I was asked in the Q&A whether I was going to watch the movie La bola negra that was recently released in Spain and already received a bunch of awards. I was, and I actually did, and I will now be happy to share my impressions.
Even though I bought my ticket two days in advance, the movie was already almost sold out. There were only two more seats left after I bought mine. Curiously, the audience was overwhelmingly elderly retirees, mostly women. I have no idea why 80-year-old women would be desperate to watch a movie about gay love where half of the movie consists of naked men running around. Okay, I’m exaggerating, of course. It’s not half of the movie, but still. There is clearly something I fail to understand about the sexual seasons of a woman’s life.
I will start with my objections to the movie, of which there are several. The filmmakers were clearly worried that they would be accused of the movie being too male. So they added some utterly unnecessary female characters. There is a long and soporific scene in the middle with a female singer which has nothing whatsoever to contribute to the story and is clearly only there for diversity reasons.
Another letdown of this nature is that when, in 2017, the gay male protagonist makes a crucial life-changing discovery, he takes it to a strange American woman. The woman immediately proceeds to lecture him about what it means to be Spanish, transposing her own American story onto the Spanish history that the male character is trying to discuss. The American woman is played by Glenn Close, whom I adore and consider to be extremely talented, but she shouldn’t be in this movie at all. What is the likelihood that a gay man in a creative profession does not have a male gay mentor or friend to whom he would take his discovery? This is a movie about the genealogies of gay male artists. They don’t need women to facilitate their discoveries about their history as gay men.
The unnecessary women always come accompanied by equally unnecessary transgenders, because, of course, we can’t have a movie that’s just about gay men without an obligatory listing of all other contiguous identities.
The other big issue is a deliberately uneven portrayal of gay men of the past and gay men of the present. The gay men of the past are all stunningly beautiful. They are capable of the most profound, complex feelings. Their love is portrayed with extraordinary tenderness and great respect. I would say that this was probably the best portrayal of gay male love I have ever seen.
The gay man of the present, on the other hand, is fat, disheveled, and creatively impotent. The visual contrast between him and the gay men of the past is so stark that it cannot be anything but a deliberate creative choice by the filmmakers. He is portrayed as having meaningless, tawdry sex with a stranger and an indifferent cohabitation with a live-in boyfriend. The contrast between the crude sex scene of the gay man of the present and the sensual, beautiful feelings of the gay men of the past is as stark as the mismatch between their bodies. It is not surprising that the most significant relationship in the life of the gay man of the present is with his indifferent alcoholic mother.
At the end of the movie, poet Federico García Lorca says that if gay men cannot live openly as who they are, they will lose what makes life worth living. But everything in the movie contradicts this idea. Its point seems to be that it is only if they have to be secretive about their sexuality that gay men can have profound feelings.
It is a good movie, but it could be better if the screenwriters had cut out the actresses and allowed the gay man of the present to love somebody who is not his mother.



