurelia touched him. The scene closes with Aurelia’s announcement that a mare is on the verge of giving birth. The crops are thriving, the livestock is fecund, and only Aurelia remains childless. This is at odds with the National Catholic ideology, the Spanish branch of fascism in which this film unfolds.48 The film jumps ahead five years, and Juan and Aurelia have achieved all the goals that they set when Juan was hired. This idea is reinforced by several shots of the healthy and prolific amount of livestock entering the stables on the farm. A new cut takes the spectator inside the windmill where we observe a visibly content Aurelia, dressed in white, helping grind the grain. The erotic connotations of the scene are emphasized when Mur Oti uses a high-angle shot from the point of view of Juan, similar to the one already analyzed, who looks up at Aurelia on the narrow spiral staircase and cannot avoid looking at her legs and the petticoat she is wearing under her skirt. When Aurelia asks “¿Vamos a seguir moliendo?” (Are we going to continue grinding?),49 Juan is obviously trying to exercise self-­ control. Aurelia follows him, and once they are outside, we witness one of the most relevant scenes in the film. Juan states that his contract is almost  Bourdieu, Male Domination, 87.  Ibid., 87. 48  Fascism, as Marc Neocleaus points out, considers the production of children as the primordial role of women. 49  Condenados, 0:37:17. 46 47

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over. Aurelia would like him to stay on, but he implies he needs to leave because he has developed feelings for her. Aurelia, somewhat agitated, answers by referring to her imprisoned husband in this manner: “Tierras, casa, bestias y mujer son de ese hombre y seguirán siéndolo toda la vida mientras sea esa la voluntad de Dios.” (Fields, house, livestock, and wife belong to that man and will remain that way forever as long as it is God’s will.)50 Aurelia thus adheres to Christian doctrine that states that “what God has joined together, let no one separate.”51 In the hopes that things may change, Juan decides to stay. A distracted Aurelia almost walks into one of the windmill’s blades. Juan quickly pulls her into his arms and out of harm’s way. This impromptu embrace makes her uncomfortable, and she turns away from him and walks away.52 This scene displays the conflict between desire and the rigid social norms on which Condenados revolves.53 The first part of Mur Oti’s film closes with Aurelia and Juan trapped in a net of repressed desires, channeling their unfulfilled erotic impulses into a frenzied obsession with work and productivity. This proves correct Michel Foucault’s assertion that the repression of sexual energies would make an exclusive and intensive dedication to work possible.54 The Power of Feelings The second part of the film opens with a shot of a castle in ruins, similar to the ones we saw in La aldea maldita and La laguna negra. Soon, we see José, Aurelia’s husband, who is returning home from prison, with the castle in ruins in the background. This is a metaphor not just of the decadence of Castile but also for the moral and physical situation in which the ex-convict finds himself. A shepherd boy informs him that he is employed  Ibid., 0:38:59 to 0:39:05.  Matthew 19:5–7. 52  Catherine Belsey notes that, “the concomitant efforts of the modern Western World to confine and contain desire within the legality of marriage, have produced (…) at best a lifetime of surveillance and self-surveillance for the couple in question” (Desire, 74). 53  In her seminal work on fascist aesthetics, Susan Sontag points out that one of its characteristics is to portray the repression of sexual impulses. According to Sontag, “The fascist ideal is to transform sexual energy into a ‘spiritual’ force, for the benefit of the community. The erotic (that is, women) is always present as a temptation, with the most admirable response being a heroic repression of the sexual impulse (…) Fascist aesthetics is based on the containment of vital forces; movements are confined, held tight, held in” (Under the Sign, 93). 54  Foucault, History of Sexuality, 12. 50 51

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on the very prosperous estate of the “condemned man.” The camera returns to an elated Aurelia who runs to meet her husband. In the next scene, we see the couple in the bedroom implying that they have just made love. Considering the morals of the time, this scene is extremely explicit and underlines the importance of sexual impulses in this story. Soon, José begins to show his problematic personality and how he is consumed by jealousy.55 As he confesses to Aurelia, the main problem is not that he could not look at her while in prison but “saber que otros podían verte.” (Knowing that other men could look at you.)56 From this moment, José’s jealousy will be the focus of Mur Oti’s film. Toril Moi acknowledges that “(n)o purely psychoanalytic explanation of jealousy will suffice: it is always vital to place it in its social and historical context,” and she adds that “(o)utbursts of jealousy are determined not only by psychology, but also by existing social codes, standards for behavior in men and women, dominant sexual ideologies, and the power-­balance between the sexes. For any full understanding of jealousy, it is these changing social and historical contexts which must be examined.”57 This is what I intend to do in the following pages by analyzing the tragic ending of this love triangle in the context of the hypermasculine fascist ideology still hegemonic in Spain in the early 1950s. While Aurelia seems excited with the prospect of resuming their married life, José appears pensive and depressed. Suddenly, their conversation is interrupted by the neighing of a horse that announces Juan’s arrival. As in García Lorca’s tragedies, with which this film has a lot in common, the horse here functions as a symbol of Juan’s masculinity as well as a herald of death. Aurelia informs her husband that Juan has been working as a 55  Though lengthily, Giulia Sissa offers a comprehensive and helpful account of what this feeling means:

A sullen and sorrowful fantasy; a cruel and petty passion; the confession of a secret indignity; a force feeling of how little one is worth; the agony of an indigent and miserly creature who is afraid to lack; a symptom which betrays a distrust in one’s own merit and reveals the superiority of a rival; an anxiety which usually hastens the very evil it dreads, an emotion so base that it has to be hidden; a foolish pride, a feeble love, a wicked heart and a ludicrous bourgeois absurdity, a prejudice created by education and enhanced through habit; a pathology of the imagination; the projection of an unconscious penchant for infidelity; repressed homosexual urges converted into paranoia; a failing phallus, problematic narcissism, deep self-hatred, poor self-esteem, insecurity, envy. (Jealousy, 1)  Condenados, 0:42:43.  Moi, “Jealousy and Sexual Difference,” 65–66.

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servant for several years. He wonders why she never mentioned him in her letters. The tension between the spouses is increasing, and the claustrophobic atmosphere of this scene translates into a cinematographic style in which close-ups abound. At the moment of maximum tension, José is consumed by guilt, thus joining the long list of characters in previously analyzed films who are dominated by this powerful feeling, a key feature of modern tragic art. When Aurelia asks him why he killed that man, José slaps her. As we will see again in the analysis of La tía Tula, it is often on the woman’s body where patriarchal power is violently inscribed. From the conversation between the couple, we can infer that the murdered man had been romantically involved with Aurelia before she married her husband. José confesses that Gabriel’s murder was a preemptive act to prevent a potential infidelity. In Shakespeare’s well-known tragedy of jealousy, Iago successfully convinces Othello that Desdemona is having an affair with Casio, which results in her death. In this film, even though José does not have any reason to distrust Aurelia, he kills Gabriel, whom he presumes is his rival. He declares: “no podía pasarme los días siguiendo tus miradas ni las noches enteras viendo cómo dormías con miedo a que se te escapara su nombre en sueños y con ganas de oírtelo nombrar para poder matarle con más razón.” (I could not spend the whole day following your gazes or whole nights watching how you slept with fear that you would whisper his name in your dreams and hoping to hear his name so that I could have more reasons to kill him.)58 What José’s words ultimately reveal is doubt regarding his own masculinity. Christina Wieland has established a link between misogyny, male anxiety, and the rise of fascism in Europe. According to her, “(a)nxieties about masculinity coupled with misogyny (…) were rampant (…) at the turn of the century and reflected the rise of feminism, the decline of paternal authority, and the loss of power and male authority for the ordinary man both within the family and within society.”59 In some ways, José is paradigmatic of the rising male concerns with feminism and the advances of women’s rights during the Second Spanish Republic, ultimately eradicated by Franco’s authoritarian shift. In a troubling end of scene, Aurelia cries and sensually kisses the very hand that killed Gabriel and that just hit her. This symbolic act suggests that she signals approval of her husband’s violent behavior by eroticizing it. José responds with a passionate kiss, the  Condenados, 0:48:37 to 0:48:49.  Wieland, Fascist State of Mind, 3.

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Fig. 3.4  Aurelia eroticizes her husband’s violent hand. Condenados (Manuel Mur Oti, 1953)

prologue to another sexual encounter hidden from the viewer as the camera discreetly moves away. When the camera moves back, the couple is sleeping peacefully. José’s naked torso highlights his masculinity. This key moment in the film clearly reveals the link between violence and desire on which Mur Oti’s film revolves (Fig. 3.4). José’s release from prison provokes a rearrangement of the power dynamic of the household. For the first time, Aurelia assumes her role as mistress of the house and gives some orders to Juan, who has been relegated to his role as servant. Having secretly witnessed the tense exchange between his wife and Juan, José reacts violently to Aurelia’s words. Peter Toohey has noticed that “the triangular situation is the first element in a delineation of jealousy. But jealousy is a feeling—so it also involves the heightened reaction to the potential loss that is created by the triangulation.”60 First Gabriel’s and now Juan’s presence in Aurelia’s life are the triggers of a corrosive feeling that, like for Othello, will become José’s tragic flaw. Mur Oti presents him as a victim of a superior power that resembles the fate of the ancient Greeks. He tries to control his jealousy, but ultimately, he will be unable to do so. José’s lack of self-control  Toohey, Jealousy, 15.

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is amplified in a society where the old code of honor has been replaced by the modern fascist ideology of male domination. José wakes up to an empty house, and when he realizes that Aurelia and Juan have had breakfast together, his jealousy begins to erupt again. Suddenly he notices his old shotgun—a symbol of power and masculinity—hanging on the wall. He picks it up with determination. On his way out of the house, he notices Juan’s jacket hung up on the wall, and with contempt, he throws it to the ground. As the jacket falls, José notices Aurelia’s comb which was in the coat pocket and that Juan kept as a fetishistic memento. He later on forbids her to return to the fields because, in his words, her place is in the home. He is thus reproducing a fascist gender dynamic that considers that the fundamental role of women is motherhood and that their place is at home within the family unit.61 It is worth noticing how under Juan’s protection Aurelia enjoyed much more freedom than with her husband. I will suggest that the reason for that freedom is that, in Juan’s mind, she does not “belong” to him which makes the relationship less rigid. In other words, Aurelia is not his possession so he does not need to seclude her at home. After lecturing Juan about the sacredness and the fragility of marriage, José challenges him to a plow race to prove his manliness. With its sexual overtones, this contest reinforces the idea of the strong presence of sexual symbolism in Mur Oti’s film.62 In addition, José has planned this contest as a way to prove his self-questioned masculinity because, “manliness must be validated by other men (…) and certified by recognition of membership of the group of ‘real men’.”63 José sees in his rival the “real man” who can try to steal his wife, and he feels the need to show how, in spite of the years he has spent in prison, he is still able to defeat him. In any case, what we can see here is José’s enormous insecurity that is probably at the root of his jealous and violent behavior.64 As is the case with other male  Neocleous, Fascism, 79.  In this context, the action of plowing acquires sexual connotations since, as stated by Juan Eduardo Cirlot, “because the earth is female in nature, ploughing is a symbol of the union of the male and female principle,” and, therefore, the plow is “a symbol of fertilization” (Dictionary of Symbols, 356). 63  Bourdieu, Male Domination, 52. 64  Regarding this male self-doubt and lack of confidence, Pierre Bourdieu states that the “exaltation of masculine values has its dark negative side in the fears and anxiety aroused by femininity” and that “the impossible ideal of virility” is “the source of an immense vulnerability” (Male Domination, 51). 61 62

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characters analyzed in this study—Juan in La aldea maldita and Antonio in La hija de Juan Simón—José is the victim of the value system that he so fervently endorses. As expected, Juan, younger and in better shape, defeats José who, humiliated, returns home. Seeing him in this pitiful state, Aurelia asks him if he has already fought with Juan, and José, in an increasingly desperate state, says: “Qué rara inocencia la tuya, Aurelia. Siempre estás limpia de toda culpa. Hace años maté a un hombre por ti. Ya sé que ni con el pensamiento me engañabas, pero le maté. Ahora he vuelto, y sé que ni con el pensamiento me has faltado. No tengas miedo. Sólo he dicho que puedo volver a matar.” (What a strange innocence of yours, Aurelia. You are always clean of all guilt. Years ago, I killed a man because of you. I know that not even in your thoughts you were cheating on me, but I killed him. Now I have returned, and I know that not even in your thoughts you have been unfaithful to me. Do not be afraid. I only said that I could kill again.)65 As Segismundo in Calderón de la Barca’s La vida es sueño, José is not completely sure that he will be able to control his instincts. Aurelia knows that if they stay in town there is a good chance that her husband will kill again and proposes to him that they leave and start a new life far from there. However, José’s jealousy does not arise only from the ultra-­ conservative patriarchal environment that surrounds him, but also from his inner self. The combination of internal and external forces, as demonstrated throughout this book, is a key feature of the tragic mode. José’s inner demons are associated with his lack of self-esteem. Aurelia responds to her husband’s insecurities by totally submitting to him: “tuyo es todo lo mío como es tuya tu alma y lo mismo que te dije que arrasaras los campos, que mataras las bestias y que tiraras la casa piedra a piedra, arrasa mi pelo, arráncame la boca y quémame la carne para que no dudes más de mí y sepas que debo quererte, que tengo que quererte y que te quiero porque soy tu mujer.” (I am all yours as your soul is yours and as I told you to ravage the fields, to kill the beasts and to demolish the house stone by stone, I ask you to destroy my hair, tear my mouth off and burn my flesh so that you do not distrust me any longer and know that I must love you, that I have to love you and that I love you because I am your wife.)66 Pierre Bourdieu has noted that when the thoughts and perceptions of the dominated are based on the same structures of power that  Condenados, 1:06:47 to 1:07:18.  Ibid., 1:10:34 to 1:10:58.

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subjugate them, their behaviors are, inevitably, acts of submission.67 With her above statement, Aurelia not only recognizes herself in this authoritarian and patriarchal system of values, but also considers that it is through an act of total submission to her husband that she builds him as a “real man” and herself as a “real woman” and as a political subject of Francoism. Furthermore, in this scene Aurelia realizes how crucial it is for her husband to understand that he owns her because she knows that this is the only way to prevent another episode of jealousy.68 Aurelia is aware of her husband’s lack of self-confidence, and with this emotive and excessive statement, characteristic of the melodramatic imagination that traverses the tragic mode, she is trying to avoid another outburst of jealousy. The scene closes with a very long and sensual kiss between the spouses that surprisingly escaped the censorship. This moment of intimacy is broken when both Aurelia and José notice with concern that Juan just got back from the fields. They know that the violent clash between both men is unavoidable. They know that, once again, José will not be able to escape his fate. A worried Aurelia asks her husband about his intentions, but authoritatively, he commands her to leave him alone, and Aurelia ­immediately lowers her head in submission. It seems that she is both concerned about and attracted by her husband’s violent impulses. This is another example of how Aurelia has internalized the hegemonic symbolic system of values. Aurelia’s fetishized hair comb takes center stage in this part of the film. After acknowledging each other’s manliness in the plow contest, to Juan’s surprise José returns the lost hair comb to his wife and invites his servant for a drink in the cellar. There he asks him to leave the house by sunrise, but Juan challenges his master asking him what he would do if he didn’t leave. It is clear now that José is doing his best not to repeat the tragic experience that brought him to jail. He knows that the only way to avoid it is for Juan to leave the house for good. The crowing of the roosters— symbols of fighting and masculinity—announces the end of the period set by José for Juan to leave the house. Once again, José asks Juan to leave but he refuses. At that point Juan confesses that he is in love with Aurelia. The  Bourdieu, Male Domination, 13.  In a study on male jealousy, Louis Lo has claimed that: “(i)n marriage, ownership of the spouse is guaranteed by law or by religion, but the feeling of possession is not. And the crisis of possession challenges the concept of ownership: a husband feels the crisis, and jealousy is the emotion which reacts to it” (Male Jealousy, 51). 67 68

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scene closes with both men agreeing to fight to the death for Aurelia. Immersed in this hypermasculine system of values, Juan and José understand that fighting for Aurelia is their duty.69 They know that refusing the violent confrontation would make them small in the eyes of others, especially Aurelia, and, even more importantly, in their own eyes. The Circle Closed In the last segment of the film, the love triangle is solved in a very surprising way. As a premonition of the tragic end, Aurelia wears black again. José tells her that Juan is in love with her and emphatically proclaims: “aquí sólo puedo quererte yo.” (Here I am the only one who can love you.)70 After this statement, José orders his wife to stay home. Aurelia tries to prevent the fight and asks Juan to leave the town. Juan tries to hug her but she resists—curiously in the next chapter we will see the same actress resisting an attempted rape in La tía Tula—and she insists that she is in love with José not with him. It is worthwhile noting that at this moment Juan is as jealous as José and, furious at Aurelia’s rejection, is ready to kill her husband. In a vibrant traveling shot, Aurelia’s desperate calls for help are not answered by her neighbors, and finally, both men meet at “La Calera” (lime burner or lime kiln). The choice of this space is not accidental as it gives the scene a surrealist infernal atmosphere, symbolic of the emotional state of the components of the love triangle who have, literally, descended to hell. As in several of the films analyzed in this book, the dryness of Castile’s lands contributes to create an ambience of tragedy and death. The duel between Juan and José evokes both the Western, a very popular cinematographic genre in the 1950s, and a more local image such as the fight among “bandoleros.” Juan wounds José with his knife, and in a surprising change in events, Aurelia kills Juan to save her husband. Staring in horror at the hand with which she killed her servant, she claims: “Ya está como la tuya. Iguales en todo hasta morir. Tú eras el condenado. Ya somos condenados los dos.” (My hand is already like yours. Equal in everything up to 69  Reflecting on these masculine self-imposed obligations, Pierre Bourdieu remarks that “(m)anliness, understood as sexual or social reproductive capacity, but also as the capacity to fight and to exercise violence (especially in acts of revenge), is first and foremost a duty” (Male Domination, 51). 70  Condenados, 1:18:57.

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Fig. 3.5  Aurelia kills her object of desire. Condenados (Manuel Mur Oti, 1953)

dying. You were the condemned one. Now we are both the condemned.)71 This seems to contradict Toril Moi’s idea that “in the jealous triangle, it is always the women who gets killed.” (Fig. 3.5).72 In an interview conducted fifty years after the premiere of his film, Manuel Mur Oti gave a possible reason for this contradiction: “It is a tough drama, but is has no other solution. At the time, they would not have allowed that a married woman killed her husband to continue living with her lover.”73 As we saw in the three films previously analyzed, at the end of Condenados the order is in some ways restored: José and Aurelia are now closer than ever, and Juan’s menace has disappeared. However, the price that the three characters have paid is significant. Once again, we have seen how the tragic mode with which the film is imbued is the perfect vehicle to highlight the extraordinary amount of suffering that people need to endure in order to comply with the exigencies of the symbolic order.

 Condenados, 1:24:44 to 1:24:56.  Moi, “Jealousy and Sexual Difference,” 62. 73  Torres, Cineastas insólitos, 124–125. 71 72

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As the twentieth century progresses, the countryside loses importance compared to cities such as Madrid, Barcelona, Bilbao, and Valencia that end up positioning themselves as the economic and social center of Spain in the 1960s and 1970s. With the exception of La novia, and some moments of Julieta, the rest of the films analyzed in this work are set in the area of Madrid. La tía Tula, located in Guadalajara, just a few miles from the Spanish capital, reflects some of the consequential changes that Spanish society underwent in the 1960s. During those crucial years, economic modernization went hand in hand with minimal socio-political openness. As we will see in the analysis of 7 días de enero, the country’s modernization process has advanced considerably by the end of the 1970s, although those still loyal to the dictatorship continue to show their most violent side.

CHAPTER 4

Tragedy, Power, and Resistance

Introduction The attempts to subvert the traditional conservative order that we had seen first in La aldea maldita and later in La hija de Juan Simón intensified in the 1960s and, especially, in the 1970s after General Franco’s death in 1975. The dramatic conflict between modernity and tradition outlined in Florián Rey’s film acquired a darker tone in Gonzalo Delgrás’ film, where Carmela’s aestheticized death is paradigmatic of the conservative attempt to suppress any female individual initiative. The two films on which this chapter focuses on insist on showing the cracks and contradictions of power structures and the enormous cost, both at the individual and collective levels, that confronting these systems entails. In Miguel Picazo’s La tía Tula, resistance is still raised at the individual level; however, in Juan Antonio Bardem’s 7 días de enero we will see that resistance goes from the individual to the collective plane. By the time that Bardem’s film was released in the late 1970s, the vast majority of Spanish society was publicly demanding the democratization of the country. One of the arguments of this book is that, in times of social and political crisis, the tragic manifests itself to highlight the tensions and contradictions of the moment. Such was the case in classic Greek tragedy, and it is still the case today. With the exception of Condenados, in which the conflict originates mostly from jealousy, in the rest of the films analyzed here the tragic is unleashed as a consequence of the violent clash between two © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 L. M. González, Modes of the Tragic in Spanish Cinema, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-19325-5_4

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ways of understanding the world. In a society in permanent flux where the symbolic order of the old, of the obsolete, continues to exert enormous pressure on the new modes and customs that intend to break through, tragic art appears as a symptom and a warning that something is changing and we should be aware of it.

Desire, Power, and Resistance: La tía Tula Y era lo cierto que en el alma cerrada de Gertrudis se estaba desencadenando una brava galerna. Su cabeza reñía con su corazón, y ambos, corazón y cabeza, reñían en ella con algo más ahincado, más entrañado, más íntimo, con algo que era como el tuétano de los huesos de su espíritu. (And, truly, a wild storm wind was being unleashed in Gertrudis’s shuttered soul. Her head was combatting her heart, and both, heart and head, were fighting within her against something more firmly rooted, more vital, more intimate, something like the marrow of the bones of her spirit) —Miguel de Unamuno, La tía Tula

Directed by Miguel Picazo, La tía Tula stands out among the short list of films that can be categorized as part of the “Nuevo Cine Español.”1 In his new role as General Director of Cinematography, José Luis García Escudero became the driving force behind a new policy of grants and financial incentives that resulted in what is now called “Nuevo Cine Español” (New Spanish Film). As Casimiro Torreiro has stated, the result of these new policies, with the backing of Franco’s regime, was “a heterogeneous movement that produced a series of films of diverse levels of quality and low impact on the spectators by approximately 48 first-time directors between 1962 and 1967.” The goal of the Nuevo Cine Español was to produce films of the same caliber as those of La Nouvelle Vague in France, the British Free Cinema, the German Junger Deutscher, or the new projects coming out of Nordic countries. Following Torreiro again, its principal aspiration was to “tackle old themes through a new prism” 1  In addition to La tía Tula, his debut film, Miguel Picazo directed four other feature films: Oscuros sueños de agosto (Dark Dreams of August) (1967), El hombre que supo amar (The Man Who Knew How to Love) (1976), Los claros motivos del deseo (The Clear Motives of Desire) (1976), and Extramuros (Extramural) (1985). Miguel Picazo also enjoyed a long, successful career in Spanish television.

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with “an elliptic language full of double meanings, that often allows opposites, or even at times aberrant, readings.”2 Along with La tía Tula, the following productions are commonly included when listing examples of the Nuevo Cine Español: Young Sánchez (Mario Camus, 1964), El buen amor (The Good Love) (Francisco Regueiro, 1963), Del rosa al amarillo (From Pink to Yellow) (Manuel Summers, 1963), and La caza (The Hunt) (Carlos Saura, 1965). La tía Tula, premiered in 1964, was successful at the box office and received good reviews. In the prestigious film festival of San Sebastián, Miguel Picazo won the prize for best director. Several of the actors also received recognition for their performances: Aurora Bautista in the role of Tula, José María Prada in the role of the priest, and Enriqueta Carballeira as Juanita. The film, radically altered due to censorship, is an adaptation of Miguel de Unamuno’s novel of the same name, published in 1921.3 Similar to Unamuno’s original work, it tells the story of Tula, who becomes the caregiver for her brother-in-law, nephew, and niece after her sister’s death. Picazo simplifies the plot of Unamuno’s “nivola” and adapts this story of mourning, repressed desire, and sexual violence by putting it into the context of Spain in the 1960s. Since 1939, Spanish society lived under the constraints of Franco’s regime, and at precisely the time of La tía Tula’s debut, it began to experience a series of social and economic changes that destabilized the rigid moral and social order of the world that Picazo’s characters must navigate. By modernizing Unamuno’s original and placing his characters in the Spain of the 1960s, Picazo invites the spectator to analyze the film in its historical context.4 In the following pages, I analyze the inner conflicts, sexual violence, and suffering of La tía Tula’s main characters as paradigmatic of the tragic mode. Picazo’s protagonists are conflicted and lost in a senseless world  Torreiro, “¿Una dictadura liberal?” 308–309.  In an interview with Enrique Iznaola, Miguel Picazo reveals that La tía Tula had eight significant cuts due to censorship that were essential to the film (“Miguel Picazo,” 32–35). 4  As historians Fernando García de Cortázar and José Manuel González Vesga state, during the 1960s, 2 3

Franco’s regime had broken away from some of its most theatrical fascist practices (...) and the excellent economic growth caused the social base that supported the regime to expand. For the first time in the history of Spain, one began to talk about a modern society of consumers made up of a large middle class who did not oppose the system, but also were unwilling to take unnecessary risks. But, on the other hand, the yearning for freedom that was growing wider and deeper every day in Spanish society was also being rigorously controlled. (Breve historia de España, 611)

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that is experiencing growth and change. Ramiro and Tula both feel trapped and subjected to strict societal norms which they try to navigate, but unfortunately, their attempts only result in further suffering. My theoretical approach stems from Michel Foucault’s reflections on the possibilities of resistance to power, Ann Cahill’s studies on sexual violence and rape, and the concept of empowerment as proposed by feminist literary criticism. I conceive Tula’s body as a symbolic space of resistance: first, against her suitor, later during the sexual assault by Ramiro, and lastly against the priest who tries to convince her to marry her brother-in-law. Tula’s tenacious resistance, reminiscent of the brave actions of several heroines of the tragic tradition, causes these three men to fail. Nevertheless, involuntarily, Tula’s unbreakable nature results in the transferal of this masculine violence to her cousin Juanita’s vulnerable body. The adolescent, without the agency shown by Tula, succumbs to the excesses of patriarchal power. Under Tula’s Rule La tía Tula opens with a tracking shot of a young boy who is delivering a wreath to the wake of Tula’s sister, Rosa. The camera invites the spectator inside Rosa’s apartment. Using an editing cut, it slowly enters the living room where she is being mourned. In the next shot, we see Tula for the first time, sitting in a meditative state with a wedding picture of Rosa and Ramiro on the wall hanging right above her head. Tula enters her nephew’s room and tenderly tries to console him. The following cut returns the spectator to the living room, where the employees of the funeral home have arrived to take Rosa’s casket. At this moment, Ramiro appears for the first time, and Tula gazes at him with the same expression of tenderness and pity she used with her nephew and gently straightens out the front of his coat. While the casket is being carried out of the apartment, we observe Tula walking very closely behind her brother-in-law, with her eyes fixed on the nape of his neck. We will witness this exact positioning again with Tula’s same intense gaze in a scene toward the end of the film that takes place in a country garden where the family has spent the summer. The prologue of the film closes with a medium shot, lasting almost a full two minutes, showing a motionless Tula seated with a distraught expression on her face. While the opening credits are rolling, the spectator is presented with Tula’s inner conflict that will torment her throughout the film, an aspect characteristic of the tragic mode (Fig. 4.1).

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Fig. 4.1  Tula’s inner conflict. La tía Tula (Miguel Picazo, 1964)

It is difficult to know what is going through Tula’s mind. Whatever the cause may be, it has made her visibly preoccupied. She is a single woman in her thirties (a “spinster” in the eyes of her community) who is a member of the middle class in a provincial city near Madrid.5 She owns her own spacious home—a detail that grants her a certain amount of freedom and a point I will later analyze in detail—and lives comfortably from the income she receives from her rental properties in the countryside. Tula was only a child when the Civil War broke out. It goes without question that Tula has lived her entire life subjected to Franco’s ultra-conservative, national-Catholic ideology, which redefined gender roles, placing women in a subservient position in relationship to men and relegating them to the spaces of home and church. Immediately following this powerful still shot of the anguished Tula, the camera shifts to her house, where Ramiro and the children now reside. 5  Addressing the issue of female singlehood during Franco’s regime, Carmen Martín Gaite writes that, when unmarried women passed what was considered an appropriate age to get married, society regarded them with pity and disdain. Rather than physical plainness, “spinsterhood” was connected with character: “The woman ‘headed toward a life of spinsterhood’ was commonly identified by a headstrong character, her inflexibility and refusal to conform” (Usos amorosos, 37–38). As we will see through the analysis of this film, Tula’s personality could be described in this manner.

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I agree with Sally Faulkner’s observation that this is a significant departure from Unamuno’s original work and should be interpreted as the film’s attempt to grant Tula a certain degree of power.6 Faulkner also reflects on the gothic atmosphere that hovers in the household. According to this critic, the place is “haunted by the ghost of the past: a dead pope, a dead priest uncle and a prematurely deceased cousin.”7 In addition to the people named in the above list, one must add Rosa’s memory, which, like a ghost, is a constant presence in Picazo’s film. The fact that Ramiro and the children have moved into Tula’s house indicates that his financial standing is not as high as that of his sister-in-law. His job as a bank employee allows him to enjoy a comfortable lifestyle within limits. His decision to move his family to his sister-in-law’s house implies that he was paying rent for the apartment where he lived previously with Rosa and the children. This issue of the property ownership undoubtedly produces a certain amount of anxiety for Ramiro. The next scene further emphasizes the control that Tula wields in her household. We now witness the first clash between Ramiro and Tula when she reprimands him for walking around the house in an undershirt. Ramiro defends himself, stating that nobody can see him, to which Tula responds that she is the one upset by his immodest attire. To date, the critics who have commented on La tía Tula view Tula’s repressed sexual desire as one of the primary driving forces of the film.8 However, the fact that Tula demands Ramiro’s respect has much more impact on the unfolding of events. The scene with Tula in the confessional where she cites Ramiro’s lack of respect, first toward her sister and then toward her, as the motivating factor for her adamant decision not to marry him further strengthens my theory. The scene that takes place in the “Círculo Católico,” a Christian social club for women, is the first instance where we observe Tula outside of the protective home environment. At this gathering, she meets up with many of her female friends and the priest, who acts as their spiritual advisor. The  Faulkner, A Cinema of Contradiction, 105.  Ibid., 108. 8  Francisco LaRubia-Prado writes that “the theme of motherhood, even though it is present in Picazo’s movie, yields its prominence to the other theme present in Unamuno’s novel, that of virginity, or what is about the same thing in the movie, repressed sexual desire.” According to this critic, “Repulsion results from a vast labyrinth of factors (fear of males, environmental puritanism, a radical comprehension of the traditional doctrine of the Church, etc.)” (“La tía Tula de Unamuno y Picazo,” 154–155). 6 7

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purpose of this scene is to shed light on the complicity of women in the repressive activities and censorship prevalent during Franco’s regime. This is made evident when we are told that Amelita, one of Tula’s friends, is in charge of rating movies based on their moral content. Also, in a brief private conversation with Tula, the priest insinuates that she should marry Ramiro in order to reconstruct the family unity that was broken after Rosa’s death. In short, what society is asking—voiced by a representative of the Catholic Church—is for Tula to marry, have children, and raise them along with her nephew and niece and thus fulfill her female responsibilities.9 Interestingly, Tula is committed to raising her sister’s children according to the established norms, but she refuses to marry Ramiro. Following this scene, Picazo utilizes a long tracking shot to show Emilio, one of Tula’s suitors, during his failed attempt to catch up to Tula and one of her friends. Aware that Emilio is following them, they continue their hurried walk. When they pass a young couple having a heated conversation, Tula bluntly concludes, “ganas tienen de aguantar a un hombre” (who would want to put up with a man?).10 With this statement, she acknowledges the fact that, in the society of her time, the relationship between women and men is never equal. The spectator can deduce that Tula certainly is not one of those women who “would want to put up with a man.” In the next scene, our attention focuses on a conversation between Ramiro and Emilio at the bakery the latter manages. Through the contents of a letter which Tula wrote to Emilio, we learn the true reason why she has rejected him: she has promised her sister on her deathbed that she would take care of the children.11 Tula does not yet know that circumstances will prevent her from keeping her word. Ramiro listens reluctantly as Emilio insists on reading the letter aloud to him. In his usual apathetic manner, he states flatly that Tula is a very unique woman. His intentions, desires, frustrations, and longings elude not only the characters that

9  As Carme Molinero has argued, during Franco’s dictatorship, “[w]omen were in charge of making sure that the nation would not disappear: they had to procreate, and nurture and educate their children with the fervor of the nation” (“Silencio e invisibilidad,” 70). 10  La tía Tula, 0:15:35. 11  Regarding our debts to the dead, Robert Pogue Harrison points out that, “(w)hether we are conscious of it or not we do the will of the ancestors: our commandments come to us from their realm; their precedents are our law; we submit to their dictates, even when we rebel against them” (The Dominion of the Dead, ix–x).

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surround him but also the spectators who struggle to find coherence in a character full of contradictions. Next, the film takes us back to Tula’s home, where she is serving a meal to Ramiro. As Faulkner states, she treats him in a motherly way.12 Prompted by Emilio’s interest in her, Ramiro begins to see Tula as a woman, and he compliments her looks. During the tense conversation that ensues, Tula reaffirms her intention never to get married. Ramiro states that it is Tula’s right to feel this way but reprimands her for using him and the children as an excuse. At this point, Tula emphatically states, “No me caso porque no quiero aguantar a ningún hombre, métetelo en la cabeza.” (I will not get married because I do not want to put up with any man.) To this, Ramiro, who senses that his masculinity is being called into question, responds: “¿Entonces por qué me aguantas a mí?” (So why do you put up with me?) Tula, startled by this comment, states “yo no te aguanto a ti. Tú eres mi cuñado.” (I am not putting up with you. You are my brother-in-law.) Tula implies that, in her eyes, Ramiro is not like other men. Ramiro, incapable of leaving the conversation here, asks, “¿pero soy un hombre, o qué si no?” (but I am a man, am I not?)13 Tula exits the dining room, and a medium shot displays a brooding Ramiro. An inner conflict, having to do with his own idea of what it means to be a man, has started to grow inside and will remain with him throughout the film, with dramatic consequences both for Tula and Juanita. After an editing cut, the camera shifts to the cemetery, where Ramiro and his son have gone to visit Rosa’s grave. What stands out in this scene is the moment when Ramiro finds a fountain pen and writes Tula’s name along with his own in a small notebook. An interesting detail is that he writes his name in cursive with tiny letters, and he prints her name in large uppercase letters. This can be interpreted as a symbol of how he perceives himself as being dependent on the almighty Tula. While he scribbles his name in a clumsy manner, he writes Tula’s name clearly in bold letters and with great determination. The fact that he is writing these names while leaning on a tree, a customary place for lovers to engrave their names, reinforces the significance of the scene. This pensive moment is abruptly interrupted by the bloodcurdling screams of a woman whose daughter has apparently committed suicide. The inclusion of this scene in Picazo’s film is not gratuitous. The young woman’s suicide is most likely the result of a  Faulkner, A Cinema of Contradiction, 116.  La tía Tula, 0:21.52 to 0:22:07.

12 13

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situation that has brought shame to herself and her family, such as an unplanned pregnancy, unrequited love with someone inappropriate, or another issue that is in conflict with the strict moral codes of the time. The camera then shifts from the cemetery back to Tula’s house, where she is distributing Rosa’s and Tulita’s clothes to her renters. While one of the women tries on Rosa’s coat, we again see Tula in a maternal role as she holds the woman’s baby and is clearly filled with joy. This tender scene highlights Tula’s Christian generosity. However, her benevolence is fleeting because she will later authoritatively reprimand a renter for letting his payments lapse. The scene closes with Tula offering a “Kempis”, a popular religious book, as a gift to one of the renter’s sons who is studying at the seminary. 14 After the renters depart, Tula cleans Ramiro’s room, where he has been recovering from the flu. While making the bed, she notices how hard the mattress is and concludes that may be the reason for his difficulty to sleep. However, the death of his wife and his sexual frustration are the more probable causes. While his sister-in-law cleans his bedroom, Ramiro, plagued physically and emotionally, recognizes his fragile state and how much he is in debt to Tula. Ramiro barely listens to her while she discusses domestic issues. Instead, he appears to be thinking about how he can escape from the dead end where he finds himself after moving into her house where her agency is stifling his idea of masculinity. When Ramiro returns to the bed, Tula puts cologne on his face, combs his hair, and comments on how rough his razor stubble feels. Unexpectedly, Ramiro seizes this opportunity by pressing Tula’s hand on his chin and trying to kiss it (Fig. 4.2). Visibly upset, Tula rushes to close the bedroom windows hoping that no one has seen or heard this interaction. Her first act of resistance ends with the symbolic washing of her hands in an attempt to restore her lost purity. The scene concludes with her closing the bedroom door, another symbolic gesture, demonstrating that she is closing off the possibility of any further physical advances on the part of her brother-in-law. Tula’s suspicions of Ramiro’s true intentions are corroborated when she reads one of the letters that he wrote to Rosa while they were courting. It sheds light on Ramiro’s impulsive personality, frustrations, and 14  The Imitation of Christ by Tomás Kempis was written in the first quarter of the fifteenth century. By the time that Tula’s story takes place, the book was already considered antiquated and obsolete. The fact that she continues to recommend the “Kempis” only serves as one more example of the anachronistic nature of her character.

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Fig. 4.2  Ramiro’s first advance on Tula. La tía Tula (Miguel Picazo, 1964)

desires as he apologizes for his lack of control and his sexual advances and asks Rosa to marry him as soon as possible. Even though Tula is reading a letter addressed to her sister, by her facial expression and reaction, it seems as if she is reading a letter written to her. Tula deduces that her brotherin-­law’s advances, first with her sister and now with her, are driven primarily by his sexual desires. Tula begins to formulate the idea that for Ramiro women have two roles: to take care of domestic chores and to satisfy the sexual needs of their husbands with no consideration for the women’s feelings. She will never settle for this. Upon hearing the apologetic language used by Ramiro in the letter, we can conclude that he tried to force himself on Rosa. These violent attitudes represent a reflection of the masculine mentality characteristic of the first years of the dictatorship.15 In the next scene, the camera shifts to the 15  In one of the few studies on masculinity during Franco’s regime, Mary Vincent claims that in an ultra-conservative political context, as portrayed in Picazo’s film, “in spite of the insistence on self-control, the definition of masculinity defined by domination and superiority, inevitably will promote violent attitudes” (“Reafirmación de la masculinidad,” 140). For his part, Ángel Alcalde states that: “during the 60s and 70s, we will see how (…) the most violent models of virility lasted. Nevertheless, this ideal changed substantially embracing other elements that were distinct and new, and surviving the crisis that accompanied the development of Spanish society in the mid-1900s” (“El descanso del guerrero,” 180).

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family living room, where we see Tula visibly upset after reading the letters Ramiro wrote to Rosa. A minor argument between the two children prompts Tula to share her view on femininity and state that “una niña es una cosa frágil.” (Young girls are fragile.)16 As Giulana Di Febo and Santos Juliá claim, in Franco’s regime “feminine fragility, would constitute the asymmetry necessary to balance the masculine ‘psychic virility’.”17 Ironically, Tula will show otherwise. Once the children have left the room, Ramiro and Tula enter into a conversation that is key to understanding the dynamic of flirtation and resistance which Picazo’s film has put into play. First, Ramiro confesses: “No sé lo que me pasa. No, no es que esté enfermo. Es que estoy nervioso, desconcentrado. Llevo así una temporada. No duermo.” (I do not know what is happening to me. It is not because I am sick. I am nervous and distracted. I have been in this state for some time. I cannot sleep.)18 Following this acknowledgment, Ramiro suggests that the best solution for both would be to get married. An emotional Tula reacts abruptly by bringing up Rosa, whose memory is a haunting presence in their relationship and an ever-present motive she uses to defend her actions: “Ramiro, por Dios, mi hermana, mi hermana (…) No querías a Rosa. No me respetas.” “Ramiro, for the love of God, my sister, my sister … You did not love Rosa. You do not respect me.”19 This will not be the last time Tula cites her brother-in-law’s lack of respect toward her as a legitimate reason for her refusal to marry him. After Tulita’s First Communion, Ramiro is falling into a deeper depression. On Tula’s recommendation, he leaves the house. While seated at a roadside bar, three couples arrive on motorcycles dressed in trendy and provocative clothes, something we have not seen before in this film. Piqued by curiosity, he decides to follow the group. After an editing cut, we see him in the outskirts of town in a place frequented by prostitutes and their clients. As I previously discussed in the analysis of La hija de Juan Simón, the casual acceptance of prostitution in Francoist Spain underscores the hypocrisy of a society that supposedly follows the conservative Catholic morality. It is in this heterotopic place, inhabited by marginal members of society, where Ramiro will find Emilio, who has also come to enjoy the spectacle. Emilio, who has finally decided to give up his  La tía Tula, 0:44:12.  Di Febo and Juliá, El franquismo, 75. 18  La tía Tula, 0:47:17 to 0:47:29. 19  Ibid., 0:48:40 to 0:48:59. 16 17

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intent to marry Tula, candidly tells Ramiro, “Tula y tú terminaréis casándoos con el tiempo.” (Tula and you will end up getting married.)20 Time will prove him wrong. Tula’s Resistance In The History of Sexuality, Michel Foucault theorizes about the possibility and the nature of resistance. According to the French philosopher, “great radical ruptures” occur only occasionally, and typically, we deal “with mobile and transitory points of resistance, producing cleavages in a society that shift about, fracturing unities and effecting regroupings, furrowing across individuals themselves, cutting them up and remolding them, marking off irreducible regions in them, in their bodies and minds.”21 As we will see, Tula’s body will become that “irreducible region,” first when repelling Ramiro’s attack and later when she refuses to marry him. Moments before Ramiro’s assault on Tula, the camera enters his bedroom on a hot and steamy summer night, clearly a metaphor for his own repressed sexual desire. The camera focuses on him, lying in bed and filling the entire screen. The sound of church bells can be heard in the distance, as well as the revving of a car engine and a jubilant group of young people. Tradition and modernity clash and constitute the backdrop for Ramiro’s inner struggle. Ramiro has been restless the entire night and unable to sleep. After an editing cut, an annoyed Tula tells Ramiro that he is going to be late for work. While making his bed, she notices that the top sheet is torn. At this moment, Ramiro returns to the room and assaults her. She manages to free herself from his violent attack, locks herself in the bathroom, and closes the window to avoid scandal. In a powerful take, Tula forcefully pounds the floor with her closed fist expressing her helplessness (Fig. 4.3).22 Miguel Picazo and some film critics who have commented on this scene attempt to minimize the severity of what is clearly a failed attempt at rape. The director expresses in an interview that, “instead of trying to rape her, what the man is really saying is ‘be frank with me, damn it, and do  Ibid., 1:00:47.  Foucault, History of Sexuality, 96. 22  Ann J. Cahill interprets rape as “the ultimate expression of a patriarchal order, a crime that epitomizes women’s oppressed status by proclaiming, in the loudest possible voice, the most degrading truths about women that a hostile world has to offer” (Rethinking Rape, 2). 20 21

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Fig. 4.3  Tula resists Ramiro’s intent to rape her. La tía Tula (Miguel Picazo, 1964)

something’.”23 Apparently, he did not intend it to be seen as attempted rape. However, the images of the film speak for themselves. As for the critics, Rafael de España states: “The scene in which Ramiro attempts to rape Tula (for lack of another term because the fact is, that it is not actually a rape at all), initiating the complete rupture of their relationship, clearly gives the upper hand to the man, who at the height of his life, has urges that are not at all immoral, but are erroneously interpreted by Tula’s narrow vision of the world and her phobias.”24 In a more recent analysis, Sally Faulkner blames Tula for Ramiro’s misconduct: “Picazo shows that Tula’s behaviour results in both repression (through her denial of her body) and excess (through Ramiro’s enslavement to his body), which leads to an attempted and an actual rape.”25 These readings convert the victim into the perpetrator and deem Tula responsible for Ramiro’s aggressive behavior. For Faulkner, everyone is victimized by Tula, including herself.26 Returning to the film, we will see the same argument being made by the priest, the mouthpiece of the regime that, as Pierre Bourdieu points out,  Iznaola, “Miguel Picazo,” 35.  De España, “La tía Tula,” 144. 25  Faulkner, Cinema of Contradiction, 103. 26  Ibid., 109. 23 24

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is the place “where the principles of domination that are used inside the private sphere are elaborated and instated.”27 In a claustrophobic scene in the confessional, a metaphor of the oppressive environment that permeates Picazo’s film, Tula, pressured by the priest, tells him that she has wholeheartedly forgiven Ramiro for the attempted rape and states that the idea of being intimate with a man does not frighten her (as the priest had suggested). After listening to the priest’s recommendation that her best option in this situation is to marry her brother-in-law, she strongly reiterates her refusal to marry Ramiro because she will never be the remedy for someone else’s needs, clearly alluding to Ramiro’s sexual urges, and because she has self-respect. Tula’s forgiveness of Ramiro highlights that certain aggressive sexual behavior by males is acceptable in this society during this period of time. She refuses to be objectified and to play the subordinate role given to women in this patriarchal society because she views herself as being self-­ sufficient. As she clearly states in her conversation with the priest, she is not afraid of sexual intimacy with a man. What is holding Tula back from marrying Ramiro is her suspicion that his interest in her is purely sexual. She bases this premise on Ramiro’s weak attempt to apologize to Rosa for his inappropriate sexual advances and his assault on her. Tula views herself as defined by aspects that incorporate but transcend her sexuality. This stance is a direct attack on the gender discourse promoted by Spanish fascism, which defined women as being subordinate to men, and it enables us, in accordance with Virginia Higginbotham, to view Tula as being ahead of her time.28 In addition, Tula’s resistance confirms Ann J. Cahill’s notion that, despite patriarchy’s powerful influence on women’s lives, female bodies as sites of resistance make possible their agency and their choices with regard to sexuality.29 This agency shown by Tula and her ability to resist certain pressures imposed on her in no way makes her a subject completely free and exempt from the symbolic system of values that sustains this society. Jacqueline Rose further defines this difference between resistance and freedom when she states that “in psychoanalytic language, resistance as a concept is far closer to defensiveness than to freedom; you

 Bourdieu, Male Domination, 15.  This interpretation of Tula’s character and actions as representative of a type of radical feminism is also the central thesis of Laura Hynes’ article on Unamuno’s original work. 29  Cahill, Rethinking Rape, 4. 27 28

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resist when you do not want to budge.”30 Unfortunately, as we will observe in the last segment of the film, Juanita lacks the agency that Tula has displayed throughout the film, and incapable of showing the resolve exhibited by her more mature cousin, she will succumb to the violence and pressure of male dominance. From Resistance to Domination The next segment of the film moves to the country, a space idealized by Franco’s regime for its traditional moral and conservative values. It is here that Ramiro, Tula, and the children will spend a short vacation with Tula’s Uncle Pedro and her cousin Juanita, a childish and naïve adolescent. In the garden, an environment traditionally portrayed in Western tradition as the ideal locus for love, Tula admires the exuberance of the plants and vegetation.31 She immerses herself in this beautiful landscape and cuts a white rose, a symbol of a love that is platonic and idealized. After an editing cut, we witness Tula, with the rose in her hand and in her customary pensive state, walking at a distance from the rest of the group. She then rejoins the group, and through a point-of-view shot, reminiscent of the opening sequence when she is following closely behind Ramiro after Rosa’s wake, she fixes her gaze on the nape of Ramiro’s neck. Ramiro senses Tula’s presence and timidly turns to look at her. This bucolic scene where everyone appears happy suggests that Tula is contemplating a change of attitude toward Ramiro, despite the fact that her definition of a romantic relationship is incompatible with his. In her world, what prevails is an idealized, platonic, pure, and desexualized version of love. For Ramiro, as we will see again shortly, all romantic relationships revolve around sex, with the male always playing the dominant role. After an editing cut, the camera brings us into Tula’s bedroom, where we see her brooding image in a mirror. Music can be heard from the outdoor summer festivities. As the rest of the town is jubilant and celebrating, Tula’s inner conflict festers. Trying to calm her nerves, she decides to get water, and on her way to the kitchen, she pauses in front of the mirror, perhaps asking herself if she might still be considered attractive. As she  Rose, States of Fantasy, 4–5.  Eduardo Cirlot makes the link between garden, nature, and love when he writes, “(t)he garden is the place where Nature is subdued, ordered, selected and enclosed. (…) A garden if often the scene of processes of ‘Conjunction’…” (Dictionary of Symbols, 186). 30 31

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walks down the hallway, she notices that Ramiro’s light is on and the door is partially ajar. She knocks softly and quickly calls out her brother-in-law’s name. Hearing no response, she enters the kitchen, and without her noticing, Ramiro appears and walks uncomfortably close behind her. Tula does not appear to be aware of the danger that we, as spectators, sense so strongly. What follows is a tense dialogue between them that is loaded with ambiguities and erotic undertones. A motionless Ramiro stands in close proximity to Tula as she nervously drinks water, recalling the previous incident with fright. Finally, she leaves the room, and Ramiro follows her out of the kitchen, in a scene that suggests a potential new sexual aggression, but this time he pauses in the doorway. Once Ramiro confirms that Tula has returned to her room, he enters Juanita’s room, and ignoring the adolescent’s repeated pleas to stop, he obtains what he could not obtain from Tula (Fig. 4.4). In this disturbing scene, Juanita is transformed in Ramiro’s eyes into a sexual surrogate for Tula. Once more, his behavior represents the close link between sexual repression and violence stated by René Girard.32 Just as we have seen previously, when the critics were hesitant to call Ramiro’s attack on Tula an actual sexual assault, they again are reluctant to recognize Ramiro’s aggression against Juanita as a rape. Virginia Higginbotham contends that Ramiro “seduces the surprised and frightened fourteen-­ year-­old niece Juanita,”33 and LaRubia-Prado, in a similarly ambiguous manner, states that “Ramiro seduces Juanita and has sexual intercourse with her.”34 When critics speak openly about rape in the film, they tend to consider Tula as partially responsible for Ramiro’s actions. This is certainly the case when Sally Faulkner writes that: “Tula’s repression triggers excess: harmless Ramiro is transformed into a rapist.”35 In my opinion, it is clear that, in the three instances in which the film addresses Ramiro’s sexual advances, all involve violence. It starts with Rosa, continuous with Tula, 32  René Girard writes: “Like violence, sexual desire tends to fasten upon surrogate objects if the object to which it was originally attracted remains inaccessible; it willingly accepts substitutes. And again like violence, repressed sexual desire accumulates energy that sooner or later bursts forth, causing tremendous havoc. It is also worth noting that the shift from violence to sexuality and from sexuality to violence is easily effected, even by the most ‘normal’ of individuals, totally lacking in perversion. Thwarted sexuality leads naturally to violence” (Violence and the Sacred, 35). 33  Higginbotham, Spanish Film Under Franco, 98. 34  LaRubia-Prado, “La tía Tula de Unamuno y Picazo,” 158. 35  Faulkner, Cinema of Contradiction, 122.

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Fig. 4.4  Ramiro rapes Juanita. La tía Tula (Miguel Picazo, 1964)

and culminates dramatically with Juanita, whose weak body becomes the place where patriarchal power inserts itself both physically and symbolically. After this brief sojourn in the country, Tula, who still has no knowledge that Ramiro raped Juanita, returns to the city refreshed and seemly happy. The camera brings us to a bridal shower in the apartment of one of Tula’s friends, where for the first time we witness a loosening of the strict code of conduct characteristic of the time. Nevertheless, the most noteworthy moment is when Tula, displaying her maternal instincts, takes care of a friend who has imbibed too much punch. Her friend laments that they are never going to get married, but Tula questions her certainty. Unbeknownst to her, Ramiro’s impending confession of his sexual violation of Juanita will close the possibility of her marrying her brother-in-law. Back in Tula’s apartment the camera pauses on Ramiro, seated under a photograph of his wife with an agonized look on his face. Tula, who is still in high spirits and may be reconsidering her attitude toward Ramiro, shares some of the details of her friend’s upcoming wedding. Ramiro listens to Tula showing no interest and suddenly confesses that Juanita is pregnant and that they have to get married. Visibly shocked, Tula reprimands him for taking advantage of a child. Ramiro callously tries to justify himself, claiming that she cannot understand because, as a woman, things are different for her. At this point, she realizes that her initial instincts were

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correct when she suspected that Ramiro’s interest in her was purely sexual. The climactic moment of this conversation takes place when Ramiro tries to force himself on Tula once again. She quickly repels his advances, stating forcefully that she is in her house, where she will do as she pleases. Ramiro’s reaction is to storm out of his sister-in-law’s house. The scene ends as a distraught Tula throws herself onto her bed, sobbing and pleading that the children must be left with her. The final scene takes place at the train station, where Ramiro, Juanita, and the children are boarding a train. The unhappiness among the characters is palpable. The traditional family unit has been restored, but at the expense of each individual. Tula tearfully says good-bye to them and evokes the memory of her sister one last time. Due to its length and dramatic music, the final take reminds us of the prologue scene, where we first saw the pensive Tula, who now softly utters Ramiro’s name (Fig. 4.5). This final scene suggests a tragic circularity since the film closes with the same atmosphere of pain and sadness we witnessed in the opening scenes. The children feel the pain of their mother’s loss once again. Ramiro remains as lost and confused as he was after Rosa’s death; Juanita, the latest victim of a system of domination that transforms women’s bodies into a place to exercise male power, faces a life of disappointment; and Tula’s inner turmoil has not dissipated. Her tenacious resistance to patriarchal power proves Foucault’s assertion that “(w)here there is power, there is

Fig. 4.5  The circle closes. La tía Tula (Miguel Picazo, 1964)

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resistance,”36 and for this she deserves a place among tragic heroines such as Sophocles’ Antigone, Ibsen’s Hedda Gabler, or García Lorca’s Adela. But we know that standing up to power comes at a price: she must not only endure tragic loneliness but also the symbolic “death” represented by society sanctions for not fulfilling the traditional roles of wife and mother.

Tragedy and the Politics of Mourning: 7 días de enero37 Will you not cease from harsh-sounding bloodshed? Do you not see that you are devouring each other in the carelessness of your thought? —Empedocles

During the 1930s, Spain was immersed in a spiral of political violence that culminated in 1936 with a bloody civil war. The fascist dictatorship that emerged from the conflict fiercely repressed dissent in order to ensure political and sociological hegemony. Together with other products of popular culture, following the war Franco’s regime politicized cinema for the purpose of propaganda. Their official discourse exploited the trope of the “two Spains” in a very Manichaean way. In this rhetoric, the traditional, conservative, Catholic, “true” Spain was forced into a bloody conflict in which, “with God’s help,” it prevailed against democratic, progressive, and revolutionary forces and, in their view, a godless, even evil, enemy. During the first decade of the dictatorship, this narrative was repeatedly enacted in films such as Sin novedad en el Alcázar [The Siege of the Alcázar] (Augusto Genina, 1940); Raza [Race] (José Luis Sáenz de Heredia, 1942); Rojo y negro [Red and Black] (Carlos Arévalo, 1942); and El santuario no se rinde [The Sanctuary Never Surrenders] (Arturo Ruiz Castillo, 1949). In the final years of the dictatorship, some filmmakers approached the conflict in a different way, incorporating the experience of those who lost the war. Basilio Martín Patino’s Canciones para después de una guerra (1971) (Songs for After a War) and Caudillo (1973), together with Victor Erice’s El espíritu de la colmena (1974) (The Spirit of the Beehive), are good  Foucault, History of Sexuality, 95.  While writing these pages, trade unionist Joaquín Navarro, original target of the ultra-­ right-­wing terrorist attack portrayed in  this film, passed away on  December, 17, 2021. To him, and to all those who fought for the recovery of democracy in Spain, I dedicate this chapter. 36 37

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examples of the gradual incorporation of the defeated into the official narrative of the Civil War. As expected, Franco’s death sparked the interest of the audience in topics related to the war and its aftermath. Films such as Las largas vacaciones del 36 (The Long Vacation of 1936) (Jaime Camino, 1976), Los días del pasado (The Days of the Past) (Mario Camus, 1977) and El corazón del bosque (The Heart of the Forest) (Manuel Gutiérrez Aragón, 1978) are just a few examples of the proliferation on the screen of stories set during the conflict or dealing with its consequences. Among the films that engaged with complex Spanish twentieth-century history, Juan Antonio Bardem’s 7 días de enero stands out for dealing with very recent traumatic events, still embedded in the viewer’s memory. Co-produced in France and Spain, 7 días de enero exemplifies better than any of the other films analyzed in this study the strong connection between the tragic mode and moments of political and sociocultural change.38 Combining archival material with fictional footage, Juan Antonio Bardem’s film dissects the dramatic events that shook Spain’s social and political landscape in January 1977.39 On that critical week, a series of political kidnappings and assassinations both by the ultra-left-wing groups, GRAPO,40 and pro-Franco fascist groups almost derailed the political transition to democracy initiated after Franco’s death in 1975.These tragic events put the country on the threshold of a new civil war. Fortunately, common sense triumphed, and the country continued on its path to democracy, culminating in the approval of a new constitution in 1978 that established the parliamentary monarchy that continues to be the form of government in practice today.

38  As noticed by Jean Pierre Vernant and Pierre Vidal-Naquet (1971), Raymond Williams (1966), Sarah Annes Brown (2007), and Simon Critchley (2019), among others, tragic art resurfaces with greater intensity in moments of socio-political instability, heralding changes that cause extraordinary anxiety in broad layers of society. 39  Juan Antonio Bardem’s first film after Franco’s death, 7 días de enero, won the Golden Prize at the Eleventh Moscow Film Festival in 1979. Bardem made his debut in 1953 co-­ directing with Luis García Berlanga Bienvenido Mr. Marshall (Welcome Mr. Marshall!). In 1955, Bardem was awarded the International Federation of Film Critics in the prestigious Cannes Film Festival with Muerte de un ciclista (Death of a Cyclist), a film that won him international acclaim. 40  The Marxist terrorist organization GRAPO (Grupo Revolucionario Armado Primero de Octubre) (First of October Armed Revolutionary Group) was active between 1975 and the early 1980s. They are responsible for several deaths including the bombing of a cafe in Madrid that killed nine people.

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Drawing on René Girard’s classic studies on violence and the analysis of the figure of the scapegoat by Walter Benjamin, Jacques Derrida, and Terry Eagleton, among others, I analyze how Bardem’s film not only reveals the violent face of Spanish fascism but also demonstrates how the sacrificial death of several pro-democracy activists helped break the fateful spiral that once more seemed condemned to repeat Spain’s tragic history. The labor lawyers’ violent deaths converted them into the scapegoat of a society in transition between the old order of the dictatorship and the new order of democracy. Imbued with a melodramatic tone, 7 días de enero seeks to establish a strong link between the spectator and the budding new democracy. Finally, I will show how, after forty years of emotional repression, Bardem’s film invites the audience to confront mourning by drawing the viewer into that very process. Focusing on Euripides’ tragedies, Olga Taxidou claims that “(h)istory (…) forms one of the main structuring forces of tragic form.”41 Although I always read the tragic in its socio-political and historical contexts, 7 días de enero is the only film analyzed in this book that has a clear historical purpose. Bardem’s film stages the tragic events of January, 1977, to offer us the possibility of reflecting on violence, suffering, and loss as the foundations on which the democratic constitution of 1978 was built. By doing this, 7 días de enero subverts traditional narratives of the Spanish transition to democracy that see those years as an exemplary, non-violent, and nontraumatic exercise of public responsibility, under the guidance of King Juan Carlos I and President Adolfo Suárez. Thus, my reading of the film shares with Olga Taxidou the idea that “(r)ather than offering an antidote to suffering and pain through an all-encompassing reconciliation, tragic form emerges as a radical form of critique that interrogates the basic assumptions and foundations of western democracy.”42 Bardem’s account of the tragic events that took place in January, 1977, focuses on the violence and sorrow that marked the foundation of the current Spanish democracy. The Two Spains 7 días de enero opens with an intertitle that states that the film mixes real and fictitious events. It also notes that it is not its intention to assume the  Taxidou, Tragedy, Modernity and Mourning, 15.  Ibid., 2.

41 42

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identity of the authors of the tragic events portrayed, since that is a task that corresponds to justice.43 As we will see in the following pages, Bardem’s film could be read as an outspoken claim for justice not just for the victims of fascist violence during that tragic week but also for the innumerable crimes perpetrated by the dictatorship that remained unpunished. The film was released at a moment in which most of the Spanish judicial apparatus was still very close to Franco’s regime. In many ways, 7 días de enero exudes the same degree of disbelief in the punitive ability of Spanish justice shared by the rest of pro-democracy forces. Imitating the style of newspapers’ teletypes, the viewer hears the sound of many typewriters and is informed of the events that endangered the path toward democracy. During this tragic week, Arturo Ruiz and Mari Luz Nájera were assassinated in anti-dictatorship demonstrations by fascist gunmen. GRAPO kidnapped Lieutenant General Villaescusa, a well-­ known high-ranking officer in Franco’s army and president of the Supreme Court of Justice, and assassinated three policemen. But the event that most shocked the public was the murder of four labor lawyers (Luis Javier Benavides, Francisco Javier Sauquillo, Enrique Valdevira, and Serafín Holgado) and one employee (Ángel Rodríguez Leal) by an extreme right-­ wing commando. All of the victims were members of the Partido Comunista de España (Spanish Communist Party). After introducing the young aristocrat Luis María (Manuel Ángel Egea) doing some target shooting with an ultra-right-wing terrorist, Bardem’s film presents the conglomerate of socio-political forces on which Franco’s regime relied: the aristocracy, the industrial bourgeoisie, the army, and the 43  Even though Bardem tries to hide the identity of the main characters by using different names, he is referring to very specific individuals. José Maria’s character is inspired by Fernando Lerdo de Tejada (1953–). Don Tomás’ character has been associated with the ultra-conservative Spanish politician Blás Piñar (1918–2014). After Franco’s death in 1975, he founded Fuerza Nueva (New Force), a violent neo-fascist group that fiercely opposed the Law of Political Reform (1976), the first step toward the new democratic Constitution that was overwhelmingly approved in a referendum in December, 1978. The police officer Cisko Kid can be identified as the brutal policeman Antonio González Pacheco (1946–2020), known as Billy el Niño (Billy the Kid). Accused of systematic torture under his supervision during his career as a member of the political police, he was awarded with up to four medals of honor. Recently, the progressive coalition of government PSOE–Unidas Podemos was in the process of stripping him of these awards when the former policeman died as a result of the COVID-19 pandemic. Finally, Adelaida’s character is based on Fernando Lerdo de Tejada’s actual mother, Virginia Martínez. She was a widowed aristocrat who, as shown in the film, collaborated with Blas Piñar (the politician who inspired the role of Don Tomás).

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church. These groups were facing a great deal of anxiety as a consequence of the uncertainty generated by Franco’s death in 1975. At a wedding party that has reunited key representatives of those social groups, Don Tomás (Jacques Francois), the visible head of the most radical members of Franco’s power coalition, summarizes the main concerns of Francoism: the kidnapping of Oriol y Urquijo44; labor unrest45; moral degradation; the deterioration of essential values; and, most importantly, the constant questioning of authority. After an editing cut, the camera moves to Madrid’s downtown. There, at the entrance to a law firm, the Francoist police identify Francisco Javier Sauquillo (José Pedro Carrión) and his wife, Doña Dolores González (Enriqueta Carballeira).46 As one of the policemen states, they are communist labor lawyers. In the building, Joaquín Navarro, a popular union leader at the time, is leading a workers’ meeting. He is a historical character played in the film by himself. In this scene, we can see the frenzied activity of the labor movement, a key ally of those aiming to restore democracy. With subtle brushstrokes, Bardem portrays a democratic, respectful Spain yearning for civil rights and political freedom that sharply contrasts with the elitist, snobbish, artificial, anachronistic, and violent official Spain. Among the films analyzed in this study, 7 días de enero is the only one which presents a highly Manichean and polarized view of Spanish society. Although characters such as Magdalena in La aldea maldita, Alfonso in La hija de Juan Simón, or Candelas in La laguna negra were presented in a very negative way, in none of those instances are the antagonists portrayed the way Bardem does here. In 7 días de enero’s account of that crucial moment in contemporary Spanish history, the social forces nostalgic about Franco’s regime are caricatured and, with the exception of José María, a character that I will explore in detail later, highly simplified. As 44  Antonio María de Oriol y Urquijo was one of Franco’s ministers of Justice (1965–1973), and in the years of transition to democracy, he was a member of the Council of the Realm (1973–1978) and president of the Council of State (1973–1979). He was kidnapped by GRAPO on December 11, 1976, and in February 1977 he was set free by Spanish security forces. 45  The strike of the transportation system was the tip of the iceberg of an increasingly combative labor movement that united its struggle for freedom and democracy with class demands. 46  Francisco Javier Sauquillo (1947–1977) and his wife Dolores González (1946–2015) are two of the victims of the Atocha’s massacre on January 24, 1977. The first died that same day, while the second suffered serious injuries but survived the attack.

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dictated by the praxis of political cinema, through the presentation of a situation in which the “good” and “evil” factions are easily identified, the film seeks the adherence of the viewer who finds it difficult not to empathize with the pro-democracy activists and condemn the violent dictatorship’s efforts to perpetuate itself in power (Fig. 4.6). Reflecting on melodrama, a popular genre in which the tragic mode often manifests itself, Peter Brooks points out that “we find there an intense emotional and ethical drama based on the manichaeistic struggle of good and evil.”47 He further expands his claim by saying that this polarization “works toward revealing their presence and operation as real forces in the world. Their conflict suggests the need to recognize and confront evil, to combat and expel it, to purge the social order.”48 This is precisely the task pursued by Bardem’s film: unmasking the latent forces of Spanish fascism that are seeking to stop the democratic process while turning pro-­ democracy activists into heroes. Mixing documentary footage with fiction, 7 días de enero portrays Arturo Ruiz’s murder by an ultra-right-wing gunman as an example of the

Fig. 4.6  The devilish face of Spanish fascism. 7 días de enero (Juan Antonio Bardem, 1979)  Brooks, Melodramatic Imagination, 12.  Ibid., 13.

47 48

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indiscriminate violence condoned by the dictatorship. The sad news, received with anguish and regret by pro-democracy activists, is used by Don Tomás to assure that the “Liberation Crusade” (the term that Franco’s supporters used to refer to the Civil War) has not concluded. In a quintessential fascist speech, Don Tomás wonders if they are going to allow the regime to disappear in the “dust of history.” Luis María listens attentively. Immediately following the speech, in what seems to be a response to the call to action by Don Tomás, the young aristocrat will sexually assault his shocked and repulsed girlfriend, who happens to be the politician’s daughter. It is not the first time in this study that we see how male frustration leads to sexual violence against women. We saw it in Condenados, when Juan, rejected by Aurelia, tries unsuccessfully to rape her. We observed this attitude again in La tía Tula, when Ramiro, after attempting to abuse his sister-in-law, rapes a minor, and finally, in this film, when Luis María unexpectedly assaults Pilar (Virginia Mateix). It is not a coincidence that all these films are set during Franco’s regime. It is probably worth remembering now that, as Mary Vincent points out, despite the centrality of self-control in a context of ultra-conservative political hegemony, the fact that masculine identity is construed through domination and superiority inevitably fosters violent behaviors against women.49 The pro-democracy groups’ celebration of the triumph of the unions in a strike that had paralyzed the country’s transport system was overshadowed by the death of Mari Luz Nájera. The twenty-one-year-old student was murdered when protesting the killing of Arturo Ruiz in a demonstration against the dictatorship the previous day. At the entrance of the hospital where Nájera was treated, a journalist plainly explains to a labor lawyer the “strategy of tension” used by Spanish fascists in those days. This tactic consists of bloody attacks on various social groups such as the working class, students, law enforcement, and the army, in order to provoke a violent response that would justify a military coup. To the most extreme supporters of Franco’s legacy, resorting to violence is the natural way to confront the continuing questioning of the status quo. In this mindset, violence is not only necessary but desirable. This line of thinking was shared by some extreme-left groups to which the response to violence was

 Vincent, “La reafirmación de la masculinidad,” 140.

49

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more violence. GRAPO, FRAP,50 and ETA,51 among others, believed that acts of revenge, discriminate or indiscriminate, were the best response to the institutionalized violence of the dictatorship. In both factions, which represented a minority within Spanish society, the logic of the civil war and the armed resistance as an instrument to combat the dictatorship was still present.52 As I will analyze later in more detail, it will be the exemplary behavior of the Spanish Communist Party supporters at the burial of their murdered comrades that will break this vicious cycle of bloody revenge. Family Debts The next scene is essential to understand this dynamic of revenge and retribution set in motion by minority extremist sectors. While having lunch with his mother Adelaida (Madeleine Robinson), with great distress Luis María hears on TV about Lieutenant General Emilio Villaescusa’s kidnapping by GRAPO.53 In the tense conversation that follows, she accuses the conservative youth in Spain of cowardice for not confronting more energetically the forces that are trying to demolish the socio-political structure built by the dictatorship. In a word, she is impelling him to act. Visibly irritated, Luis María replies that in due time he will surpass his late father’s efforts against those whom they consider the enemies of the true Spain and gain his admiration. We have already seen in this study some instances in which a woman tries to control men from the backstage as instigator of violent actions. From behind the scenes, she urges her kin to act, confirming Zeitlin’s 50  The FRAP (Frente Revolucionario Antifascista y Patriota) (Revolutionary Antifascist Patriotic Front) was an extreme left-wing organization active between 1973 and 1978. During those years, they killed six police officers. 51  ETA (Euskadi Ta Askatasuna) (Basque Homeland and Liberty) is the terrorist group with the longest and most violent history of the armed groups that emerged in the dictatorship. The Basque separatist organization, active between 1959 and 2018, is responsible for hundreds of deaths. 52  Simon Critchley states that “[t]ragedy might be defined as a grief-stricken rage that flows from war.” He furthers his claim by saying that: “Each side believes unswervingly in the rightness of its position and the wrongness or, as is usually said, evil of the enemy. Such a belief legitimates violence, a destructive violence that unleashes counterviolence in return. We seem trapped in a tragic cycle of bloody revenge and locked into vicious circles of grief and rage caused by war” (Tragedy, 17–18). 53  Together with Antonio María de Oriol y Urquijo, Emilio Villaescusa Quilis was released by the police on February 11.

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claim that women in tragedy are never at the center of the stage.54 As explored in the previous chapter, Candelas in La laguna negra and Aurelia in Condenados send their husbands down the path of blood. In 7 días de enero, Adelaida and later the mother of the groom in La novia do not hesitate to incite their sons to violence. This confirms Grace Harris’ point when she claims that “the double association of women as mothers with life and nurturance on the one hand and with death and destructiveness on the other is certainly widespread and may will nigh be universal.”55 As noted above, this duality, which is a prominent feature of the tragic mode, is clearly exemplified in at least half of the films examined in this book. In a classic study on the Spanish cinema produced during the years of transition to democracy, Marsha Kinder highlights the proliferation in those films of the figure of the “patriarchal mother” of which Adelaida is a good example. Reflecting on these characters, she states that the Spanish Oedipal narrative is characterized by an absent and idealized father who is sometimes substituted by an ineffective surrogate on whom the son’s patricidal impulses are bestowed. Kinder concludes that in those films mothers usually take the place of the missing father, thus embodying patriarchal law.56 Along similar lines, Paul Julian Smith indicates that male artists have projected their apprehensions and fears of fascism on powerful matriarchs.57 Smith is thinking of Lorca’s La casa de Bernarda Alba, but we can easily add to the list films such as Furtivos (Poachers) (José Luis Borau, 1975), Camada negra (Black Litter) (Manuel Gutiérrez Aragón, 1977), and the one analyzed here. By presenting a violent “patriarchal mother,” what these films have in common is that, as stated by Smith, “women are identified in male fantasy with that Francoism under which they suffered more than most.”58 This is the case in Bardem’s film. After an editing cut, we see Luis María looking at the portrait of his late father who is dressed in his military uniform. Close to the picture, a knife and two swastikas indicate that Luis María’s father fought alongside Nazi Germany in Russia

 Zeitlin, Playing the Other, 347.  Harris, “Furies, Witches, and Mothers,” 157. 56  Kinder, Blood Cinema, 198. 57  Smith, Vision Machines, 20. 58  Ibid., 27. 54 55

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with the División Azul (Blue Division).59 The absence of Adelaida’s husband allows her to take his place personifying the law of the father (Fig. 4.7). After a series of scenes that serve as a prologue to the terrorist attack against trade unionists, the film focuses on the Atocha massacre as seen from Luis María’s point of view.60 To preserve historical accuracy, Bardem avoids Luis Maria’s direct participation in the shooting. Hidden on the upper floor, he hears the shots and is horrified. When realizing the magnitude of the events, he cannot keep his composure and needs help leaving the building. It is worth noting that, in a film so committed to the fidelity

Fig. 4.7  Adelaida as a “patriarchal mother.” 7 días de enero (Juan Antonio Bardem, 1979) 59  In spite of the crucial military aid that Franco’s army got from Hitler and Mussolini during the Civil War, when WWII broke out, Spain remained neutral. Nevertheless, in 1941, right after the Nazi invasion of Soviet Russia, around 20,000 Spanish veterans joined the División Azul to fight communism. They were withdrawn from the eastern front in 1943. 60  For a detailed account of the “Atocha Massacre,” see José M.  Reverte and Isabel Martínez Reverte’s book in which they reveal Juan Antonio Bardem’s connection to the events. According to the authors, Bardem accompanied Joaquín Navarro, the labor unionist, when he gave his statement to the police after the murders (La matanza de Atocha, 193). A member of the Spanish Communist Party, Bardem also served as an intermediary between his party and the Spanish government.

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of the events, Bardem allows himself a little poetic license.61 Luis Maria’s behavior seems to indicate that, in spite of the virile rhetoric imposed by Spanish fascism during the dictatorship, this new generation of “patriotas” were simply cowards who took refuge in the impunity the regime offered to commit their attacks. In addition, his reaction to the tragic events highlights his inner conflict proving correct the idea that his involvement in the terrorist attack is more to please his mother and fulfill his social class destiny than out of personal conviction. Once again, Bardem resorts to archival footage to portray the powerful and emotionally charged funeral procession that, on January 26, in ominous silence and under the strict control of the Spanish Communist Party to avoid incidents, paralyzed Madrid’s downtown. This impressive political demonstration served a dual purpose: first, the communists, who had lived in Spain in hiding during the last four decades, came out openly for the first time since the Civil War. Second, and even more importantly, far from being the irresponsible and violent monster portrayed by Franco’s regime, the Spanish Communist Party showed a high degree of maturity and responsibility during those critical hours. There is wide consensus that, on that day, the communists earned their right to be once again a legal political party, after four decades of clandestine activity.62 Returning to the fictional part of the film, Luis María and his girlfriend, astonished by the magnitude of the funeral procession, seem agitated and nervous. Following the official version about the attack on the labor lawyers, Pilar blames the communists themselves for the tragedy, but Luis María, visibly irascible, takes responsibility for the massacre. Mixing his own socio-political interests with those of the nation, he defines what happened in Atocha as an act of service to the country. Pointing to his family memorabilia he states: “Todo esto son recuerdos de eso precisamente, de actos de servicio a España que han hecho los míos desde siempre. Y ahora me ha tocado a mí.” (All of these are mementos of acts of service to Spain 61  The perpetrators of the “Atocha massacre” are José Fernández Cerrá, Carlos García Juliá, and Fernando Lerdo de Tejada. As Jorge M. Reverte and Isabel Martínez point out, after committing the attack the three terrorists continued to live in Madrid as if nothing had happened since extreme right-wing terrorist actions used to go unpunished (La matanza de Atocha, 199). 62  The Spanish Communist Party, which had been the main oppositional force against the dictatorship since 1939, was legalized just three months after the “Atocha Massacre” on April 9, 1977. In the first democratic elections after Franco’s death, the PCE got 9.33% of the popular vote.

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that my people have done forever. Now it has been my turn.)63 Luis María has thus assumed what he understands as an ancestral class destiny. Deeply conflicted, he finds it easier to rationalize these traumatic events as ­something imposed by external forces because, as René Girard states, “men can dispose of their violence more efficiently if they regard the process not as something emanating from within themselves, but as a necessity imposed from without.”64 As it happens with the groom in La novia, a film that I will analyze later, Luis María is haunted by his ancestors, the aristocratic caste that has traditionally opposed any democratic progress in Spain. Regarding the influence of the dead, Robert Pogue Harrison writes that, “(w)e inherit their obsessions; assume their burdens; carry on their causes; promote their mentalities, ideologies, and very often their superstitions; and often we die trying to vindicate their humiliations.”65 Luis María is a perfect example of the obsessive and harmful influence of his noble forefathers, specially his father, who seems to guide his son’s acts as the ghost of King Hamlet did, and his maternal grandfather, killed by the loyalists to the Republic during the first days of the civil conflict. In addition, by invoking the irresistible force of an ancestral destiny/fate, Luis María intends to lessen the sense of guilt that he suffers after the massacre. In any case, what we see in this scene is a troubled subject trapped in a net of conflicting feelings, proud to have fulfilled his social class duty and remorseful for participating in the murders. However, his pride for having committed what he understands as an act of service to the country finally overcomes the natural remorse produced by having taken part in such a crime. Justice and Reparations Bardem uses the trial against the three ultra-right-wing terrorists to confront the spectator with the heinous crime once more. If the first time we experience the attack from Luis Maria’s perspective, now we do it through the point of view of several surviving victims. Different voices reconstruct the events with total accuracy, and Bardem, seeking the viewer’s empathy, does not spare us any of the most painful details. The magnitude of the tragedy and the wave of sorrow and sympathy generated both nationally  7 días de enero, 1:10:24–1:10:44.  Girard, Violence and the Sacred, 14. 65  Harrison, Dominion of the Dead, x. 63 64

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and internationally caused officials of the regime, who usually turned a blind eye on right-wing violence, to distance themselves from the murderers. In order to save his political career, Don Tomás, to the surprise of Adelaida, will not do anything to help Luis María. This attitude provokes an inner conflict in a woman divided between her loyalty to Don Tomás, the man whom she thinks could be Franco’s successor, and the love for her son. This conflict of loyalties will be resolved in favor of what she understands as the common good of the country. Maybe, like in her son’s case, in taking Don Tomás’ side Adelaida feels the pressure of the dead: her father, killed by the revolutionaries in the first days of the Civil War, and her husband, a patriotic military member who always fought in what they understood as the right side. Adelaida, in an act of absolute submission, such as those required by fascism, does not hesitate to sacrifice her son for the sake of the homeland. Two months after the Atocha attack, three of the terrorists were arrested and put on trial, though the victims did not have much hope and trust in a judicial system controlled by the dictatorship.66 Incorporating the court in the mise in scène, Bardem invites the spectators to judge by themselves after listening to the survivors’ testimony. Simon Critchley reminds us that the law frequently lies at the core of tragedy and that the law court is a theater.67 Aeschylus’ Oresteia, with Orestes’ staged trial, is a good example of this statement. As Bardem’s film, this trilogy revolves around issues of justice, revenge, and the law. Reflecting on these aspects, Mary Lefkowitz and James Romm point out that at the center of Aeschylus’ plays is the question of “whether justice is to be administered by way of retribution and revenge, or some other, less violent process.”68 For his part, Douglas Cairns claims that in this trilogy, “there is no simple movement from dike as revenge to dike as justice; rather, acts of revenge seek to instantiate a standard of justice that is constantly invoked but never realized.”69 This is precisely what is at the center of this film. The response to the violent 66  The fascist squad was arrested on March 14. On February 29, 1980, José Fernández Cerrá and Carlos García Juliá were convicted and given the maximum prison sentence. Fernando Lerdo de Tejada was on the run from justice at the time of the trial. It was the first time in Spain that a crime of the extreme right was tried and convicted (Reverte and Martínez, Matanza de Atocha, 225–226). By the time the sentence was executed, Bardem’s film was already popular in Spain. 67  Critchley, Tragedy, 26. 68  Lefkowitz and Romm, Greek Plays, 45. 69  Cairns, “Values,” 307.

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actions of the extreme right in the years of the transition to democracy also oscillated between these two ways of understanding justice. On the one hand, different minority left-wing armed groups responded with violence to violence. On the other hand, the vast majority of the democratic ­opposition to Franco’s regime saw the non-violent response as the only way to achieve full democracy, understanding the classical concept of dike as justice through legal process, not as justice as revenge or retribution. The proceedings of the trial require that in an identification line-up the attack survivors come face to face with the perpetrators. In a series of powerful close-ups, a survivor—the wife of a murdered lawyer—recognizes one of the terrorists. After an exchange of gazes between them, and an extreme close-up of the eyes of the murderer, the film leads us into another flashback of the attack. Bardem does not want to spare the audience any detail of the horror of the massacre and resorts to close-up shots and slowmotion editing. The graphic and vivid depiction of the killings resembles Goya’s famous painting, The Third of May 1808, in which Napoleonic troops execute a group of Spanish patriots at the beginning of the Independence/Peninsular War (Fig. 4.8). Reflecting on the relationship between German Trauerspiel or mourning drama and tragedy, Walter Benjamin states that the idea of sacrifice is at the center of tragic poetry.70 In a similar tone, analyzing the figure of the pharmakos, Terry Eagleton points out that “sacrifice is the performative act which brings a new social order into being.”71 That is what happened after the Atocha Massacre: the violent deaths of five left-wing militants convert them into the scapegoat of a society in transition between the old order of Franco’s dictatorship and the new order of democracy. There is wide consensus among historians that this tragedy gave a definitive impulse to the forces that were trying to demolish the socio-political building of the dictatorship to implement a democratic state. As an example of this shared viewpoint, Carme Molinero and Pere Ysas state that these events were decisive in the negotiations to carry out free elections between the reformist government and the democratic opposition.72 70  The German philosopher stated that “in respect to its victim, the hero, the tragic sacrifice differs from any other kind, being at once a first and a final sacrifice. A final sacrifice in the sense of the atoning sacrifice to gods who are upholding an ancient right; a first sacrifice in the sense of the representative action, in which new aspects of the life of the nation become manifest” (Origin of German Tragic Drama, 106–107). 71  Eagleton, Sweet Violence, 276. 72  Molinero and Ysas, La anatomía del franquismo, 261.

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Fig. 4.8  Atocha Massacre. 7 días de enero (Juan Antonio Bardem, 1979)

Using archival material, the last segment of 7 días de enero is devoted to the mise en scène of the emotive farewell that the victims received from thousands of communist militants as well as ordinary citizens who advocated for democracy. The burial of the four lawyers and the administrative assistant is one of the most impressive public mournings in recent Spanish history. There is consensus among scholars about the idea of mourning as a central feature of tragic art. Pietro Pucci asserts that mourning lamentations constitute the core of many tragedies.73 For her part, Olga Taxidou states that tragedy lies “in the form, function and meaning of a historical drama in which loss and suffering are recuperated through mourning.”74 She furthers her claims by stating that “as a way of reintegrating death within the workings of life, mourning might help create new ways of talking about tragic form that create historical accountability, radical critique and introduce the possibility of change.”75 The loss and suffering staged in the last minutes of Bardem’s film does not refer only to the five communist militants assassinated on January 24, 1977. What is really being put on display in the crowded streets in Madrid downtown is the postponed  Pucci, “Foreword,” xii.  Taxidou, Tragedy, Modernity and Mourning, 16. 75  Ibid., 16. 73 74

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mourning for the thousands of Republican militants murdered during the Civil War and the subsequent dictatorship. As part of the terror imposed by the Franco regime, the immense majority of those killed both judicially and extrajudicially were denied the possibility of a public burial in which to be honored by their families and friends. The funeral for the labor lawyers killed in Atocha Street offered this possibility, and for the first time since the end of the Civil War, a massive act of tribute to the victims of the dictatorship could be seen in the political heart of the country. Furthermore, with this civic and public demonstration, many people had the feeling that one cycle of the traumatic recent history of Spain was closing, one of institutionalized political violence against anyone opposed to the dictatorship, and another one was opening, one in which the idea of democracy and justice finally makes its way after forty years of repressive dictatorship. In any case, winning the battle over the right to properly mourn them, a crucial aspect for the outcome of classic tragedy highlighted by Olga Taxidou, was not easy.76 As Victoria Prego relates in her documentary on the transition, the Madrid bar association wanted official authorization to install the funeral chapel in the Palace of Justice. The regime gave in, and the doors were opened to the public for only three hours. They also preferred that the burial be private, but after endless negotiations, they agreed that the burial be public.77 The government’s insistence on containing the pain and sorrow of pro-democracy militants in the private sphere only demonstrates the political and subversive character that public mourning manifestations can have (Fig. 4.9).78 As seen in the image below, many of these pro-democracy activists publicly raised their fist (the universal communist symbol) for the first time in Madrid since the end of the Civil War. Highly emotive, the last minutes of the film appeal directly to the feelings of the audience. The music, in a solemn and funeral mood, helps to consolidate the emotional response of the audience. Terry Eagleton reminds us that “(a)long with the standard tragic responses of pity and terror, the pharmakos evokes one of  Ibid., 67.  Prego, Así se hizo la Transición (Chapter 12, 0:54:00–0:57:00) 78  Comparable with the magnitude of the burial of the murdered labor lawyers in Atocha Street was the burial of the historic leader of the Communist Party of Spain, Dolores Ibarruri, who was given her final farewell in Madrid in another massive public political demonstration on November 15, 1989. 76 77

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Fig. 4.9  Grief and rage. 7 días de enero (Juan Antonio Bardem, 1979)

reverence.”79 It is difficult to find a better example than the one offered in this film. From that moment, the five assassinated militants acquired the status of martyrs among their fellow communist activists and the rest of Spanish society that was tired of political violence and wished to find a framework of political coexistence that would surpass the idea of the two Spains. To sum up, 7 días de enero stages two different ways of dealing with frustration, trauma, and grief: the pursuit of revenge or the pursuit of justice. The last years of the dictatorship are marked by the attempt of small right-wing groups to replicate the conditions of political violence that led to the Civil War. The Atocha attack staged by Bardem’s film is a perfect example of this strategy. The non-violent rational response to the massacre was to choose the path of justice to stop this cycle of violence. 7 días de enero resorts to the tragic mode inherent in the event itself to portray the freedom martyrs as the last but necessary scapegoats of a country in transition that, by witnessing this horrific event, will finally understand the devilish nature of fascism.  Eagleton, Sweet Violence, 291.

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On December 6, 1978, the Spaniards overwhelmingly endorsed a new democratic constitution with the hope of healing the wounds produced by a bloody civil war and forty years of dictatorship. “Libertad sin ira” (Freedom without anger) was the motto of those years. Fear and repression gave way to optimism and faith in the future, but the new Spain brought different social and political challenges. As we will see in the next chapter in the analysis of Deprisa, deprisa and La buena estrella, not everyone will enjoy the benefits of the newly acquired freedom in the same way.

CHAPTER 5

Tragedy and Social Exclusion

Introduction The recovery of democracy in Spain in 1978 created expectations among Spaniards that contrasted with the demands of a highly conflictive reality, both economically and socially. Carlos Saura’s Deprisa, deprisa was released in March, 1981, just a few weeks after the failed coup attempt led by Lieutenant Colonel Antonio Tejero that aimed to reverse the democratic reforms initiated after Franco’s death. Unión de Centro Democrático (UCD) (Union of the Democratic Center), a conglomerate of reformist conservative political forces under the leadership of President Adolfo Suárez was in charge of a weak government. In that moment, Spain was going through a difficult economic situation that generated social unrest. Unemployment was high and prospects for young people were bleak. A year later, in 1982, the Partido Socialista Obrero Español (Spanish Socialist Workers Party, PSOE by its acronym in Spanish) won a landslide victory at the polls. For the first time since the years of the Spanish Second Republic, a social-democratic party with Marxist roots would be in charge of the Spanish government. In the next 14 years, Spain will enter a process of modernization and Europeanization that has its milestones in its acceptance into both the European Common Market (the former European Union) and NATO in 1986. The high point of this process of homogenization with the rest of the countries of the West occurs in 1992. In that pivotal year, Seville hosted Expo’92, a very successful World’s Fair; Madrid © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 L. M. González, Modes of the Tragic in Spanish Cinema, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-19325-5_5

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was chosen as European Cultural Capital, and the summer Olympic Games were held in Barcelona. However, various cases of corruption involving some members of the social-democratic cabinet and a deep economic and social crisis meant that in 1996, one year before La buena estrella was released, the conservatives of the Partido Popular (People’s Party, PP) would return to power after more than a decade of progressive governments. Broadly speaking, this is the socio-historical context in which the two films analyzed in this chapter, Deprisa, deprisa and La buena estrella, take place. As we have seen through this book, Heather K. Love is right when she affirms that modern tragedy and the tragedy of the so-called minorities go hand in hand since modernity created its own tragic others, social types that work as pharmakos.1 In the analysis of La aldea maldita, La hija de Juan Simón, and La tía Tula I focused on the challenges that women endured under patriarchal rule and its tragic consequences. In this chapter, I will switch my focus from issues of gender to issues of class since in Deprisa, deprisa and La buena estrella the economic conditions under which their main characters operate play a key role in the tragic outcome of both films. Reflecting on the relationship between the return of the tragic in postmodern societies and the economic circumstances under which some people live, Michel Maffesoli categorically states that all frameworks that inscribe human beings in a certain context ultimately predetermine their future, to the point that he wonders if “the iron law of economy” is not a new form of classic fate. The French sociologist concludes that the fact that we do not consider economic status as a determinant of individual destiny makes it even more dangerous.2 As we have seen in the films analyzed to this point, economic conditions played a significant role in the tragic outcome of their protagonists. Both Acacia and Carmela chose to move to the city in search of a better life and behind Juan and Martin’s parricide we can see economic motivations. However, in none of these cases is the social status of the main characters as significant as in the two films I deal with in the following pages.

1 2

 Love, “Spectacular Failure,” 304–305.  Maffesoli, El instante eterno, 23.

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“Live Fast, Die Young and Have a Good-Looking Corpse”3: Deprisa, deprisa It is necessary for human beings to bear fortunes that are sent by the gods. But those who cling to suffering of their own choosing, like you, would not rightly receive either sympathy or pity. You have grown wild. You will not take advice, and if someone counsels you, speaking with good will, you hate him and think him an enemy who means you harm. —Sophocles, Philoctetes (Translated by Martha Nussbaum) Si me das a elegir entre tú y ese cielo Donde libre es el vuelo para ir a otro nido Ay amor me quedo contigo, Si me das a elegir entre tú y mis ideas Que yo sin ellas soy un hombre perdido Ay amor me quedo contigo    (If I have to choose between you and the sky    Where one is free to fly to another nest    Oh, my love, I stay with you    If I have to choose between you and my ideas    Without which I am a lost man    Oh, my love, I stay with you.)    —Lyrics from the song “Si me das a elegir” by Los Chunguitos

In 1982, Carlos Saura’s Deprisa, deprisa received the Golden Bear, the highest prize awarded to the Best film at the Berlin International Film Festival.4 Acclaimed by both the critics and the public, this film would become paradigmatic of what is popularly known as “quinqui” cinema, a series of films produced around the years of the Spanish transition to  This is a quote from the film Knock on Any Door (1949), directed by Nicholas Ray.  Carlos Saura (1932–2023), whose long and prolific career spanned over five decades, was one of the most internationally acclaimed Spanish film directors and he received numerous awards. Some of his most iconic films include La caza (1960), which won the Silver Bear at Berlin; La prima Angélica (1973) and Cría cuervos (1975), both of which won Special Jury Awards in Cannes; and Mamá cumple cien años, which got an Oscar Nomination as Best Foreign language Film in 1979. 3 4

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democracy (1975–1982). They revolve around the conflictive lives of young urban petty criminals. These stories are typically located in the outskirts of a big city, usually Madrid or Barcelona, and use nonprofessional actors and actresses cast among the marginal groups of Spanish society to add verisimilitude to the films. As the editors of the volume Fuera de la ley correctly asserted, this cinema shows the other side of the story, the reverse of the explosion of joy provoked by the recovery of a democracy loaded with a promising future. The protagonists of these films, the “quinquies,” often fall prey to heroin, first, and AIDS, later. They embody the abandonment, marginalization, and exclusion of those who fell through the cracks of the new political context.5 Some of the most popular films of this subgenre are: Perros callejeros [Street Warriors] (José Antonio de la Loma, 1977); Navajeros [Knife-carrying Robbers] (Eloy de la Iglesia, 1980); and Yo, el vaquilla [Me, the “Vaquilla”] (José Antonio de la Loma, 1985). The story told by Deprisa, deprisa fits perfectly into the narratives of rapid ascent and subsequent fall that characterizes some expressions of tragic art. However, it is neither located in Oedipus’ Thebes nor in Macbeth’s medieval Scotland and its protagonists do not have noble blood because, as David Lenson reminds us, the modern tragic hero transcends class, gender, national origin, and occupation.6 Carlos Saura’s film is located in the slums on the periphery of Madrid around 1980 and its protagonists are four rebellious teenagers (three men and a woman). Trapped in a dead end, they embark on a journey marked by crime and drugs that, with the exception of the young female protagonist, will end with their death. Following “quinqui” cinema conventions, the main characters are played by amateur actors recruited from the less fortunate suburbs of Madrid, facing the same difficulties suffered by the fictional characters that they embody. In an ironic mix of reality and fiction, just like the characters that they portray in Saura’s film, two of the actors, José Antonio Valdelomar (Pablo) and Jesús Arias (Mecca), will die young, the first one in 1992 while serving time in jail, the victim of an overdose, and the other one in 1987. Neither of them could escape their destiny.7  Florido Berrocal, Martín-Cabrea, Matos-Martín and Robles, Fuera de la ley, x.  Lenson, Achilles’ Choice, 163. 7  Regarding the cast of young amateur actors, Julie Jones has stated that this was crucial for the film. According to Jones, not only did they provide information and help tailor their roles, they also endowed the film with credibility though their anonymity on screen and their understated performances (“The Way We Live Now,” 120). 5 6

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Drawing on the theoretical framework by Heather K. Love and Michel Maffesoli stated in the introduction of this chapter, in the following pages I analyze how, despite believing themselves free, invincible, and favored by the goddess Fortune, the characters in Carlos Saura’s film ultimately fall. This reminds us of the mutability of the wheel of fortune and the fact that, far from being free, all of us are subject to a series of economic and social forces that function as an unbeatable fate. Ultimately, I will show how the violent death of the three youngsters converts them into the scapegoats of a society that chooses its pharmakos among its most vulnerable elements. Deprisa, deprisa begins with two unexperienced thieves, Pablo and Meca, stealing a car. The owner unsuccessfully tries to prevent it and the adolescents clumsily escape after several minor crashes, an obvious parody of the typical Hollywood police chase scenes. As they make their getaway, the extra-diegetic soundtrack becomes diegetic when, rushing through the downtown streets toward the marginal outskirts of the city, Meca plays the song “¡Ay, qué dolor!” (Oh, how painful) by the aforementioned Spanish pop group Los Chunguitos. Commenting on the importance of the music in the film, Marvin D’Lugo has stated that, due to the fact that most of the soundtrack plays a diegetic role, it is possible to claim that at least some of the actions of the youths are not spontaneous but fashioned by the music they hear.8 Thus, music helps them shape their actions and build themselves as characters with predetermined codes, values, and expectations. These kids will emulate the way of life celebrated on those soundbites. As we saw in La hija de Juan Simón, sometimes life imitates art. This opening scene serves two purposes. First, it highlights the idea that its protagonists are not professional delinquents but what we would refer to as “small-time crooks.” They are young people from the most unprotected social strata who, as we will see again in the analysis of La buena estrella, have spent most of their lives in juvenile detention centers. Highly vulnerable and distrustful of a system that has always outcast them, they decide to disregard social conventions and, ultimately, legal regulations and live from day to day. Second, this initial scene accentuates the dichotomy between the center, exemplified by the cosmopolitan and modern downtown Madrid, and the margins, embodied in the outskirts

8

 D’Lugo, Films of Carlos Saura, 171.

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that surround Spain’s capital city.9 While in classic tragedy marginal ­characters are visible but subsidiaries, in some of the films analyzed in this book they are the main protagonists, proving Heather K.  Love correct when she states that “(m)odern tragedy is equal opportunity tragedy: everyone is exposed to tragic suffering.”10 Throughout the film, we will see this group of youngsters moving back and forth from the downtown where they commit their crimes to the outskirts of a city that, thanks to the fast-economic development, is constantly expanding. In any case, we appreciate a similar critique of the unfulfilled promises of city life and its dynamic of exclusion as we observed in La aldea maldita and La hija de Juan Simón. The difference is that while the latter were trying to support a conservative agenda, Carlos Saura’s critic of some aspects of modernity comes from a left-wing perspective critical with capitalism. This approach is in tune with most of the anti-Francoist movement that, beginning in the 1950s, opposed the dictatorship. As suggested by the film’s title, everything happens fast, very fast. Pablo and Ángela, a waitress he is in love with, go dancing. Pablo promises on his freedom that they will stay together forever, and they spend the night in his apartment. On many occasions, Pablo swears on what is for him the most sacred thing. He does not invoke God, or family; he invokes freedom. His concept of freedom is twofold. On the one hand, it refers to Pablo’s individual freedom, especially considering the amount of time that he spent in juvenile detention centers. On the other, it refers to the bigger idea of Spain enjoying freedom after the dictatorship. In either case, the events that follow will show that Pablo has a false sense of freedom. As Michel Mafessoli has sustained in a more general context, he and his friends are subjected to a series of economic and social forces that will ultimately determine their fate, proving that their “freedom“ is merely an illusion. None of the characters that populate this book, including the protagonists of Deprisa, deprisa, are free in the strict sense of the word. They do make their own decisions at specific times, but they are subjected to a series of 9  On the relation between center and margins in tragedy and the characters that populate them, Mary Ebbot has stated that: “the boundary can be imagined as a space, a liminal area that divides but also links inside and outside.” She furthers her remark by saying that “(t)he margin (…) can be considered the point or zone of interaction between insiders and outsiders” and “(t)ragedy creates an opportunity for such an interaction (…), (…) especially in its portrayal of marginal figures” which, paradoxically, “take center stage” (“Marginal Figures,” 366–367). 10  Love, “Spectacular Failure,” 305.

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conditioning factors, both external (sociopolitical conditions) and internal (genetic and psychological), responsible for the tragic outcome.11 Returning to Saura’s film, in the next scene, we see Meca, Pablo, and Ángela in an open field outside of Madrid where they are practicing their marksmanship by shooting cans. According to Juan Carlos Alfeo and Beatriz González, the open field, a typical feature of the “quinqui” cinema, is a transitional space between the urban and the rural worlds populated by individuals who have no past and cannot aspire to a future. Although they traverse this space, they are unable to settle there as it is a barren and hostile land that does not foster growth. A metaphor for the vulnerability of the characters/actors, it is the space where they engage in drug abuse, sex, and crime.12 What stands out about this land is that it is dry and abandoned, and that it lacks any kind of beauty or vitality, evoking an overall impression of desolation and death. Once again, as in La laguna negra or Condenados, we see the land working as a metaphor for the nation and as an expression of the state of mind in which the protagonists find themselves. During this scene, Ángela displays her ability to shoot, dispelling the stereotype that a female in this society should be passive and submissive, an image reinforced during the dictatorship. Besides Tula in Picazo’s film, Ángela is, among the female protagonists analyzed in this book, the one that more radically challenges the social expectations of her time. Regarding this powerful character, Marvin D’Lugo has stated that: “her presence and, in particular, her piercing gaze, constitute a discursive resistance to the dominant forms of cultural coherence she observes.”13 Throughout the film, Angela will empower herself to go from being a mere companion at the beginning to becoming the main protagonist of this story toward the end. Froma Zeitlin points out that, in tragedy, women are never at the center of the stage and have a subsidiary role to the male characters.14 That 11  In his book about early modern tragedy, Blair Hoxby points out that the twentieth century’s most influential criticism of tragedy locates at the heart of this literary genre either an inevitable clash between ethical forces or a tension between freedom and necessity. (What was Tragedy?, 3). However, as Terry Eagleton states “liberty and necessity go hand in hand.” According to the British scholar, “it is also possible to combine the two through a kind of amor fati, hugging one’s chains and making one’s destiny one’s choice.” He further expands his statement by saying that: “This is to treat freedom as the knowledge of necessity, embracing the inevitable in the form of a free decision” (Sweet Violence, 115). 12  Alfeo and González, “La ciudad periférica,” 10. 13  D’Lugo, Films of Carlos Saura, 171. 14  Zeitlin, Playing the Other, 347.

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is the case for Ángela during much of the film but, contrary to the other characters in this book who barely evolve from their initial position, over time she becomes aware of her place in the world, her limitations, and her possibilities. In a local bar, we are introduced to Sebas (José María Hervás Roldán) who, influenced by the patriarchal ideology dominant during this time period, objects to Angela’s participation in the next “job.” She is finally accepted into the gang, but she disguises herself as a man so that she can function better in the hyper-masculinized world of juvenile delinquency. The morning before the armed robbery we see Ángela very relaxed, taking care of her plants. Pablo, who hasn’t slept very well, imitates Robert de Niro’s iconic mirror scene from Taxi Driver and the boxing scenes from Raging Bull. Both films were directed by Martin Scorsese in 1976 and 1980, respectively, and were very popular in Spain at that time. Together with the rumba music that they are constantly listening to, Hollywood cinema becomes a great source of influence for this generation. The robbery is a success and Sebas is dropped off in one of the new home developments that were created around Madrid since the economic “boom” initiated in the 1960s. Conflicts between the builders and the residents were habitual due to the low quality of these apartment complexes. This is reflected through a shot that subtly includes a banner that states that the neighbors demand justice, not mercy. The understated incorporation of a sociopolitical comment contradicts Steven Torres’ idea that “quinqui” cinema contributed, inadvertently or not, to the depolitization of the efforts of the militant left in their attempts to deeply transform Spanish society.15 On the contrary, by denouncing the social and economic conditions that lead the protagonists of the films into a path of alcohol, drug abuse, and criminal life, this cinema, including the film analyzed here, allows spectators to do political readings. Political Amnesia Soon after, we witness another instance of political reflection. An establishing shot portrays the teenagers wandering the Cerro de los Ángeles (Hill of the Angels) where the Monumento al Sagrado Corazón (Monument of the Sacred Heart of Jesus) is located. This site has a strong political implication in Spain’s collective memory. It was vandalized by Marxist  Torres, “Las contradicciones del cine quinqui,” 68.

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militants during the first days of the Civil War. This act was in resistance to general Franco’s fascist coup d’état which originated the prolonged dictatorship that had just come to an end. While festively sharing how they became small-time crooks, they notice that the monument is half destroyed but they do not know how it happened. An old lady who is visiting the site explains that it was damaged by the “reds” during the war. “Meca” irreverently replies that there must have been a good reason for the perpetrators to act in such a way. For his part, Sebas, without understanding the historical implications, wonders what war the old lady is talking about. As Spanish historian Julián Casanova aptly states, in the same scene, the film puts together issues of memory, forgetting, and irreverence, all of these highly discussed during the years of the Transition.16 Faced with the dilemma of confronting trauma and the ghosts from the past (a bloody civil war and the reactionary dictatorship that followed) or looking toward the future (embracing modernity and democratic Europe), Spanish society would prefer the second option. The well-known Pacto del Olvido (Pact of Forgetting), a tacit agreement between both right-wing and leftist political groups to turn the page of history and move on, deprived new generations of Spaniards of an understanding of the traumatic recent history. This is the only way to explain the total ignorance of these teenagers regarding the fratricidal conflict. Reflecting on this scene, film scholar Tom Whittaker has stated that “[c]ulturally divorced from the national identity imposed by the monument, their perception of history privileges that of the private over the public, their marginal subculture over the nation.”17 The connection they have with their group, their “tribe,” to use the terminology used by Maffesoli, is much stronger than the one with their country. Finally, this scene underlines the irreverent behavior of a new generation of Spaniards that does not feel represented in the moral/ political values of the past but has not yet found its place in the emerging and uncertain political landscape. As I have already mentioned, it is in these instances of sociopolitical transition where tragic art seems to flourish. The young protagonists in Carlos Saura’s film are a symbol of a nation in transition that, just like them, has not yet quite found its place and is struggling to find its new democratic identity after four decades of

 http://www.juliancasanova.es/el-lugar-de-la-memoria-en-el-cine-de-carlos-saura/  Whittaker, “No Man’s Land,” 691.

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political repression and international isolation.18 In any case, this newly acquired freedom remains under the strict control of the state security forces whose transition to a more democratic “modus operandi” was very slow, as shown in the scene in which police very rudely request identification from the three male teenagers, while patting them down for drugs.19 This is the first film analyzed in this book whose characters move in a sociopolitical context based on the ideas of democracy and freedom. However, as could be seen in this scene, the repressive forces of individual liberties are still present, as we will also appreciate in the analysis of La buena estrella and Julieta. The stories told by these films are located in a fully democratic Spain but their protagonists are subjected to a series of repressive forces (both internal and external) that constantly constrain their freedom. In their unstoppable crime spree, we witness another successful armed robbery. Nevertheless, Ángela, unable to subdue her rage, shoots at one of the guards that tried to prevent their escape (Fig.  5.1). Whether he survives or not is never clarified. In any case, this incident will mark her character for the rest of the film. It is apparent that Ángela is now the most dangerous member of the group. Sebas, adhering to the misogynist thought that women’s emotions get in the way of doing the job right, observes that she cannot control herself. As already stated in the analysis of La aldea maldita, Douglas Cairns defines hubris as “youthful impetuosity” characterized by lack of self-control.20 In a similar tone, Michael R. Halleran claims that it can be understood as an “act of violence” that will “bege(t) further violence.”21 If this is the case, Ángela’s act of violence triggered the violence unleashed at the end of the film. Also, it is worth pointing out that if, in La aldea maldita, Juan pays dearly for his fault, Ángela will come out of her crime unscathed. In a world from which all idea of God ​​ and, therefore, of divine justice has disappeared, her violent and unnecessary reaction will apparently have no consequence. The teenager will continue her criminal path with her male companions. As I will discuss later, at the end of the film, Ángela is the only one who will manage to survive. We do not know if, as in the case of Juan in La laguna 18  Tom Whittaker states that in Deprisa, deprisa, “(t)he figure of the teenager, (…) marks the transition between childhood and adulthood, [and] therefore serves to articulate a nation that was itself in transformation” (“No Man’s Land,” 683). 19  Terry Eagleton writes: “There could not be a freedom which was not somehow constrained. Constraint is constitutive of liberty, not just a curb on it” (Sweet Violence, 106). 20  Cairns, “Values,” 313. 21  Halleran, “Episodes,” 170.

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Fig. 5.1  Ángela’s violent response. Deprisa, deprisa (Carlos Saura, 1981)

negra, or Julieta in the homonymous film by Almodóvar that I analyze in the next chapter, she will be overwhelmed by a strong feeling of guilt or if, on the contrary, she will consider that what happened is nothing more than a minor collateral damage on her way to achieve individual freedom and financial stability. Life is a Party After the successful robbery, the four young people return to Ángela’s new apartment. While celebrating, Pablo asks Meca what he is going to do with all that money, and Meca replies: “Esto para el piso. Pa pagar el plazo del coche. Pa la educación de los niños y mil pesetillas para impuestos.” (This is for the apartment. This is to pay the car monthly installment. This is for the children’s education and a thousand ‘pesetas’ for taxes.) Sebas, who has grasped the irony of Meca and the contempt for traditional middle-­class values ​​that characterizes this rebellious youth, asks him: “y con el resto, ¿qué vas a hacer?” (What are you going to do with the rest of the money?), to which Meca replies, “irme a Disneylandia a darme una vueltecita.” (Go to Disneyland to take a little spin.)22 Reflecting on this rejection of bourgeois values, Marvin D’Lugo affirms that: “The youths of  Deprisa, deprisa, 0:56:06 to 0:56:21.

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the story, rebelling against the constraints of social organization, are, in fact, products of the very system that they reject and that has rejected them.” He thus further expands his claims by saying that, in Deprisa, deprisa: “Saura continually stresses the paradoxical ways in which these youths embody the rejection of middle-class norms and yet are caught up in the acquisitive activities that middle class culture promotes.”23 Although they will not want to admit it, these young people are immersed in a culture of consumerism characteristic of capitalist societies. In addition to the apartment that Ángela is paying for in installments, in the next scene we see how Pablo has bought a color television for his grandmother and a little bit later, we see how this group of friends rent horses to ride through the Sierra de Madrid (the richest part of the area) and spend most of their time in the bars and nightclubs of the city. They are as caught up in the capitalist machinery as the rest of the citizens they mock. In the next scene, the film returns to the open, abandoned, and littered spaces privileged by “quinqui” cinema. Ángela and Pablo gaze upon the town in which the latter was raised, though he does not miss it there. The couple arrives with a color TV for Pablo’s grandmother, who has only dreamt about possessing something of that value. The TV is a symbol of modernity and technological advancement in Spain after Franco’s death. In this scene, we find out that the police have been looking for Pablo. He denies this and tells his grandmother that it was most likely related to his time spent in the juvenile detention center. We slowly learn more about Pablo’s past which had been scarred by petty crime and jail. This scene is paired with a hedonist culture in which drugs and alcohol are daily habits. Living in the present, in a permanent “carpe diem” mood, is, according to Maffesoli, a key feature of the return to a tragic vision of the world, characteristic of postmodern societies. Maffesoli remarks that the culture of pleasure goes hand in hand with the tragic consciousness of destiny. In his view, the quotidian search for the superfluous and frivolous, as well as the prevalence of carpe diem and the cult of the body in all its manifestations are expressions of such tragic consciousness.24 Furthermore, he considers that there is an intrinsic relationship between a festive environment and the tragic sense of life.25 As shown in this scene, Ángela was the only one to go against this dangerous way of life. She has bought herself an  D’Lugo, Films of Carlos Saura, 165–166.  Maffesoli, El instante eterno, 27. 25  Ibid., 97. 23 24

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Fig. 5.2  Life is a party. Deprisa, deprisa (Carlos Saura, 1981)

apartment and does not use drugs and, ultimately, she will be the only one that escapes the tragic destiny awaiting her friends. There is a moment of particular interest in this festive scene. Everyone solemnly raises their glass to toast friendship. Pablo also gives a toast to life as he considers that they still have plenty of time ahead to enjoy it. They feel indestructible and immortal, unaware that this will be the last successful job and that most of them will be dead soon. The party goes on with all dancing to the rhythm of the flamenco-pop music that permeates their lives and constitutes the popular soundtrack of the film. Everybody is happy with their apparently successful life except Ángela. She feels guilty about the man she shot in the robbery and, probably, she realizes that this kind of life is not going to last (Fig. 5.2). The Fall In the following scene, with the group of friends observing the intense traffic in the surroundings of Madrid, Meca insists on the rejection of bourgeois values showed previously. He makes fun of the employees that are returning home after an exhausting work day. Once again, this rejection of bourgeois ideals may mask an internal desire to reproduce them in

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their lives. It seems that, deep inside, the dream of all outlaws is to revert back to mainstream lifestyles and values. In any case, their internal demons as well as the constraints that society impose will make this impossible and they will be unable to escape their tragic fate/destiny. In the next scene, the group of friends visits the sea, since Ángela has never seen it. The symbology of the sea confirms that death haunts some of the characters in Saura’s film.26 Confident with their success, the youths attempt a bank robbery but they fail. Sebas and Meca are killed by the police and Pablo is severely wounded. The last minutes of the film shows Pablo’s agonizing death. Ángela will try to bring him some help by hiring a doctor that finally betrays her. In any case, as they promised each other the night they met, she stays by his side until the end. This is the second time in this book that we witness the agony and death of a character. If the last segment of La hija de Juan Simón revolved around Carmela’s aestheticized dead, Pablo’s agony lacks any kind of glamorization and, on the contrary, it is presented in a very realistic way. Without going to the extremes in which Daniel’s death incurs in La buena estrella, the film that I will analyze next, Pablo’s death provokes in the spectator the same feelings of pity and fear that arise in the audience of a tragedy. It is worth noticing that, while in classic tragedy death occurs most of the times behind the curtains and never on the stage, these three films, La hija de Juan Simón, Deprisa, deprisa, and La buena estrella, convert the death of their protagonists in a morbid and voyeuristic spectacle for the eyes of the audience (Fig. 5.3). After Pablo’s death, the last scene shows Ángela taking the money from the robbery and walking away. This leads to an open ending in which, ultimately, it is the viewer who decides if Ángela, who has shown throughout the film agency and a remarkable empowerment capacity for a woman in the Spain of the eighties, will finally be able to escape her destiny or if, like her companions, she will be devoured by the sociopolitical and economic forces that she tries to defeat. Considering Carlos Saura’s insistence on reminding us of the socioeconomic conditions in which the film’s protagonists have grown up, he seems to lean toward the latter of the options, 26  Referring to the figurative meaning of the sea, Juan Eduardo Cirlot writes that it is associated with water in flux and, therefore, with the transitional state between life and death. According to Cirlot: “The waters of the oceans are thus seen not only as the source of life but also as its goal. ‘To return to the sea’ is ‘to return to the mother,’ that is, to die” (Dictionary of Symbols, 382).

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Fig. 5.3  Angela’s and Pablo’s farewell. Deprisa, deprisa (Carlos Saura, 1981)

understanding, as did Maffesoli, that economic status is a new form of “fate” that is all the more harmful since it is not recognized as such. However, Carlos Saura’s open ending makes possible an alternative reading—one that puts the emphasis on the individual actions of the human beings. In such an interpretation, it is easy to imagine that Ángela will take advantage of the money obtained in the robbery to forge a future for herself, free from crime. The fictional death of the three male protagonists predates for a few months the landslide victory of the Socialist Party (PSOE) leaded by Felipe González in the October, 1982, general election. As its campaign slogan announced, “Por el cambio” (For change), the main objective of the social-democratic government in the following years was to modernize Spain and align the country with the rest of Europe. However, the important political, economic, and social developments that took place in the 1980s and 1990s did not prevent some social segments from being left behind. The happiness and prosperity promised by the recently inaugurated modernity in Spain did not reach everyone and some people, such as the characters in the film La buena estrella that I will analyze now, will have enormous difficulties in finding their place in this world.

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Rethinking Family: The Limits of Freedom in La buena estrella

Why do I complain? Everyone knows that when misfortunes are brought by the course of the stars, hurtling down from on high with fury and violence, no power on earth can stop them, no human effort can prevent them. —Cervantes, Don Quixote (Translated by Edith Grossman.)                              This is the excellent foppery of the world, that, when we are sick in fortune, often the surfeits of our own behaviour, we make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and stars; as if we were villains on necessity, fools by heavenly compulsion, knaves, thieves, and treachers by spherical predominance, drunkards, liars, and adulterers by an enforced obedience of planetary influence; and all that we are evil in by a divine thrusting on. —Shakespeare, King Lear

Ricardo Franco’s La buena estrella was well received by both the public and the critics upon its release in 1997.27 At the XII edition of the Goya Awards, the film won five statuettes: Best Film, Best Director (Ricardo Franco), Best Actor in a leading role (Antonio Resines), Best Script (Ricardo Franco and Ángeles González Sinde), and Best Soundtrack (Eva Gancebo). A poetic story of loneliness, orphanhood, suffering, love, and death, Franco’s film is divided into three parts, one for each of the main characters: Marina (Maribel Verdú), also known as “One-eye,” a prostitute abandoned as a child by her father and now torn between her love for two men; Daniel (Jordi Mollá), “pretty face,” a young small-time crook who has spent his entire life between an orphanage and different penitentiary centers; and Rafael (Antonio Resines), “the meek,”28 a partially impotent owner of a butcher shop. Spanning over a decade, the three will try to fit and succeed in a world that, especially for Marina and Daniel, has proven to be hostile from the very beginning. Finally, incapable of overcoming the internal and external forces that control their destiny/fate, 27  Ricardo Franco (1949–1998) is a Spanish screenwriter and film director known for his adaptation in 1975 of Nobel Prize winner Camilo Jose Cela’s novel, La familia de Pascual Duarte. He died while working on his last film, Lágrimas negras (Black Tears, 1998). 28  It is important to note that “manso” has two meanings in Spanish. One describes the moral quality of a person in the sense of being measured, calm, and meek. The other meaning is that of a castrated bull which tends to be less aggressive. The second meaning has obvious implications here since Rafael is also “castrated.”

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Marina and Daniel will die leaving behind two daughters that will be raised by Rafael. In addition to the general theoretical framework based on what Heather K. Love calls the “modern tragedy of social types” and Michel Maffesoli’s contributions on the return of the tragic in postmodern societies, in the following pages I address the question of individual responsibility or social determination as triggers of tragic outcomes. I will show how, from the ambiguous / ironic title of the film, Ricardo Franco proposes a reflection on the limits of freedom and the influence that destiny exerts on human beings. I will also analyze Daniel’s long and painful agony. As one of the main features of the tragic mode, death has been the protagonist in some of the films studied in this book, but this is the first instance in which a character claims not only a dignified life but also a dignified death. “One-Eye”: Unbearable Homelessness La buena estrella opens with a series of shots of cattle, tightly cramped together, that fearfully await their fate in an industrial slaughterhouse. Resembling the opening scene of Modern Times (1931), a film in which Charles Chaplin used a flock of sheep as a metaphor of the dehumanization of modernity, Ricardo Franco opens his film highlighting the tragic human condition that inexorably leads all of us to a certain death. In his influential book on modern tragedy, Raymond Williams categorically states that tragic action is about death.29 Building on this idea, Ángel Berenguer defined the tragic action as the process that leads to the destruction of the tragic character, in which the human being faces their only possible destiny: death. He furthers his claim by stating that it is the conscience of the individual, faced with their own death, which propels the tragic action.30 In short, according to Berenguer, tragedy is the locus of death.31 As we will see in the following pages, La buena estrella, especially during the last segment of this film, proposes a reflection on the inevitability of death and the painful process of dying. The film then introduces Rafael, the butcher, who, aware of the economic status of his costumers, refuses to buy the most expensive cuts at the meat supply market because they cannot afford them at the end of the  Williams, Modern Tragedy, 58.  Berenguer, “La tragedia,” 19. 31  Ibid., 25. 29 30

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month. This is a hint that the story takes place in the outskirts of Madrid, the same location we observed in Deprisa, deprisa. On his way home, Rafael witnesses how Marina, the one-eyed woman, as stated by the intertitle that opens the first segment of the film, is being physically abused by Daniel, her boyfriend/pimp. After a few seconds of high tension, Daniel yields and leaves the scene. Rafael then offers Marina a ride, but she confesses that she is homeless. From an aesthetic point of view, it is worthy to note the prominence of the color blue—a tone associated with sadness and melancholy. A shot of the iconic Torrespaña—a TV broadcast tower— confirms that it is a cold winter morning in Madrid. As noted in the calendar displayed in Rafael’s shop, the date is February of 1988, just a few years after the setting of Saura’s film previously analyzed.32 Guided by his religious convictions, Rafael offers Marina, who is expecting Daniel’s baby, temporary shelter at his house. Surprised by his generosity, she tries to repay Rafael’s hospitality by offering him sex, but he rejects the offer. She thinks that the problem is that she is one-eyed and tells the story of how she lost her eye. Rafael concludes that she has not been very lucky in life, implying the preeminence of external forces—social or metaphysic—over human agency. As I analyzed in Deprisa, deprisa, what Ricardo Franco’s film questions is the true source of the struggles of the protagonists of these films. Some people would think that the obstacles that these characters confront could be easily eliminated with the implementation of more progressive policies. For others, it is not a question of political intervention because the conflictive nature of human beings will always prevail. Finally, some people will claim that the misfortunes of these characters have resulted through the “hand of God“ or some other external force that pulls the strings. In any case, as most of the scholars have pointed out, “what distinguishes tragedy is an uncanny unraveling of the distinction between agency and fate, internal volition and the pressure of external circumstance.”33

32  After its admission into the European Common Market and NATO, Spain is in a process of modernization and integration with the rest of the countries of Western Europe. The Socialist Party (PSOE), led by Felipe González, has revalidated the extraordinary electoral victory of 1982 and enjoys a second term in office. In any case, the economic adjustments demanded by Europe will provoke strong social tensions that will culminate at the end of 1988, the year in which the action of Ricardo Franco’s film begins, with a very successful general strike against the government’s economic policies. 33  Felski, “Introduction,” 11.

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Before leaving for work, unsure of Marina’s true intentions, Rafael leaves his wallet behind to see how trustworthy she is. A few hours later, Rafael returns and sees that both the wallet and Marina are not there. He thinks that he has been robbed by her, yet she soon arrives after doing some grocery shopping. This happy outcome leads to a first sexual encounter between them. Marina immediately confesses that even though both men are very different she has only felt the same sexual arousal with Daniel, the boyfriend/pimp that was abusing her at the beginning of the film. The scene concludes with Rafael leaving the house in distress while his voiceover highlights the issues of loneliness and abandonment that permeate Ricardo Franco’s film: “Un día, ella me preguntó si alguna ve me había sentido abandonado y yo le dije que si, cuando murió mi madre. Ella me miró y me dijo con mucha seguridad que no, que yo no me había sentido nunca abandonado. Y ya no volvimos a hablar del tema. Claro que, ¿cómo uno puede saber lo que ocurre en el corazón del otro?” (One day, she asked me if I had ever felt abandoned and I told her yes, when my mother died. She looked at me and told me very confidently that no, I had never felt abandoned. And we never talked about it again. Of course, one cannot know what happens in the other’s heart.)34 La buena estrella acknowledges that, to different degrees, at certain moments we have all felt abandoned, alone, and lost in a world that we cannot fully apprehend. In “‘Tragedy’, Reconsidered,” George Steiner takes up his ideas about the death of tragedy in modern times to reflect on the premise of the ​​ unwelcome presence of human beings on this planet: “The proposition that (…) men and women are unwelcome guests errant (…) on the earth, comports a metaphysical implication. It presumes that there are nonhuman agencies hostile or at best wholly indifferent to intrusive man.” According to this scholar, the consequence of this is “[a] legacy of guilt, the paradoxical, unpardonable guilt of being alive, of attaching rights and aspirations to that condition, [that] condemns the human species to frustration and suffering.” In sum, as Steiner states, “the axiomatic constant in tragedy is that of ontological homelessness.”35 Throughout this book we have seen multiple examples of frustration and suffering in the tragic characters that populate it. None of them escapes the idea that this world is an unfriendly place in which the few moments of happiness that we have are quickly displaced by extended periods of suffering and pain that, most  La buena estrella, 00:16:20 to 00:16:48.  Steiner, “Tragedy,” 30–33.

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of the time, are also accompanied by a deep feeling of guilt for which death is the only solution. As I will analyze in detail later, La buena estrella is the only film of those studied in this book in which, going against some of the most sacred conventions on the inviolability of life, one of its protagonists dares to hasten the process of leaving a world that he deems cruel and absurd. In one of those scarce moments of happiness we witness how a blood test shows that Marina does not carry HIV and her pregnancy is not at risk. Knowing that, she suggests going to Rafael’s bedroom. He confesses that he suffers from some level of impotence, but they end up having sex. After this moment of intimacy, Marina mentions Daniel again. The scene closes with an implicit deal between Rafael and Marina. Marina can stay, have the home she never had, and raise her daughter comfortably. Meanwhile, Rafael will see his paternal aspirations fulfilled by becoming a model father for Estrella. It seems that they are both living a fairy tale in which their inner desires/wishes are fulfilled by creating a happy family. However, if there is anything that the tragic mode teaches us, it is that happiness does not last. As we will see in the following pages, the wheel of fortune is constantly spinning. Never, Nothing, Nobody: Daniel, “Pretty Face” The second segment of the film focuses on Daniel or, as the intertitle states, “el guapo de cara” (pretty face). He has just been released from jail and, in a conversation with his lawyer, he boasts that, despite spending most of his life in correctional facilities and prisons, he has a lucky star. His cryptic motto, “nunca, nada, nadie” (never, nothing, nobody), seems to suggest the idea that he has total control over his actions and is totally self-­ sufficient. In this sense, he is a character similar to Pablo in Deprisa, deprisa. Both feel confident that they control every aspect of their lives, that they are invincible, and that no one and nothing can defeat them. These young people suffer from the sin of hubris that, as I have already pointed out here, will be the ultimate cause of their fatal fall. Daniel’s return to his old neighborhood gives Ricardo Franco the opportunity to present a clear contrast between two very different versions of Spain: the one of modernity and cosmopolitism, represented by the Torres Kio, the famous leaning towers built in the 1990s in northern Madrid, and the one of poverty and exclusion, represented by the old and

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Fig. 5.4  A radiant Marina stares at her beaten friend. La buena estrella (Ricardo Franco, 1997)

modest houses that surrounded them.36 The sharp contrast of these images works as a metaphor of the inequality provoked by the capitalist neoliberal agenda whose economic policies, embraced by the social-democratic government, are constantly leaving people behind. Meanwhile Daniel, who has been beaten by his old partner in crime, is aware of Marina’s new living arrangement and looks for shelter at Rafael’s house. At first Marina refuses to help him, but Rafael, moved by his deep religious convictions, opens his doors to her old friend. The blissful existence in which Rafael, Marina, and her daughter have lived will be abruptly broken. From a cinematographic approach, it is worthy to note the use of a point of view shot that reveals a radiant Marina through Daniel’s eye. “One-eye,” the nickname that Daniel uses to refer to Marina, has become a “queen.” But the vagaries of the wheel of fortune, which the ancients considered responsible for the tragedies of men, will soon break the spell and the “queen” will become “One-eye” again (Fig. 5.4).

36  This is not the first time that the Torres Kio are portrayed in Spanish Cinema. The same year that Ricardo Franco shot La buena estrella, Pedro Almodóvar included some shots of the Torres Kio in Carne trémula (Live Flesh, 1997) with a very similar symbolic meaning. In 1995, Alex de la Iglesia used the towers as the location for the last scenes of his popular El día de la bestia (The Day of the Beast).

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In the next scene, while Marina takes care of Daniel’s wounds, the camera pans over his body, in a point of view shot from Rafael’s perspective highlighting his masculinity which is seen as a threat by Rafael. The film emphasizes this idea with a frontal shot of Daniel now completely naked and looking at Rafael distrustfully. At this moment, a love triangle begins between a conflicted Marina and the two men whom, as she repeatedly confesses, she loves in the same way. In contrast to what we saw in the analysis of Condenados, this triangle will not be resolved through violence and death, but will be integrated more easily than expected into the family structure made up by Rafael, Marina, and their daughter, fruit of the relationship with Daniel. In any case, with Daniel living at the house, Rafael wants to make sure that Marina is still in love with him and leaves them alone during a weekend. The erotic tension between the two old friends is palpable. At first, Marina resists Daniel’s advances, but when Rafael returns home unexpectedly, he finds them in bed. After this uncomfortable situation, the conversation between Marina and Rafael is a clear example of the internal conflict that both characters face. It is important to remember here that, as Robert B. Heilman states, “the identifying mark of the tragic character is dividedness: that he is caught between different imperatives each of which has its own validity, or that he is split between different forces or motives or values.”37 At first, Marina tries to justify herself by saying that he shouldn’t have left her with Daniel, but Rafael replies that it is his fault for having returned home. He then asks them to leave the house as soon as possible. Marina insists on staying because she is in love with him but Rafael is skeptical about her feelings. In fact, she states that she is also in love with Daniel. It is easy to infer the degree of emotional conflict in which both characters are immersed. In any case, Rafael’s decision seems firm and he wants to get out of this anomalous situation. On their way to pick up their daughter, Marina and Rafael stop for gas and end up having sex at a motel. The dialogue that ensues in this scene is key to reach a full understanding of Daniel’s personality. As Marina explains to a conflicted Rafael, each time Daniel was adopted by a family, he ended back at the orphanage: “Cuando tenía cinco, cinco o seis años le adoptaron unos señores que al poco tiempo le devolvieron al hospicio. Eso pasaba muchas veces. Pero él dice que nunca ha sabido por qué. Que mientras estuvo con ellos todas las noches antes de dormirse le decían que  Heilman, Tragedy and Melodrama, 89.

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le querían mucho.” (When he was five or six years old, he was adopted by a well-off family that soon returned him to the orphanage. That happened many times. He says that he has never known why, because while he was with them, every night before going to sleep they told him that they loved him very much.)38 Once again, Ricardo Franco’s film suggests that the lack of a net of love and psychological support condemns human beings to solitude, frustration, and, ultimately, rage. In any case, Marina’s defense of Daniel makes Rafael change his mind and he decides not to sever ties with her. It is worth comparing Rafael’s understanding attitude toward his partner’s sexual transgression with the perspectives of other male characters analyzed in this work. For Juan in La aldea maldita as well as for Antonio in La hija de Juan Simón, Acacia’s and Carmela’s sexual transgressions represent a clear rupture in their relationship. Strongly influenced by an archaic honor code still prevalent in some areas of traditional Spain, Juan and Antonio find it difficult to forgive the sins of the women they are in love with, with the consequent suffering and pain that this decision entails. The Spanish society at the end of the twentieth century in which La buena estrella’s characters live is, in many ways, very different from the Spain reflected in those films. The honor code is no longer prevalent and the love triangles are resolved in a more restrained and peaceful way than we saw in Condenados. In the next scene of the film, Daniel informs Rafael that he has been able to fix the TV. Once again, the gender dynamic presented here is very interesting since the film portrays Daniel as a handyman that is “taking care” of Rafael’s possessions, which he is apparently unable to do so by himself. In any case, it seems that everyone has adjusted to the new situation. La buena estrella reconceptualizes the traditional definition of family, expanding its meaning and destabilizing fixed categories about marriage, masculinity, and fatherhood as never seen before in Spanish cinema. Everyone is happy: Rafael, Marina, the little girl, even Daniel seems to enjoy his new job as Rafael’s assistant at the butcher shop, but the “wheel of fortune” is about to make another spin. Tired of his comfortable life and tempted by the economic possibilities that his old criminal career seems to offer him again, Daniel finally leaves Rafael’s home. Marina will follow him soon, leaving behind Rafael and Estrella. In this way, Marina defends her bold decision: “Daniel me necesita (…) Vosotros os tenéis el uno al otro, por eso se queda contigo. Así os cuidareis los dos hasta que yo  La buena estrella, 01:00:01 to 01:00:25.

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vuelva.” (Daniel needs me (…) You have each other. That’s why she stays with you. So, you two will take care of each other until I come back.)39 In love with Daniel since she was a teenager and aware that she is the only thing he has, Marina gives in to her impulses and leaves behind the stable life that Rafael has built for both her and her daughter. As we will see soon, Daniel’s and Estrella’s internal demons and the inability to control their desires will lead them to their downfall. Time Is Up A new segment of the film, entitled “El manso,” opens with a shot of Rafael and his priest friend playing chess. In the background, the TV is broadcasting the news and reports a robbery with a casualty. The police have arrested the criminals and among them we can see Daniel. Rafael’s first impulse is to find Marina, but the priest convinces him to stay home with his daughter while he tries to find out her whereabouts. After Daniel’s arrest, Marina returns home—as in the prodigal son parable—and informs Rafael that “they” are having another child. The family order has been restored and Rafael, once more guided by his deep Christian convictions, will visit Daniel in jail. In this confining space, which is working as a metaphor of the emotional trap in which the protagonists of La buena estrella are immersed, we will witness one of the most moving scenes of the film. At first, Daniel shows the same self-confidence and pride that have characterized him throughout the film. Rafael informs him that “they” are having another baby girl and he receives the good news positively. He also tells Daniel that Marina will bring him anything he needs in the next visit. However, aware of his physical deterioration and the impact that this may have on her, he refuses the offer. Daniel then admits that Rafael is a good man, a real man, in spite of his sexual shortcomings, implicitly acknowledging that what makes a man a man is not his genitalia but his willingness to stand for goodness and justice. Rafael’s moral character helps Daniel confide in him and confess that he has finally been defeated. Rafael tries to encourage his friend by reminding him of his moto: “conmigo, nada, nunca, nadie.” (Against me nothing, never, nobody.)40 but Daniel’s coughing fit makes clear the gravity of his illness and diminishes his optimism. At that point, the prison officer informs them that their time is up.  La buena estrella, 01:16:09 to 01:16:16.  Ibid., 01:21:48.

39 40

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Fig. 5.5  Daniel and Rafael as both sides of the same coin. La buena estrella (Ricardo Franco, 1997)

Daniel understands that phrase as if it were a comment on his personal situation, recognizing that indeed his time in this world has passed, although there is still much pain and suffering ahead. Of special interest is the strong melodramatically charged moment in which, as a farewell, the two protagonists superimpose their hands over the glass that separates them, anticipating the fusion of their faces in an upcoming shot (Fig. 5.5). The scene suggests that Rafael and Daniel complement each other, and they represent both sides of the same coin. They exemplify the dual nature of human beings and erase the limits between good and evil. Under similar circumstances, Rafael could have been Daniel, and Daniel could have been Rafael. The scene closes with Daniel confessing that, since he has been sexually assaulted in jail, he is less of a man than Rafael. Upon hearing this tragic statement, Rafael, with a saddened face, crosses himself. If from the content point of view this scene is key to witness the definitive defeat of the modern tragic hero, from a cinematographic point of view the scene is a good example of Ricardo Franco’s craftsmanship. The use of the extreme close-ups allows the spectator not just to glimpse the inner consciousness of both characters but also to feel the claustrophobia and anxiety that they are both experiencing.

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In the 1980s, Acquired Immunodeficiency Syndrome (AIDS) became international news. The most conservative sectors of society immediately saw the disease as a divine punishment since it affected, mainly, homosexuals and drug addicts.41 The avenging gods, as in ancient tragedies, would punish men for their faults. As I have already stated, in classical terminology, Daniel’s constant challenge to society and its norms, would be called hubris, and his illness would be the equivalent to the classic tragic hero’s fall or nemesis. His disease progresses and, finally, he is released from prison to go to his house and die in the company of his “family.” In a deplorable state, he returns home the same day that, ironically, his daughter is celebrating her first communion. In shock, she cannot stop looking at him. Aware that he is dying and that the process will be slow and painful, Daniel is in a liminal state in which he is not dead, but he is not quite alive either. Reflecting on this intersectional moment, Adrian Poole claims: The idea of a ‘living death’ looks like a modern complement to the old belief in ghosts, the haunters, the revenants, the undead. It is a vision of death-in-­ life, a life so drained of meaning, value, purpose, and joy that it seems like death, being dead before you are dead. It is a version of hell on earth, more inert, more soundproof, more blank than others.42

It would be difficult to find a better description of the ordeal that Daniel, once confident in his lucky star, is going through. Without the strength to resist the anguish and suffering, he will ask Rafael if he will be merciful and end his life. Due to his religious convictions, he refuses, and when Daniel’s illness takes a turn for the worse, he invites his priest friend to give him the last rites. Reluctant, Daniel states: “Mira cura, si hay Dios, no creo que vayamos a hacer las paces él y yo a última hora por muchos polvos mágicos que me pongas encima. Si es tan bueno como decís, no me dejará colgado él también como todo el mundo y si no lo hay para que vamos a perder el tiempo con tonterías.” (Look, priest, if there is a God, I do not think we are going to make peace at the last minute with your magic powers. If He is as good as you say, He is not going to abandon me as everybody did and, if there is no God, there is no point in wasting time 41  Referring to this disease and the stigma it carries, Susan Sontag states that societies have the need for an illness which they label as evil and whose victims are to blame for their misfortune. (Aids and Its Metaphors, 16). She adds that illness as punishment is a long-standing belief which deprives the ill of the necessary medical care (Ibid., 45). 42  Poole, Tragedy, 39.

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with this nonsense.)43 Reflecting on the relationship between the gods and the characters of tragedies, Donald Mastronarde sustains that: “since inscrutability is an expected feature of the supernatural, even at the end of a tragedy there may remain a residue of doubt, uncertainty, or contradictory possibilities.”44 In a similar tone, Ángel Berenguer affirms that, since the inception of tragedy, the religious atmosphere starts to diminish in favor of an individual who denies and even mocks deities. He expands his claim by saying that the symbolic religious environment is gradually desacralized, allowing for the emergence of a tragic human character who confronts their destiny which is, ultimately, their death.45 Most of the films analyzed in this book take place in the context of a society highly influenced by Catholicism. The omnipresence of the Catholic church is notable in La hija de Juan Simón and La tía Tula and also important in La laguna negra and Condenados. This presence diffuminates in 7 días de enero and Deprisa, deprisa and is almost nonexistent in Julieta and La novia. However, at least on two occasions we have witnessed a certain disdain, even hostility, toward the idea of ​​God. In La aldea maldita, Juan, frustrated by the storm that is destroying his harvest and condemning his people to emigration, utters a resounding blasphemy that shocks his neighbors. Finally, the idea of ​​a superior entity that governs the destinies of men appears again in La buena estrella, in which the profoundly Catholic vision of Raphael is contrasted with the skepticism/nihilism of Daniel. Upon Rafael’s request, he finally agrees to take the last rites. It is noteworthy that Daniel feels that he must do so to express his gratitude for the compassion he has showed him. In any case, Daniel’s comment underscores the idea that, like Marina, he has always felt abandoned, both by men and by an absent God who has never shown any sign of his presence. Unlike classical Greek tragedy in which the death of the tragic hero or heroine is rarely shown on stage, this is the third time in this study that we witness the agony and death of the protagonist. In La hija de Juan Simón, we are deeply moved by Carmela’s aestheticized agony and death. In tune with a fascist art conception that mainly addressed the emotions, her glamorized death turns her into the perfect example of the submission of women to patriarchal ideals through death. For his part, in Deprisa, deprisa, Carlos Saura resorts to a take that lingers for a few minutes and enables the spectator to watch Pablo’s agony through Angela’s eyes. But  La buena estrella, 01:31:30 to 01:32:05.  Mastronarde, “The Gods,” 322. 45  Berenguer, “La tragedia,” 25. 43 44

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without a doubt, it is in this film in which the prolonged agony of the fallen tragic hero is presented in more detail. It could be inferred that the diverse ways of recreating death are determined by the degree of empathy that the film shows with its characters. It is clear that Carmela’s idyllic death is a way of exempting her from much of the responsibility for her fall, while Pablo’s and, especially, Daniel’s agony, point to a greater responsibility in their misfortunes and, therefore, the price they have to pay for their final redemption is much higher. The film reaches its pivotal moment with a scene in which close-ups abound, the light becomes dimmer, and the soundtrack prominent. The defeated tragic hero, tormented with the unbearable physical and moral pain that his illness is causing him, asks Marina for help.46 Unlike what happened with Rafael, whose deep Christian convictions prevented him from carrying out what Daniel proposed, Marina, as the ultimate love sacrifice, ends Daniel’s suffering by shooting him. As in the Romantic tradition, death puts Daniel out of his misery by providing him eternal freedom. The scene then fades to black, as a metaphor of Daniel’s death. Marina herself will die soon too. As an act of love, Rafael buries both at the family tomb, together with his parents. In this highly symbolic place, the film ends with Rafael’s voiceover reflecting on Marina and Daniel’s destinies: Daniel acostumbraba a decir que de la misma forma que había venido al mundo en un cubo de basura allí iría a parar cuando muriese. Eso decía, aunque yo creo que nadie puede saber lo que le va a pasar por muy desesperado que uno esté. A Marina no llegaron nunca a juzgarla. Murió al poco tiempo y dijeron que había sido una embolia. Que más da. Yo creo que murió de tristeza, al pensar en que Daniel estaría solo vagando por ahí. La misma tristeza, a la que yo me abandonaría si no fuese porque alguien se tendría que ocupar de nuestras niñas, para que quizás así puedan tener la buena estrella que nunca tuvieron sus padres. (Daniel used to say that in the same way that he had come into the world in a garbage can he would end his days in the same way. That is what he 46  American philosopher, Martha C. Nussbaum states that: “While it is always perilous to offer sweeping generalizations about ‘“tragedy’” and ‘“the tragic,’ the Philoctetes is surely a play that leads its spectator to acknowledgment of the horror of bodily pain and of the social isolation that often accompanies it. By bringing its spectator closer to extreme bodily suffering than was the usual Greek norm, it promotes an experience that is in the best sense democratic, one that acknowledges the equal frailty of all human beings and their fully equal need for the goods of life that Philoctetes so conspicuously lacks: food, shelter, relief of pain, conversation, nondeceptive friendship, political voice.” (“Morality of Pity,” 152).

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would say, although I believe that nobody can know what will happen, no matter how desperate one is. Marina never had to appear in court. She died shortly after Daniel and they said it had been a stroke. What difference does it make? I think she died of sadness, thinking that Daniel would be wandering around. The same sadness to which I would succumb if it were not for the fact that someone would have to take care of our daughters, so maybe they could have the lucky star their parents never had.)47

George Steiner describes as “absolute tragedy,” “the image of man as unwanted in life”48 and this is for Heather K. Love, “a general condition and a typical experience of modernity.”49 Daniel and Marina exemplify this axiom better than any of the characters analyzed in this book. The former never found his place in this world. Abandoned as a child, he spent his whole life between orphanages and prisons. Marina, whose story is not very different, also led a life marked by loneliness and abandonment. For both characters, death is presented as liberation, although, as reflected in his painful agony, Daniel had to pay a price much higher than that of most human beings. Ricardo Franco’s film oscillates between the criticism of a cruel and unfair world in which the place you are born establishes your destiny, as Maffesoli says, and the idea that life is not more than a game of hazards in which the cards are marked beforehand. I do not think that La buena estrella condemns Daniel and Marina’s behavior. The film is very critical of a society that creates the conditions under which people like Marina and Daniel suffer the way they suffer. They do not face moral judgment, they are just victims. In any case, as Adrian Poole states: “Tragedy makes it hard for us to remain impartial analysts and observers (…) When we read or see a tragedy performed, we participate in the process of ‘blame.’ We are cast as judges.”50 The solution is in the eye of the beholder. Ultimately, Marina and Daniel are part of the same tragic universe as Romeo and Juliet and Tristan and Isolde, and Rafael is as confused and desolate at the end of the film as King Lear when he discovers that his daughter Cordelia has died.

 La buena estrella, 01:34:36 to 01:35:45.  Steiner, Death of Tragedy, xi. 49  Love, “Spectacular Failure,” 304. 50  Poole, Tragedy, 54. 47 48

CHAPTER 6

The Recurrence of the Tragic

The last chapter of this book focuses on two films, La novia and Julieta, produced in the last decade. As La laguna negra and La tía Tula, these films are based on literary works and are thus endowed with a certain aura of prestige. Paula Ortiz revisits García Lorca’s well-known tragedy Bodas de sangre [Blood Wedding], while Pedro Almodóvar transports to Spain the unique universe of Canadian writer Alice Munro. Both films portray female characters as their main protagonists which will allow for comparative readings with La aldea maldita, La hija de Juan Simón, and La tía Tula, films that also revolve around the challenges faced by women. However, while the latter were produced in a country dominated by a conservative and patriarchal society marked by Catholicism, the sociopolitical context in which the former emerged has changed significantly. Attitudes regarding female desires, fears, and social expectations have favorably evolved in Spain. Since the approval of the democratic constitution of 1978, women are no longer considered second-class citizens as they were during the dictatorship. In the last fifty years, women have gradually conquered new rights and spaces. In this context, La novia and Julieta premiered at a time when intense discussions around gender issues are occurring not only in Spain but in many places around the world. Since the advent of the new century, the feminist movement has acquired a new impulse and women and their allies are claiming the same rights as men in all areas, from public to private spaces. However, it is important to note that, in spite of the prevalence of these new parameters, as we will see © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 L. M. González, Modes of the Tragic in Spanish Cinema, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-19325-5_6

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through a close-reading analysis of La novia and Julieta, limitations and constrictions for women still remain in place. These restrictions are the source of a great deal of suffering that, as shown in the following pages, is better expressed through the tragic mode.

Poetics of Love, Desire, and Death: La novia Life, like a dome of many-colored glass Stains the white radiance of eternity, Until Death tramples it to fragments —Percy Shelley, Adonais

Paula Ortiz’s La novia premiered in December, 2015.1 The film, which departs from the realistic aesthetics characteristic of much of Spanish cinema, had a good reception from both the public and the critics, who positively valued the director’s risky enterprise. Ortiz got two nominations in the 2016 Goya’s ceremony: the first one in the Best Director category and the second one, together with Javier García Arredondo, in the Best Script category. Inma Cuesta, Asier Etxeandia, Alex García, and Luisa Gavasa were also nominated for their performances, but only Gavasa received the award for her outstanding work as the groom’s mother. As noted in the final credits, La novia is based on Bodas de sangre, a tragedy by Spanish playwright Federico García Lorca that premiered in the years of the Second Republic, on March 8, 1933.2 This was a time in which Spanish society was experiencing a clash between tradition and modernity in an intense way. During those years, the Spanish feminist movement lead by Clara Campoamor and Victoria Kent, among others, makes its appearance to

1  Paula Ortiz is one of the most promising Spanish film directors. In 2011, she directed De tu ventana a la mía (Chrysalis) with which she won the Pilar Miró International Prize for Best New Director at the 56th Edition of the Seminci International Film Week of Valladolid. 2  In 1938, during the civil conflict that took Lorca’s life, a first cinematic version of Bodas de Sangre premiered in Argentina. In this version, the actress Margarita Xirgu, Lorca’s close friend, played the role of La madre. It was not until forty years later when another adaptation of Lorca’s tragedy premiered outside of Spain. In this case, the Moroccan film director Souhel Ben Barka directed Irene Papas in the role of the groom’s mother. In 1981, during the years of the Spanish transition to democracy, Carlos Saura brought the play to the big screen, this time as a musical film featuring flamenco. Two years later, in 1984, Pilar Távora directed Nanas de espinas (Prickly Lullabies), a new version of the play.

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demand basic rights for women.3 Paula Ortiz’s La novia also premiered at a moment in which the feminist movement was intensifying its fight for women rights worldwide. Nevertheless, instead of a realistic approach rigorously aligned with the original, or a more contemporary mise en scène of the play, Ortiz’s opts for an intentional erasure of any historical reference or spatial concretion to introduce this timeless story in the realm of myth, which is where the tragic mode finds its ideal space. Due to the enormous popularity of García Lorca’s work, the story told by La novia is well known to all. On the night of her wedding, the bride elopes with Leonardo, her former boyfriend. Pushed by his own mother, the groom goes after them seeking to recover what he understands is his. The violent clash between the groom and Leonardo concludes with the death of both youths in front of the despaired bride. Thus, the play on which Ortiz’s film is based adheres to the idea that, as García Lorca pointed out in an interview with Juan Chabas, tragedy must have four main characters and choruses.4 La novia maintains the four main protagonists and adds the specter, a figure that blends and reworks the characters of Death and the Beggar that appear in the last act of García Lorca’s tragedy. In the following pages, I explore how La novia recreates, updates, and dialogues with García Lorca’s tragic universe to make it more accessible to the public of the twenty-first century. Contemporary viewers’ expectations and positions on issues related to gender and sexuality are, many times, radically different from those of Bodas de sangre’s audience. I focus my analysis on the recurring figure of the “specter.” The recurrence of the bride’s ghost, as the embodiment of internal conflict and the tragic dilemma that devours the heroine of this film, sets Paula Ortiz’s film apart from García Lorca’s original. I intend to show how the inability/refusal of the bride to listen to her inner conscience will result in devastating consequences for all the characters. I also propose to read La novia in dialogue with Condenados since the former reactivates key features of the tragic 3  Reflecting on Garcia Lorca’s gender politics, Roberta Johnson states that he supported this progressive agenda through his works: “[W]hile Lorca was not a declared feminist, his major plays reveal an acute awareness of women’s status within Spanish society, especially regarding class, education, work and marriage, that contrasts sharply with antifeminist attitudes on these issues manifested by key male writers of immediately preceding and contemporaneous generations” (“Federico García Lorca’s Theater and Spanish Feminism,” 34/252). 4  García Lorca, Bodas de Sangre, 49.

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tradition such as unfulfilled desire, jealousy, and the recurrence of bloodshed, also present in Mur Oti’s film. This commonality comes to prove the underlaying claim of this book regarding the persistence of the tragic in Spanish culture. A World in Ruins La novia opens with a shot of a woman covered in blood in a quagmire. She wears a white dress that evokes the attire of classical antiquity where the tragic mode that infuses the films analyzed in this book was born twenty-five centuries ago. Her face is covered by a gauze that suggests the idea that the woman is dead. An evocative soundtrack by Shigeru Umebayashi featuring violin chords highlights the funereal tone of the scene. However, after taking a strong breath of air, the young woman seems to return to the world of the living. Following an editing cut, the spectator is transported to a barren place. To create this atmosphere, the film is shot in the Monegros desert in Spain and in the rocky region of Cappadocia in Turkey. This desolate space is dominated by the ruins of a building that resembles a palace or a temple. Framed by arches, the figures of the groom’s mother (Luisa Gavasa), the bride’s father (Carlos Álvarez), and a neighbor (Ana Fernández) stand out. This shot evokes a dead world in ruins that functions as a metaphor for the existential emptiness in which the protagonists of this tragedy move. As in La aldea maldita, La laguna negra, and Condenados, ruins play a significant role in La novia. In all of these films, the visual representations of decayed buildings metaphorically represent the decadence of Castile/Spain and the internal mindset of the characters. According to Robert P. Harrison, the sight of ruins can be a reflexive, and even an unsettling experience as, faced with the passing of time, buildings evidence their temporal and ephemerous character, which sharply contrasts with the relative solidity and permanence of earth.5 Ultimately, ruins, like tragic art, underscore our own finitude and contingency, and the idea that death and dissolution in time and space is what awaits us all (Fig. 6.1). The arrival of the bride (Inma Cuesta), who carries the corpses of the two men, causes the widespread rejection of the rest of the characters, especially the groom’s mother. The young woman is the main protagonist in this story of love, unfulfilled desire, jealousy, and violent death. Her 5

 Harrison, Dominion of the Dead, 3.

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Fig. 6.1  Waiting for the bride and the deceased young men. La novia (Paula Ortiz, 2015)

character is the most complex, and the one privileged by Ortiz’s lens. Trying to justify the violence that her behavior has brought upon Leonardo and the groom, the bride addresses the inconsolable mother of the groom with these poetic words, which come directly from García Lorca’s play: Tú también te hubieras ido. Yo era una mujer quemada. Llena de llagas por dentro y por fuera, y tu hijo, tu hijo era un poquito de agua de la que yo esperaba hijos, tierra, salud; pero el otro, el otro era un río oscuro, lleno de ramas, que acercaba a mí el rumor de sus juncos y su cantar entre dientes. Yo no quería, ¡óyelo bien!, yo no quería. ¡Tu hijo era mi fin, pero el brazo del otro me arrastró como un golpe de mar, como la cabezada de un mulo, y me hubiera arrastrado siempre, siempre, siempre! (You would have also left. I was a burned woman. Covered in sores inside and out, and your son was a bit of water from which I hoped for children, land, and health; but the other one was a dark river filled with branches, that approached me with the rumor of its reeds and singing under its breath. I did not want to. Hear me well! I did not want to. Your son was my aim, but the arm of the other dragged me like a blow from the sea, like the headbutt of a mule, and it would have dragged me always, always, always!)6

It is worth noticing that the word “fin” in Spanish has three different connotations in this context. In a certain sense, the groom is the final object of the bride’s efforts as his socioeconomic position makes him a 6

 La novia, 0:3:12 to 0:4:25.

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good match. In addition, the groom is her last romantic relationship and their marriage will keep her secluded in the home, apart from the outside world. The last implication of this polysemic and ambiguous word is that the groom is “the end of her,” in other words, her death. As noted in this scene, Ortiz’s film revolves around two important motifs of tragic art: unfulfilled desire and/or sexual dissatisfaction and the awareness on the part of the tragic hero or heroine that there are forces beyond our control that lead us to act against our own interest. Scholarly works on García Lorca underscore the topic of female sexual frustration as one of the foundations on which the work of the Andalusian poet is structured. As is the case in the play on which Ortiz’s film is based, García Lorca’s heroines are often unable to fully satisfy their sexual desires and this frustration gives birth to the tragic aura that surrounds them. Referring to the bride in Bodas de sangre, Carlos Feal highlights her complex and contradictory attitude in which passion and repression coexist.7 As we have already seen in this study, this internal struggle characterizes tragic heroes and heroines. Both Carmela and Acacia in La aldea maldita and La hija de Juan Simón, respectively, are torn between their desire to look for a better life in the city and their family obligations. In a similar way, most of Picazo’s film is structured around Tula’s internal dilemma whether or not to marry her brother-in-law after the passing of her sister. Nevertheless, it is in La novia in which the bride’s internal quandary—her inability to choose between her two suitors—ultimately acquires a more violent and tragic tone. After a long fade to black, a series of flashbacks transport the viewer to the adolescence of the protagonists. The desert and the ruins that dominated the previous scene are replaced by an innocent and all-green space in which the sounds of nature stand out. It is a kind of locus amoenus where, for the first time, we see the three main characters together at the moment of their emotional awakening. The sequence culminates showing the contained jealousy of the future groom (Asier Etxeandia) as he witnesses how the young woman receives a gift in the form of a small glass swan/bird from Leonardo (Álex García). After a new cut, the three adolescents are seen playing, then simulating a fight, and finally lying on the ground in exactly the same position they will ultimately adopt during the agony of the two young men. Both in the scene of the teenagers and in the one that shows the irreparable result of the final fight, the girl interlocks 7

 Feal, “Sacrificio de la hombría,” 282.

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her hands with Leonardo while her boyfriend hugs her. At the end of this scene, the camera leads the spectator into the bride’s bedroom as she wakes up, indicating that the scene with the three adolescents that we just saw was not more than a memory or a dream. As Edith Hall claims, “Intimacy with a character’s repressed memories, fears, or inner thought-­ world, is sometimes achieved in tragedy by the report of a dream.”8 As we will see in the following pages, in several instances the bride enters a dreamlike world that expresses her desires and anxieties. Next, through the groom’s eyes of desire, we witness a sensual scene that shows the bride taking a bath and getting dressed while singing Lorca’s famous song, “Los cuatro muleros” (The four muleteers). She affectionately caresses the crystal object that Leonardo gave her when they were children and that rests on her bedroom vanity. Like Desdemona’s handkerchief in Shakespeare’s Othello and Aurelia’s hair comb in Condenados, this crystal object works as a fetish that, as stated by Henry Krips, is a substitute for that which cannot be remembered directly and must stay repressed.9 When her fiancée makes advances on her, she rejects him. It seems as if her thoughts were fixated on Leonardo. The parallel montage allows Ortiz to show Leonardo riding a black horse around the house of his former girlfriend. His symbolic name, which derives from the word lion in Spanish, stands out among the more generic names of the other characters. His black horse, a symbol of strength and virility widely analyzed in Lorca’s work, reinforces this idea.10 A Ghost from the Future The specter (María Alfonsa) is one of the most thought-provoking contributions of Paula Ortiz’s film adaptation. The scene in which the bride goes to her father’s glass workshop and stands before a zoetrope, antecedent of the cinematograph, is the first time we encounter the specter. The zoetrope shows the image of a horse which, as I have already stated, symbolizes Leonardo. Immediately after, the bride sees in the room the disquieting image of a woman in ragged clothes. The specter congratulates  Hall, Greek Tragedy, 193.  Krips, Fetish, 7. 10  On the symbology of this animal, Eduardo Cirlot states: “the lion, the ‘king of beasts’, symbolizes the ‘natural lord and master’—or the possessor of strength and of the masculine principle” (Dictionary of Symbols, 272). 8 9

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the bride on her wedding and asks her if she is happy. When questioned about her identity, the specter answers that she brings the bride a gift, two glass knives, and a piece of advice.11 I am particularly interested in the connection between glass as a symbol and surrealism, as both Lorca’s original and Ortiz’s adaptation are embedded in this aesthetics. The frequent rupture of the space and time coordinates as well as the oneiric character of some of its key scenes allow us to situate the film within the aesthetic parameters of surrealism of which García Lorca, together with Salvador Dalí and Luis Buñuel, is one of the most outstanding Spanish representatives. The scene finishes with the specter reciting the verses with which the mother and the bride conclude the Lorquian original play. In these verses, the knife and death are the protagonists: “Con un cuchillo/ con un cuchillito/ que apenas cabe en la mano, / pero que penetra fino/ por las carnes asombradas / y allí se para en el sitio/ donde tiembla enmarañada/ la oscura raíz del grito.” (With a knife/ with a tiny knife/that barely fits in a hand, / but that penetrates sharply/ the startled flesh/ and stops still in the place where/ tangled, the dark root of the scream trembles.)12 After this premonitory reference to the knife and death, the bride inquires again about the specter’s identity and purpose, but the only answer she obtains is: “no te cases, si no lo amas.” (do not get married if you do not love him.)13 Then, the bride watches as the specter walks away while, in the background, we can hear a song based on a lullaby. As Edith Hall has noted regarding most of Sophocles’ plays, tragic crises are “precipitated by the inability of a character in a quandary to listen to good counsel, to discount bad, or simply to spend sufficient time considering potential outcomes.”14This certainly is the case in Ortiz’s film. The bride does not pay heed to the specter’s advice and her inability to listen will bring tragic consequences to her and her immediate circle. The scene I have just described, in which an enigmatic and phantasmagoric figure appears to the hero/heroine, is frequent in the universe of

11  In his dictionary of symbols, Eduardo Cirlot states that, like precious stones, glass is a symbol of the spirit and the intellect. He highlights the veneration that the mystics and the surrealists had toward it. He refers to its “state of transparency” as one of the most effective and beautiful sums of opposites: the matter exists but it looks as if it does not as it is see-­ through, and there is no resistance to contemplation (Dictionary of Symbols, 132). 12  La novia, 0:13:04 to 0:13:26. 13  Ibid., 0:3:30 to 0:3:33. 14  Hall, Greek Tragedy, 65.

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tragic art.15 In Aeschylus’ Eumenides, Clytemnestra’s ghost appears to demand vengeance against her son, Orestes, who has murdered her. Likewise, the ghost of Hamlet’s father and the witches in Macbeth are two examples of Shakespearian uses of ghosts in his tragedies. Finally, we saw in the analysis of La laguna negra how the murdered father’s ghost was a palpable presence among the ones who outlived him. In Ortiz’s film, the audience wonders about the identity of this recurrent female figure and her role in the film. According to Peter Buse and Andrew Scott, in psychoanalytic theory ghosts are, predominantly, symbols of lack, unrest, and unresolved tragedy.16 They further their claim by saying that, through the figure of the ghost, we see that past and present cannot be completely detached as the present is permeated by an adjournment of the past and by anticipations of the future.17 In short, as it is the case with the circular narrative structure characteristic of the tragic mode, the presence of ghosts destabilizes a teleologic understanding of time. The purpose of the specter is, precisely, anticipating the future in an attempt to prevent it. However, in the tragic world, we are aware of the importance of destiny and fate, and the impossibility of changing them. In this key scene, the bride, who has been warned about the tragic consequences of marrying without being in love, still ignores the specter’s advice and chases her out of her father’s workshop, until the specter disappears in a cloud of dust. The scene closes with a disturbing moment in which the bride, coughing, expels over her hand some bits of blood-stained glass, undoubtedly premonitory of the violence that will be unleashed as a consequence of her actions at the end of the film. It is not difficult to associate this image with a well-known shot from Un chien Andalou (Luis Buñuel, 1929). In this masterpiece of cinematographic surrealism, a man is shown observing Salvador Dalí’s famous ants in the palm of his hand. Both scenes evoke a surreal universe impregnated with the idea of ​​violence and death (Figs. 6.2 and 6.3). A new flashback presents the bride, the groom, and Leonardo as teenagers, witnessing the confrontation between the two rival families that put an end to the life of the father and brother of the groom and a close 15  Reflecting on this recurrence, Simon Critchley writes: “Tragedy is full of ghosts, ancient and modern, and the line separating the living from the dead is continually blurred. This means that in tragedy the dead do not stay dead and the living are not fully alive. What tragedy renders unstable is the line that separates the living from the dead, enlivening the dead and deadening the living” (Tragedy, 22). 16  Buse and Stott, Ghost: Deconstruction, Psychoanalysis, History, 13. 17  Ibid., 10–11.

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Fig. 6.2  A hand full of ants. Un chien andalou (Luis Buñuel, 1929)

Fig. 6.3  The bride is coughing blood and pieces of crystal. La novia (Paula Ortiz, 2015)

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relative of Leonardo. This fight is presented as a prefiguration of the deadly fight between Leonardo and the groom. The duality of the bride, torn by her affection for both young men, is visually represented in this scene when she stands alone in the middle of the shot while the groom and Leonardo rush to join their respective families. This tragedy would haunt the groom for the entirety of the film. In his consideration of Aeschylus‘ Oresteia, Simon Critchley notices that in this play “we see characters completely caught up in cycles of revenge where there is seemingly no end to the violence and no end to its dogmatic justification by its perpetrators.”18 Ortiz’s cinematic proposal is based on the same premise. In La novia, violence is cyclical and, as we will see later in this film, some of its characters are marked by a deadly family fate that they cannot escape. The next scene, which captures a conversation between the mother of the groom and one of her neighbors, offers the spectator information about the bride’s family. The groom’s mother learns from her neighbor that her son’s fiancée lives with her father in the outskirts of the town. She also learns that, in the past, she had another boyfriend and that her mother was not in love with her husband. The most troubling aspect for the groom’s mother is that her former boyfriend, Leonardo, belongs to the same rival family that killed her husband and son. These findings cause her great concern as she knows that history tends to repeat itself. The last part of the conversation between the two women is overheard by the groom who tries to calm his uneasy mother as she reviews the violent and traumatic past that haunts her family. If the bride’s feelings are divided between her two friends, the groom is divided between his love for his fiancée and his mother, with whom he seems to have an Oedipal relation, as evidenced by his constant demonstrations of affection toward her. After an editing shot, the camera focuses on Leonardo riding his horse in the arid and desert-like landscape of Turkish Cappadocia which accentuates the atmosphere of emptiness and death that permeates the film. Rock formations with phallic connotations populate the space from which Leonardo witnesses with discomfort the departure of his rival to ask for the hand of his former girlfriend. These two scenes point to the idea of ​​the weight that the past has in the present. As we will see later, the groom’s fate is already established by his ancestors and their violent death. This cycle of bloodshed exemplifies the recurrence of the tragic that we will witness again in the analysis of  Critchley, Tragedy, 25.

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Almodóvar’s Julieta. Talking about the influence of the dead, Robert Pogue Harrison states that we inherit our ancestors’ obsessions, viewpoints, beliefs and even superstitions, and we struggle to the death to redeem them from their humiliations.19 In a similar tone, Adrian Poole claims that “(t)ragedy always deals with toxic matter bequeathed by the past to the present. In personal terms, this often means what fathers and mothers have passed on to their children in the form of duties, loyalties, passions, and injuries.”20 Later developments of the action will prove true both affirmations. In the next scene, the formal marriage proposal by the groom takes place. It is in the conversation between the bride’s father and the groom’s mother that the economic reasons for the wedding, which could explain the bride’s ultimate preference for the groom instead of Leonardo, are revealed. Marriage is understood as an economic transaction, negotiated and decided by the parents. When the bride is introduced to the mother of the groom, her father claims that she takes after his wife in all respects. At this point, the viewer already knows that his wife married him without love, which caused unhappiness in their conjugal life. Then, in a moment that is key to establish the gender politics of the film, the mother defines marriage in a way that completely restricts woman’s freedom. According to her, for women a wedding should mean: “un hombre, unos hijos y una pared de dos varas de ancha para todo lo demás.” (a man, a few children and a wall two yards wide for everything else.)21 The mother’s assertion places her within the value system ​​of a conservative, patriarchal society governed by the obsolete code of honor, which constrains women’s freedom. As in other García Lorca’s plays, in La novia a woman is the most fervent defender of this archaic universe. It is precisely against this society that marginalizes minorities, such as women, Romani and homosexuals, which Lorca, first, and Ortiz, now, position themselves. While the parents discuss the details of the wedding, the bride and the groom go out to the corral. Still in the groom’s arms, the bride realizes that Leonardo is looking at them from afar. Her face shows her internal struggle as she is undecided between the love of the two men. I think it is important to remember here that, according to Robert B. Heilman, the tragic heroine/hero is characterized by dividedness as s/he is claimed by  Harrison, The Dominion of the Dead, x.  Poole, Tragedy, 35. 21  La novia, 0:24:40. 19 20

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two coexistent opposing forces.22 In a similar tone, Doreet LeVitte Harten states that the conflict of the tragic character has an internal dimension marked by the fierce battle between himself/herself and his/her soul.23 In La novia, the conflict does not involve the clash between the individual and unpredictable and vengeful gods as occurred in classic Greek tragedy and in the first film analyzed in this book. In La aldea maldita, the tragic action is unleashed by the capricious actions of a God that arbitrarily decides to punish the town of Lujan. In Ortiz’s film, neither is the protagonist’s conflict motivated by the tensions created by a world in transition where old values ​​are clearly eroded but have not been replaced by new ones. In a rapidly changing society like the one portrayed in La hija de Juan Simón, La tía Tula, and 7 días de enero, it becomes evident that some of its members desire to break with the norms established by the prevailing status quo and claim a space of freedom that society denies them time and time again with tragic consequences. In these films, it is in this friction between individual and collective values ​​and in the consequences of rebelling against the latter that tragic art finds its habitat. On the contrary, in La novia, as well as in Julieta, the irresoluble tragic heroines’ conflict lies within themselves. The story returns to the interior of the bride’s house in a scene charged with Lorquian symbols: the full moon that, as Eduardo Cirlot reminds us, is associated both with the feminine and with death,24 the mystery of the night, and the oppressive heat, with its sexual connotations. In a conversation with three neighbors who are helping her prepare her wedding attire, the bride brings up the memory of her late mother and her unhappy life in these arid and dry lands where, according to her daughter, “se consumió (…), como nos consumimos todas.” (She was consumed, as we are all consumed.)25 For the first time, the bride acknowledges that she is not happy. One of the women categorically attributes unhappiness to fate, and the bride, dwelling for a few seconds on this fatidic idea, repeats, with a sad and despaired expression, her words regarding the “sino” (fate) that determines women’s lives in a patriarchal society.

 Heilman, Tragedy and Melodrama, 89.  LeVitte Harten, “Melodrama,” 100. 24  Cirlot, Dictionary of Symbols, 299–302. 25  La novia, 0:23:45. 22 23

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The neighbor then changes the conversation toward the sexual component of marriage. The bride feels uncomfortable with those comments and it is then when the woman, surprised by her unexpected reaction, asks her directly if she is in love with the groom. Although she replies in the affirmative, the bride is increasingly agitated and nervous. Back in her room, as a metaphor of her internal struggle, once again she confronts the image of the specter reflected in the mirror. As a manifestation of the parallelism between the protagonist’s troubled psyche and her surrounding nature, a storm rages outside. A shot of Leonardo’s black horse reminds the viewer of the object of her desire and her consuming inner conflict. The wedding ceremony enables a new encounter between the bride and her former boyfriend. In an illuminating conversation, Leonardo acknowledges his economic disadvantage compared to the groom as the reason for the bride’s choice between her two suitors: “¿Quién he sido yo para ti? Dímelo. Abre tu recuerdo. Pero dos bueyes y una mala choza eran poco. Casi nada.” (Who have I been to you? Tell me. Open your memory. But two oxen and a bad hut were not enough. Almost nothing.)26 Confirming Mafessoli’s claims regarding the connection between economic means and destiny, which I have already discussed in my analysis of Deprisa, deprisa and La buena estrella, even in this de-historicized tragedy economic conditions always work as a kind of fate for some characters.27 Next, Leonardo wonders about whom to blame for this situation. Implicitly, both conceded that they are in love with each other and that they have married or will marry someone they do not love purely out of pride. Following García Lorca’s original almost to the letter, Leonardo recognizes that pride can do little in the face of desire: ¿De qué me sirvió a mi el orgullo y el no mirarte y dejarte despierta noche tras noche? ¡De nada! (…) Porque tú crees que el tiempo cura y que las paredes tapan, y no es verdad, no es verdad. ¡Cuando las cosas llegan a los centros ya no hay quien las arranque! (What use was pride to me and not looking at you and leaving you awake night after night? It was no use! (…) Because you believe that time heals and that walls cover up, and it is not true, it is not true. When things reach the center, no one can pull them out!).28 To these suggestive words the bride replies by giving in to the force of desire and love: “No puedo oirte. No puedo oír tu voz. Es como si me bebiera una  La novia, 0:35:35 to 0:35:50.  Maffesoli, El instante eterno, 23. 28  La novia, 0:37:30 to 0:38:13. 26 27

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botella de anís y me durmiera en una colcha de rosas. Me arrastra y sé que me ahogo, pero voy detrás.” (I cannot hear you. I cannot hear your voice. It is like I drank a bottle of anise and fell asleep on a rose bedspread. It drags me and I know I’m drowning, but I follow you.)29 However, as the bride states, it is too late to stop the wedding. As we will see later, the bride’s and her former boyfriend’s excessive pride, caused by what the ancient Greeks called hubris, is the flaw in their character that will ultimately provoke their fall and the violent death of Leonardo and the groom. The next segment of the film revolves around the wedding celebration and a series of ritualized songs and dances that, as Luigi Battezzato notices, are traditional characteristics of the tragic: “song is a special mode of delivery; it is a ‘marked’ term that stands in opposition to the normal way of declaiming verse, just as ‘dance’ is opposed to normal movements.”30 Although songs are present at different moments of the film highlighting the poetic source of Ortiz’s work, dances, in a very ritualized way, acquire relevance in the scenes that focus on the wedding. Suddenly, the bride feels sick and leaves the party. As the first time that she encountered the specter, coughing, she expels some bits of blood-stained glass over her hand. Then, we will witness one of the most beautiful moments of the film in which she meets the specter once again. I am particularly interested in the surrealist and oneiric tone of this scene. The Lorquian symbols of the night, stars, fire, the moon, the pit, blood, and the glass knives stand out in this dreamlike scenario. They all contribute to the creation of an atmosphere that evokes violence and death. Of special interest is the moment in which a sharp glass stabs the bride in her belly, which foreshadows the death of the youngsters but also the loss of her virginity on her wedding night. Another moment of great intensity is when the bride and the specter, closely embracing each other, recite together the Lorquian verses “Tengo frío, tengo frío” (I’m cold, I’m cold),31 while the bride sheds some tears. Coldness is a habitual metaphor of death, but in this context, it also refers to the bride’s lack of passion toward the groom. We would assume that, shortly before her wedding night, the bride should be cheerful and anxious but she feels cold. Then, the ghost anticipates the violent future that awaits them with some enigmatic words taken almost verbatim from Lorca’s original: “Pues esta noche tendrán mis mejillas roja sangre, y  La novia, 0:38:20 to 0:38:38.  Battezzato, “Lyric,” 149. 31  La novia, 0:54:39. 29 30

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los juncos agrupados en los anchos pies del aire. No haya sombra ni emboscada. Que no puedan escaparse. Que quiero entrar en un pecho donde pueda calentarme.” (Well, tonight my cheeks will have red blood, and the reeds gathered in the wide feet of the air. Let there be no shadow nor ambush. May they not escape. That I want to enter a chest where I can warm myself up.)32 Peter Buse and Andrew Stott state that “[i]n the figure of the ghost, we see that past and present cannot be neatly separated from one another, as any idea of the present is always constituted through the differences and deferral of the past, as well as anticipations of the future.”33 In Ortiz’s film, the specter is not only an anticipation of the bride’s future—this idea will be made clear at the end of the film—but also an announcement of the bloody consequences of the bride’s upcoming actions. This key scene closes with the bride in great distress confessing to her father that she is scared. Knives Are Drawn At the wedding, we witness another of the ritualized songs and dances typical of the tragic mode. Lead by the bride and the groom, the young people sing and dance around a large fire in what seems like a timeless and frenetic Dionysian ritual in which references to the body, love, and erotic desire take on a notable role. At the end of the dance, the groom goes back to his mother, while the bride, in another dreamlike moment, almost in a trance, continues dancing alone until, as a projection of her inner desires, everybody disappears and she finds herself in front of Leonardo. Soon after, the bride’s dreams become true and, through the eyes of the shocked groom, we see her disappear on the back of Leonardo’s horse in the mist of the night. The worst fears of the groom’s mother have been confirmed. This proves true Helen P. Foley’s claim when, reflecting on the traditional portrayal of women in tragic art, she expresses that, “(t)ragedy does confirm the prejudices and fears of its audience about independent female actions and attitudes.”34 Once the escape of the bride and Leonardo has been discovered, the mother is faced with the dilemma of sending her son to what appears to be  La novia, 0:54:54 to 0:55:20.  Buse and Stott, Ghost: Deconstruction, Psychoanalysis, History, 11–12. 34  Foley, Female Acts, 116. 32 33

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a certain death—she knows that the Félix family is very skillful with razors—or let the couple get away and live the rest of her life with that blemish in her and her son’s honor. At first, we see the mother doubt but, immediately, she realizes that her sense of honor is stronger than her love for her son and she encourages him to follow them. As in La laguna negra, Condenados, and 7 días de enero, in La novia we see a woman as instigator of violent actions from the backstage. Together with Adelaida in Bardem’s film, the mother of the groom is a good example of what Grace Harris refers to as the double association of women in their role as mothers with both life and nurturance and with death and destructiveness, a condition that she identifies as virtually universal.35 The mother of the groom fits the label of the “patriarchal mother“ that, as Marsha Kinder highlights reflecting on Spanish cinema of the Transition, substitutes an absent and idealized father and embodies patriarchal law.36 In a heated scene between the fugitive lovers, we are informed that the bride is the one to blame for the transgression. The bride’s sexual indiscretion pairs her with other female tragic figures analyzed in this book. Acacia in La aldea maldita and Carmela in La hija de Juan Simón paid a high price for violating the moral standards of their time. Similarly, at the end of the film, the bride will suffer ostracism and rejection from her family and social environment and will be condemned to eternally wander to expiate her sin. Right before the fight between Leonardo and the groom, the latter has an encounter with the specter. The scene takes place in the woods where the three friends used to play as adolescents. Once again, this enigmatic figure foreshadows the tragic outcome when she affirms that they will not be able to escape, both in a literal and metaphorical way. Ultimately, the bride and Leonardo will not run away, and neither of the suitors will elude his fatal destiny. When the specter puts the knife in the groom’s hands, he looks at her surprised and scared, but he immediately realizes that he is trapped in the thick web of the honor code. At this point, he repeats some lines he had already expressed earlier in the film in which he identified with his family members who had been violently killed by the Félixes. Soon after, accompanied by the voice of Soledad Vélez singing the classic “Take this Waltz” with lyrics by García Lorca and music by Leonard Cohen, the deadly ritualized fight between the groom and Leonardo takes place. In  Harris, “Furies, Witches, and Mothers,”157.  Kinder, Blood Cinema, 198.

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this scene, we see an example of sacred violence, as defined by René Girard. As such, it is a purification act that occurs for and within the social body and in which the destiny of the represented community is at stake. After the violent death of both youngsters, the film returns to its opening moments, underscoring its tragic circularity. Drenched in the blood of both men, who lie inert on Leonardo’s horse, the bride openly shows her preference for her former boyfriend, to whom she tells “y te sigo por el aire como una brizna de yerba” (and I follow you in the air like a blade of grass).37 Rejected by the groom’s mother, her neighbors, and her father, the bride leaves her land to wander like a soul in penance through a deserted landscape that evokes the horror and emptiness of death. Condemned to roam without rest to purge her crime, getting married without love, and provoking the tragic death of two men, the bride becomes the specter. This confirms what we somehow already suspected: the specter is the personification of the bride’s internal battle, of the tragic dilemma that consumes her. In short, Paula Ortiz’s La novia is a paradigmatic example of the persistence of the tragic in contemporary Spanish culture. The bride, the groom, Leonardo, and the mother are unable to tame their own feelings and inner demons, in a world in which conflicts no longer involve those inclement and cruel gods that dominated Greek tragedy but the desires that arise from within the modern subject. In this way, La novia illuminates the most mysterious areas of the human soul, creating a universal and timeless story centered on that prolific connection between desire and death that, as Jonathan Dollimore has pointed out, is not determined by a marginal pathological imagination, but is a crucial aspect in the formation of Western culture.38

Of Mothers and Daughters: Julieta What is past cannot be mastered. It can be remembered, forgotten or repressed. It can be avenged, punished, atoned for and regretted. It can be repeated, consciously or unconsciously. Its consequences can be managed either to encourage or discourage their impact on the present or the future. But what is done is done. The past is unassailable and irrevocable. —Bernhard Schlink, Guilt about the Past

 La novia, 1:27:37.  Dollimore, Death, Desire and Loss, xii.

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This chapter concludes with a close-reading of Julieta, a 2016 film by Pedro Almodóvar, Spain’s most internationally renowned director.39 As we saw earlier in this book, La laguna negra resorts to the classic Oedipal tragic narrative based on the violent confrontation between the father and his sons to deconstruct the idyllic vision of rural Spain that Franco’s regime promoted. Inverting this gender dynamic, Almodóvar’s Julieta revolves around the conflict between a mother and her daughter to reflect on issues of tragedy, family relations, love, sex, friendship, gender, class, and race in contemporary Spain. An adaptation of three short stories by the Nobel-prize winner Canadian author, Alice Munro, Almodóvar’s film recounts several decades in the life of Julieta (Adriana Ugarte and Emma Suárez).40 In a very fragmented way, that purposely avoids a teleologic narration, the spectator will find out about her unusual relationship with her daughter Antía (Priscila Delgado), whom she has not seen for many years; her beginnings as a Classical Greek teacher in a High School; her relationship with Xoan (Daniel Grao), her partner and Antía’s father; her distant, both real and metaphoric, connection with her sick mother (Susi Sánchez) and her father (Joaquín Notario); and the tragic death of Xoan while fishing in the sea. In her vital journey, she will meet other characters: the suicidal man in the train (Tomás del Estal); Ava (Inma Cuesta), a young sculptor and Xoan’s occasional lover; Mariam (Rossy de Palma), the Hitchcockian house keeper; and Lorenzo  Pedro Almodóvar was nominated for his first Academy Award in the Best Foreign Language Film category for Mujeres al borde de un ataque de nervios (1989) (Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown), but did not win. In 2000, he did receive an Oscar for his film Todo sobre mi madre (All About My Mother) and three years later he was nominated again in the category of Best Director for Hable con ella (2003) (Talk to Her) which, according to him, was his best film up to this point, even though that year he had to settle for Best Original Screenplay. In Spain, he has received two Goyas in the category of Best Director, in 2000 for Todo sobre mi madre and in 2007 for Volver. Dolor y gloria (Pain and Glory) was a finalist for Best Foreign Film for the 2020 Oscars. Almodóvar’s most recent film, Madres paralelas (2021) (Parallel Mothers), has been well received by both specialized critics and the public. 40  Titled “Chance,” “Soon,” and “Silence,” all three appear in the collection Runaway, published in 2004, after being published previously in The New Yorker magazine (June 14, 2004). Almodóvar’s interest in this collection is evident in the opening scenes of La piel que habito (2011) (The Skin I Live in) where in one of Almodóvar’s metafictional winks we see one of the film characters carrying this book. 39

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(Dario Grandinetti), Julieta’s boyfriend and guardian angel. Some of these traumatic experiences cause her a strong feeling of guilt that will make her at times fall into acute suffering, despair, and a severe depression that endows Almodóvar’s heroine with a tragic aura. My analysis of this film revolves around the idea that tragedy deals with toxic material from the past inherited by the present. I argue that Almodóvar ultimately proposes that it is not possible to face the future without first confronting and resolving traumatic issues from the past. However, as shown by the open ending proposed by Almodóvar, this confrontation does not guarantee release from guilt, nor final redemption for those individuals overwhelmed by a tragic guilt that permanently follows them and that spreads from generation to generation. For my analysis of Julieta, I draw on Rita Felsky’s, Adrian Poole’s, and Simon Critchley’s ideas on the capacity of the tragic mode to deal with toxic events that emerge from the past; Marian MacCurdy’s contributions on the effectiveness of utilizing writing as a therapeutic tool to confront past traumatic events; Anne McTaggart’s work on our understanding of feelings of guilt; and Paul Hammond’s concept of estrangement as key to understanding the tragic hero’s/heroine’s position in this world. “The Past Is Never Dead; It Is Not Even Past”41 Julieta, as much of the art imbued by the tragic mode, is very much about the relation between past and present.42 Irony is not lost on the fact that, at the exact time that Julieta is preparing to start a new life, the past presents itself through a chance encounter on the street with Beatriz (Michelle Jenner), a close friend of Julieta’s estranged daughter, Antía. Bea reports that she has seen Antía, who is now married, has three children, and lives  This is a quote from William Faulkner’s novel Requiem for a Nun published in 1951.  Kathleen M. Sands writes, “Tragedies focus on the past, which is definitionally unchangeable, rather than on the present or the future and they lay guilt for what has already happened rather than imagining ways to be responsible for what is yet to come” (“Tragedy, Theology, and Feminism,” 96). Rita Felsky suggests that, instead of freeing himself/herself from the past, the tragic protagonist is trapped in its nets, and the weight of past events leaves an indelible mark on what the future brings (“Introduction,” 2). In a similar tone, Simon Critchley states that our freedom is constantly threatened by the remains of a past that entangles us in its meshes and which we ignore in our permanent longing for the short-term future. As Critchley affirms, tragedy’s teaching is that, if we disown the past, we will be destroyed by it (Critchley, Tragedy, 14). 41 42

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close to Lake Como. The past that Julieta was trying to flee from by moving to Lisbon with her boyfriend Lorenzo has suddenly returned, proving true the aphorism from Exodus 8:2, thus popularized by Paul Thomas Anderson’s film Magnolia: “we may be through with the past, but the past ain’t through with us.”43 As can be observed in the image below, the conversation with Bea causes Julieta a great deal of anguish and distress (Fig. 6.4). Upon returning to her apartment, she frantically digs through the contents of the wastepaper basket, searching for a blue envelope. The next morning, she tells Lorenzo that she will not be accompanying him to Portugal. Shocked, he claims, “te estás comportando como una loca” (you are behaving like a lunatic).44 It does not come as a surprise to those familiar with Almodóvar’s films that Julieta, like some of his other heroines, is perceived as being mad or, in Almodovarian terms, “on the verge of a nervous breakdown.” The scene closes with Julieta admitting that there are unresolved issues from her past that she must confront alone. As Julián Daniel Gutiérrez-Albilla states in his book Aesthetics, Ethics and Trauma in the Cinema of Pedro Almodóvar, it is not uncommon to find

Fig. 6.4  Julieta receives news about her daughter, Antía. Julieta (Pedro Almodóvar, 2016)  Magnolia, 1:05:24.  Julieta, 0:07:08.

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this recurring motif of the necessity to confront one’s traumatic past and its ethical and political implications in Almodóvar’s most recent films.45 The first step in her journey into the past is to return to the apartment building where she had lived with Antía. After an editing cut, we observe Julieta as she sets up her new apartment. A carved bronze statue of a man with the severed phallus has already been placed on the mantelpiece. As the film progresses, it will soon become obvious that the statute is a metaphor for Xoan, an aspect I will elaborate on later. The camera focuses on the cover of a book, and from this we learn that Lorenzo is a writer. We also discover that the blue envelope that Julieta retrieved from the wastepaper basket after her encounter with Bea contains the ripped pieces of a photograph where we can see her with an adolescent girl. As Julieta starts moving the pieces of the photograph as if they were pieces of a puzzle, the spectator starts to weave together some of the loose threads that will constitute this story. In the film Abrazos Rotos (2009), we see a similar scene in which Diego is trying to reconstruct the torn pieces of his father’s pictures. Pedro Poyato has noted that, in both films, Almodóvar resorts to the reconstruction of a photograph to register the reconciliation of people with strong emotional links (Fig. 6.5).46

Fig. 6.5  Julieta trying to put back together her relationship with Antía. Julieta (Pedro Almodóvar, 2016)  Albilla, Aesthetics, Ethics and Trauma, 1.  Poyato, “Topografía de los sentimientos,” 314.

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It is noteworthy that Julieta decides to confront the most traumatic moments of her past through writing. According to Marian M. MacCurdy, current research shows the therapeutic effect of writing when dealing with painful past experiences. On the one hand, releasing these experiences that are locked in our brain and verbalizing them not only has a cathartic effect, it also helps to create meaning and understanding. On the other hand, writing brings together the cognitive and emotional realms, thus producing a sense of control over the past, which is impossible for us to dominate. In other words, as MacCurdy states, “(w)riting produces a sense of agency that the trauma has threatened.”47 As we will see through the analysis of the film, it is precisely the act of remembering through writing that will finally give Julieta the necessary agency to embark on the quest to reunite with her daughter. In the next scene, we observe Julieta wandering through the streets of Madrid. When she returns home that evening, we are made aware of the fact that Lorenzo—emulating John “Scottie” Ferguson as he follows Madeleine in Vertigo (Alfred Hitchcock 1958)—has been trailing her all day. In reality, the entire first part of this film, with its mysterious overtones, can be seen as Almodóvar’s homage to themes found in the works of Alfred Hitchcock.48 The scene closes with Julieta in her apartment and a taciturn Lorenzo watching her from the other side of the street. After what appears to have been a stimulating day wandering through Madrid visiting places that connect Julieta with Antía, she takes up her writing where she previously left off. This time, she departs from what appeared to be a fictional narrative and begins to write a more personal letter to her daughter which takes the form of a confession. As the story unfolds, we learn that there are three main traumatic events in Julieta’s past that haunt and prevent her from moving on with her life in a healthy way. The first one has to do with her witnessing the suicide of a fellow passenger on a train and the feeling of guilt that this event produced in her. The second one is the tragic death of her husband, Xoan, who, despite the  MacCurdy, The Mind’s Eye, 2.  For a study on the influence of Hitchcock in Almodóvar’s cinema, see Dona Kercher. “Almodóvar and Hitchcock: A Sorcerer’s Apprentice,” in A Companion to Pedro Almodóvar, edited by Marvin D’Lugo and Kathleen M. Vernon, 59–87. Chichester, UK & Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell, 2013. 47 48

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stormy weather, decided to go fishing after a heated argument with Julieta. Finally, the voluntary disappearance of her daughter Antía after spending time in a spiritual retreat in the mountains will cause Julieta a great deal of distress. Reflecting on this film, María Delgado accurately noted that, “in accordance with the rules of classical tragedy, the key acts (…) take place off stage/screen.”49 This golden rule of classical Greek tragedy applies in some of the films analyzed in this book, but there are exceptions. While in La laguna negra the murder of the father by his sons occurs off screen, the tragic outcomes in Condenados, 7 días de enero, and La novia are portrayed in the film in great detail. Man in Black The first flashback of the film moves the story from the indirect style of an epistolary to the direct style of visualization. These flashbacks stem from Julieta’s memories and tell the story from her point of view. As Julieta recounts these events, we are transported to a train somewhere in Spain during the 1990s. The scene opens with Julieta, sitting in her compartment, reading Albin Lesky’s classic book on Greek tragedy. The insertion of this metafictional device is not without design since it is characteristic of Almodóvar to choose every detail of his films with a specific purpose. He intentionally includes this aspect to give the observant spectator a small hint about the true intention of this film: to reflect on the tragic agony of a woman consumed by guilt who often feels “strange” in a world she never really understands. Next, a man dressed in black enters Julieta’s compartment and tries to initiate a conversation with her. The situation is awkward so Julieta excuses herself and walks to the meal car. There she meets Xoan and together they observe a stag that is running parallel to the train. After an editing cut, we return to the present time where we hear Julieta’s voiceover as she continues to write the letter to Antía. She describes Xoan as a fisherman who spent his life living by the sea and whose wife at the time was in a coma. In that period, Julieta worked as a substitute teacher of Classics in a high school. The camera then shifts back to the train where there has been an unexpected delay. It appears that the man Julieta briefly met in her compartment threw himself on the tracks in front of the train. The death of this stranger causes Julieta to experience a profound sense of guilt. A key feature of modern tragedy, Anne McTaggart  Delgado, “Open Secrets,” 40.

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states that “(g)uilt (…) is connected with moral responsibility and is generated when we break a moral rule, (…) commit a wrong action, or fail to act when we should.”50 It is precisely the last reason listed here that is the source of Julieta’s guilt. She questions whether she might have been able to prevent this suicide if she had only taken some time to talk to this stranger who obviously wanted some company. To a greater or lesser extent, many of the characters that populate this book feel guilty for some of their actions. Acacia in La aldea maldita, Carmela in La hija de Juan Simón, Juan in La laguna negra, Aurelia in Condenados, Ángela in Deprisa, deprisa, and the bride in Paula Ortiz’s film are just a few examples of characters who experience overwhelming feelings of guilt for their actions, but in no case is that feeling of guilt as paralyzing as in Julieta’s. Scenes from a Marriage In the next flashback, we see Julieta teaching the different translations in Greek for the word sea. Following a Western cultural tradition, in Almodóvar’s film the imagery of the river and the sea will be directly associated with the fluctuation of life and death. Before Julieta leaves the school, the director gives her a letter from Xoan where he expresses a strong desire to see her again. As the spectator listens to Xoan’s voiceover, we see Julieta traveling on a train. Upon her arrival at Xoan’s house, she is greeted by Marian, the housekeeper, who resembles Mrs. Danvers in Hitchcock’s Rebecca. In a matter-of-fact tone, Marian tells her that Xoan’s sick wife died the day before, and that he will spend the night with a close friend, Ava, and that she should return to Madrid. Nevertheless, Julieta decides to stay. A new voiceover returns the spectator to Julieta’s letter/ confession to her daughter: “Era una vida nueva, extraña para una mujer que viene del sol, pero acogedora. Las noches se me pasaban volando entre los brazos de Xoan. Me sentía atrapada y a la vez libre.” (It was a new life, strange for a woman who came from the sun, but welcoming. The nights flew past for me in Xoan’s arms. I felt trapped and free at the same time.)51 Julieta’s feeling of being both trapped and free is not new. Throughout this book we have seen characters who considered themselves free without realizing that they were subject to a series of sociopolitical conventions and economic norms that turned that feeling of freedom into  McTaggart, Shame and Guilt, 12.  Julieta, 0:32:24 to 0:32:40.

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an illusion. However, it is worth noting that Julieta is the only character analyzed in this book who is fully aware of this dichotomy. Almodóvar’s heroine realizes the limitations of human beings, as she will show in an enlightening conversation with Ava. This key scene takes places at the artist’s studio. Soon, the origin of the bronze figurine that Julieta always keeps close is revealed. The sculpture with the severed phallus that we saw at the beginning of the film symbolically represents Xoan.52 Later on, while she observes Ava creating one of her suggestive sculptures, Julieta expresses a fundamental idea of the tragic tradition: the helplessness of the human being in a world that is mostly hostile: “Los dioses crearon al hombre y a otros seres con la ayuda de la arcilla y el fuego. Les concedieron los atributos necesarios para su supervivencia (…) Cuando le llegó el turno al hombre, los dioses descubrieron que se les habían acabado los dones así que el hombre nació desnudo, indefenso en medio de la naturaleza.”53 (The gods created man and other beings with the help of clay and fire. They were granted the attributes necessary for their survival. When it was man’s turn, the gods had no gifts left. So, man was born naked, defenseless, in the midst of nature.) Reflecting on the nature of the tragic, George Steiner states that “fallen man is made an unwelcome guest of life or, at best, a threatened stranger on this hostile or indifferent world.”54 Expressed in different ways, the idea that the human being is lost, trapped, and defenseless in this adverse world is a constant in the films analyzed here to the point of becoming one of the thematic axes on which tragic art is built. In La aldea maldita, La hija de Juan Simón, and La tía Tula, their female protagonists (Acacia, Carmela, and Tula, respectively) are entangled in a net of patriarchal conventions. The characters of Deprisa, deprisa and La buena estrella claim repeatedly that they are free without realizing the strength of the economic forces that they try futilely to overcome. The patricidal brothers in La laguna negra, José in Condenados, and the bride in Paula Ortiz’s film are powerless against their inner demons. Finally, the union lawyers are helpless against the violent face of Spanish fascism as portrayed in 7 días de enero. After an editing cut, we see Julieta, Xoan, and a two-month-old Antía traveling on a train to Andalusia, where Julieta’s parents will meet Xoan 52  The sculpture is actually the work of Spanish sculptor Miquel Navarro. His work appears also in Almodóvar’s Carne Trémula. 53  Julieta, 0:33:30 to 0:33:59. 54  Steiner, “Tragedy,” 30–31.

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and their granddaughter for the first time. The voiceover quickly jumps to another visit two years later to see Julieta’s sick mother. Upon arrival, Julieta realizes that her mother’s illness—probably Alzheimer’s—has advanced and that her father is romantically involved with the caregiver. I am particularly interested in this transgressive relationship. Julieta will soon discover that Xoan has had a relationship with Ava as well, which indicates a repetition of events. She suffers the same fate as her mother. We will see this repetition of events again at the end of the film when we learn that Antia’s son has drowned like his grandfather. Events repeat themselves, especially those that are tragic. The next segment is crucial for my analysis of the tragic mode that permeates Almodóvar’s film. After a bitter discussion between Julieta and Xoan where it is revealed that he has been sexually involved with Ava on and off for years, a tragic sequence of events unfolds. Following this emotionally charged discussion, Xoan makes the reckless decision to go out fishing despite the dangerous conditions of the sea which leads to his death. At the most traumatic moment, the camera shifts back to the present where the spectator observes Julieta as she explains these painful events to Antía. The voiceover suddenly goes silent and there is a close-up of Julieta’s face which displays her anguish as she revisits this tragic time in her life. When reflecting on Julieta’s confession letter to her daughter, Silvia Encinas has pointed out the masochistic character of this writing exercise. According to this critic, the scriptural process involves simultanously a self-imposed form of punishment and a form of pleasure.55 In any case, what Julieta understands is that, as painful as it may be, she needs to confront the past if she wants to obtain her daughter’s forgiveness and embrace a guiltless future. In addition, as Mai Hunt has stated, Julieta realized that her relationship with Xoan opened and closed with a tragic event. According to Hunt, Julieta “realizes that the moment of union with her husband-to-be was instigated by tragedy, and that this has now come full circle with Xoan’s death.”56 Almodovar’s film is full of this tragic circularity in which everything repeats in an endless loop. The drowning of her grandson, that I will analyze later, is just another example of the circular narrative that characterizes the tragic mode (Fig. 6.6). After Ava and Julieta scatter Xoan’s ashes, Antía, who is in an overnight camp, calls to request permission to spend the week in Madrid with her  Encinas, “Maternidad y psicoanálisis,” 44–45.  Hunt, “The Inheritance of Silence,” 185.

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Fig. 6.6  Julieta identifies Xoan’s remains. Julieta (Pedro Almodóvar, 2016)

new friend, Bea. Julieta allows her daughter to do this without mentioning anything about Xoan’s death. A few days later, Julieta arrives in Madrid to tell Antía the circumstances of her father’s death. During this time in Madrid, Julieta wanders hopelessly following the teenage girls to many different places. When reflecting on this period of devasting grief, in a voiceover Julieta states, “las cosas sucedían sin mi participación, premonizándose unas a otras.” (Things happened without my participation, one thing foretelling the next.)57 Julieta’s inability to take care of herself reaches the point where the girls find a new apartment for Julieta and Antía to live in so that they can stay in Madrid. The voiceover confirms Julieta’s lack of agency during this time when we hear her explain: Bea y tú encontrasteis un piso muy cerca de donde vivía ella. Me hicisteis alquilarlo. Para entonces yo no podía con mi alma, pero tú estabas fuerte como un roble, habías madurado de golpe. Volviste a Redes con Ava para cerrar la casa y ponerla a la venta. En Madrid, Bea cuidaba de mi. No habría sobrevivido sin vosotras. A tu vuelta no hablamos mucho del viaje. Tú no querías entristecerme y yo no tenía fuerzas para preguntarte. (Bea and you found an apartment close to where she lived. You made me rent it. By then, I was worn out, but you were as strong as an ox. You had suddenly grown up. You went back home with Ava to close our house and  Julieta, 1:01:33 to 1:01:39.

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put it up for sale. In Madrid, Bea looked after me. I would not have survived without you two. When you came back, we didn’t talk much about the trip. You didn’t want to make me sad, and I didn’t have the strength to ask.)58

Reflecting on the protagonists of tragedy, Paul Hammond states that they inhabit their own time and their own space which has been shaped by their imagination and is marked by guilt, ambition or desire, and loyalty to their dead.59 He furthers his claim by saying that “The tragic protagonist cannot inhabit collective space in the same way that other characters do, and often he moves into his own milieu to which the others have no access. He is held in parenthesis.”60 It is difficult to find a better way to explain what is happening with Almodóvar’s heroine. This segment concludes with one of the most visually powerful moments of the film when the actresses playing the young and the adult Julieta shift in what appears to be part of a magician’s act. Mothers and Daughters Several years have elapsed and we find Julieta wearing a colorful t-shirt and happily painting her apartment when an adolescent Antía returns from school. Through a voice over, Julieta informs us that she has overcome depression and that she has a new job as a proofreader for a publisher. In the meantime, Bea has gone to study in the United States and Antía has decided to spend some time at a spiritual retreat. Julieta reluctantly accepts her plan. The next scene is key to understand Julieta’s anxieties and insecurities and the overwhelming feeling of guilt that dominates her. While Antía is waiting for the taxi that will take her to the station, we see an agitated and anguished Julieta who is suffering with the idea of ​​separating from her daughter. The tense farewell between the two suggests that the relationship between them is not optimal and that Julieta has become toxic material for her daughter. At the moment of Antia’s departure, Julieta finds herself paralyzed by emotion. It is now when Almodovar’s camera enters Julieta’s mind as memories of the last time she saw the man on the train and Xoan suddenly appear. It seems as if these two men are judging her from beyond the grave, exacerbating the overwhelming sense  Ibid., 1:02:41 to 1:03:23.  Hammond, Strangeness of Tragedy, 3. 60  Ibid., 19. 58 59

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of guilt she has suffered since their death. Reflecting on how tragic art sometimes brings present, past, and future together in a single moment, Rebecca Bushnell states that “[w]hile tragedy (…) evokes the anxiety of experiencing an onrushing present, one can say that we are anxious precisely because that present embeds both the weight of the past and the future it brings into being.”61 In a similar tone, Paul Hammond states that, for the tragic hero, “[t]he time in which he moves is not the time of his neighbors, but a dimension in which what they would call the past is urgently present to him, or in which the future seems already to have happened; laws of sequence, of cause and effect, no longer apply.”62 The feeling of guilt caused by these two tragedies generated in Julieta a state of depression that ultimately distanced her from her daughter. Defining anagnorisis, María Rosa Álvarez Sellers states that “it is that culminating moment in which the hero/heroine realizes his/her past error and admits his/her guilt.”63 In Almodóvar’s film, it is now when Julieta, aware of the role she played in the death of Xoan and the stranger on the train, perceives fearfully that she will never see her daughter again. In all these cases, Julieta feels morally guilty, however, as Jesús Ferrero points out, when an individual suffers shame and guilt, these passions are mostly determined by the culture and the social and moral norms of the society in which the subject lives.64 In a society like the Spanish one where family ties are so strong, Xoan’s death and Antía’s abandonment are all the more remarkable. Three months later, when Julieta arrives at the retreat to pick up Antía, she is met by the director who delivers the surprising news that her daughter is no longer there and she is unable to disclose her whereabouts. As this conversation transpires, it is made apparent that religion is the catalyst of the rift between mother and daughter. After many years without any news from Antía, Julieta decides to move on with her life. In Of Woman Born, the poet and essayist Adrianne Rich states that “The loss of the daughter to the mother, the mother to the daughter, is the essential female tragedy. We acknowledge Lear (father-daughter split), Hamlet (son and mother), and Oedipus (son and mother) as great embodiments of the human tragedy; but there is no presently enduring recognition of mother-daughter

 Bushnell, “Tragedy and temporality,” 784.  Hammond, Strangeness of Tragedy, 3. 63  Álvarez Sellers, Tragedia española del Siglo de Oro, 35. 64  Ferrero, Experiencias del deseo, 133. 61 62

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passion and rapture.”65 Joining this conversation, film scholar Linda Williams writes a few years later: If this tragic story remains unwritten, it is because tragedy has always been assumed to be universal; speaking for and to a supposedly universal “mankind,” it has not been able to speak for and to womankind. But melodrama is a form that does not pretend to speak universally. It is clearly addressed to a particular bourgeois class and often (…) to the particular gender of woman.66

Melodrama, especially a subgenre called maternal melodrama, has proven very efficient to address mother-daughter conflicts.67 In Spanish cinematography, Pedro Almodóvar has been the filmmaker who has more asidously translated these conflicts to the screen as is the case in Julieta.68 The next scenes are crucial to the analysis of the overwhelming feeling of guilt that suffocates many of the characters in these films and prevents them from moving forward in their lives. Ava has become very ill which prompts Julieta to visit her in the hospital. She makes the shocking revelation that Antía told her that she initially blamed them both for her father’s death and later blamed herself as well because she was happy at the camp when Xoan perished. Ava states that her response to Antía was that if they all were truly guilty, all three of them had been punished sufficiently. She concludes by relating that Antía closed this conversation stating, “cada una tiene lo que se merece.” (everyone gets what they deserve.)69 After this illuminating flashback, Julieta continues writing her letter to Antía and confesses:  Rich, Of Woman Born, 237.  Williams, “Something Else Besides a Mother,” 3. 67  The list of films built on the conflict between mother and daughters is extensive. A list of a few titles representative of classic Hollywood includes Stella Dallas (1937), Mildred Pierce (1945), and Imitation of Life (1959). Iconic Swedish director Ingmar Bergman was also attracted to this kind of story and in 1978 he directed Höstsonaten [Autumn Sonata]. Permeated by a melodramatic tone, in all these films the conflict revolves around the tense relationship between mother and daughter. 68  Besides the film analyzed in this chapter, Almodóvar’s cinematography has specially focused on conflictive relationships between mothers and daughters, first in Tacones lejanos (1991) (High Hells), a film with abundant references to Bergman’s Höstsonaten (Autumn Sonata), and then in Todo sobre mi madre, where he portrayed the problematic relationship between sister Rosa and her mother. 69  Julieta, 1:19:46. 65 66

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Te eduqué en la misma libertad que me educaron mis padres. Cuando nos mudamos a Madrid y caí en aquella depresión, no te dije nada pero me asfixiaba un tremendo sentimiento de culpa por la muerte de tu padre y la del hombre del tren. Siempre evité hablarte de ello. Quería que crecieras libre de culpa, pero tú la percibiste, y a pesar de mi silencio te la acabé contagiando como si fuera un virus.” (I raised you in the same freedom in which my parents had raised me. When we moved to Madrid and I fell into that depression, I never told you but I was suffocated by a tremendous sense of guilt about your father’s death and that of the man on the train. I never talked to you about it. I wanted you to grow up free from guilt. But you sensed it. And despite my silence, I infected you like a virus.)70

Reflecting on guilt’s capacity to affect future generations, Paul Hammond states that, for the ancient Greeks, “guilt is complex and fluid.”71 According to this scholar: “guilt does not pertain solely to the agent as a result of his actions, but it spreads as a pollution over the family and associates of the guilty one.”72 Julieta feels guilt over the deaths of Xoan and the stranger on the train, but she also feels particularly guilty that she has infected or polluted, using here Hammond’s terminology, her daughter with this caustic emotion. The female trio that appears in Almodovar’s film can easily be added to the list of characters in this book who are marked by an overwhelming feeling of guilt. Ava, Antía, and Julieta share with Acacia in La aldea maldita, Carmela in La hija de Juan Simón, Juan in La laguna negra, José María in 7 días de enero, and Ángela in Deprisa, deprisa, the painful feeling of having committed a fault or transgression reprehensible both in their eyes and in the eyes of others. In any case, what separates Almodovar’s characters from the rest is that they are very vocal about their feelings, which they acknowledge and try to confront. Following Ava’s death, Julieta begins her romance with Lorenzo which helps her to once again try to move forward and leave the past behind. As hard as she tries to erase all ties with the past, Julieta’s chance encounter with Bea in the street, which we saw at the beginning of the film, immediately throws her back into the depressed and catatonic state that she experienced after Xoan’s tragic death. This state of despair in which Julieta admits she finds herself is perfectly summed up in these words in the letter addressed to her absent daughter: “Ya no me queda nada. Sólo existes tú.  Ibid., 1:19:54 to 1:20:24.  Hammond, Strangeness of Tragedy, 45. 72  Ibid. 70 71

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Tu ausencia llena mi vida por completo y la destruye” (I have nothing left. Only you exist. Your absence fills my life completely and destroys it”).73 Next, we watch Julieta return to the same tennis court where, during one of the darkest stages of her depression, she imagined she was watching Antía and Bea playing basketball. By sheer chance, Bea happens to be at this court with her nieces. For Julieta, Bea’s unexpected presence appears once again to be a ghost from her traumatic past. Bea’s two unexpected appearances serve as a reminder that there are elements from Julieta’s past that remain unresolved and must be confronted.74 Julieta and Beatriz engage in a conversation that provides the missing pieces to this intricate puzzle. The former confesses that she has not seen Antía for twelve years and Bea admits that her chance meeting in Switzerland with Antía was extremely unpleasant because she acted like she did not even recognize her. Then, Bea divulges that her relationship with Antía was more than just a friendship and that Antía probably attended the spiritual retreat to cleanse herself from the shame caused by the sexual nature of their relationship. This is a good moment to remember that, as Erica L. Johnson and Patricia Moran claim, although guilt is triggered by actions which one regrets and for which one hopes to make amends, shame is deeply buried in one’s sense of being and it does not leave room for redemption.75 This cryptic conversation reveals a lesbian relationship for which ​​ Antía must have felt ashamed. This is not surprising because, despite the important recent advances in Spain in terms of equality for LGTBIQ+ groups, in a culture so strongly imbued by Catholicism, homosexuality is still stigamtized. Following this conversation, Julieta, who continues to wander through the streets of Madrid in a disoriented and vacant state, suffers minor injuries when she steps off the curb in front of a car after seeing Lorenzo on the other side of the street. After her accident, Julieta and Lorenzo rekindle their romance that was abruptly cut short after Julieta’s initial encounter with Bea. When gathering some items from Julieta’s apartment, Lorenzo finds a letter from Antía informing her mother of the tragic death of her nine-year-old son, Xoan, who died by drowning in a river. This  Julieta, 1:22:28.  As Simon Hay reminds us, in psychoanalytic theory, “the ghost is something that comes back, the residue of some traumatic event that has not been dealt with and therefore returns, the way trauma always does” (Modern British Ghost Story, 4). 75  Johnson and Moran, The Female Face, 2. 73 74

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episode suggests a tragic circularity in which events endlessly repeat themselves. During the final shots of the film, Julieta, with Lorenzo at her side, embarks on a new journey in the hope of being reunited with Antía and, joined by pain, reconcile the issues that precipitated Antía’s disappearance from her mother’s life. Perhaps Julieta will finally discover why Antía decided to punish her mother with such a prolonged silence. Perhaps she will realize that she did not do anything wrong, or at least anything different from what any other woman/mother would have done facing a similar situation. Ultimately, she may realize, like Calderón de la Barca’s character, Segismundo, that the only crime that she has committed is the crime of having been born.

CHAPTER 7

Epilogue

Two main ideas run through this book: the persistence of forms and motifs of both the classic and modern tragic traditions in Spanish cinema, and the possibility of a progressive reading of the tragic mode, an artistic expression often accused of being conservative due to its tendency to validate the status quo of the society it portrays. The films studied here demonstrate the validity of both premises. As I mentioned in the introduction to this book, it would have been easy to incorporate more films into my corpus. However, even though my study would have gained in scope, it would have lost depth of analysis. Choosing not to create a long “laundry list” of numerous films that delve into the tragic tradition did not prevent me from ascertaining that the tragic mode has been a key ingredient in Spanish cinema since the silent era. Its presence and persistence have embodied both a reminder of and a commentary on the tragic history of contemporary Spain and on the socioeconomic conditions that some sectors of Spanish society have endured, inevitably leading the protagonists to tragic outcomes. Significantly, the tragic aura that permeates these films also represents an important contribution to their appeal. Rather than engaging with the audience at a rational level, the tragic mode addresses spectators at an emotional level, thus enhancing the aesthetic, ideological, and commercial attractiveness of these films. Feelings of pity and fear, characteristic of tragic art since its inception, are awakened in an audience that has traditionally found a certain degree of pleasure in witnessing the suffering of others. © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 L. M. González, Modes of the Tragic in Spanish Cinema, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-19325-5_7

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As expected, the persistence of the tragic in Spanish cinema transcends the last film analyzed in this book. A glance into some of the most popular and award-winning films produced in the last five years confirms the continued presence of the tragic forms and motifs underscored in this study and the relevance of the insights presented here. For example, the following films reflect on issues of personal and collective trauma, justice, and reparation under a new lens: Tarde de furia [The Fury of a Patient Man] (Raúl Arévalo, 2016), a revenge story in which the protagonist takes justice in his own hands after burglars break into a jewelry store, kill his girlfriend, and severely injure his father; Que Dios nos perdone [May God Save Us] (Rodrigo Sorogoyen, 2016), a detective thriller that focuses on the search for a serial killer of elderly ladies in Madrid, carried out by two policemen who also deal with personal conflicts: one of them has anger management issues and the other is traumatized by his mother’s abuse in his childhood; and Maixabel (Icíar Bollaín, 2021), a film that engages with the difficult topic of the Basque terrorist group ETA and its legacy of violence, pain, and death.1 As I have discussed throughout this book, justice is a central aspect in tragedy, which constantly reflects on what is the best way to administer it, either through retribution and revenge or resorting to less violent means. In 7 días de enero, we were invited to consider legal justice as opposed to personal vengeance as the appropriate way to deal with the political violence exercised by Franco’s regime and to reinforce the fledgling democracy. However, in the first two films mentioned above, what we witness is a return to personal vengeance as a way to obtain justice either because the victims do not trust the judicial system or because they feel that taking justice into their own hands is the best way to come to terms with their personal traumas. In a more complex way, in the case of Maixabel the necessary healing of past wounds is achieved not only through the legal system but also through an interview between victim and perpetrator (Maixabel, whose husband has been killed by ETA, and one of his murderers). Consumed by guilt, a key feature of the tragic mode, in this

1  The terrorist group Euskadi ta Askatasuna (ETA), a separatist group that fought for the independence of the Basque country, was active in Spain from the late 1950s to 2011. In addition to kidnappings and extortions, they were responsible for killing 829 people and injuring around 2000 more. Maixabel focuses on the murder of Spanish politician Juan María Jauregui in July, 2000 and his wife’s attempts to deal with the subsequent trauma.

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encounter the latter contextualizes the violent actions of the separatist group, expresses regret, and asks for forgiveness. Three recent films focus on the topic of childhood traumas as the outcome of tragic events. Un monstruo viene a verme [A Monster Calls] (Juan Antonio Bayona, 2016) shows how a child resorts to fantasy to deal with the traumatic experience of his mother dying from cancer. A similar experience is portrayed in Estiu 1993 [Summer 1993] (Carla Simón, 2017), a film that centers on the first summer after a child loses her mother. As was the case with Daniel in La buena estrella, Frida’s mother died from AIDS in the early 1990s. Blending personal and collective dramas, Adú (Salvador Calvo, 2020) focuses on the traumatic experience of two children trying to flee from their country of origin, a Cameroon ravished by violence and poverty, looking for a better life in Europe. Through this journey, we witness the tragedy of immigrants facing violence, sexual exploitation, suffering, and death. There are several other films worthy of mention. Las niñas [Schoolgirls] (Pilar Palomero, 2020), like Julieta, revolves around the confrontation of a mother and her adolescent daughter. Set in the 1990s, the film shows how the oppressive atmosphere created by rigid Catholic morals, as seen in La aldea maldita, La hija de Juan Simón, and La tía Tula, continues to be the cause of suffering and anxiety, especially for women. Carmen y Lola (Arantxa Echevarría, 2018) addresses issues of ethnicity, gender, and sexual orientation amid an ultra-conservative Romani community in which patriarchal rules impose restrictions on women’s agency and cause frustration and anxiety. The seemingly happy ending of the film, in which the lesbian couple reaches the sea for the first time in their lives, allows for an alternative reading with more bleak undertones. As shown in Deprisa, deprisa, the sea is a symbol of death, either literal or allegorical. Similar to La aldea maldita, La hija de Juan Simón, La tía Tula, and La novia, Carmen and Lola’s refusal to follow the strict norms of their community will force them into a life of ostracism outside of their social group, in the best of cases. Finally, in the acclaimed film The Bookshop (2017) by film director Isabel Coixet, the protagonist, a British WWII widow, succumbs to a series of conservative socio-political forces that impede her dream of owning a bookstore to acquire personal satisfaction, freedom, and independence. The last scene, in which we see her leaving the town, reminds us of the last shot in La tía Tula. It is not difficult for the viewer to imagine a future life of solitude, frustration, and unfulfilled dreams for both protagonists, either in post-war England or Franco’s Spain.

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Mientras dure la guerra [While at War] (Alejandro Amenábar, 2019) focuses on the tragic agony of the Spanish writer and philosopher Miguel de Unamuno, torn apart by the violence that devoured his country during the first weeks of the Spanish Civil War. The death of the Spanish philosopher, just three months after the beginning of the bloody conflict, puts an end to his personal anguish. However, for many Spaniards, as portrayed in La trinchera infinita [The Endless Trench] (Jon Garaño, Aitor Aguerri, José Mari Goenaga, 2019), which narrates the story of a man who lived hidden in his house for more than four decades to escape the Francoist violence, the pain and suffering caused by the Civil War lasts almost a lifetime. Finally, Entre dos aguas, [Between Two Waters] (Isaki Lacuesta, 2018), as the film Carmen y Lola, engages with Romani culture and follows the difficult life of two brothers living in southern Spain. Similar to Deprisa, deprisa and La buena estrella, Lacuesta’s film highlights the idea that socioeconomic conditions work in our days as fate did for the ancients. The continued presence of forms and motifs of the tragic tradition is not exclusively a characteristic of Spanish cinema. Experiences such as pain, suffering, death, reversals of fortune, and injustice are, with subtle differences in each culture, universal. Just to offer some examples of recent interest in the tragic, three films have been released in the United States in the last couple of years that could certainly be part of a study similar to the one contained herein but with a focus on American cinema. In 2021, Apple reunited filmmaker Joel Cohen and actors Frances MacDormand and Denzel Washington to create an aesthetically fascinating adaptation of the Shakespearean tragedy, Macbeth. The success of the production, exhibited on the streaming platform of the technology giant after a brief showing in selected movie theaters, confirms the strong interest of audiences in this type of cultural product. Besides the updated version of this classic tragedy, while I write these pages, Todd Field’s film Tár (2022) is being released worldwide. This film reclaims the tragic topic of the volubility of fortune through the story of a famous female classical music conductor obsessed with Mahler’s Fifth symphony. Having reached the pinnacle of her career, we witness her fall. In spite of the optimism expressed by Francis Fukuyama in 1992 in The End of History and the Last Man, now more than ever we seem to be living in a permanent crisis, proclaimed and amplified by the deafening noise of the mass media, set on persuading us that our world is on the verge of collapse. It is difficult to prove them wrong in view of a pandemic that has

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taken so many lives, a war in the heart of Europe that is changing the geopolitics of the planet at a vertiginous pace, growing inequality in all aspects of our society, and a climate crisis that forces us to imagine, in the best of cases, a world very different from the one we live in and, in the worst-case scenario, our extinction as the dominant species on the planet. In the face of such a bleak prospect, it is not surprising that people feel anguished and lost in a world without anchors and in which former certainties are gradually vanishing. Extreme fragility at an individual and collective level characterizes a world, which, each day, we perceive more clearly as hostile and senseless. With this somber perspective, it is not difficult to imagine that a tragic aura will continue to permeate the human imagination and that cinema, still the most popular form of art, will play a key role in its expression.

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Thomasseau, Jean-Marie. El melodrama. México D.F.: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1989. Thompson, Judith J. Tennessee Williams Plays: Memory, Myth, and Symbol. International Bibliography of Theatre & Dance with Full Text. New  York: Peter Lang, 2002. Toohey, Peter. Jealousy. New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2014 Torreiro, Casimiro. “¿Una dictadura liberal? (1962–1969).” In Historia del Cine Español, edited by Roman Gubern, José Enrique Moterde, Julio Pérez Perucha, Esteve Riambau and Casimiro Torreiro, 295–340. Madrid: Cátedra, 2004. Unamuno, Miguel de. La tía Tula. Edited and translated by Stanley Appelbaum. Mineola, New York: Dover Publications, Inc, 2005. Vernant, Jean-Pierre, Pierre Vidal-Naquet. Tragedy and Myth in Ancient Greece. Translated by Janet Lloyd. Brighton: Harvester Press, 1981. Vincent, Mary. “La reafirmación de la masculinidad en la cruzada franquista.” Cuadernos de Historia Contemporánea, vol. 28 (2006):135–151. Wallace, Jennifer. The Cambridge Introduction to Tragedy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007. Whittaker, Tom. “No Man’s Land: Transitional Space and Time in Carlos Saura’s Deprisa, Deprisa.” Bulletin of Hispanic Studies, vol. 85, no. 5 (2008) 679–694. Wieland, Christina. The Fascist State of Mind and the Manufacturing of Masculinity: A Psychoanalytic Approach. London and New York: Routledge, 2015. Williams, Linda. “Something Else besides a Mother”. “Stella Dallas” and the Maternal Melodrama.” Cinema Journal, Autumn, vol 24, no 1 (1984) 2–27. Williams, Raymond. Modern Tragedy. Stanford, California: Stanford University Press, 1966. Williams, Bernard. Shame and Necessity, Berkeley and Oxford, 1993. Yarza, Alejandro. The Making and Unmaking of Francoist Kitsch Cinema: from Raza to Pan’s Labyrinth. Edinburg: Edinburgh University Press, 2018. Zeitlin, Froma. Playing the Other: Gender and Society in Classical Greek Literature. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996. Zubiaur Gorozika, Nekane E. Anatomía de un cineasta pasional el cine de Manuel Mur Oti. Santander: Shangrila, 2013.

Filmography 7 días de enero [Seven Days in January]. Dir. Juan Antonio Bardem. Perf. Manuel Ángel Egea, Fernando Sánchez Polack, Madeleine Robinson. 5 Continents, Goya Producciones Cinematográficas, Les Films de deux Mondes, Serafín G. Trueba, 1979. Abrazos rotos [Broken Embraces]. Dir. Pedro Almodóvar. Perf. Lluís Homar, Penélope Cruz, Blanca Portillo, José Luis Gómez. El Deseo, 2009.

  WORKS CITED 

197

Abuelo made in Spain [ Old man made in Spain]. Dir. Pedro Lazaga. Perf. Paco Martínez Soria, Mónica Randall, Mabel Karr. Filmayer, Pedro Masó Producciones Cinematográficas, 1969. Adú. Dir. Salvador Calvo. Perf. Adam Nourou, Luis Tosar, Anna Castillo. Ikiru Films, La Terraza Films, Telecinco Cinema, ICAA, Mediaset España, Mogambo, Netflix, 2020. Agustina de Aragón [The Siege]. Dir. Juan de Orduña. Perf. Aurora Bautista, Fernando Aguirre, Valeriano Andrés. Cifesa, 1950. A hierro muere [Kill and be Killed]. Dir. Manuel Mur Oti. Perf. Olga Zubarry, Alberto de Mendoza, Luis Prendes. Halcón P.C / Argentina Sono Film S.A.C.I. 1962. Alba de América [Dawn of América]. Dir. Juan de Orduña. Perf. Antonio Villar, María Martín, José Suárez. Cifesa, 1951. La aldea maldita [The Cursed Village]. Dir. Florián Rey. Perf. Carmen Viance, Pedro Larrañaga, Amelia Muñoz. Pedro Larrañaga, 1930. La aldea maldita [The Cursed Village]. Dir. Florián Rey. Perf. Florencia Bécquer, Julio Rey de las Heras, Delfín Jerez. P.B. Films, 1942. El batallón de las sombras. Dir. Manuel Mur Oti. Perf. Rolf Wanka, Toni Soler, Alicia Palacios. Suevia Films, 1957. Bienvenido Mr. Marshall [Welcome Mr. Marshall]. Dir. Juan Antonio Bardem and Luis García Berlanga. Perf. José Isbert, Lolita Sevilla, Manolo Morán. Uninci, 1953. Bodas de sangre [Blood Weeding]. Dir. Edmundo Guibourg. Perf. Margarita Xirgu, Pedro López Lagar, Enrique Diosdado. CIFA producciones, 1938. Bodas de sangre [Blood Weeding]. Dir. Souheil Ben-Barka. Perf. Irene Papas, Laurent Terzieff, Djamila. Centre Cinématographique Marocain, Euro-­ Maghreb Films, 1976. Bodas de sangre [Blood Wedding]. Dir. Carlos Saura. Perf. Antonio Gades, Cristina Hoyos, Juan Antonio Jiménez. Emiliano Piedra P.C., 1981. The Bookshop. Dir. Isabel Coixet. Perf. Emily Mortimer, Patricia Clarkson, Bill Nighy. Green Films, A Contracorriente Films, Diagonal Televisión, Zephyr Films, ONE TWO Films, 2017. La buena estrella [Lucky Star]. Dir. Ricardo Franco. Perf. Antonio Resines, Maribel Verdú, Jordi Mollá. Enrique Cerezo P.C., 1997. El buen amor [The Good Love]. Dir. Francisco Regueiro. Perf. Simón Andreu, Marta del Val, Enriqueta Carballeira. Jet Films, 1963. Camada negra [Black Litter]. Dir. Manuel Gutiérrez Aragón. Perf. José Luis Alonso, María Luisa Ponte, Ángela Molina. El Imán, 1977. La canción de Aixa [The song of Aixa]. Dir. Florián Rey. Perf. Imperio Argentina, Pedro Barreto, Pedro Fernández Cuenca. Hispano Filmproduktion, 1939.

198 

WORKS CITED

Canciones para después de una guerra [Songs for after a War]. Dir. Basilio Martin Patino. Perf. Celia Gámez, Imperio Argentina, Miguel de Molina. La Linterna Mágica, 1976. Carmen, la de Triana. Dir. Florián Rey. Perf. Imperio Argentina, Rafael Rivelles, Manuel Luna. Hispano Filmproduktion, 1939. Carmen y Lola. Dir. Arantxa Echevarría. Perf. Zaira Romero, Rosy Rodríguez, Moreno Borja. Tvtec servicios audiovisuales, ICAA, 2018. Carne trémula. [Live Flesh] Dir. Pedro Almodóvar. Perf. Javier Bardem, Francesca Neri, Liberto Rabal. El Deseo, Ciby 2000, France 3 Cinéma, 1997. Catalina de Inglaterra. Dir. Arturo Ruiz Castillo. Perf. Maruchi Fresno, Rafael Luis Calvo, Mary Lamar. Balcázar Producciones Cinematográficas, 1951. Caudillo. Dir. Basilio Martín Patino. Perf. Francisco Franco, Manuel Azaña, Luis Companys. Retasa, 1977. La caza [The Hunt]. Dir. Carlos Saura. Perf. Ismael Merlo, Emilio Gutiérrez Caba, Alfredo Mayo. Elías Querejeta Producciones, 1966. Una chica de Chicago. Dir. Manuel Mur Oti. Perf. Ana Bertha Lepe, Javier Armet, Rafael Durán. Planeta Films, 1960. Un chien andalou. [An Andalusian Dog]. Dir. Luis Buñuel. Perf.Pierre Batcheff, Simone Mareuil. Luis Buñuel, 1929. Cielo negro [Black Sky]. Dir. Manuel Mur Oti. Perf. Susana Canales, Fernando Rey, Luis Prendes. Intercontinental Films, 1951. La ciudad no es para mí [The City Is Not For Me]. Dir. Pedro Lazaga. Perf. Francisco Martínez Soria, Doris Coll, Eduardo Fajardo. Pedro Masó Producciones Cinematográficas, 1966. Los claros motivos del deseo [The Clear Motives of Desire]. Dir. Miguel Picazo. Perf. Cristina Ramón, Emilio Siegrist, Paricia Adriani. José Frade producciones Cinematográficas. S.A., 1977. Condenados. [The Condemned Ones]. Dir. Manuel Mur Oti. Perf. Aurora Bautista, Carlos Lemos, José Suárez. Cifesa, 1953. El corazón del bosque. Dir. Manuel Gutiérrez Aragón. Perf. Norma Briski, Ángela Molina, Luis Politti. Arandano S.A., 1979. Cría cuervos [Cria]. Dir. Carlos Saura. Perf. Ana Torrent, Monica Randall, Geraldine Chaplin. Elías Querejeta Producciones, 1976. Del rosa al amarillo [From Pink to Yellow]. Dir. Manuel Summers. Perf. Cristina Galbó, Pedro Díez del Corral, Lina Onesti. Eco Films, Impala, 1963. Deprisa, deprisa [Fast, Fast]. Dir. Carlos Saura. Perf. Berta Socuéllamos, José Antonio Valdelomar, Jesús Arias. Elías Querejeta, Les Films Molière, 1981. De tu ventana a la mía [Chrysalis]. Dir. Paula Ortiz. Perf. Maribel Verdú, Leticia Dolera, Luisa Gavassa. Amapola Films, Oria Films, 2011. El día de la bestia. [The Day of the Beast] Dir. Alex de la Iglesia. Perf. Alex Angulo, Santiago Segura, Armando de Razza. Iberoamericana, Sogetel, Canal+ España, 1995.

  WORKS CITED 

199

Los días del pasado. [The Days of the Past]. Dir. Mario Camús. Perf. Marisol, Antonio Gades, Manuel Alexandre. Impala, 1977. Dolor y gloria. [Pain and Glory] Dir. Pedro Almodóvar. Perf. Antonio Banderas, Asier Etxeandia, Penélope Cruz. El Deseo, 2019. Duelo en la cañada. Dir. Manuel Mur Oti. Perf. María Esquivel, Javier Armet, Mara Cruz. Planeta Films, 1959. La encadenada. (Perversione) [A Diary of a Murderess]. Dir. Manuel Mur Oti. Perf. Marissa Mell, Richard Conte, Anthony Steffen. Emaus Films S.A / Matheus Film, 1975. Entre dos aguas [Between Two Waters]. Dir. Isaki Lacuesta. Perf. Israel Gómez Romero, Francisco José Gómez Romero, Rocío Randón. La Termita Films, BTeam Pictures, All Go Movies, Mallerich Films Paco Poch, Bord Cadre Films, Studio Indie Productions, 2018. El escuadrón del pánico. Dir. Manuel Mur Oti. Perf. Leo Anchóriz, José Manuel Bonilla, Ulises Brenes. CaribbeanFilms/Trefilms, 1969. El espirítu de la colmena [The Spirit of the Beehave]. Dir. Víctor Erice. Perf. Fernando Fernán Gómez, Teresa Gimpera, Ana Torrent. Elías Querejeta Producciones Cinematográficas S.L., 1973. Estiu 1993 [Summer 1993]. Dir. Carla Simón. Perf. Laia Artigas, Bruna Cusí, David Verdaguer. Inicia Films, Avalon P.C., 2017. Extramuros [Extramural]. Dir. Miguel Picazo. Perf. Carmen Maura, Mercedes Sampietro, Aurora Bautista. Blau Films. 1985. Fedra. [Fedra, the Devil’s Daughter] Dir. Manuel Mur Oti. Perf. Emma Penella, Enrique Diosdado, Vicente Parra. Suevia Films, 1956. Frankenstein. Dir. James Whale. Perf. Colin Clive, Mae Clarke, Boris Karloff. Universal Pictures, 1931. Furtivos [Poachers]. Dir. José Luis Borau. Perf. Lola Gaos, Ovidi Montllor, Alicia Sánchez. El Imán, 1975. Gone with the Wind. Dir. Victor Fleming. Perf. Clark Gable, Vivien Leigh, Leslie Howard, Olivia De Havilland. David O. Selznick, 1939. El guardián del paraíso. Dir. Arturo Ruiz Castillo. Perf. Ángel Aranda, Manuel Arbó, Luis Barbán. Roncesvalles P.C., Suevia Films—Cesáreo González, 1954. La guerra empieza en Cuba. [The War Starts in Cuba] Dir. Manuel Mur Oti. Perf. Emma Penella, Gustavo Rojo, Jesús Tordesillas. Planeta Films/ Suavia Films/ Ízaro Films, 1957. Hable con ella. [Talk to her] Dir. Pedro Almodóvar. Perf. Javier Cámara, Leonor Watling, Dario Grandinetti. El Deseo, 2002. La hermana San Sulpicio. [Sister San Sulpicio]. Dir. Florián Rey. Perf. María Anaya, Florencia Bécquer, Imperio Argentina. Perseo Films S.A. 1927. La hija de Juan Simón [The Daughter of Juan Simón]. Dir. José Luis Saenz de Heredia. Perf. Angelillo, Pilar Muñoz. Filmófono, 1935.

200 

WORKS CITED

La hija de Juan Simón [The Daughter of Juan Simón]. Dir. Gonzalo Delgrás. Perf. Antonio Molina, María Cuadrado, Mario Birriatúa. Sevilla Films, 1957. El hombre que supo amar [The Man Who Knew How To Love]. Dir. Miguel Picazo. Perf. Timothy Dalton, Antonio Ferrandis, Jonathan Burn. General Films Corporation S.A., 1978. Un hombre va por el camino [A Man on the Road]. Dir. Manuel Mur Oti. Perf. Ana Mariscal, Fernando Nogueras, Francisco Arenzana. Sagitario Films, 1949. Höstsonaten [Autumn Sonata]. Dir. Ingmar Bergman. Perf. Ingrid Bergman, Liv Ullman Lena Nyman. Personafilm GmbH Munich, 1978. Imitation of Life. Dir. Douglas Sirk. Perf. Lana Turner, John Gavin, Susan Kohner. Universal Pictures, 1959. Las inquietudes de Shanti Andía. Dir. Arturo Ruiz Castillo. Perf. Jorge Mistral, Josita Hernán, Manuel Luna. Horizonte Films, 1947. Julieta. Dir. Pedro Almodóvar. Perf. Emma Suárez, Adriana Ugarte, Darío Grandinetti. El Deseo, 2016. Knock on Any Door. Dir. Nicholas Ray. Perf. Humphrey Bogart, John Derek, George Macready. Santana Productions. 1949. Lágrimas negras. [Black Tears] Dir. Ricardo Franco and Fernando Bauluz. Perf. Ariadna Gil, Fele Martínez, Elena Anaya. Sogetel, 1999. La laguna negra. [The Black Lagoon]. Dir. Arturo Ruiz Castillo. Perf. Maruchi Fresno, Tomás Blanco. Fernando Rey. Suevia Films. Cesáreo González, 1952. Las largas vacaciones del 36. [Long Vacations of 36]. Dir. Jaime Camino. Perf. José Sacristán, Concha Velasco, Francisco Rabal. José Frade P.C., 1976. Loca juventud. Dir. Manuel Mur Oti. Perf. Joselito, Luis Prendes, Marisa Merlini. Cesario González PC/ Royal Film, 1964. Locura de amor [Mad Love]. Dir. Juan de Orduña. Perf. Aurora Bautista, Fernando Rey, Sara Montiel. Cifesa, 1948. Madres paralelas [Paralell Mothers]. Dir. Pedro Almodóvar. Perf. Penélope Cruz, Milena Smit, Aitana Sánchez Gijón. El Deseo, 2021. Maixabel. Dir. Icíar Bollaín. Perf. Blanca Portillo, Luis Tosar, Urko Olazabal. Kowalski Films, Feel good Media, ETB, Movistar Plus+, RTVE, 2021. Magnolia. Dir. Paul Thomas Anderson. Perf. Tom Cruise, Julianne More, William H.  Macy. New Line Cinema, Ghoulardi Film Company, The Magnolia Project, 1999. Mamá cumple 100 años [Mama turns 100]. Dir. Carlos Saura. Perf. Amparo Muñoz, Fernando Fernán Gómez, Geraldine Chaplin. Elías Querejeta Producciones, 1979. La manigua sin Dios. Dir. Arturo Ruiz Castillo. Perf. Manuel Aguilera, Francisco Alonso, Joaquín Burgos. Taurus Films, 1948. Marcelino pan y vino [The Miracle of Marcelino]. Dir. Ladislao Vajda. Perf. Pablito Calvo, Rafael Rivelles, Antonio Vico. Chamartin, 1955.

  WORKS CITED 

201

María Antonia “La caramba”. Dir. Arturo Ruiz Castillo. Perf. Fernando Aguirre, Rafael Albaicín, Mario Berriatúa. Hércules Film, 1950. Mientras dure la guerra [While at War]. Dir. Alejandro Amenábar. Perf. Karra Elejalde, Eduard Fernández, Santi Prego. Mod Producciones, Movistar Plus+, Himenóptero, K&S Films. Distribuidora: Buena Vista International, 2019. Milagro a los cobardes. Dir. Manuel Mur Oti. Perf. Ruth Roman, Javier Escrivá, Leo Anchóriz. Trefilms, 1962. Mildred Pierce. Dir. Michael Curtiz. Perf. Joan Crawford, Jack Carson, Ann Blyth. Warner Bros, 1945. Modern Times. Dir. Charles Chaplin. Perf. Charles Chaplin, Paulette Goddard, Henry Bergman. United Artist, 1936. Un monstruo viene a verme [A Monster Calls]. Dir. Juan Antonio Bayona. Perf. Lewis MacDougall, Sigourney Weaver, Felicity Jones. Apaches Entertainment, Telecinco Cinema, Participant Media, River Road Entertainment, Películas La Trini, 2016. Morir... dormir... tal vez soñar. Dir. Manuel Mur Oti. Perf. Pedro Díez Corral, Niree Dawn Portes, Jane Seymour. Celta Films S. A., 1976. Muerte de un ciclista [Death of a Cyclist]. Dir. Juan Antonio Bardem. Perf. Alberto Closas, Lucía Bosé, José Sepulveda. Trionfalcine / Guión Producciones Cinematográficas, 1955. Mujeres al borde de un ataque de nervios. [Women On the Edge of a Nervous Breakdown] Dir. Pedro Almodóvar. Perf. Carmen Maura, Antonio Banderas, Julieta Serrano. El Deseo, LaurenFilm S.A, 1988. Nanas de espinas [Prickly Lullabies]. Dir. Pilar Távora. Perf. Manuel Alcántara, Francisco Carrillo, Rafael Hernández. Video Gestión, 1984. Navajeros [The Brawlers]. Dir. Eloy de la Iglesia. Perf. José Luis Manzano, Isela Vega, Verónica Castro. Acuarius Films, Figaró Films, Producciones Fenix, 1980. La niña de tus ojos [The Girl of Your Dreams]. Dir. Fernando Trueba. Perf. Penélope Cruz, Antonio Resines, Jorge Sanz. Creativos Asociados de Radio y Televisión (CARTEL), Fernando Trueba Producciones Cinematográficas, Lola Films. 1998. Las niñas [Schoolgirls]. Dir. Pilar Palomero. Perf. Andrea Fandós, Natalia de Molina, Zoe Arnao. Inicia Films, BTeam Pictures, RTVE, Movistar Plus+, Aragón TV, 2020. La novia. [The Bride]. Dir. Paula Ortiz. Perf. Inma Cuesta, Alex García, Axier Etxeandia, María Gavasa. Get in The Picture Productions, Cine Chromatix, 2015. Obsesión. Dir. Arturo Ruiz Castillo. Perf. Alfredo Mayo, Mari Paz Molinero, Alicia Romay. Horizonte Films, 1947. Orgullo. [Pride] Dir. Manuel Mur Oti. Perf. Marissa Prado, Alberto Ruschel, Enrique Diosdado. Celta Films S. A., 1955. Oscuros sueños de agosto. [Dark Dreams of August] Dir. Miguel Picazo. Perf. Viveca Lindfors, Sonia Bruno, Francisco Rabal. Cesareo González. Suevia Films. 1968.

202 

WORKS CITED

Pascual Duarte. Dir. Ricardo Franco. Perf. José Luis Gómez, Paca Ojea, Hector Alterio. Elías Querejeta, 1976. Pequeñeces. [Trifles] Dir. Juan de Orduña. Perf. Aurora Bautista, Jorge Mistral, Lina Yegros. CIFESA, 1950. Perros callejeros. [Street Warriors] Dir. José Antonio de la Loma. Perf. Ángel Fernández Franco, Frank Braña, Xabier Elorriaga. Films Zodíaco, Profilmes, 1977. Pescando millones. Dir. Manuel Mur Oti. Perf. Tomás Blanco, Manolo Codeso, Katia Loritz. Trefilms, 1959. La piel que habito. [The Skin I Live in]. Dir. Pedro Almodóvar. Perf. Antonio Banderas, Elena Anaya, Marisa Paredes. El Deseo, 2011. La prima Angélica [Cousin Angelica]. Dir. Carlos Saura. Perf. José Luis López Vázquez, Lina Canalejas, Fernando Delgado. Elías Querejeta Producciones, 1973. Que Dios nos perdone [May God Save Us]. Dir. Rodrigo Sorogoyen. Perf. Antonio de la Torre, Roberto Álamo, Javier Pereira. Tornasol Films, Atresmedia Cine, Mistery Producciones AIE, Hernández y Fernández P.C., 2016. Raging Bull. Dir. Martin Scorsese. Perf. Robert de Niro, Joe Pesci, Cathy Moriarty. United Artist, 1980. Raza. Dir. José Luis Sáenz de Heredia. Perf. Alfredo Mayo, Ana Mariscal, José Nieto. Cancillería del Consejo de la Hispanidad, 1941. Rojo y negro. Dir. Carlos Arévalo. Perf. Conchita Montenegro, Ismael Merlo, Quique Camoiras, Luisita España. CEPICSA, 1942. El santuario no se rinde. Dir. Arturo Ruiz Castillo. Perf. Alfredo Mayo, Beatriz de Añara, Tomás Blanco. Centro Films, Terramar Films, Valencia Films, 1949. El secreto del capitán O’Hara. [Secret of Captain O’Hara] Dir. Arturo Ruiz Castillo. Perf. Germán Cobos, Marta Padovan, Mariano Vidal Molina. Lacy International Films. 1966. Sin novedad en el Alcázar. [The Siege of the Alcazar]. Dir. Augusto Genina. Perf. Fosco Giachetti, Mireille Balin, Maria Denis. Co-production Italy-Spain; Film Bassoli, 1940. Stella Dallas. Dir. King Vidor. Perf. Barbara Stanwyck, John Boles, Anne Shirley. Personafilm GmbH Munich, 1978. Surcos [Furrows]. Dir. José Antonio Nieves Conde. Perf. Luis Peña, María Asquerino, Francisco Arenzana. Atenea Films, 1951. Tacones lejanos. [High Heels]. Dir. Pedro Almodóvar. Perf. Marisa Pareces, Victoria Abril, Miguel Bosé. El Deseo, 1991. Tarde de furia. [The Fury of a Patient Man] Dir. Raúl Arévalo. Perf. Antonio de la Torre, Luis Callejo, Ruth Díaz. La Canica Films, RTVE, 2016. Taxi Driver. Dir. Martin Scorsese. Perf. Robert de Niro, Cybill Shepherd, Jodie Foster. Columbia Pictures, 1976.

  WORKS CITED 

203

La tía Tula [Aunt Tula]. Dir. Miguel Picazo. Perf. Aurora Bautista, Carlos Estrada, Enriqueta Carballeira. Eco Films S.A. Surco Films S.A., 1964. Todo sobre mi madre [All About My Mother]. Dir. Pedro Almodóvar. Perf. Cecilia Roth, Marisa Paredes, Penélope Cruz. El Deseo, Renn Productions, France 2 Cinema, 1999. La trinchera infinita [The Endless Trench]. Dir. Jon Garaño, Aitor Aguerri, José Mari Goenaga. Perf. Antonio de la Torre, Belén Cuesta, Vicente Vergara. La Claqueta PC, Manny Films, Irusoin, Moriarti Produkzioak, 2019. Vente a Alemania Pepe. Dir. Pedro Lazaga. Perf. Alfredo Landa, Tina Sáinz, José Sacristán. Aspa Producciones Cinematográficas, Filmayer, 1971. Vertigo. Dir. Alfred Hitchcok. Perf. James Stewart, Kim Novak, Barbara Bel Geddes. Paramount, 1958. Yo, el vaquilla [Me, the “Vaquilla”]. Dir. José Antonio de la Loma and José Antonio de la Loma Jr. Perf. Raúl García Losada, Teresa Giménez, Carmen de Lirio. Golden Sun, Jet Films, InCine S.A., 1985. Young Sánchez. Dir. Mario Camus. Perf. Julián Mateos, Luis Romero, Carlos Otero. I.F.I. España, Ignacio Ferrés Iquino (IFISA), 1964.

Index1

A Abrazos Rotos (Pedro Almodóvar, 2009), 168 Acquired immunodeficiency syndrome (AIDS), 120, 142, 183 Actors, amateur, 120, 120n7 Adú (Salvador Calvo, 2020), 183 Aeschylus, 2, 60, 111, 155, 157 AIDS, see Acquired immunodeficiency syndrome Alba, Irene Caba, 52 La aldea maldita (Florian Rey, 1930), 3, 6, 10, 12, 14n2, 15–29, 81, 152, 159, 163, 171, 178, 183 blindness in, 21–22 and Catholicism, 16, 26, 28 circular structure of, 11, 27 and fallen woman, 13, 15 female protagonist, 172 female protoganist, 7 and meaningless world, 10

and modernity, 15 prostitution in, 22–23 and sexuality, 8 shame in, 23–24 and suffering, 9 synopsis, 15–16 and tragic mode, 29 tragic motifs in, 15 as trope for Spain, 19 women, portrayal of, 16–17 Alfeo, Juan Carlos, 123 Alfonsa, María, 153 Almodóvar, Pedro, 137n36, 147, 165 every detail of films chosen carefully by, 170 filmography, 165n39 on mother-daughter relations, 177 See also Julieta (Pedro Almodóvar, 2016) Álvarez, Carlos, 150 Álvarez Sellers, María Rosa, 176

 Note: Page numbers followed by ‘n’ refer to notes.

1

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 L. M. González, Modes of the Tragic in Spanish Cinema, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-19325-5

205

206 

INDEX

American cinema, 184 See also Hollywood Anderson, Amanda, 27n30 Anderson, Michael J., 37, 52n13, 62 Anderson, Paul Thomas, 167 Angelillo, 30n33 Argentina, Imperio, 15n5 Arias, Jesús, 120 Aristotle, 3, 45 Arredondo, Javier García, 148 Atocha train station, 37 massacre, 108–110, 112 trial after massacre, 110–112 B Ballesteros, Isolina, 63 Bardem, Juan Antonio, 100, 108n60 filmography, 100n39 See also 7 días de enero (Juan Antonio Bardem, 1979) Basque group (ETA), 106, 182 Battezzato, Luigi, 161 Bautista, Aurora, 63, 67n42, 83 Beethoven, Ludwig van, 64, 68 Belsey, Catherine, 49, 70n52 Benjamin, Walter, 5, 101, 112 on suffering, 8n23 Berenguer, Ángel, 133, 143 Bergman, Ingmar, 177n67, 177n68 Berriatúa, Mario, 31 Blanco, Tomás, 48, 50 Blindness, 21–22 Body cult of, 128 horror of bodily suffering, 144n46 rape attempted in La tía Tula, 92–93 rape committed in La tía Tula, 96–97 as seat of temptation, 69 as site of resistance, 84, 92, 94

The Bookshop (Isabel Coixet, 2017), 183 Bourdieu, Pierre, 20n16, 64, 68, 69, 74n64, 75, 77n69, 93 Bronfen, Elizabeth, 49 Brooks, Peter, 18, 56n22, 104 Brown, Sarah Annes, 5, 100n38 La buena estrella (Ricardo Franco, 1997), 3, 6, 7, 10, 12, 132–145, 172 family definition challenged, 139, 140 love triangle begins, 138 music in, 144 right to die, 142, 144 on suffering, 8, 145 synopsis, 132–133 theoretical approach to, 133 tragic hero defeated in, 141, 144 two versions of Spain in, 136–137 Buñuel, Luis, 30, 154, 155 Buse, Peter, 53, 155, 162 Bushnell, Rebecca, 176 C Cahill, Ann, 84, 92n22, 94 Cairns, Douglas, 19n11, 111, 126 Calderón de la Barca, Pedro, 2, 6, 20n15, 75, 180 Campoamor, Clara, 148 Capitalism, 10, 53, 57, 122, 128, 137 and Spain, 54n19 Carballeira, Enriqueta, 83, 103 Carmen y Lola (Arantxa Echevarría, 2018), 183, 184 Carpe diem, 128 Carrión, José Pedro, 103 Casanova, Julián, 125 Cascetta, Annamaria, 2n2 Castile (Spain), 12, 16, 16n6, 20, 48, 49n5, 55, 63, 64, 70, 77, 150

 INDEX 

Catholicism, 8, 12 and La aldea maldita, 16, 26, 28 church in Spain, 17 and Civil War, 99 and Condenados, 65, 68 cross, 16, 21, 27, 31, 45, 46, 54, 55 and fascism, 69 and forgiveness, 26 and Franco, 40, 47 and gender roles, 85 and guilt, 56 and La hija de Juan Simón, 33 and homosexuality, 179 in La laguna negra, 54 omnipresence of, 143 oppressive atmosphere, 183 and patriarchy, 32 and prostitution, 91 and rural Spain, 19, 33 and sexuality, 69–70 and Spain, 14n2, 21, 65 in La tia Tula, 86–87 and women, 8, 86–87 La Celestina (Fernando de Rojas, 1499), 39 Censorship, 83, 87 Cerrá, José Fernández, 109n61, 111n66 Cervantes Saavedra, Miguel de Don Quixote, 132 Chabas, Juan, 149 Chaplin, Charles Modern Times (1931), 133 Chekhov, Anton, 2 Childhood trauma, 183 Los Chunguitos (musical group), 119, 121 Cinema, see Film Cirlot, Juan Eduardo, 50, 74n62, 95n31, 130n26, 153n10, 159 City life, 6, 13, 16, 17, 19–22, 35, 118, 152

207

attraction to, 34 dangers of, 22 and Franco, 48 migration from rural Spain, 32, 37, 60, 79 and patriarchy, 35 unfulfilled promises of, 122 in urban outskirts, 91, 120–122, 134 La ciudad no es para mí (Pedro Lazaga, 1966), 32 Civil War (1936–1939), 4, 12, 47, 65, 85 and family conflict, 58 and Spanish cinema, 99–100 victims denied proper burial, 49, 58, 114 and violence, 184 Class, 127–128 Climate crisis, 185 Clothing, 23n22 Cohen, Joel, 184 Cohen, Leonard, 163 Collective memory, 124–125 Communism, see Spanish Communist Party Condenados (Manuel Mur Oti, 1953), 3, 8, 10, 12, 20, 62–79, 170–172 Catholicism in, 68 circular structure of, 11 female protagonist, 63 jealousy and violence in, 73–74 love triangle in, 71, 77 music in, 64, 68 and La novia, 149 repression of desire in, 70 sexual symbolism, 74 synopsis, 63 theoretical approach to, 63–64 windmill scene, erotic connotations, 65–66, 69

208 

INDEX

Consumerism, 127–128 Corneille, Pierre, 2 Critchley, Simon, 2n2, 4n8, 20, 32n35, 100n38, 106n52, 166 on characters caught up in cycles of revenge, 157 on ghosts in tragedy, 155n15 on gods, 16 on law and tragedy, 111 on Oedipus as monster, 26 time is out of joint in tragedy, 53 on tragedy as polyphony and antiphony, 5 tragedy reveals a world only partially intelligible, 10 Cuadrado, María, 29, 31 Cuesta, Inma, 148, 150, 165 D Dalí, Salvador, 154, 155 Davis, Fred, 23n22 Death, 161, 163, 164, 174, 178, 184 aestheticized in La hija de Juan Simón, 30, 43, 143 Atocha train station massacre, 108–110, 112 in La buena estrella, 136 Carla's death in La hija de Juan Simón, 41–45 cemetery scene in La hija de Juan Simón, 44–45 cemetery scene in La tía Tula, 88–89 and desire, 39, 164 and fate, 133, 143 funeral processions and tragedy, 45 ghosts in La laguna negra, 49, 50 influence of the dead, 158 in Julieta, 169, 170, 176, 179 labor lawyers' burial, 113–114 and landscape, 157

as liberation, 145 living death, 142 murder of family member, 50–51 parricide, 26, 49, 52, 58n23, 61, 62, 118 right to die, 142, 144 and tragedy, 77, 133 and tragic hero, 45, 133, 143 Delgado, María, 170 Delgrás, Gonzalo, 29 Democracy, 11, 12 democratization of Spain, 81, 99n37, 100–101, 112, 114, 115, 117, 125–126 "quinqui" cinema shows other side of story, 120 violence of democratization, 101, 102 De Niro, Robert, 124 Deprisa, deprisa (Carlos Saura, 1981), 3, 6, 7, 10, 12, 117–131, 171, 172, 178 amateur actors in, 120, 120n7 collective memory in, 124–125 death haunts characters in, 130 female protagonist, 123 festive scene, 129 marginal characters in, 121–122 music in, 121, 124, 129 as "quinqui" cinema, 119–120, 123, 124, 128 rejection of bourgeois values, 127–130 and suffering, 8 synopsis, 120 theoretical approach to, 120–121 Derrida, Jacques, 26, 41n52, 101 Desire, 19, 162, 164 body as seat of temptation, 69 and death, 39, 164 inability to control, 140 and modernity, 70n52

 INDEX 

and pride, 160–161 repression of, 66, 68–70, 86, 86n8 torn by, 152 unfulfilled, as motif of tragic art, 152 and violence, 73 See also Sexuality Despair, 14, 18–20, 36, 64, 75, 149, 159, 166, 178 Destiny, see Fate Di Febo, Giuliana, 34n37, 91 Dirtiness, 24–25, 24n26, 40 D’Lugo, Marvin, 121, 123, 127, 169n48 Doane, Mary Ann, 59, 61 Dollimore, Jonathan, 39, 43, 43n55, 164 Douglas, Mary, 24n26 Drakakis, John, 34, 36n42, 56n22 Dream, 153 E Eagleton, Terry, 30, 41n52, 101, 112, 114, 123n11, 126n19 on fate, 9 on tragedy and modernity, 6 on tragic characters as vanguard of society, 5 Ebbot, Mary, 122n9 Economics difficult situation, social unrest, 117 fate predetermined by, 118, 122, 131, 145, 160, 184 gender inequality, 87 inequality, 137, 185 and marriage, 158, 160 Spain's shift away from autarky, 54n19, 57, 66n41 Spanish economic modernization, 79, 83n4, 117, 131, 134n32

209

traditional fascist economics in Condenados, 66 Egea, Manuel Ángel, 102 Eisenhower, Dwight D., 36 Elsaesser, Tomas, 44n61 Empedocles, 99 Encinas, Silvia, 173 Entre dos aguas (Isaki Lacuesta, 2018), 184 Escudero, José Luis García, 82 España, Rafael de, 93 Estal, Tomás del, 165 Estiu 1993 (Carla Simón, 2017), 183 ETA (Basque group), 106, 182 Etxeandia, Asier, 148, 152 Euripides, 2, 101 Europeanization, 117, 131, 134n32 F Family, 20, 152 and adoption, 138 and Catholicism, 87 conflict, and Civil War, 58 conflict in La laguna negra, 57–58 at the expense of individuals, 98 family definition challenged in La buena estrella, 139, 140 and fascism, 69n48 and freedom, 39 and murder as motif of tragic art, 50 Oedipal relations in La novia, 157 and patriarchy, 68 rejection from, in La novia, 163 rival families in La novia, 155–157 and sexuality, 37–38 and Spain, 176 and tragedy, 51–52, 158 woman's freedom undermines, 21, 24

210 

INDEX

Fascism, 43n56, 115 and Catholicism, 69 defascistization, 14n2 and family, 69n48 fascist art, 30 and film, 99 and Franco, 83n4 and gender roles, 59, 64, 94 and misogyny, 72 and modernity, 47n1 and rural Spain, 47–48 and second version of La aldea maldita, 15 and sexuality, 70n53, 71 and tragic mode, 12 unmasked by 7 días de enero, 104 and violence, 101, 105–106, 111 and women, 74 See also Franco, Francisco Fate, 61, 73, 76, 155, 163, 164 in La aldea maldita, 16 amor fati, 123n11 in La buena estrella, 132, 133 and culture of pleasure, 128 deadly family fate in La novia, 157 and death, 133, 143 economics predetermine, 118, 120–122, 131, 145, 160, 184 and freedom, 9, 20, 121 haunted by ancestors, 110 tragedy unravels distinction between agency and, 134 and women, 159 Faulkner, Sally, 86, 88, 93, 96 Faulkner, William, 166n41 Feal, Carlos, 152 Felski, Rita, 3, 166 Feminism, 72, 84, 94n28, 147, 148 and tragedy, 49 Femme fatale, 59, 61 Fernández, Ana, 150 Ferrero, Jesús, 176

Fetish, 66, 74, 153 Film and fascism, 99 femme fatale, 59, 61 and Franco, 32, 82 New Spanish Film, 82–83 political cinema, 104 as popular art, 2, 185 and reality, 31 shifting meaning of, 14 and tragedy, 3, 11 See also Spanish cinema Flugel, John Carl, 23n22 Foley, Helen P., 7, 162 Forgiveness, 25, 26, 28, 36, 40, 45 Forman, Edward, 9 Foucault, Michel, 22, 37, 70, 84, 92, 98 Fowler, Alistair, 1n1 Fragility, 185 Franco, Francisco, 30–32, 66, 66n41, 83 Atocha massacre and democratization, 112 and Catholicism, 8, 32, 40, 47 and church, 17 and city life, 48 consolidation of dictatorship, 63 death of, 81, 100, 103, 117, 128 and defascistization, 14n2 and fascism, 47–48, 83n4 and film, 32, 48–49, 82 and gender roles, 33, 91 main concerns of, 103 and male sexual violence against women, 105 and migration to city, 32 and modernity, 41 and Nazism, 15n5, 108n59 opposition to, 33n36, 112, 122, 125 and patriarchy, 8, 32, 44, 47, 76

 INDEX 

political forces behind, 102 and rural Spain, 12, 35, 95, 165 sex prohibited out of wedlock under, 40–41 shift away from autarky, 54n19, 57 and Spain, 11 and Spanish cinema, 99–100 and United States, 36 victims of, denied proper burial, 49, 114 and violence, 105, 184 and women, 7, 8, 10, 33–34, 37, 40–41, 43–44, 58, 67–68, 85, 87, 87n9 See also Fascism Franco, Ricardo, 132 filmography, 132n27 See also La buena estrella (Ricardo Franco, 1997) Francois, Jacques, 103 FRAP (political group), 106 Freedom, 74, 122 constrained, 126 and democracy, 126 desire for, 34, 83n4, 103 and family, 39 and fate, 9, 20, 121, 123n11 feeling trapped and free, 171–172 "freedom without anger," 116 illusion of, 122 limits of, 133 and modernity, 33 none of the characters in this book are free, 9 tragic denial of, 159 vs resistance, 94–95 and woman, undermines family, 21 Fresno, Maruchi, 48, 52 Freud, Sigmund, 8n24 on dirtiness, 24n26, 40 on guilt, 51 on parricide, 49 Totem and Taboo, 51

211

Fukuyama, Francis The End of History and the Last Man, 184 G Gancebo, Eva, 132 Garcí, Alex, 148 García de Cortázar, Fernando, 83n4 García Lorca, Federico, 2, 48n2, 71, 99, 151, 153, 154, 158–161, 163 Bodas de sangre, 12, 147–150, 148n2, 152 and female sexual frustration, 152 La casa de Bernarda Alba, 39, 107 García, Álex, 152 Gavasa, Luisa, 148, 150 Gender/gender roles, 19, 25, 33 and Catholicism, 85 and desire for freedom, 34 and fascism, 64, 94 female stereotype, and resistance to, 123–124 feminine fragility as counterpart to masculine virility, 91 and Franco, 33, 91 gender inequality in La tía Tula, 87 historical transformation of expectations on, 149 in La laguna negra, 58–60 male privilege as trap, 39 manliness, 59 masculine domination, 68–69, 74 and patriarchy, 76 refusal to marry, 88, 91, 92, 94 and resistance, 99 rise in importance of, 147 and Romani, 183 and tragedy, 60n26 and tragic mode, 49 what makes a man, 140 and women, 59, 74, 90 See also Masculinity; Sexuality; Women

212 

INDEX

Ghosts ghost stories, 53 haunted by ancestors, 110 in La laguna negra, 49, 50, 53, 62 living death, 142 in La novia, 149, 153–155, 161–164 and past, 162 as return of trauma, 179n74 in La tía Tula, 86 and tragedy, 53, 62, 154–155 and tragic art, 155 trauma and ghosts from the past, 125 Girard, René, 7, 43, 49, 58n23, 96, 96n32, 101, 110, 164 Glass, 154, 161 God, 16–18, 45, 49, 59, 66, 68, 70, 99, 142, 159 absence of, 126, 143 gods, 20, 50, 119, 142, 143, 159, 164, 172 gods are names for powers not under our control, 16 "hand of God," 134 hostility towards, 143 Gone with the Wind, 59 González, Beatriz, 123 González Pacheco, Antonio, 102n43 González Vesga, José Manuel, 83n4 Goya, Francisco de, 112 Granada, José María, 30 Grandinetti, Dario, 166 Grao, Daniel, 165 GRAPO (political group), 100, 102, 103n44, 106 Greek tragedy, 11, 16n7, 18, 34, 37, 50, 61, 73, 142, 143, 159, 164, 170 chorus from, 56 father and son in, 58n23 and historical transition, 4n8, 81

key acts take place off stage/ screen, 170 tragic mode began in, 2, 3, 150 and women, 67 Greer, Margaret R., 20n15 Griffith, D. W., 61 Griffith, Mark, 34, 58n23 Grossman, Edith, 132 Guilt, 8, 10, 15, 28, 29, 40, 46, 51, 53, 57, 61, 110, 135, 136, 171, 177, 182 function of, 51 in Julieta, 166, 169, 170, 175–176, 178 and modern tragedy, 36–37, 72, 170 for murdering family member, 51, 56 replaces fate in modern tragedy, 56n22 spread of, 178 and tragic hero/heroine, 8n24, 166 vs shame, 23 and women, 170 Gutiérrez-Albilla, Julián Daniel Aesthetics, Ethics and Trauma in the Cinema of Pedro Almodóvar, 167 H Hall, Edith, 7, 8n24, 19n11, 56, 64, 153, 154 Halleran, Michael R., 19n11, 126 Hammond, Paul, 10, 166, 175, 176, 178 Happiness, 136, 139 Harris, Grace, 107, 163 Harrison, Robert Pogue, 50, 55n20, 87n11, 110, 150, 158 Hay, Simon, 53, 179n74 Heilman, Robert B., 19n13, 138, 158

 INDEX 

Helplessness, 172 Hero/heroine, see Tragic hero/heroine Heterotopia, 22, 37 Higginbotham, Virginia, 94, 96 La hija de Juan Simón (Gonzalo Delgrás, 1957), 3, 6, 10, 12, 14n2, 29–46, 81, 152, 159, 163, 171, 178, 183 aestheticized death in, 30, 43, 143 Carmela's death, 41–45 Catholicism in, 33 cemetery scene, 44–45 circular structure of, 11, 31 and fallen woman, 13 female protagonist, 7, 172 and meaningless world, 10 modernity vs tradition in, 30–33 music in, 31 as postmodern text, 31 prison scene, 38–39 and sexuality, 8 song, 29, 31, 45 and suffering, 9 synopsis, 30 theoretical approach to, 30–31 two versions of, 30, 30n33 History, see Past Hitchcock, Alfred, 165, 169n48, 171 influence on Julieta, 169 Hollander, Anne, 23n22 Hollywood, 38, 121, 124, 177n67 Homosexuality, 179 Honor, 20, 20n14, 20n16, 39, 46, 163 and modernity, 61 replaced in modernity, 74 and sexual transgression, 139 and women, 24–25, 158 Hoxby, Blair, 9, 123n11 Hubris, 18, 126, 136, 142, 161 Hunt, Mai, 173 Hynes, Laura, 94n28

213

I Ibsen, Henrik, 2, 34, 99 Ideology, 14 Iglesia, Alex de la, 137n36 J January of 1977, 100–101 Jealousy, 67, 72, 75, 77, 152 and sexuality, 71 and tragic mode, 76 and violence, 73–74, 78 Jenner, Michelle, 166 Johnson, Erica L., 23, 179 Jones, Julie, 120n7 Juan Carlos I, King of Spain, 101 Juliá, Carlos García, 109n61, 111n66 Juliá, Santos, 34n37, 91 Julieta (Pedro Almodóvar, 2016), 3, 6, 10, 12, 147, 159, 164–180 circular structure of, 11, 173, 180 feeling trapped and free, 171–172 female protagonist, 7, 147–148, 178 guilt in, 166, 169, 170, 175–176, 178 Hitchcock's influence on, 169 imagery of river and sea in, 171 intention of, 170 key acts take place off stage/ screen, 170 mad woman in, 167 mother and daughter separate, 175 mother-daughter relation, 176–177 the past isn't past, 166–169, 173, 178 shift of young and adult in, 175 and suffering, 8 synopsis, 165–166 theoretical approach to, 166 three tragic events haunt, 169–170 Justice, 102, 114, 115, 124, 182 administration of, 111–112 and masculinity, 140

214 

INDEX

K Kaplan, Alice, 47n1 Kaufmann, Walter, 8n23, 21 Kempis, Tomás, 89 Kent, Victoria, 148 Kercher, Dona, 169n48 Kierkegaard, Soren, 36n42, 56n22 Kinder, Marsha, 107, 163 Kingler, Barbara, 14, 44n61 Knock on any door (Nicholas Ray, 1949), 119n3 Krips, Henry, 66, 153 Kuhn, Thomas, 20 L Lado, José María, 48, 50 La laguna negra (Arturo Ruiz-­ Castillo, 1952), 3, 6, 8, 10, 12, 48–62, 170–172, 178 circular structure of, 11, 61–62 family conflict, 57–58 father's death, 55 gender roles, 58–60 ghosts in, 49, 50, 53, 62 “law of the father,” 51, 61, 62 money in, 57 mother missing from, 52 murder of family member in, 50–51 music in, 53 ruins in, 54–55 synopsis, 48 theoretical approach to, 49 Laroux, Nicole, 49 Larrañaga, Pedro, 15 LaRubia-Prado, Francisco, 86n8, 96 Law, 111 Lazaga, Pedro, 32 Lefkowitz, Mary, 111 Lemos, Carlos, 63 Lenson, David, 6, 120 Lesky, Albin, 170

Lessing, Gotthold, 6 LeVitte Harten, Doreet, 19n13, 159 LGTBIQ+, 179 Liebler, Naomi Conn, 4n8, 30, 34, 36n42, 41n52, 56n22 Lo, Louis, 64, 76n68 Loneliness, 99, 135, 145 Loraux, Nicole, 41, 42 Tragic Ways of Killing a Woman, 61 Love, 95, 139 Love, Heather K., 118, 121, 122, 133, 145 Luna, Fernando Lerdo de Tejada, 102n43, 109n61, 111n66 Lynd, Helen Merrel, 23 M MacCurdy, Marian, 166, 169 MacDormand, Frances, 184 Machado, Antonio, 16n6, 49n5, 58 La tierra de Alvargonzález, 48 Maeztu, Ramiro de, 16n6 Maffesoli, Michel, 118, 121, 122, 133 on carpe diem as return to tragic vision of world, 128 on fate of individuals, 9, 131, 145, 160 tribal connection stronger than national, 125 Maixabel (Icíar Bollaín, 2021), 182 Marcelino pan y vino (Vajda, 1955), 45n62 Marginal characters, 121–122 María, José, 103 Marriage, 158, 160 Martín Gaite, Carmen, 85n5 Martín, Annabel, 44 Martínez, Virginia, 102n43 Masculinity, 138 female agency stifles, 89

 INDEX 

feminine fragility as counterpart to masculine virility, 91 and male sexual violence against women, 105 masculine domination, 68–69, 74, 98 misogyny, 16, 58, 62, 72, 126 questioning of, 88 rape, 92–93, 96–97, 105 and violence, 90, 90n15 what makes a man, 140 Mastronarde, Donald, 16n7, 17, 18, 143 McTaggart, Anne, 51, 166, 171 Melodrama, 104, 177 Memory collective memory, 124–125 Mientras dure la guerra (Alejandro Amenábar, 2019), 184 Minorities, 118 Mira, Alberto, 63 Modernity, 18, 21, 35 and La aldea maldita, 15 being unwanted in life as general condition of, 145 dangers of, 21 dehumanization of, 133 and desire, 70n52 and fascism, 47n1 and Franco, 41 and freedom, 33 and honor, 61 honor replaced in, 74 left-wing critique of, 122 modernization in Spain, 79, 83n4, 117, 131, 134n32 and religion, 17 Spain’s gentle move towards, 54n19 and tradition, 12, 15, 17, 19–20, 30–33, 47, 48, 81, 92, 148 and tragedy, 6, 10, 118 TV as symbol of, 128

215

Moi, Toril, 71, 78 Molina, Antonio, 29 Molinero, Carme, 87n9, 112 Money, 57 Monumento al Sagrado Corazón (monument), 124 Moran, Patricia, 23, 179 Mossman, Judith, 67 Mourning, 113–114 Muñoz, Amelia, 15 Muñoz, Pilar, 30n33 Munro, Alice, 147, 165 Mur Oti, Manuel, 63 filmography, 63n32 on tragic film ending, 78 See also Condenados (Manuel Mur Oti, 1953) Music Beethoven, 64, 68 in La buena estrella, 132, 144 Los Chunguitos (musical group), 119, 121 in Condenados, 64, 68 in Deprisa, deprisa, 121, 124, 129 in La hija de Juan Simón, 31 in La laguna negra, 53 in La novia, 150, 161–163 in La tía Tula, 95, 98 in 7 días de enero, 114 in Tár, 184 N Nájera, Mari Luz, 102, 105 Nature, 56 Navarro, Joaquín, 99n37 Neocleous, Mark, 47n1, 69n48 New Spanish Film, 82–83 Newton, Ken, 4 Nietzsche, Friedrich, 6, 15 Nieves Conde, José Antonio, 32 Las niñas (Pilar Palomero, 2020), 183

216 

INDEX

Notario, Joaquín, 165 La novia (Paula Ortiz, 2015), 3, 6, 10, 12, 147–164, 170, 171, 183 based on Bodas de sangre, 148–150, 159–161 bride coughs bits of blood-stained glass, 155, 161 circular structure of, 11, 155, 164 and Condenados, 149 cyclical violence in, 157 desire and death in, 164 female protoganist, 7, 147–148, 150 female sexual frustration, 152 ghosts in, 153–155, 161–164 glass knife and advice, 154 inability to listen, 154 landscape of emptiness and death in, 157, 159, 164 marriage in, 158, 160 music in, 150, 161–163 patriarchal mother in, 163 rival families in, 155–157 ruins, 150 and sexuality, 8 and surrealism, 154 synopsis, 149–150 weight of past in, 157 Nussbaum, Martha, 119, 144n46 O Oedipus complex, 51 O'Hara, Scarlett, 59 Ohly, Friedrich, 28 Orduña, Juan de, 67n42 Oriol y Urquijo, Antonio María de, 103, 103n44, 106n53 Ortega y Gasset, José, 16n6 Ortiz, Paula, 147 filmography, 148n1 See also La novia (Paula Ortiz, 2015)

P Palma, Rossy de, 165 Past, 155, 164, 176 and ghosts, 162 necessity of confrontation with, in Julieta, 173 the past isn't past in Julieta, 166–169, 178 and present overlap in tragic art, 176 and tragedy, 166 weight of, in La novia, 157 Pastor, Víctor, 15 Patriarchy, 8, 22, 65, 124, 172 and city life, 35 and family, 68 and Franco, 32, 44, 47 and gender roles, 76 patriarchal mothers in Spanish cinema, 107–108, 163 and power, 97 and resistance, 98 and women, 9, 30n33, 34, 72, 92n22, 94, 143, 158, 159, 183 Pérez Perucha, Julio, 64 Pharmaka, 5 Pharmakon, 30 Pharmakos, 26, 41n52, 43, 112, 114, 118, 121 Picazo, Miguel, 81–83 filmography, 82n1 See also La tía Tula (Miguel Picazo, 1964) Piñar, Blás, 102n43 Pitt-Rivers, Julian, 20n14 Pomeroy, Sarah B., 60n26 Poole, Adrian, 62, 142, 145, 158, 166 Postmodernity, 31, 118, 128, 133 Power difficulty of confronting, 81 and patriarchy, 97 and resistance, 84, 98–99 Poyato, Pedro, 168

 INDEX 

Prada, José María, 83 Prego, Victoria, 114 Primo de Rivera, Miguel, 14n2 Prostitution, 13, 16, 40 in La aldea maldita, 22–23 in Francoist Spain, 91 PSOE (political party), 102n43, 117, 131, 134n32 Pucci, Pietro, 113 Q Que Dios nos perdone (Rodrigo Sorogoyen, 2016), 182 Quinqui cinema, 119–120, 123, 124 R Racine, Jean, 2, 6 Raging Bull (Martin Scorsese, 1980), 124 Ramos Santana, Alberto, 65 Rape attempted in La tía Tula, 92–93 committed in La tía Tula, 96–97 Franco and male sexual violence against women, 105 Raphael, David Daiches, 46 Redondo, Agustín, 66n38 Religion, 17, 176 "Kempis" book, 89 and modernity, 17 and tragedy, 143 See also Catholicism Resines, Antonio, 132 Resistance, 123 body as site of, 84, 92, 94 individual vs collective, 81 possibility of, 92 and power, 84, 98–99 vs freedom, 94–95 and women, 94

217

Reverte, Isabel Martínez, 108n60 Reverte, José M., 108n60 Rey, Fernando, 48 Rey, Florián, 15 filmography, 15n5 See also La aldea maldita (Florian Rey, 1930) Rich, Adrianne Of Woman Born, 176 Romani community, 183, 184 Romm, James, 111 Rose, Jacqueline, 94 Ruins, 54–55 in Condenados, 70 in La novia, 150 and tragic art, 55, 150 Ruiz, Antonio, 16n6 Ruiz-Castillo, Arturo, 48, 102, 104, 105 filmography, 48n2 Rural Spain, 12 in La aldea maldita, 16 and Catholicism, 33 deconstructed, 48, 62 and fallen woman, 13 and fascism, 47–48 and Franco, 35, 165 migration to city, 32, 60, 79 and tradition, 19 women traditionally silenced in, 68 See also Spain S Sacrifice, 112 Sánchez, Susi, 165 Sands, Kathleen M., 166n42 Saura, Carlos, 117 filmography, 119n4 See also Deprisa, deprisa (Carlos Saura, 1981)

218 

INDEX

Scapegoats, 7, 40–41, 101, 115, 121 of society, 7, 30, 101, 112 tragic hero/heroine as, 5 Schlink, Bernhard, 164 Scorsese, Martin, 124 Scott, Andrew, 155 Sea symbology of, 130, 183 translation of, 171 7 días de enero (Juan Antonio Bardem, 1979), 3, 6, 7, 12, 99–116, 159, 170, 172, 178, 182 administration of justice in, 111–112 Atocha train station massacre, 108–110, 112 Atocha, trial after massacre, 110–112 historical purpose of, 101 labor lawyers' burial, 113–114 Manichean perspective of, 103, 104 murder of labor lawyers, 102, 109, 112 music in, 114 patriarchal mothers in, 107–108 synopsis, 100 theoretical approach to, 100–101 unmask Spanish fascism, 104 violent democratization of Spain in, 100–102 Sexuality, 8, 39, 173 and Catholicism, 69–70 and clothing, 23n22 erotic connotations of windmill in Condenados, 65, 69 and fallen woman, 13 and family, 37–38 and fascism, 70n53, 71 historical transformation of expectations on, 149 homosexuality, 179 incest in La hija de Juan Simón, 35

and jealousy, 71 love triangle in La buena estrella, 138 love triangle in Condenados, 71, 77 masculine domination, 68–69 and patriarchy, 94 possession of land, sexual connotation, 51, 74n62 rape attempted in La tía Tula, 92–93 rape committed in La tía Tula, 96–97 repression of, 70, 86, 86n8 sex prohibited out of wedlock under Franco, 40–41 sexual dissatisfaction, as motif of tragic art, 152 sexual exploitation of immigrants, 183 sexual frustration in La tía Tula, 89, 90, 92 sexual indiscretion in La novia, 163 sexual symbolism in Condenados, 74 sexual transgression, 139 and violence, 90, 96n32 Shakespeare, William, 2, 6, 43, 48, 50, 52, 61, 62, 66, 72, 73, 110, 132, 153, 155, 176, 184 Shame, 23–24, 28, 40, 89, 179 Shelley, Percy, 148 Sinde, Ángeles González, 132 Sissa, Giulia, 71n55 Smith, Paul Julian, 107 Sobrevila, Nemesio M., 30 Sontag, Susan, 70n53, 142n41 Sophocles, 2, 6, 21, 50–51, 58n23, 99, 119, 154 Sôphrosunê, 19n11, 23, 26 Soundtrack, see Music Space, 175

 INDEX 

Spain La aldea maldita, 19 Atocha massacre and democratization, 112 and capitalism, 54n19, 57 Castile, 12, 16, 16n6, 20, 48, 49n5, 55, 63, 64, 70, 77, 150 and Catholicism, 14n2, 21, 65 and church, 17 collective memory, 124–125 democratization, 81, 99n37, 100–101, 112, 114, 115, 117, 125–126 economic modernization, 79, 83n4, 117, 131, 134n32 and family, 176 Franco's idealist vision of rural, 12, 95 and freedom, 122 January of 1977, 100–101 migration from country to city, 32, 37, 60, 79 modernity vs tradition, 33, 148 1978 Constitution, 11, 100, 101, 115–116, 147 Pacto del Olvido, 125 “Pacto de Madrid” (1953), 36 persistence of the tragic in, 150, 164, 181, 182 Second Spanish Republic (1931–1939), 30n33, 47, 72 shift away from autarky (economics), 54n19, 57, 66n41 and tragic motifs, 46 20th century, 4, 14, 17, 22, 29, 100, 139 two versions of, 136 women, evolving attitude towards, 147 women under Franco, 7, 8 See also Civil War (1936–1939); Rural Spain

219

Spanish cinema changing definition of family in, 139 and Civil War, 99–100 and fallen woman, 29 and Franco, 48–49, 99–100 New Spanish Film, 82–83 patriarchal mothers in, 107–108, 163 persistence of the tragic in, 1, 3, 11, 150, 157, 158, 164, 181, 182, 184 "quinqui" cinema, 119–120, 123, 124, 128 and tragedy, 1, 11 and tragic mode, 2, 12, 181 women in lead role, 63 women rebel in, 44 See also Film Spanish Communist Party, 7, 102, 106, 108n60, 109, 109n62, 113 Steiner, George, 135, 145, 172 The Death of Tragedy, 6n13 Stott, Andrew, 53, 162 Suárez, Adolfo, 101, 117 Suarez Carreño, José, 63 Suárez, Emma, 165 Suárez, José, 63 Suffering, 8, 8n23, 8n24, 9, 15, 20, 31, 32, 34, 44, 84, 113, 135, 142, 145, 166, 181, 183, 184 in La aldea maldita, 19 and art, 2 and forgiveness, 26 horror of bodily suffering, 144n46 in modern tragedy everyone exposed to, 122 and tragic mode, 14, 78 Surcos (José Antonio Nieves Conde, 1951), 32 Surrealism, 154, 155, 161

220 

INDEX

T Tarde de furia (Raúl Arévalo, 2016), 182 Tár (Todd Field, 2022), 184 Taxidou, Olga, 43n56, 101, 113, 114 Taxi Driver (Martin Scorsese, 1976), 124 Tejero, Antonio, 117 Television (TV), 106, 139, 140 symbol of modernity, 128 Torrespaña (TV tower), 134 Terrorism, 108, 109, 109n61, 182 trial against, 110–112 Thompson, Judith, 30 La tía Tula (Miguel Picazo, 1964), 3, 6, 8, 10, 12, 81–99, 159, 183 Catholicism in, 86–87 cemetery scene, 88–89 circular structure of, 11, 98 female protagonist, 172 gender inequality, 87 music in, 95, 98 rape attempt in, 92–93 rape committed in, 96–97 refusal to marry, 88, 91, 92, 94 repression of sexual desire, 86, 86n8 sexual frustration, 89, 90, 92 synopsis, 83 theoretical approach to, 83–84 Toohey, Peter, 73 Torreiro, Casimiro, 82 Torres Kio, 136 Torrespaña (TV tower), 134 Torres, Steven, 124 Tragedy absolute tragedy, 145 and ambiguity, 32n35 and blindness, 21–22 center and margin in, 122n9 and city life, 20 and death, 77 death of, in modern times, 135

definition of, 2n2 and family, 51–52, 158 and feminism, 49 and film, 3, 11 finds spiritual victory in natural defeat, 46 and funeral processions, 45 and gender roles, 60n26 and ghosts, 62, 154–155 and historical context, 4 and homelessness, 135 and hubris, 18–19 internal/external factors, 9–10, 29, 75, 126, 132, 134 and meaningless world, 10 and modernity, 6, 118 modern tragedy of social types, 133 modern vs classical, 4, 36n42, 56n22, 118, 122, 130, 164, 170 and past, 166 persistence of, 185 persistence of, in Spanish cinema, 1, 3, 11, 150, 157, 163, 164, 181, 182, 184 and religion, 143 time is out of joint in, 53 and toxic material from the past, 12 tragic vision of the world, 128 and transformation, 4–5, 33, 81–82 and violence, 106n52 and women, 34–35, 41, 42, 52, 58, 60n26, 64, 68, 107, 123, 176–177 Tragic art, 49, 181 classic motifs of, 16, 50, 60, 152, 172 and ghosts, 155 Greek tragedy as birth of, 3 guilt as feature of modern, 72 individual vs collective in, 159 and mourning, 113

 INDEX 

parricide as popular form of, 52 past and present overlap in, 176 rise and fall narrative, 120 and ruins, 55, 150 and transitional times, 4, 17, 33, 100n38, 125 as warning, 82 and women, 7, 162 Tragic characters, 7, 10, 30, 135 caught up in cycles of revenge, 157 death haunts, 130 emotional effectiveness of, 6 and gods, 143 and guilt, 178 identifying mark of, 138 internal conflict, 32, 83, 88, 92, 95, 138, 149, 152, 159, 160, 164, 182 marginal characters in Deprisa, deprisa, 121–122 tragedy precipitated by inability to listen to good counsel, 154 tragic action as process that leads to destruction of, 133 as vanguards of society, 5 Tragic hero/heroine, 15 acts against self interest, 152 as character flaw, 34, 161 could be anyone, 6, 120, 122 and death, 143 defeated in La buena estrella, 141, 144 and disproportionate punishment, 9 and ghosts, 154 and guilt, 36–37, 166 inner conflict, 19n13, 37, 158, 159 as monster, 26 mythically elevated expectations of, 30 as necessary scapegoat, 5 and past, 176

221

redemption of, 28 and resistance, 84, 99 and social change, 5 Tragic mode, 21 and La aldea maldita, 29 and alternative readings, 14, 30–31, 44, 46, 181, 183 and circular structure, 11, 18, 27, 31, 41, 44, 62, 155, 173 and clashing interests, 34 and death, 45 divided between two worlds, 19 evolution of, 2–3 explanation of, 1–2 and fallen woman, 46 and fascism, 12 and gender, 49 Greek tragedy as beginning of, 2, 3, 150 and happiness, 136 historical reading of, 10, 20 inner conflict of main characters, 83, 84 and jealousy, 76 key feature of, 75 and melodrama, 104 and music, 162 and myth, 149 and prison scene in La hija de Juan Simón, 38–39 and restorative narrative, 14 and rural Spain, deconstructed ideal of, 48 in 7 días de enero, 115 and Spanish cinema, 2, 12, 181 and suffering, 14, 78 and toxic events from the past, 166 and transformation, 100 and transgressive women, 65 and women, 7, 107 Trauerspiel (mourning drama), 112

222 

INDEX

La trinchera infinita (Jon Garaño, Aitor Aguerri, José Mari Goenaga, 2019), 184 Trueba, Fernando, 15n5 U Ugarte, Adriana, 165 Ukraine conflict, 185 Umebayashi, Shigeru, 150 Unamuno, Miguel de, 16n6, 82, 83, 86, 86n8, 184 Un chien Andalou (Luis Buñuel, 1929), 155 United States, 36 See also Hollywood Un monstruo viene a verme (Juan Antonio Bayona, 2016), 183 V Valdelomar, José Antonio, 120 Valdés, María Jesús, 48, 52 Vega, Lope de, 20n15 Vélez, Soledad, 163 Verdú, Maribel, 132 Vernant, Jean Pierre, 4n8, 100n38 Vernon, Kathleen M., 169n48 Viance, Carmen, 15 Vidal-Naquet, Pierre, 4n8, 100n38 Vincent, Mary, 34n38, 90n15, 105 Violence, 11, 44, 64, 76, 77, 126, 155, 161, 164, 183 Atocha train station massacre, 108–110, 112 and Civil War (1936–1939), 184 cyclical violence in La novia, 157 and democratization, 101, 102 democratization as end of, 114, 115 and desire, 73 and dictatorship, 79 and family conflict, 58

and fascism, 105–106, 111 and Franco, 105, 184 and jealousy, 73–74, 78 and masculinity, 34n38, 72, 77n69, 90n15 murder of family member, 50–51 murder of labor lawyers, 102, 109, 112 as necessity imposed by external forces, 110 non-violence, 112, 115 rape attempted in La tía Tula, 92–93 rape committed in La tía Tula, 96–97 right-wing violence ignored, 109n61, 111 right-wing violence, responses to, 111–112 and sexuality, 90, 92, 96n32 of Spanish fascism, 101 terrorism, 108, 109, 109n61, 182 and tragedy, 106n52 and women, 106–107, 163 See also Rape W Wallace, Jennifer, 2 Washington, Denzel, 184 Western film genre, 77 Whittaker, Tom, 125, 126n18 Wieland, Christina, 64, 72 Williams, Linda, 177 Williams, Raymond, 100n38, 133 on structures of feeling, 14 on tragedy, 2n2, 4n8, 6 Women, 7–8 abuse of, 17 agency of, as open-ended, 130–131 agency of, as problematic, 20–21, 34, 65, 89

 INDEX 

agency of, as resistance, 94 and Catholicism, 86–87 and clothing, 23n22 and dangers of city life, 22 fallen woman, 13, 15, 27n30, 29, 46 and fascism, 69n48, 74 and fate, 159 female protagonist, 7, 123, 147–148, 150 female rebels in Spanish cinema, 44 female singlehood, 85n5 feminine fragility as counterpart to masculine virility, 91 femme fatale, 59, 61 and Franco, 8, 10, 33–34, 37, 40–41, 43–44, 58, 67–68, 85, 87, 87n9, 105 freedom of, undermines family, 21 and gender roles, 20, 25, 58–60, 74, 90 and guilt, 170 and honor, 24–25 it is always the woman who gets killed, 78 kept women, 30, 37, 39 Lady Macbeth, 52, 61 lead role in Condenados, 63 mad woman in Julieta, 167 and marriage, 158

223

mother-daughter relation, 176–177 patriarchal mothers in Spanish cinema, 107–108, 163 and patriarchy, 9, 30n33, 34, 72, 84, 92n22, 94, 143, 158, 159, 183 portrayal of, in La aldea maldita, 16–17 prostitution, 13, 16, 22–23, 40, 91 refusal to marry, 88, 91, 92, 94 and shame, 24 surprising articulateness of, in Condenados, 67–68 and tragedy, 34–35, 41, 42, 52, 58, 60n26, 64, 68, 107, 176–177 and tragic art, 7, 162 and violence, 106–107, 163 Writing and painful confrontation with past, 168–169 Y Yarza, Alejandro, 43n56 Ysas, Pere, 112 Z Zeitlin, Froma, 7, 49, 106, 123