By Jason Osiason
La Bola Negra tries. I want that said first because it tries harder than most movies I’ve seen this year, taking an unfinished Lorca play and stretching it across three timelines, three men and nearly a century of queer Spanish history with the kind of ambition I wish more filmmakers had. There’s a real belief here that these stories deserve an epic, and they absolutely do, but I kept wishing there was more going on beneath the surface. The Stephen Daldry comparisons feel painfully accurate, with all the swelling emotion, handsome compositions and performances that seem to know exactly when the camera is coming in for a close-up. It’s a stunning production, genuinely, with extraordinary period detail and some dazzling transitions between decades, but so much of the actual storytelling feels superficial that I started wondering whether Los Javis had spent more time figuring out how these lives should look than how they should feel.
The 1932 storyline follows Carlos, played by Milo Quifes, as he attempts to enter an exclusive club where the members vote on his admission using white and black balls. It’s a humiliating little ceremony, and there’s an obvious cruelty in watching a room full of men casually decide whether somebody deserves to belong, but the section is strangely difficult to connect with. Carlos never becomes much more than the circumstances surrounding him, and just when I thought the film might start digging into his character, we’re somewhere else entirely. That’s the recurring frustration with La Bola Negra, which keeps jumping between periods so aggressively that none of its relationships have much opportunity to develop. The editing is often terrific, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that every time something interesting started happening between two people, somebody decided it was time for another gorgeous transition.
The 1937 storyline should be the emotional centerpiece, following Sebastian, a trumpeter played by Guitarricadelafuente, who ends up guarding Rafael Rodriguez Rapun, played by Miguel Bernardeau, a wounded Republican prisoner with ties to Lorca. There’s an extraordinary love story somewhere in that setup, two men finding each other in the middle of a war that has already decided what they’re allowed to be, and I wanted desperately to feel it. Unfortunately, the chemistry is only halfway there, with Guitarricadelafuente giving a fairly tentative debut performance and Bernardeau struggling to make Rafael feel like an actual person rather than another historical tragedy we’re supposed to mourn. They have their moments, and the tenderness occasionally comes through, but I never completely bought their connection. That’s a problem when so much of the film depends on us carrying that relationship through the decades.
The modern storyline isn’t particularly compelling either, with Alberto, played by Carlos Gonzalez, inheriting a manuscript and spending an awful lot of time discussing its significance with a scholar played by Glenn Close, while his strained relationship with his mother, played by Lola Duenas, provides another mystery the film seems oddly reluctant to explore until it’s convenient. I understand what Los Javis are attempting with the generational connections, particularly the idea of recovering histories that were deliberately buried, but understanding the intention and being moved by the execution are two different things. Nobody really flies off the ground here, and for a film with this much talent involved, the performances are surprisingly underwhelming.
And then Penelope Cruz shows up as Nene Romero, a cabaret singer performing for soldiers during the war, and suddenly there’s some actual life in the movie. She’s fabulous, bringing a little danger, humor and unpredictability to a production that otherwise takes itself almost unbearably seriously, and I was genuinely disappointed when her appearance was over. I expected more from the cameo, though not necessarily more screen time, because there’s so much potential in this character and what she represents that reducing her to a brief musical detour feels like a missed opportunity. She’s having the time of her life, and I wish some of that energy had rubbed off on everyone else.
I admire the ambition and there’s no denying how beautifully made La Bola Negra is, but I found the whole thing dramatically underdeveloped, particularly for a film this determined to make every moment feel monumental. The constant jumping around doesn’t help, nor does the fact that the chemistry in all three timelines remains frustratingly undercooked. Los Javis clearly have something personal to say about the lives and loves that history tried to erase, and I appreciate the scale they’ve given that material. I just wish they’d spent a little less time making everything look important and a little more time making me care about the people. [C+]
