Movies to Watch From Spain

In Sorry, Baby, an unspeakable act of cruelty disrupts Agnes’ ambitious rise to the top. Despite being a literature professor, she struggles to find the words to describe what happened to her. Likewise, the audience isn’t made privy to the details of the incident and relies only on what Agnes chooses to show. It’s a far cry from the sensationalist way trauma is often depicted in films. In place of sexy or valiant acts of revenge, Sorry, Baby focuses on the slow, circular, and confusing process of healing. It hides more than it shows, which, oddly, says more about the reality of assault than most post #MeToo films. Sorry, Baby is an unassuming film, but its honest writing, poetic cinematography, and rich expressions pack a powerful punch.

Hurt people hurt people, the saying goes, and nowhere is that more evident than in Hard Truths. Directed by Mike Leigh (Secrets & Lies, Vera Drake, Happy-Go-Lucky), Hard Truths follows two sisters who couldn’t be more different. One is Chantelle, a cheerful hairdresser who has raised equally ebullient daughters, and the other is Pansy, a hardened woman who lashes out at everyone from her family to the people queuing up in the grocery. Pansy is brutal, the sort of person you’d roll your eyes at if you were unlucky enough to encounter her in public. But Leigh gives us a glimpse into her internal struggle; nothing too obvious, as is the naturalistic director’s style, but we feel her pain whenever she goes out of her way to avoid the people closest to her, or when she savors a moment alone and hides her tears. There is no linear plot in Hard Truths; instead, it’s a collection of lived moments and ordinary joys and sorrows. It’s also a welcome reflection of our fractured reality. Loneliness, grief, anger, anxiety—these feelings are often inexplicable, and they come out of us in ways that are never immediately understandable or direct. So why should Pansy be? The film is an exercise in sympathy as well as a mirror to our own complicated and invisible hurt.

The Outrun, which follows Rona as she struggles to acknowledge and eventually overcome her alcoholism, is understandably in shambles. It’s non-linear (our only cues are her hair color) and occasionally fractured to show just how messed up Rona’s headspace is. These decisions may or may not feel necessary to the viewer, but what centers the film and makes it nonetheless worthwhile is Ronan’s performance. She is convincing and compelling as an addict—no overacting here or disrespectful flairs, just a simple performance carried by the weight of her eyes, the pain of gestures, and the occasional creak in her voice. It’s not always clear what’s happening in The Outrun despite its simple plot, but it is always watchable thanks to Ronan’s magnificent turn.

He may be out of office, but films about Donald Trump’s racist and xenophobic immigration policies will continue to feel urgent for the ripple effect they’ve left on so many immigrants—and these films aren’t just coming from within the United States either. A Spanish production, Upon Entry boils down a presidential term’s worth of discrimination to just a few hours in the lives of a couple being interrogated at the airport. Directors Alejandro Rojas and Juan Sebastián Vásquez shoot in a style that almost feels like they’re telling the story in real-time, with very few bursts of emotion and lots of quiet agonizing in the claustrophobia of windowless rooms. Every interaction is fraught with tension, as the couple, Diego and Elena, keep weighing if they should stand up for themselves or submit to the authorities’ bullying.

The film eventually makes a bid for more drama by putting the couple’s relationship and mutual trust into question, but this choice brings the movie dangerously close to validating the psychological manipulation used by the immigration officers. It momentarily loses sight of the bigger picture: that all this relationship drama is beside the point. Still, as a portrait of how discriminatory laws not only lock people out but tear them apart from each other, it’s a potent, painful watch.

Remember the creepy blind nun from the Spanish horror film Veronica? While many nun-related horror films have nuns as its horror element, this time it’s the nun that gets spooked in Sister Death. The new release expands on her backstory, taking the story back in history, in her start as a novitiate in the former convent, a location that’s been changed after the terrors inflicted towards the nuns during the Spanish Civil War. While the film doesn’t delve that deeply, focusing instead on the slowly building up the film’s terror, there is something here about the hidden violence and covered-up trauma that still haunt the Catholic church in Spain, especially to those that have taken vows. Director Paco Plaza meticulously frames each terrific sequence with the isolating doubt in one’s faith that Narcisa experiences.

As far as LGBTQIA+ stories go, 20,000 Species of Bees isn’t the best at talking about its themes of identity and acceptance in a way that doesn’t come off as clunky. But even with its on-the-nose dialogue and inconsequential subplots, director Estibaliz Urresola Solaguren gives everything the warmth and the softness it needs to feel sincere despite everything. And no matter what, the film is always drawn back to the lead performance by Sofía Otero, who provides such a vivid image of this young trans girl’s interior life that the world around her character begins to feel either more suffocating or more beautiful to behold.

It doesn’t feel quite right to call Pacifiction a political thriller — at 2 hours 45 minutes and with an unhurried, dreamlike pace, it’s hardly the adrenaline rush that that categorization suggests. But Albert Serra’s film is still suffused with all the paranoia and intrigue that the genre promises, just at a slower burn. The specters of colonialism and nuclear apocalypse hang low over the movie, which is set in an idyllic Tahiti, where Benoît Magimel’s Monsieur De Roller is stationed as France’s outgoing High Commissioner, a bureaucratic relic of the country’s imperialist history. As shady figures and strange rumors about a military submarine begin to arrive on the island, a paranoid De Roller struggles to exert political control — and, in the process, seems to lose some of his own sanity. With an ethereal score, defiantly murky plot, hallucinatory cinematography, and some of humanity’s greatest horrors hanging over it like a pall, Pacifiction feels like a fever dream in the truest sense.

Rather than talking about what it takes to get to the other side of the border, Identifying Features instead focuses its attention back home. It’s part of the reason why the film actually highlights how difficult this actually is– Before even reaching it, people hoping to enter America go through a dangerous journey, many of whom disappear without any resolution for the loved ones left behind. But in focusing on what happens back behind the border, the social issue drama becomes more compelling, as the mystery of what happened to the son that left easily strikes a cord and drives the plot forward rather than straightforwardly talking about the journey. As she does so, writer-director Fernanda Valadez sets a spine-tingling mood, with striking, cryptic shots paired with the sober, difficult explanations the loved one who have been left behind with her have tried to formulate. Sin Señas Particulares captures that painful story in such a bold and thoughtful debut.

Psychological thriller fans might find God’s Crooked Lines to be a tad derivative. Fans of the novel might find its film adaptation slightly more convoluted than the original text. But for viewers entirely new to both, the undercover psych ward investigation proves to be an intriguing mystery, twisting the plot by playing with alternating timelines and unreliable narration. This new approach makes sense. It does modify the ending, but the new approach eases the novel into visual form, giving a nice rhythm to each reveal. The psychological thriller may not be a perfect adaptation, but Los Renglones Torcidos de Dios maintains the suspense that made the original novel work.

In The Beasts, the idyllic semi-retirement that a French couple seeks in the Galician countryside — growing organic vegetables, fixing up abandoned farmhouses — devolves into a terrifying slow-burn nightmare. This beautifully shot yet spiritually ugly thriller plunges us straight into an atmosphere of crackling social tension that never abates. We begin after the event that turns local farmer Xan (Luis Zahera) and his brother Loren (Diego Anido) against French transplants Antoine (Denis Ménochet) and Olga (Marina Foïs): the latter two have vetoed the sale of land to a wind turbine company in favor of preserving the village’s rustic character. Incensed by what he sees as the theft of his birthright by an outsider, Xan orchestrates a steadily intensifying campaign of terror against the couple.

Though much slighter than the physically imposing Ménochet, Zahera makes for a profoundly menacing presence, and Xan’s seemingly endless appetite for hostility and vindictiveness charges the film with a deeply unsettling sense of inevitability. His performance alone would mark The Beasts as a standout, but an unexpected switch in character focus late on in the film wrests it out of Xan’s grasp and reorients the movie as a study of grim resolve — making it a film of two equally remarkable halves.

At times of political strife, how can one seek justice? Song Without a Name could have presented its case in a straightforward biopic. Inspired by her journalist father’s story, writer-director Melina León  could have presented a hard-hitting docudrama that celebrated the smart journalists who brought the traffickers to justice. However, León doesn’t do that. She focuses instead on Georgina, the indigenous mother who lost her child. Her journey is beautifully shot in vignetted black-and-white, but the images and the lullabies she sings are striking, haunting reminders of what was lost, even as the traffickers get imprisoned. Song Without a Name remembers how this injustice was only half resolved.

Going deep undercover, integrating one’s self into a group without any suspicion, and passing out information to another party… That’s the job of a mole. While they mostly lurk in various government agencies, laboratories, and other special circles of power, The Mole Agent instead goes deep undercover in a Chilean retirement home, having stakes that may not be world-ending, but take more personal, domestic weight as Sergio befriends the residents, records and reports on their well-being, and tries to figure out what exactly Romulo wants as evidence. It’s a funny situation, one that depicts the resident home with warmth, albeit with the occasional spy cams and an old-fashioned piano score, but it can be difficult to figure out where the line is between truth and fiction, as some scenes can feel a bit staged. Still, The Mole Agent is a charming portrait of old age, made so compelling with director Maite Alberdi’s unusual perspective.

Though there are ways to go when it comes to ace representation, Slow is a massive step in the right direction. It follows Elena, a carefree and non-committal lover, and Dovydas, a monogamous asexual. Can they make their relationship work? Slow is a careful exploration of that question. It’s surprisingly intimate, even more so than explicitly sensual films, and sensitive to Elena and Dovydas’ wildly different but equally valid needs. It’s never judgemental and always gentle about their sexual desires, habits, and questions. Perhaps most importantly, it addresses the inherent complexity of being asexual head-on. Asexuality here is not a joke or a coincidence, but the main thing everything else hinges on. Still, Elena and Dovydas remain universally relatable. Slow tackles issues of affection and trust that come with every relationship, regardless of sexual orientation. Their conversations will gut you, and their love will inspire you to be with someone deserving of your worth.

This historical drama opens with one of the most thrilling chase scenes in recent memory, as Higinio Blanco, the man at the center of the story, escapes government forces during the Spanish Civil War.

He goes into hiding that, without him realizing, would last 33 years. He would only emerge in a government amnesty in 1969, as would many like him across Spain.

Themes of love (Higinio was confined with his newlywed wife), solitude and fear are at the center of a story that remains thrilling even when it goes through the isolation years.

After the La Manada rape case in 2016, it was necessary to document this event, especially since the widespread national outrage and demonstrations managed to move the country to change the way Spain defines consent. You Are Not Alone: Fighting the Wolf Pack documents this arduous journey. While it’s done through the familiar Netflix true crime approach, there’s some respect given to the victim that hasn’t been given previously by the media. The film sticks to the actual verbatim words used by the victim, albeit edited for clarity, but they ensured that their words were not accompanied with photos or similar looking actors, keeping the truth of their words without risking their safety. While the documentary’s direction isn’t new, the outrage is still felt, as well as the genuine hope of a country that came together to ensure justice.

At the age of 17, Héctor runs away from a juvenile detention center and embarks on a journey to find a shelter dog he had befriended in a rescue center whom he has found out has just been adopted. Along his quest, he is joined by his ailing grandmother and older brother. 

Featuring beautiful landscapes of northern Spain, wonderful chemistry between the two central actors, and a simple yet dynamic story, Seventeen proves that what makes a movie great is the quality of its ingredients, not the quantity.

Some films are slow and talky because of mere indulgence, but Close Your Eyes owes its pace to naturalism and poetry. Each frame and dialogue is both beautiful and realistic. If they’re not meditating on the fickleness of life and memory, they’re honoring how cinema can encapsulate them. This is one of those movies you have to experience, not just witness. By the end of it, you’ll be pondering its deceptively simple ideas too, much like the thoughtful Miguel (Manolo Solo) and the elusive Julio (José Coronado).

The optimism in the turn of the century led to quirky children’s fantasy adventures in the 90s and early aughts, but on occasion, fantasy was used to think critically about the world around us. Taking a more steampunk direction, The City of Lost Children was one such tale. With its somewhat on-the-nose metaphor for a brilliant scientist stealing children’s dreams, the resulting adventure is fought in the name of all things human, all with the whimsical style that’s been previously seen in films like Delicatessen and Amélie. Not all the ideas feel fully complete, but the City of Lost Children is one journey worth taking beside your kids.

When a man ends up in a house full of girls, the question in many stories is: who will that man fall for? Where Little Women provides everyone with a suitor and The Beguiled does the opposite, Belle Époque takes a much more comedic route for Fernando to pick his wife. Far from being a Casanova, Fernando is much more naive. He stumbles from girl to girl in a series of hilarious sequences, never truly understanding what each of them wants. It’s pretty silly stuff. But it’s also the kind of lighthearted romp that remembers the joys and pleasures available to Spain before the fascist Franco regime took over.

It’s impossible not to be moved by this passionate love letter to the medium of film and its singular abilities to witness, commemorate, connect, educate, and, yes, entertain. The Living Record is more than that, though: it’s also an urgent clarion call for better support of the infrastructure and people who preserve and restore the celluloid reels that contain so much of our history.

In two hours, it packs in a lot — perhaps even too much, because there is so much fascinating material here that it’s almost overwhelming to take it in all at once. The doc draws on a sweeping line-up of contributors who collectively illuminate every facet of the need for preservation and restoration, from archivists to filmmakers like Jonas Mekas, Ken Loach, and Costa-Gavras. Its scope is just as commendably exhaustive, featuring nuanced discussions of the dangers politics poses to preservation efforts, as well as the particular need for archives in formerly colonized countries to prevent “cultural amnesia.” Despite all the challenges it highlights, its tone isn’t hopeless, as the film draws strength from the tireless efforts of archivists and cinematic saviors like Martin Scorsese. It’s impossible to watch this and not come away affirmed or converted into similarly passionate champions of preservation.

As a popular fairytale, Snow White has been depicted many, many times, but never quite like the 2012 Spanish film Blancanieves. For starters, it’s the only version where the titular lady is a bullfighter. It was also made as a black-and-white silent drama at a time when color and sound are the norm. But beyond these immediate differences, Blancanieves transforms the original fairytale into a mortifying body horror, where love can’t overcome the body’s destruction, and where death isn’t the only terror that awaits. Blancanieves won’t be the Snow White you remember, but she will be a version you won’t forget.

While homosexuality has gotten more acceptance now, exclusion still happens, more so if said queer person isn’t white. Carmen and Lola depicts two women who fall in love, and it takes on a familiar secret relationship storyline we’ve seen in other queer films, but rather than just take the familiar plot, make the leads Romani, and call it a day, the film instead focuses on how the things that keeps them apart are the very same mechanisms that the community created for their people to survive. It’s fitting that director Arantxa Echevarría depicts this through naturalistic shots and casting non-professional actors, because it makes Carmen y Lola a much more honest depiction of what it means to love in an intolerant community.

A life lived for loved ones is a good thing, but there’s always a risk that that sacrifice goes unnoticed, since the opportunity cost was never fully concrete in the first place. That is what happens in Whisky. With his brother Herman visiting from greener pastures, Jacobo has not much to show for his choice to stay home. While that choice was made to care for their mother, who passed away, Jacobo only has the sock factory to fill his days, and thus only has his co-worker Marta to rely on for a fake marriage scheme. It sadly doesn’t play out the way we’ve seen in romantic comedies, but Whisky pokes fun at Jacobo’s insistence on misery and his misguided notions on what it means to be successful.

While the mixed reception of its near-faithful American remake Vanilla Sky might make some viewers pause, there’s an intuitive brilliance in the Spanish original Open Your Eyes that isn’t easy to translate. Sure, the apparent differences help– it’s shorter and less complicated, and Cesar’s face turns more grotesque than David’s does. But what’s startling about Open Your Eyes is the way writer-director Alejandro Amenábar guides the camera through its various shifts, creating a more subtle and gradual realization that something is wrong, and thus, a more terrifying dream turned nightmare. Amenábar has later deemed the film as his worst, saying it was written when he didn’t know much about life, but, in our opinion, Abre Los Ojos still holds up as a groundbreaking existential sci-fi simulation, one that still puzzles and captivates years after.

What would you do if your favorite artist is in the country? Die-hard fans would literally congregate and wait for their arrival, but in 1960’s Spain, under the Franco dictatorship, it’s a different story. Gathering in groups was restricted to party-approved activities. So in imagining artist and activist John Lennon visiting the country, Living Is Easy With Eyes Closed captures the conflicting ideas of that decade through simulating the wish of many a fan. The comedy drama doesn’t quite delve into the difficulties of the era, but the journey subtly studies its three road trippers in a sweet, lighthearted way.

While not its only cause, the increase of conflict and civil wars has spurred a global refugee crisis. Millions of refugees have been displaced from their homes, taking dangerous journeys to a hopefully safer place. Nowhere, now on Netflix, showcases one possible journey. Escaping a future totalitarian Spain, the film is centered on leading lady Anna Castillo, whose excellent performance pulls most of the tears here. With her character Mia’s ingenuity, she maximizes her shipping container’s resources and takes steps to ensure her survival. While some of the backstory can feel thin, after all, for most of the runtime Mia has only herself to talk to, this new one-location survival film is a thrilling addition to the genre. It’s a chilling reminder of what could be happening to the millions of refugees seeking safe haven around the globe.

A Spanish 500 Days of Summer mixed with a more urban and up to date You’ve Got Mail. I liked this film a lot. I connected with both the main characters in the film. Their feelings of loneliness on the inside, yet, still going on with their day to day all while being mixed with their phobias, longings, quarks, and vulnerabilities. This movie works, it works on every level. Beautifully shot and beautifully written. Watching this will not be a waste of your time.

When falling in love with another, or when another person falls in love with you, the relationship is formed by the ideas in your and their heads, specifically about your dynamic, your respective personalities, and the potential outcome of this love. Law of Desire is centered on this idea, unfolding through a chaotic gay love triangle that demonstrates the ways the ideas and fantasies can differ. And as the characters inevitably go through fairly melodramatic reactions when they realize the desires of another person, in the most colorful fashion (literally and figuratively), Pedro Almodóvar creates an amusing and daring examination of the genre it’s inspired by.

Whether or not you’re familiar with director Pedro Almodóvar’s body of work, Parallel Mother stands as a gorgeous melodrama, a striking story about motherhood and our ties to the past. On one level, it’s a simple but engaging drama about a misunderstanding that ensues between two women. But on another, it’s a deep dive into a nation’s cruel history, as well as an observation of people’s commitment to never letting that part of themselves go.

The film references Almodóvar’s past films but it also works as a standalone, a perfect starting point for moviegoers interested in exploring his oeuvre. Of course, Penelope Cruz continues to be a powerhouse, each line delivery an emotional gut punch, while relative newcomer Milena Smit is stirring, a true revelation, as her director calls her.

As heartbroken as you will be after watching this movie, you will feel nothing but triumph in the main actor’s debut role. This movie has very little hope to offer the viewer, except the small amount felt every time the main character, Marina, gets up again to fight another day. This film depicts grief in such a profound and personal way within a character who must remain relatively silent and alone most of the movie. You will quickly know why the film is called “A Fantastic Woman”.

When something like a World War happens, the generation that grew up at the time inevitably would be changed, and this change sticks to that generation, even if the ones that follow don’t immediately understand. The Last Suit is centered on this idea, but it does so through a relatively lighthearted and humorous way, as Abraham Bursztein goes on a cross-continental trip to see a childhood friend from the war, and meet people with different perspectives along the trip. With at least six different languages, two different timelines, and a compelling protagonist, The Last Suit is a new take on the Holocaust that might be a tad too sentimental for some viewers, but is a poignant reminder of the history that still haunts the world today.

The Cuban bolero, not to be confused with the Spanish dance, is a Latin ballad form that spread all throughout the Americas, and even the whole world, that mixed and mingled with and influenced jazz in the 1940s and 50s. Chico & Rita celebrates this music, as well as the nightlife that made these sounds possible, through a stirring star-crossed romance that recalls the typical inspiration behind these songs. There are moments that do falter– like the way Chico tries to woo Rita back– but the familiar, if slightly cliché, beats work in this animation through a unique, thick-lined art style, and of course, excellent music. It’s no wonder it was the first Spanish full-length animated film nominated for an Oscar.

A Spanish orchestra conductor receives a break-up message from his girlfriend before she vanishes, only to find himself as one of the police suspects behind her disappearance. Sounds like just another thriller? Far from it. To fully appreciate how the film

shies away from the genre, you have to be patient and make sure you don’t look up any information before you watch it. The story is very easy to follow and entertaining with its plot twists and flashbacks, while the three lead actors offer gripping performances. If you enjoy thrillers and Latin American cinema, make sure you don’t miss this one.

On one level, Alcarràs is a story about land, about how inextricable it is to livelihood, about how ownership of it has bred conflict since time immemorial. Director Carla Simón emphasizes this even more by hiring actual Catalan farmers as the leads. We’re not just watching the Solés sing and fight for their land, but Alcarràs natives who are also very much at risk of losing what’s theirs in real life. The acting comes off as natural because it is.

But on another level, Alcarràs is also a story about family, in particular about how family ties run so deep, they’re bound to coil around each other under the ground they’re rooted in. Like a family portrait come to life, Alcarràs shows us the beauty and the peril of loving your family and the legacy they leave behind as much as the Solés do.