Can't be calm. Laughter and tears flew to the last second. The last time I watched a movie was "Goodbye in Heaven". There is no doubt that the passionate Latins are better at this sinful and unrepentant confession than the French. Not enough madness is not enough to break the cold, ruthless gaze of historical onlookers.
Harvey, Serge, Natalia are representatives of the three ghosts of modern Spain (I hate to say representatives, but that's exactly what it is). Harvey is the antagonistic good, the dream of the republic, the ideal to be inherited and carried; Sergi is Franco, the power of cruel temptation, the evil that makes people addicted. In Spain's own eyes, the crime it committed against itself was to kill all beauty and ugliness, hope and despair with good intentions and strong love -- betray the past and kill the future. When both hands are stained with the blood of both enemies and loved ones, the pain is so deafening, it turns into bursts of laughter.
Sad clowns run the streets with guns, intending to turn grief into anger that burns the city, but all eyes are full of terrified and curious children—all innocents. Spain can think of itself as innocents. But who should bear the blame and the remainder?
This terrifying and charming three-person dance ends with Natalia snapping at the waist on the long red dance belt. This maddeningly beautiful woman who is both a virgin and a whore is the director's imitation of the silent Spanish conscience - the one who wants everything and deserves everything, sincere, hypocritical, passionate, and ultimately Destroyed conscience.
At the moment when Natalia was broken like a butterfly, I suddenly realized that the real reason this story gave me convulsions was not the Spanish complex, but Natalia.
When I was almost a toddler, there was an adult woman who came into my life, she terrified me, and I dreamed of her almost every night. I don't know what could be more beautiful and fragile than her - she was to me what Natalia was to Harvey. All the things and forces that came close to her that seemed to me to hurt her but that I couldn't explain made me wary - the tips of scissors and kitchen knives, sharp objects of all kinds, the words of men, the The hostility in her face and the expressions I couldn't understand...everywhere she went, she concentrated all my fears. Trying to protect her from a world beyond my control left me deeply powerless and hopeless. But she had already left. Broken wings are immature dreams. Memories emerge as ruined riddles in the whimper of the little saxophone.
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