Welcome back to the Deep Dive. We are really
glad you're here because today we are tackling
a subject that on paper sounds like it shouldn't
work. Not at all. Like at all. We are looking
at a piece of art that manages to blend two genres
that are usually, well, they're mortal enemies.
I'm talking about slapstick comedy. We're talking
vaudeville, pratfalls, and... Yes, literal fart
jokes mashed up against the incredibly grim,
deadly, serious backdrop of the Spanish Civil
War. It sounds like a complete oxymoron, doesn't
it? It feels like those two things should just
repel each other like magnets. Right. Usually
when we sit down to analyze cinema about the
Spanish Civil War, we are, you know, bracing
ourselves for something very specific. Absolutely.
You expect gritty realism. Gritty realism, somber
political drama. We think of films like Land
and Freedom or maybe Pan's Labyrinth, where the
tone is just heavy, dark and tragic from frame
one. You don't go into a Civil War movie expecting
a musical variety show featuring a mute sidekick
and a tenor who plays clowns. classical music
with his Bono Well. With his digestion, let's
put it that way. His digestion, yes. You certainly
don't. Certainly don't. And yet that contradiction
is exactly why we're here. That friction between
the lowbrow humor and the high stakes tragedy
is the engine of today's subject. Okay, so what
are we diving into? We're diving deep into the
1990 masterpiece, I, Carmela, directed by the
legendary Carlos Sora. And before anyone dismisses
this as some obscure, you know, experimental
art film, we really need to look at the scoreboard.
Oh, absolutely. This wasn't some fringe project
that nobody saw. This movie was a juggernaut
in Spain. A juggernaut. Yeah. We're talking about
a film that absolutely swept the Goya Awards.
And for our listeners who might not be tuned
into the Spanish film scene, the Goyas are. They're
essentially the Spanish Oscars. They are. And
this film was a cultural phenomenon. In 1991,
it took home Best Film, Best Director for Sora,
Best Actor, Best Actress, Best Adapted Screenplay.
I mean... It just cleaned house. It dominated
the conversation. Which really implies that it
struck a massive nerve. It wasn't just funny
and it wasn't just sad. It was saying something
about the war and specifically about how we remember
the war that maybe hadn't been articulated quite
that way before. Precisely. It tackles a theme
that I think is just fascinating at the role
of the artist in wartime, but not the noble artist
you see in propaganda posters. You know, the
one writing... Manifestos or charging the barricades
with a rifle. Right. These are not the heroes
of the revolution. No, this is about the survivalist
artist, the entertainer who just wants to eat,
the one who is trying to figure out what happens
to your dignity when the front lines shift overnight
and suddenly you're standing on the wrong side
of the fence. That's a great question. It asks
a very difficult question. Is it possible to
keep your integrity when survival demands you
become a clown for the enemy? And that is the
core tension we are going to unpack today. It's
about survival versus dignity. We have a massive
stack of sources to get through. We've got the
film's production history, a deep analysis of
the plot, the critical reception, and some really
interesting background on the historical context
of the songs used in the movie. A lot to get
through. A lot. Our mission is to explore how
this film walks that tightrope without falling
off. So are you ready to head back to 1938? I
am. Let's set the stage. Okay, let's unpack this.
The year is 1938. This is a crucial timestamp.
We aren't at the beginning of the war where there
is all this revolutionary optimism. No, not at
all. This is the endgame, essentially. The Republican
side, which is the democratically elected government,
the leftists, the anarchists, the anti -fascists,
they are losing ground rapidly. Crumbling. It
is. Franco's nationalist forces are closing in.
The mood isn't, we're going to win. The mood
is, how much longer can we hold on? And supplies
are non -existent. Morale is, well, it's in the
basement. And in the middle of this collapse,
we are introduced to our protagonists, a trio
of traveling entertainers. Let's meet the troupe.
Central to this entire narrative is the dynamic
between these three specific characters. First
and foremost, you have Carmela, played by the
absolute powerhouse, Carmen Mora. She is just
magnetic in this role. Unbelievable. He is the
heart and soul of the group. She sings, she dances,
and she possesses this raw, undeniable humanity.
She is earthy in the best sense of the word.
She feels things deeply. She represents the emotional
core of the Republican spirit. A bit chaotic,
very passionate, and deeply empathetic. And then
you have her partner, Paulino. played by Andres
Pajaras. Now, Polino is, well, he's a different
animal entirely, isn't he? He is. Polino is the
pragmatist. He considers himself an artist. He
reads poetry. He tries to maintain this air of
artistic dignity and sophistication. He wants
to be seen as a serious performer. But the reality
of their act is... A little less sophisticated.
Right, because despite all his pretensions, his
big talent, the thing that actually brings a
house down and gets them paid, he plays tunes
with his farts. I mean, we have to pause on that
for a second. It's such a specific choice by
the filmmakers. You have this guy reciting poetry
one minute and doing flatulence -based musical
numbers the next. Right. Why include that? Is
it just for a cheap laugh? I don't think so.
I really don't. I think it serves a very specific
narrative purpose. It grounds them. It completely
strips away any romanticism about who these people
are. They are hungry. They are poor. And their
bodies are their only currency. It emphasizes
the physical reality of their existence. It's
lowbrow, yes, but it's also defiant in a way.
It's the humor of the trenches. The humor of
survival. Exactly. And then rounding out the
trio is Gustavette, played by Gabino Diego. And
Gestadete is fascinating because he is a mute.
He communicates entirely through writing on a
slate chalkboard that he carries around his neck.
He's the third wheel, but he's also crucial,
isn't he? He is the witness. In narrative terms,
he represents the innocent observer. He can't
speak. He can only watch and record. In a way,
he's a stand -in for the audience or perhaps
for the future generations looking back at the
war, unable to intervene, just watching the horror
unfold. So we have this motley crew. And they
are touring on the Republican side of the conflict.
The film opens in a town called Montejo. And
I want you to describe the vibe of that opening
performance for us, because I think it tells
us everything we need to know about their world.
It's a scene of desperate normalcy. They are
performing for Republican troops in what looks
like a town square or a bombed out theater. But
the war isn't some distant concept. It is literally
overhead. Yeah, that sound design is incredible.
It is. Nationalist planes are droning above the
theater during the show. You can hear the engines,
the distant explosions. It creates this incredible
tension. You're watching a comedy routine, but
you're flinching every time the sound makes shifts.
Yeah. But nobody leaves. No one leaves. And that's
the power of the entertainment. The audience
is captivated. Carmela represents... Justice
or the Republic in a tableau vivant, you know,
wrapped in the flag. Paulino is waving the Republican
colors. They are singing songs of freedom. It
is a mix of genuine patriotic fervor. And as
we mentioned, very, very lowbrow humor. It feels
like a coping mechanism. A huge one. Absolutely.
It's collective therapy. They are laughing at
the fart jokes because if they stop laughing,
the reality that they might die tomorrow just
crashes in. They are singing the patriotic songs
to remind themselves why they are fighting, even
as they are losing. But things take a turn pretty
quickly. The performance ends. The reality sets
in. They decide that the front lines are getting
a little too close for comfort. This is the inciting
incident. They decide they've had enough of the
front. They want to flee to Valencia, which was
still a Republican stronghold, you know, further
from the immediate fighting. They just want safety.
They want safety. But to get to Valencia, they
need supplies, specifically fuel. And this leads
to a scene that really establishes the lengths
they will go to. They don't have money. They
don't have authorization. So Carmela has to distract
a Republican truck driver so the guys can steal
gasoline. It's a scene that is played for a comedy,
but the undercurrent is quite dark, isn't it?
She allows the driver to get a little handsy.
A little that. She flirts. She lets him touch
her. It really shows the desperation. And it
also shows the dynamic between Paulino and Carmela.
Paulino is okay with pimping her out, essentially,
if it gets them the gas. Exactly. It establishes
Paulino's moral flexibility right from the start.
He is willing to compromise Carmela's dignity
for their survival. It's a precursor, a foreshadowing
of the much - larger, darker compromises that
are coming later in the film. So they get the
gas, they steal it, they pile into their beat
-up truck. Gustavettes, the props, the costumes,
and that massive Republican flag, and they drive
off into the night. And here the film utilizes
a very classic narrative device, the fog. Literally
and metaphorically. Yes, the fog of war. They
are driving through a misty night trying to navigate
these treacherous unmarked roads. They're arguing.
They're tired. They're stressed. They lose their
bearings completely. And when the sun comes up,
the fog lifts. And they see a checkpoint. They
think, oh, thank God, it's our guys. They drive
up smiling, ready to maybe do a quick number
to get through. And then they see the uniforms.
And the uniforms are not Republican. They have
stumbled directly into nationalist territory.
They have crossed the lines without even realizing
it. And the worst part is they are traveling
with their prox. Which is the worst possible
luggage to have at that moment. A nationalist
officer stops them, looks in the back and finds
a massive Republican flag. That is it. Game over.
It's an immediate death sentence in most cases.
They're detained on the spot. In the blink of
an eye, they go from being celebrated entertainers
of the Republic to prisoners of the fascists.
This is where the movie shifts gears violently.
We go from a road trip comedy to something much,
much darker. They are taken to a local schoolhouse.
But as is so common in Civil War narratives,
the school is no longer a place of learning.
No. It has been converted into a makeshift prison
for Republican sympathizers, captured soldiers,
and anyone else the nationalists deemed undesirable.
And the film doesn't shy away from the reality
of this. It's grim. It's crowded. It smells of
fear and unwashed bodies. And the threat isn't
abstract at all. Not at all. Prisoners are periodically
taken away. You hear a name called. A person
is dragged out. Then you hear the truck engine
start. Then a few minutes later, you hear the
volley of gunfire. Oh, man. Then the truck comes
back empty. It's industrialized death. It's rhythmic.
And amidst this horror, while Paulino is practically
hyperventilating trying to explain that we're
just actors, we're not political, Carmela does
something interesting. She makes a connection.
She does. She befriends a prisoner from the International
Brigade, specifically a Polish soldier. Now,
for our listeners who might need a refresher,
can we quickly touch on who the International
Brigades were? Of course. These were volunteers.
civilians mostly, from all over the world. Americans,
British, French, Polish, you name it. They traveled
to Spain to fight against fascism. They weren't
conscripted. They chose to be there out of ideological
commitment. And Carmela is just blown away by
this guy. She is. She can't wrap her head around
it. Here is a nan who traveled across a continent
to a foreign land to fight and potentially die
for a country whose name he can't even pronounce
properly. He barely speaks Spanish. It's that
contrast again. Polino is just trying to survive,
to sneak away, to be a chameleon. And here's
this Polish soldier who chose to be there out
of pure idealism. It creates a moral anchor for
Carmela. This relationship, and it's not really
a romance in the traditional sense, it's a connection
of souls, becomes the emotional core of the film.
It reminds her of the stakes. It reminds her
that the Republic isn't just a flag in their
prop box or a gig that pays the bills. It's something
people are dying for. It completely changes her
perspective on what they do. Completely. Before
this, the flag was a prop. After meeting him,
the flag becomes a symbol. So Kenshin's are high
in the schoolhouse. It's a waiting game. And
then the inevitable happens. The trio is selected.
Their names are called. They are dragged out,
put in an army car, and driven away. At this
point, the audience and the characters are 100
% convinced they're being taken to a wall to
be shot. You're just waiting for the sound of
the guns. But then comes the twist. They aren't
taken to a ditch. They're taken to a theater.
A beautiful local theater in the nationalist
-controlled town. And this is where we meet our
antagonist. Or, I guess, our patron, depending
on how you look at it. Enter Lieutenant Emilio
di Ripamonte. An Italian officer. Right. Italy
under Mussolini was a major supporter of Franco,
sending troops and supplies. But Lieutenant Ripamonte
is a very specific type of villain. He isn't
a brute. He isn't screaming or beating them.
He's a theater director. He's an artist. He's
a man of culture. He despises the Spanish fascists
he is working with. He thinks they are crude
and unrefined. When he finds out Carmela and
Paulino are variety performers, he doesn't see
Reds to be executed. He sees colleagues. He sees
colleagues, but that doesn't mean he's nice.
No, I imagine it makes him more dangerous. In
a way, yes. Because he wants to use them. He
has a proposition. He explains that the nationalist
troops are bored. They need entertainment. He
wants to stage a show. A variety show for the
liberation or some kind of propaganda piece like
that. Exactly. And he offers them a bargain.
If they perform for the nationalist troops, he
will guarantee their safety. He will save their
lives. But there is a catch. A big one. It can't
just be any variety show. He has written a sketch.
A specific satirical sketch that mocks the Republic.
He wants them to go on stage and humiliate the
very cause they were representing just a few
days ago. So the deal is, make fun of everything
you stood for, make fun of your friends, spit
on your own flag, and I won't kill you. That
is the Faustian bargain, freedom in exchange
for a performance. But it's a performance that
requires a total betrayal of their identity.
And this sets up the central conflict of the
next segment. Paulino and Carmela have very,
very different reactions to this, don't they?
They do. And if we connect this to the bigger
picture, it really dramatizes the two common
responses to totalitarian pressure. You either
comply or you resist. Let's look at Paulino first.
How does he handle the news? Paulino is the ultimate
pragmatist. He immediately switches into survival
mode. He doesn't even hesitate. He starts rewriting
their old script right there and then. He's taking
the numbers that used to celebrate the Republic
and twisting them to be anti -Republican. He's
the guy who says, look, it's just a show. It's
just acting. We say the lines. They laugh. We
survive. It doesn't mean anything. Precisely.
For him, the art is a tool. It has no intrinsic
moral weight if it means getting shot. He separates
the performer from the person. He thinks he can
wear the mask without it sticking to his face.
But Carmela, Carmela can't do that. No. She resists.
She digs her heels in. She absolutely refuses
to betray her anti -fascist convictions. She
doesn't want to mock her own beliefs. And more
importantly, she is thinking of the people back
in the schoolhouse. She feels that performing
this show is a betrayal of them. A personal betrayal.
A deeply personal betrayal. There is a real tension
there. Paulino essentially has to beg her. He
has to convince her that they literally have
no choice. It is life or death. And he wears
her down. He wears her down. Reluctantly, painfully,
she agrees. But you can feel that she's doing
it under extreme duress. She's just simmering
with rage and shame. And to make matters even
worse, the film piles on the physical misery.
I think this is such a brilliant touch by Sora.
The day of the show arrives and they aren't just
morally conflicted. They're physically falling
apart. It creates a visceral sense of discomfort.
Carmela has her period. Which, again, in 1938,
in a war zone. That's not a minor inconvenience.
No, it's a nightmare. It makes her feel vulnerable,
irritable, and physically in pain. It grounds
her suffering in the body, not just an ideology.
And what about Paulino? Paulino has a terrible
stomach ache. He is cramping up. Why? Because
they ate a rabbit for dinner the night before?
Ah, the famous rabbit. Which turns out not to
be a rabbit. Gustavetti, ever the truth teller,
confirms on his slate that the rabbit was actually
a cat. That is such a dark joke. It's funny,
but it's also just disgusting. It really grounds
the high -minded moral conflict in the gritty
reality of hunger and poverty. You know, you
can't be a noble hero when you are digesting
a stray cat and trying not to throw up. It strips
away the glamour of acting. They're just wretched,
sick people trying to survive. So the curtain
is about to go up. They are backstage, miserable.
The theater is packed. Who is in the audience?
The stalls are filled with nationalist troops,
officers, the Italian dignitaries. They are rowdy,
they are drunk on victory, and they are ready
to mock the enemy. But that's not the whole audience,
is it? There's a darker layer to this. No. And
this is the ultimate cruelty of Lieutenant Ripamonte.
In the galleries, looking down on the stage,
he has brought in the prisoners of war. The very
same people they were locked up with. Including
the Polish soldiers Carmela befriended. They
have been brought there to watch their own ideals
being mocked. They are forced spectators to their
own humiliation. That destroys Carmela. It's
one thing to make fun of the Republic in front
of a bunch of fascists who are going to laugh
anyway. It's another thing entirely to do it
while looking into the eyes of the people you
respect. Precisely. It personalizes the betrayal.
She isn't just betraying an abstract idea. She
is betraying him, the Polish soldier, right to
his face. She knows he is watching her. So the
show must go on. Let's talk about this final
performance. Because the structure of it is really
interesting. It mirrors their old act, but it's
twisted. It's a funhouse mirror version of their
previous show. Musical numbers, poetry. But now,
instead of Paulino reading the poem, it's the
lieutenant reading it. Oh, that's a nice touch.
Yeah, the authority has shifted. The tone is
mean -spirited. And then we get to the main event.
The sketch that Ripamonte wrote. The Republic
goes to the doctor. This is a piece of satire
designed to be as offensive as possible to the
Republican cause. Paulino plays a doctor, specifically,
a gay Republican doctor, playing into all the
homophobic stereotypes the Nationalists held
about the degenerate left. Wow. And Carmela plays
the Spanish Republic herself. A female patient.
Dressed in the flag. Right. She's dressed in
the Republican colors, but tattered. And Gustavette
plays her Russian lover. Which plays into the
nationalist propaganda that the Republic was
just a puppet of the Soviet Union. Exactly. So
in the sketch, Carmela, as the Republic, claims
to be pregnant by the Russian. The content is
filled with highly offensive sexual innuendos.
It's degrading. It frames the Republic not as
a government, but as a whore. And there is a
specific bit with a thermometer. That seems to
be the tipping point for her. Yes. The script
calls for a crude physical gag. Carmela asks
the doctor to insert a thermometer, and Paulino,
in character, refuses, claiming it is broken
or he doesn't want to touch her. It's a lowbrow,
sexualized joke at the expense of her body and
the symbol she represents. And this is where
Carmela breaks. She just can't do it anymore.
she hits her limit she's looking at paulino who
is sweating and hamming it up she's looking at
the fascists laughing at her and she looks up
at the balcony and sees the polish soldiers the
shame is just too much she starts to sabotage
the sketch doesn't she she does she stops saying
her lines correctly she starts mumbling she jeopardizes
the credibility of the parody the sketch starts
to disintegrate paulino is panicking trying to
improvise trying to get her back on script and
as this is happening on stage the polish prisoners
in the gallery react. They rise in rebellion.
They can't take it either. They start shouting.
They won't sit there and let their cause be mocked.
The fascist audience becomes enraged. The theater
turns into a powder keg. Soldiers are pulling
weapons. And Carmela lights the match. What does
she do? She breaks character completely. She
rips off the persona of the whole republic. She
stands center stage and starts singing, I, Carmela,
the song of the resistance, the anthem. And she
does something with the flag. a final defiant
act she takes that republican flag she is holding
the prop flag and she lowers her dress to expose
her breasts whoa that is that is a hell of a
statement it is a direct shocking act of defiance
the crowd had been calling her a during the performance
by exposing herself voluntarily she is reclaiming
her body she is saying i am here i am real and
i am not afraid of you It invokes the imagery
of liberty leading the people, that famous Delacroix
painting. It's an act of supreme vulnerability
and supreme power all at once. Yes, she is daring
them to look at her as a human being. And the
reaction is instant. What happens? A nationalist
officer in the stall stands up. He doesn't hesitate.
He raises a pistol and shoots her. Just like
that. Just like that. A shot to the forehead.
That is brutal. It goes from a comedy sketch
to an execution in a split second. And that is
the film's thesis in a single moment. The comedy
cannot protect you from the violence of the war.
The fart jokes won't save you. Carmela falls
dead on the stage. And in that moment of horror,
something miraculous happens with Gustavette.
In his anguish, seeing Carmela die, the woman
who was essentially his mother figure, his protector,
the shock. breaks something in his brain or fixes
it he suddenly recovers his voice he calls out
the mute speaks he screams her name but it's
tragic irony isn't it he finds his voice only
when it is too late to use it to save her man
that is heavy so what is the aftermath how does
the movie leave us It's a quiet, devastating
epilogue. We see Paulino and Gustavetti at Carmela's
grave. It's a rudimentary grave, basically a
dirt mound on the side of the road. They are
survivors again, just the two of them. They decorate
it with flowers and they leave Gustavetti's chalkboard
there. He doesn't need it anymore. No. And Gustavetti
speaks the only words of the scene. He looks
at Paulino and says, come on, Paulino. Come on,
Paulino. Just that. And they return to the road.
The song, I, Carmella. Yeah. In the background.
They just keep moving. That is such a powerful
ending. It's not a happy ending, obviously, but
it's not a completely hopeless one either. They
were still moving. It's life continuing amidst
the tragedy. It deconstructs the idea of a happy
ending. Survival isn't a happy ending. It's just
the absence of death. But they go on. I want
to zoom out a bit now. We've walked through the
plot. And it is a gut punch. But let's talk about
the production itself, because this wasn't an
original screenplay, right? It started on the
stage. That's right. It is based on a wildly
successful play by José Sánchez Sinisterra. But
the adaptation process was quite significant.
If you see the play, you might be surprised at
how different it is structurally. How so? In
the play, there are only two characters, Carmela
and Paulino. Gustavetti doesn't really exist
as a character on stage, or at least not as a
main one. And the story is told largely in flashback.
Oh, really? Yes. In the play, Carmela is already
dead when the curtain rises. She appears as a
ghost to converse with Paulino. So it's a ghost
story on stage. That's a completely different
vibe. Effectively. Paulino is alone in a theater,
depressed, drunk, and Carmela's ghost comes back
to blame him for what happened. It's very claustrophobic.
So Carlos Sora, the director... and his writer
Rafael Escona, they really opened it up for the
film. They made it linear. They decided to show
us the journey rather than just tell us about
it in retrospect. This allowed them to show the
change in territory, the physical movement from
the Republican zone to the nationalist zone.
It turns the first half into a road movie. And
it allowed them to flesh out the world. Exactly.
It gave them the space to add characters like
Gustavette. By giving Gustavette a physical presence,
they added that layer of the witness. And the
Italian lieutenant, Ripamonte, He gets to be
a fully realized character in the film, representing
that cultured fascism we talked about. It sounds
like the film version is much more dynamic. It
lets you experience the fall with them. It is.
Soar said he wanted to show the relationship
evolving in relation to the events. You can't
really do that as effectively if one of them
is already a ghost from minute one. He wanted
the audience to fall in love with living, breathing
Carmela before taking her away. Makes the loss
that much more painful. Much more. Let's talk
about the song itself. I, Carmela. Why that song?
I've had it stuck in my head just reading the
notes. It's an earworm, isn't it? But it's a
song with deep, deep roots in Spanish history.
It wasn't written for the Civil War. It was originally
from the War of Independence against Napoleon
in the early 1800s. Oh, wow. So it goes way back.
It does. It's the eternal song of Spanish resistance
against the invader. But during the Civil War,
it was adapted. The lyrics were changed to reference
the Battle of the Ebro, the bombardments. It
became a favorite anthem of the Republican soldiers
and the International Brigade. So it's a folk
song that evolves. It gets new life with each
conflict. Exactly. It's a living document. So
when Carmela sings it at the end, she isn't just
singing a pop song. She is invoking a century
and a half of Spanish resistance. She is aligning
herself with history. Now, earlier we mentioned
that Sora is known for being a bit grim. His
earlier films are heavy. But this movie is funny.
Why the shift? Sora had made many films about
the war or its aftermath, films like The Hunt
or Crea Cuervos, and they were characterized
by violence, brutality, and grim irony. They
were made closer to the dictatorship. But with
Ai... Carmela, which came out in 1990, he felt
enough time had passed. It was 50 years after
the war ended. Right. And Spain had been a democracy
for over a decade. He felt he could adopt a broader
perspective. He believed that by employing humor,
he could say things that would be impossible
to say otherwise. Humor as a Trojan horse. In
a way. It humanizes the tragedy. If you laugh
with these characters, if you see them fart and
struggle and eat cat, you love them. They aren't
symbols. They are people. So when the violence
comes, it hurts more. It's not just a statistic.
It's a friend dying. And clearly that approach
worked. We mentioned the Goyas at the top of
the show. It dominated. It swept the major categories.
Best film, best director, best actor, best actress.
It was Spain's submission for the Oscars, although
it didn't get the nomination. But it won significant
European accolades. It really, really resonated
with the Spanish public. Why do you think it
hit such a nerve in 1990 specifically? I think
it was the first time a major film allowed Spaniards
to look at the war and not just feel anger, but
feel pity. Pity for the people who were caught
in the middle. Paulino represents the silent
majority of Spain people who just kept their
heads down to survive Francoism. It forgives
them in a way. It doesn't forgive them, but it
understands them. It says, we know why you did
it. You were scared. You wanted to live. But
it also honors the Carmelas, the ones who couldn't
do it. It bridges the gap between the survivors
and the martyrs. There is also a bit of a backstage
reunion story here, isn't there, between the
director and the writer? There is. Carlos Sara
and the screenwriter Rafael Ascona. They were
a legendary duo. in Spanish cinema in the 60s
and 70s. They were like the Lennon and McCartney
of Spanish arthouse. But they had a massive falling
out in 1975. Right before Korea Cuervos, I think.
Yes. They stopped speaking for 15 years. So this
film marked their reunion. And what a reunion
it was. It was a significant moment in Spanish
cinema history to see these two masters working
together again to tell one last great story about
the war. It feels like a mature film. Like a
young director makes a movie about the war that
is... all guns and glory. This feels like an
old man's movie in the best possible way. It's
about regret and memory. It is. It's wise. It
knows that heroism is rare and survival is ugly.
So what does this all mean? We have a comedy
about a tragedy. We have a mute who finds his
voice only when there is no one left to hear
it. We have a survivor and a martyr. I think
I, Carmela, is ultimately a film about the price
of survival. Paulino survives. He walks away.
But at what cost? He had to compromise everything
he was. Carmela refused to pay that price, and
she paid with her life. It doesn't really judge
Polino, though, does it? The film is surprisingly
sympathetic to him. No, and that's the brilliance
of it. It doesn't paint him as a villain. He's
just human. Most of us, if we're honest with
ourselves, are probably more like Polino than
Carmela. We want to live. We would probably read
the poem if it meant not getting shot. But we
aspire to have Carmela's courage. Exactly. The
film asks us, at what point does the show become
impossible to perform? At what point do you have
to drop the flag or rather raise the flag and
say no more? It's a haunting question. And that
final image of Gustavette and Polino walking
away back onto the road. It just sticks with
you. It suggests that the only true resistance
in a war where ideology kills is the enduring
bond of human relationships. Or perhaps, and
this is another way to look at it, the recovery
of Gustavette's voice is a sign. A sign of what?
That the witness can finally speak. that the
story of the tragedy must now be told. Carmela
is gone, but Gustavete has a voice now. He saw
it all. He can tell her story. The story must
go on. That is a beautiful way to look at it.
The silence is broken, even if the heart is broken.
Well said. Well, that is all the time we have
for this deep dive into Carmela. If you haven't
seen it, it is definitely worth tracking down.
It's a roller coaster of emotions. It'll make
you laugh. It'll make you sick. And it will break
your heart. Absolutely. A true masterpiece of
Spanish cinema. Thanks for listening, everyone.
We'll catch you on the next dive. Goodbye.