Professional Documents
Culture Documents
IN SPANISH CINEMA
Sally Faulkner
Monografías A
Colección Támesis
SERIE A: MONOGRAFÍAS, 202
LITERARY ADAPTATIONS
IN SPANISH CINEMA
LITERARY ADAPTATIONS
IN SPANISH CINEMA
TAMESIS
© Sally Faulkner 2004
Acknowledgements . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . vii
1. Introduction: Texts and Contexts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1
2. Post-Franco Films of the Post-War Novel: Aesthetics and History . . 15
La colmena (Camus 1982): In Search of Authenticity . . . . . . . . . 24
Time of Silence, Time of Protest: Tiempo de silencio (Aranda 1986) . 33
Filmography . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 167
Bibliography . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 171
Index. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 189
For my parents, Anthony and Helen Faulkner
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
INTRODUCTION:
TEXTS AND CONTEXTS
Approaches to Adaptation
A field of academic study which is so richly suggestive for the analysis of
both aesthetic and ideological questions has, however, been hampered by
limiting critical and theoretical approaches.2 This is because literary adapta-
1 Noël Burch coined the term ‘Institutional Mode of Representation’ to refer to the
structures of the classic narrative system (see Cook 1995, 208 and 212–15). A
much-quoted 1942 article by Sergei Eisenstein, ‘Dickens, Griffith and Ourselves’ (1999),
demonstrates how D. W. Griffith’s narrative techniques developed from the nineteenth-
century novel; Griffith’s work in turn formed the basis of the IMR (see for example,
Peña-Ardid 1996, 128–54). While it is generally taken as axiomatic that, as James Monaco
affirms, ‘The narrative potential of film is so marked it has developed its strongest bond
not with painting, not even with drama, but with the novel’ (2000, 44), it should be noted
that the development of filmic syntax was influenced by plural media, including the novel,
theatre and the magazine serial (Brewster and Jacobs 1997, vi). Ben Brewster and Lea
Jacobs’s work (1997) goes some way to redressing what they see as the over-emphasis on
the novel in their study of the influence of drama on cinema of the 1910s.
2 For a (hostile) overview of the development of adaptation criticism, see Ray 2000.
2 SALLY FAULKNER
tions have constantly been the battleground over which film’s status was
fought. In the early years, films based on books and plays triggered debate
over whether film could be defined as an autonomous art, and, if so, what the
‘essence’ of that art was. Later, adaptation studies were the casualty of the
development of film as a legitimate object of academic enquiry.
Early debates about literary adaptations in cinema betray extreme bias.
For those seeking to hush up the new medium’s lowly beginnings as a fair-
ground spectacle and justify film as a new art – thereby attracting
middle-class audiences – adaptations of canonical texts were proof of film’s
artistic credentials.3 For others, literary adaptations were cited as evidence of
precisely the opposite. Since such films foreground their debt to another
artistic medium, cinema was pronounced dependent on literature and wanting
of its own modes of expression.4 In both cases, appreciation of the specific
nature of literary adaptations was obscured by other ideological agendas.
We find that this was also the case when in the 1950s literary adaptation
gave rise once again to discussions regarding the nature of cinema. In the
pages of the Cahiers du Cinéma, the influential thinkers of the French New
Wave championed the film director as ‘auteur’ (ironically adopting a literary
concept of authorship) as opposed to the ‘metteur-en-scène’ or ‘littérateur’
who merely transcribed literary works into the cinematic medium. Conve-
niently side-stepping the fact that the Hollywood films these critics revered
were themselves based on literary texts, like Hitchcock’s The 39 Steps (based
on a novel by John Buchan) or Sabotage (based on a novel by Joseph Conrad)
(Naremore 2000b, 6–7), the contemporary French tradition de qualité was
attacked for its excessive recourse to literary adaptation.5 What these critics
apparently reveal is a fear that literary adaptations might obliterate film as a
distinct medium, an anxiety echoed by a Spanish critic as late as 1989 with
the argument that literary adaptation ‘c’est le renoncement à l’autonomie du
langage cinématographique’ (Carlos Heredero quoted in Losilla 2002, 125
n. 5).
3 At the same time as the Vitagraph Company in New York and the Societé de Film
d’Art in Paris were producing literary adaptations (Naremore 2000b, 4), in Spain, Films
Barcelona and La Hispano Films appealed to the Spanish literary canon (e.g. Don Quijote
de la Mancha, Cuyàs 1910). Subsequently Adriá Gual headed Barcelona-based
Barcinógrafo, which produced a number of literary adaptations, for example, El alcalde
de Zalamea (Gual 1914) (Seguin 1996, 9 and 13).
4 For example Virginia Woolf, writing before the introduction of sound, argues that
literary adaptations have been ‘disastrous to both [film and literature]’, and that cinema
should aim to convey ‘innumerable symbols for emotions that have so far failed to find
expression’ (1977, 265–6).
5 See François Truffaut’s attack on the ‘tradition de qualité’ and call for ‘une
politique des auteurs’ in his 1954 article ‘Une certaine tendance du cinéma français’
(Truffaut 1976). Italian cineastes also repudiated literariness in forging the similarly
influential neorealist movement (M. Marcus 1993, 4–10).
INTRODUCTION: TEXTS AND CONTEXTS 3
6 Ginette Vincendeau notes (2001b, xv) that film studies textbooks, like The Cinema
Book (Cook and Bernink 1999), The Oxford Guide to Film Studies (Hill and Church
Gibson 1998) and Film Art: An Introduction (Bordwell and Thompson, first published
1979), tend to ignore literary adaptations.
7 Surprisingly, authors of published studies on literature and cinema occasionally still
cheerfully admit they have no formal knowledge of film (Becerra Suárez 1997, 21;
Villanueva 1999, 185).
4 SALLY FAULKNER
8 It may be noted that in twentieth-century Spain, the cultivation of the abstract in art
can often be explained by the desire to elude the censorship of repressive regimes like
Franco’s.
INTRODUCTION: TEXTS AND CONTEXTS 5
The fact that the effect on the spectator of other texts [. . .] and of other
pressures (e.g. [. . .] extra-cinematic inf luences such as the prevailing ideo-
logical climate) is not readily susceptible to the quantifying possibilities
referred to above does not mean that the critic of adaptation can afford to
ignore them. (1996, 201, emphasis added)
9 For the purposes of brevity, here as elsewhere I include television under cinema as
an umbrella term.
8 SALLY FAULKNER
One argument that runs through this book is that a modernist hierarchy
between the media is not only ideologically dubious, but also demonstrably
mistaken. I offer close readings of both literary texts and their film adapta-
tions throughout to reveal the different, but equally profound, expressive
possibilities of both novels and plays, and films and television. Another
thread is this book’s aim, following Andrew and others, to counter the
ahistoricism of structuralist studies of adaptation, an approach which, like
Gubern, I show is particularly inappropriate to the study of Spanish cinema.10
Questions of context are addressed here through both examination of histor-
ical background in general, and analysis of the reception of the films in
particular.11 This book is not however a comprehensive survey of literary
adaptations in Spanish cinema as a whole, but a study of twelve adaptations
both as texts, and within their contexts.12 My examples are drawn from
cinema and television of the late dictatorship, transitional and democratic
periods, but a brief examination of literary adaptations during the dictator-
ship at this stage demonstrates why a historicist approach is so necessary.
While the criteria for selecting literary texts for adaptation during the
silent period of Spanish cinema were largely commercial (Mata Moncho
Aguirre 1986, 4), under the dictatorship that process of selection was also
determined by an ideological programme.13 With regard to cine oficial, the
10 This book thus responds to Jorge Urrutia’s lament that ‘no existen prácticamente
estudios que [. . .] intenten explicar [las adaptaciones] en virtud de los motivos sociales e
ideológicos’ (1994, 27) and Peña-Ardid’s affirmation that an ideological analysis is ‘la
más adecuada para cualquier estudio global e histórico sobre la adaptación en España’
(1996, 30). While scholars of the Anglo-American tradition have criticized the ‘scientism’
(Smith 2000b, 23) of peninsular hispanism (López, Talens and Villanueva 1994b, ix–xii;
Smith 2000b, 23–41), Santos Zunzunegui (1999) has provocatively attacked North-Amer-
ican work on Spanish cinema as excessively concerned with ideological themes (e.g.
‘cainismo’, Oedipality, violence) at the expense of questions of form. My approach to lit-
erary adaptation promotes however the analysis of both form and ideology.
11 My arguments regarding reception are based on the examination of press clippings
held at the Filmoteca Nacional. The amount of material available for different films varies
considerably, and clippings often lack page references and full attributions.
12 This book is neither, therefore, a study of the related question of the impact of
cinema on contemporary writers, a field first addressed by C. B. Morris in This Loving
Darkness (1980). See in particular the work of Rafael Utrera (1981; 1982; 1985; 1987;
1989; 1998); also Susana Pastor Cesteros (1996) and Juan Antonio Hormigón (1986).
13 It may be erroneous to claim that the propaganda exercise mounted by Francoist
Spain through its national cinema was equal to that of fascist Germany or Italy (Labanyi
1995a, 207), and the fact that Franco himself scripted Sáenz de Heredia’s Raza (1941) has
perhaps been overstated. Nonetheless cinema under the dictatorship was ideologically
INTRODUCTION: TEXTS AND CONTEXTS 9
promotion of certain texts from the national literature, and the preclusion of
others, through their adaptation to film may be readily interpreted as a func-
tion of propaganda. The process of selecting texts for adaptation was analo-
gous to the activities of the censorship office. As Carmen Peña-Ardid
stresses, selection of texts for adaptation was governed by ‘condicionantes
[. . .] nada desdeñables de tipo ideológico que actuaron [. . .] bajo la forma de
una palpable censura política – y eclesiástica – que seleccionaba obras,
autores e introducía modificaciones en los guiones escritos a partir de las
obras literarias’ (1996, 30). Thus in his survey of the literary adaptations
between 1939 and 1953, Rafael de España demonstrates that Francoist
cinema was an ‘escaparate cultural [que reflejaba] los criterios ideológicos
dominantes en esa época: principio de autoridad, patriotismo irracional y
defensa de los valores morales más tradicionales (familia y religión en primer
lugar)’ (1995, 70). España shows that the literary texts adapted during this
period, which amounted to 33.2% of total production (1995, 71), tended to
marry grassroots popularity with party line politics. The clichéd Andalusian
sainetes of the Álvarez Quintero brothers, which were both popular and
consensual, top the list of most adapted authors, followed by Luisa María
Linares’s novelas rosas, which reinforced the gender roles defended by the
regime. As might be expected the list includes the work of other conservative
writers such as Wenceslao Fernández Flórez, Jacinto Benavente, Armando
Palacio Valdés and Concha Espina, but of course excludes ideologically
dissident and non-Castilian Spanish texts, for example by exiled writers, and,
most notably, Benito Pérez Galdós, who is discussed in chapters four and five
of this book.14 Perhaps more revealing of the drive to promote monolithic
ideology is the treatment of Antonio Machado. The selection of those texts
written with his right-leaning brother Manuel for adaptation, La Lola se va a
los puertos (Orduña 1947) and La duquesa de Benamejí (Lucia 1949), not
only smothered his dissident voice but, according to España (1995, 76), the
plays were adapted in such a way as virtually to transform him into a
Francoist sympathizer.
If the texts selected, and rejected, for adaptation in this period matched the
preferences of the censors, the way the filmmaker might manipulate the
material could therefore be another matter. Román Gubern (2002, 57) has
argued that the choice of texts was probably as opportunistic as it was
actively political, since if a book had previously passed through the censors it
regulated through censorship, and the regime sought self-justification and aggrandizement
through state-sponsored films and its Noticiarios y Documentales Cinematográficos, the
NO-DO, newsreels obligatorily screened before all film showings from 1943–75 (Tranche
and Sánchez-Biosca 2002, 15). The category of interés nacional, established in 1942, also
bore an obvious resemblance to the Nazi Film der Nation (España 1995, 73).
14 España notes that in fact certain Catalan authors were adapted in the period, though
naturally the films were produced in Spanish (1995, 77).
10 SALLY FAULKNER
was likely the film would also be passed, and Juan de Mata Moncho Aguirre
(1986, 5) similarly notes that owing to the ‘respetable carácter literario’ of lit-
erary adaptations, ‘la censura permitía cierto atrevimiento moral’. John
Hopewell goes a step further than this to suggest that adaptation became part
of a tradition of dissent. One way to ‘get round the censor’, he points out, was
to ‘base your film on a classic, then subvert that classic’s sense’ (Hopewell
1986, 77, original emphasis). However, Hopewell is referring to the later
auteurist tradition of dissent here, and his example of such a smoke screen
strategy is Mario Camus and Antonio Drove’s La leyenda del alcalde de
Zalamea, an adaptation of Calderón and Lope de Vega’s two versions of El
alcalde de Zalamea, made as late as 1972. In the period discussed by España,
it seems that while consensual filmmakers adapted potentially radical texts in
such a way that they promoted Francoist ideology, there is little evidence to
suggest, conversely, that ideological opposition was voiced by subversively
adapting conservative texts. (The adaptations of Pedro Antonio de Alarcón’s
El escándalo [Sáenz de Heredia 1943] and El clavo [Gil 1944] discussed by
Mata Moncho Aguirre [1986, 5] may be exceptions here.) In fact dissident
film adaptations during this period tended to be based on dissident texts over-
looked by the censor. Ábel Sánchez (Unamuno 1917; Serrano de Osma 1946),
La sirena negra (Pardo Bazán 1908; Serrano de Osma 1947), Las inquietudes
de Shanti Andia (Baroja 1911; Ruiz-Castillo 1946), Nada (Laforet 1944;
Neville 1947) and Historia de una escalera (Buero Vallejo 1949; Iquino
1950) would be the major examples, all of which presented ‘un mundo menos
edulcorado y edificante que el que contenían las novelas adaptadas antes’
(Mata Moncho Aguirre 1986, 5).15
The oppositional legacy of these film adaptations was inherited by the
dissident directors of the 1960s and 1970s, whose influence can in turn be
perceived in adaptations of the transition and beyond. For many of the direc-
tors of the Nuevo Cine Español (see chapter four for a discussion of this
movement) literary adaptation, as Hopewell suggests, was a means of ques-
tioning, if not denouncing, Francoist ideology. Miguel Picazo’s outstanding
1964 adaptation of Unamuno’s La tía Tula (1921), which has been described
as the best Spanish film of the 1960s (Torreiro 1995b, 314), therefore mani-
fests a debt to Carlos Serrano de Osma’s work, and launched an attack on the
gender ideology promoted by the regime. Similarly, Angelino Fons in his crit-
ically acclaimed début La busca (1966) adapted Baroja’s novel of social
critique of the same title (1904). Such a questioning of Francoist ideology
15 See Jo Labanyi’s study of how Unamuno’s novel and film noir in Carlos Serrano de
Osma’s Ábel Sánchez ‘might have served as an indirect expression for Spanish audiences
of anxieties closer [. . .] to home’ (1995b, 11). Her study, which pays attention to both the
specificity of film (the conventions of film noir) and addresses the ideological signifi-
cance of adapting this text at this time, provides a model of how literary adaptations in the
early Franco period might be studied.
INTRODUCTION: TEXTS AND CONTEXTS 11
16 In chapter four, note 22, I count eight such adaptations. Antonio Santamarina lists
nine adaptations of Golden Age texts in the same period, 1968–77 (Santamarina 2002,
171). Further work on these Golden Age films, especially in comparison with adaptations
of texts from this period in the early dictatorship years which used them to ‘evocar el
glorioso pasado español’ (España 1995, 75), would be very valuable.
17 For example Saura’s Bodas de sangre (Saura 1981; Lorca 1933) and Carmen (Saura
1983; Mérimée 1847; Bizet 1875), and Erice’s El sur (Erice 1983; Morales 1985); for
Buñuel’s literary adaptations see chapter five.
12 SALLY FAULKNER
1 This decade saw a boom in literary adaptations in other European cinemas, like
France and Britain. It is odd therefore that Ginette Vincendeau’s Film / Literature / Heri-
tage (2001a) should only focus on the 1990s.
2 On the first film-television financing deal, ‘El concurso de los 1.300 millones’ of
1979, see Gómez Bermúdez de Castro 1989, 151–4. The Miró decrees, named after Pilar
Miró, Director-General of Film (1983–85), set up a subsidy system based on the French
model of avance sur recettes. See Gómez Bermúdez de Castro 1989, 95–142; Losilla
1989; Jordan and Morgan-Tamosunas 1998, 1–5. On the French system see Hayward
1993.
16 SALLY FAULKNER
Film bonito, fino, agradable para la vista y para el oído aunque trate el tema
más escabroso’ (1989, 41).
Besides this censure or ‘betrayal’ at the level of content, critics have also
noted filmmakers’ inability to emulate the formal nature of the literary texts.
Thus intense interiority becomes facile specularity (Company Ramón 1989,
60, on La plaza del diamante), disorientating fragmentation becomes
comforting coherence (Jordan and Morgan-Tamosunas 1998, 35–6, on La
colmena) and unsettling narrative distance becomes familiar identification
(Company Ramón 1989, 81, on Réquiem por un campesino español). In sum,
the failure of the adaptations to live up to the literary originals lies in their
excessive prioritization of mimetic, over poetic, aspects:
Thirdly and finally, the historical mise en scène of these literary adapta-
tions (mainly the civil- and post-war periods) has been interpreted according
to Marxist accounts of postmodern superficiality, which were published in
the same period the films were released. Barry Jordan and Rikki
Morgan-Tamosunas for example conclude their reading of Los santos
inocentes and La colmena citing Fredric Jameson’s ‘Postmodernism or the
Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism’ (1982) to suggest that the films’
aestheticization of history generates ‘a new connotation of “pastness” and
pseudo-historical depth, in which the history of aesthetic styles displaces
“real” history’ (Jordan and Morgan-Tamosunas 1998, 37). Smith has more
recently suggested a point of coincidence between Belle Époque (Trueba
1992) – a film he sees as the ‘culmination’ of 1980s historical cinema – and
Jean Baudrillard’s thesis of ‘History: A Retro Scenario’ elaborated in
Simulacra and Simulations (Baudrillard 2000). Smith (2000b, 42) cites
Baudrillard’s argument that in the postmodern era ‘history [. . .] invades the
cinema [. . .]. The great event of this period [is] these death pangs of the real
and of the rational that open onto an age of simulation [. . .] history has
retreated, leaving behind it an indifferent nebula, traversed by currents, but
emptied of references. It is into this void that the phantasms of a past history
recede’ (Baudrillard 2000, 43–4).6
similar tendencies in British and French culture (Walsh 1992; Higson 1993; Powrie 1997;
Austin 1996).
POST-FRANCO FILMS OF THE POST-WAR NOVEL 19
consensus between Spaniards after the Civil War, and the (voluntary)
consensus between Spaniards during the transition. This interpretation
echoes Román Gubern’s reading of a parallel between contemporary
consensus transition politics and the Civil War films produced during that
period, like Retrato de familia (Giménez Rico 1976) and Las largas
vacaciones del 36 (Camino 1976):
7 This said, the film was curiously more successful in Madrid than in Barcelona, and
was consequently broadcast on Catalan television at a low audience time, while on
Spanish television it was scheduled at a high audience time (Casals 1984). This could be
explained by a specifically Catalan rejection of historical literary adaptation films in this
period. See note 4 of this chapter for criticism of the PSOE’s policy to subsidize such
films in the Catalan press and my reading in chapter three of the urban nostalgia implied
in Carícies as a uniquely Catalan phenomenon.
POST-FRANCO FILMS OF THE POST-WAR NOVEL 23
With a third of his feature films to date based on literary texts, and having
directed three television versions of well-known novels, Mario Camus is the
filmmaker most associated with the literary adaptation genre in Spain.8
Recipient of state subsidies for his adaptations of La colmena, Los santos
inocentes and La casa de Bernarda Alba, Camus is also a figure identified
with the Miró policy.9 As such, the standard criticism of the 1980s literary
adaptation genre outlined above is frequently levelled at this director.
Antonio Castro in Dirigido Por, for example, contrasts Buñuel’s cinema of
transgression with Camus’s cinema of conformity, the latter, ‘se ha
convertido con el tiempo en el más solicitado de los especialistas en limar
aristas, en hacer aceptable y digerible para la burguesía, textos más o menos
famosos’ (quoted in Sánchez Noriega 1998, 181).
Just as criticism of 1980s literary adaptation encodes a response to the
transformation of post-Franco Spanish cinema, the consistently hostile recep-
tion of Camus’s œuvre perhaps reveals critical discomfort over the changes in
the role of the director. Castro’s comparison with globally recognized veteran
auteur Luis Buñuel is telling. Whereas previously a distinction existed
between artist and artisan, or auteur and director de encargo, the rise of the
1980s literary adaptation genre muddied the waters. Although exalted for
directing artistically prestigious films – or films with high production values
and based on the literary canon – filmmakers like Camus were commissioned
directors, working on demand under political and commercial pressures
rather than pursuing a personal esoteric artistic project. Before Almodóvar
and a new generation of directors successfully combined art and commerce,
critics lamented the demise of an industry divided between Buñuelian
masterpieces (though of course Buñuel was never really part of that industry)
and escapist pulp fiction, and its replacement by a homogenous, European
and middlebrow cinema in the 1980s.
Camus’s filmography refracts these transformations in the Spanish
cinema. Trained at the Instituto de Investigaciones y Experiencias
Cinematográficas, then the Escuela Oficial de Cinematografía, the young
8See http://us.imdb.com/Name?Camus,+Mario.
9Note that the funding for La colmena derived from the UCD cinema-TVE deal of
1979, not the PSOE Miró subsidy system, as has been claimed (Jordan and Morgan-
Tamosunas 1998, 2).
POST-FRANCO FILMS OF THE POST-WAR NOVEL 25
Camus was influenced by neorealism and the ‘new cinemas’ of the 1960s,
and worked as a scriptwriter on Saura’s Los golfos (1959) and Llanto por un
bandido (1963) (Sánchez Noriega 1998, 20–34). With regard to his early
films Young Sánchez and Los farsantes (both 1963), Camus has affirmed ‘yo
pertenezco a una generación que creía en una revolución’ (quoted in Sánchez
Noriega 1998, 68). But like so many of the directors of the paradoxical Nuevo
Cine Español (see chapters one and four of this study) Camus was to
succumb to ‘commercial compromise’ (Hopewell 1986, 69), passing through
bread-and-butter pop-star vehicle films before finding a niche in the
commercially orientated literary adaptation – which also allowed him to
fulfil a paternalist ambition to ‘dar a concocer la literatura a la gente que no
lee’ (Camus quoted in Martínez Aguinagalde 1989, 699).10
As such, José Luis Sánchez Noriega’s auteur study of the director seems
misconceived. He proposes that through the analysis of a director’s filmog-
raphy, his or her authorial identity may be constructed (Sánchez Noriega
1998, 9) – an outdated auteur studies approach suited, if at all, to a director
like Buñuel. In fact, the point about Camus is that he consistently effaces
himself from his work. Thus Sánchez Noriega writes of the minimal disrup-
tions to narrative linearity, clarity and realism in Camus’s ‘estilo de tono
menor’ (1998, 379, original emphasis), or Smith criticizes his ‘anaemic style’
(1995, 4). Camus displays a similar neutrality in life as in work, thus despite
his commercial and critical success he has avoided the creation of a director
‘persona’, refusing to court publicity by attending first nights and rarely
conceding interviews; as a contemporary review puts it ‘rodar y callar’
(Hidalgo 1983).
This neutrality in fact makes Camus the ideal director of the kind of liter-
ary adaptation genre promoted in the 1980s. As Phil Powrie points out
regarding contemporary French cinema (1997, 20), literary adaptations
require directors who are auteurist – and thus place a stamp of respectability
on the work – but not so auteurist as to obscure the author of the literary orig-
inal. Given his background training, early collaborations and first politically
committed films, Camus has this air of auteurist respectability, but always
emphasizes his ‘humility’ (Frugone 1984) and deference to the literary
authors he adapts. Both respectable yet neutral enough for the emphasis to be
placed on the original texts, Camus was thus ideally suited to the post-Franco
cultural project to elaborate a new Spanish identity by co-opting twentieth-
century contestatory literature, as his adaptation of La colmena exemplifies.
10 The work of Carlos Saura displays a similar trajectory. After his brilliant
oppositional work during Francoism, in the 1980s the dissident auteur found himself in a
transformed industry, and made his commercially orientated dance trilogy and even a
state-subsidized commercial flop, El dorado (1987) – at the time the most expensive
Spanish film ever made.
26 SALLY FAULKNER
Despite the director’s insistence that ‘no he caído en ninguna concesión para
suavizar los hechos [. . .] El resultado es una película muy, muy, muy dura’
(Santa Eulalia 1982), examples of what Alberich calls ‘endulzamiento’ are
not difficult to find. Take, for instance, the depiction of Jesusa’s prostitutes,
whom we repeatedly see wrapped up against the cold in tattered blankets,
then stripping to parade for the clients. Where Camus could have emphasized
their hardship and thus the irony of their performance, Burmann’s soft-focus
images of voluptuous female nudity displayed in the brothel sabotage the
novel’s portrayal of their misfortunes (see for instance, Cela 1998, 309–16).
Another problematic area of the adaptation is the transformation of the
labyrinthine formal layout of Cela’s text into conventional cinematic
¿Qué pensar de una película que pretende adaptar una novela cuyos
sucesos, personajes y ambientes se multiplican hasta formar un enjambre
de vidas sin ninguna unidad aparente y, lo más problemático para una indu-
stria de estrellas, sin ningún protagonista señalado? (1990, 19)
Some critics have thought to read the film against the supposedly cinemat-
ographic elements of the novel (Deveny 1988; Mínguez Arranz 1998). Cela’s
La colmena consists of a fragmented series of urban vignettes, all written in
the present tense, which cross-cut from one to another achronologically over
three days in the wintry Madrid of December 1943. While fragmentation,
parallel montage and simultaneity may all be properties of a medium whose
language is one of cutting between sequences – which may be edited together
achronologically – and the inevitable representation of events in the present
tense, a novel which exploits such characteristics does not necessarily adapt
easily to the screen. This is because classical narrative film labours to secrete
these mechanisms of its language. Thus the cinematic cut is hidden by suture,
parallel montage is rare and must be justified by plot (e.g. a car-chase) and
film conceals its limitation to the present tense by recounting linear narra-
tives. In the majority of Camus’s adaptation of La colmena, the director
adopts this conventional cinematic idiom, using in most cases continuity
rather than parallel editing and following a comparatively linear – if mean-
dering – plot. Camus therefore paradoxically erases the filmic nature of the
original text by adapting it to film.
Camus and producer/scriptwriter José Luis Dibildos adapt Cela’s novel as
though it were a transparent realist document of post-war Madrid. Dougherty
pertinently observes (1990, 21) that Camus is more faithful to Cela’s primary
material than the novelist himself, arguing that ‘la realidad primaria [. . .]
irrumpe en la película de una manera directa y desnuda [. . .] que el discurso
novelístico no puede igualar’ (1990, 20). Cela was clearly influenced by the
descriptive practices of naturalism, developing its Spanish inflection
tremendismo in La familia de Pascual Duarte (1942) and looking forward to
the techniques of the nouveau roman in La colmena. He even updated the
nineteenth-century image of the Naturalist novelist – who visited city slums
with notebook and pencil in hand – with the following description of his
work of 1951: ‘lo que quise hacer no es más que lo que hice [. . .]: echarme a
la plazuela con mi maquinilla de fotógrafo y revelar después mi cuidadoso y
modesto trabajito ambulante’ (Cela quoted in Urrutia 1998, 13). Nonetheless
the resulting novel is of course anything but a disingenuous photographic
snapshot. It is a stylistically contrived exposé of Francoist Spain during its
años triunfales, debunking official rhetoric – despite Cela’s links to the
regime – through the ironic perspective of the narrator.
28 SALLY FAULKNER
12 The video jacket of the video distributed by Suevia Films claims there are sixty
characters in the production.
13 As no casting director is listed in the film’s credits, the choice of this actor must be
attributable to Camus.
POST-FRANCO FILMS OF THE POST-WAR NOVEL 29
Producer and scriptwriter Dibildos echoes this faith that the film was an
authentic representation of the period. At the time he explained that ‘yo,
como niño de la época, aún no he visto ninguna película que refleje aquellos
años tal y como fueron realmente. Y, desde luego, a todo creador le apetece,
por encima de todo, hacer lo que nadie ha hecho.’ He, like Camus, highlights
mise en scène, ‘posiblemente sea uno de los grandes logros de la película.
Todos los detalles están cuidados con mimo de entomólogo’ (Dibildos quoted
in Mínguez Arranz 1998, 138–9, emphasis added).
This entomological fidelity to the period – which, as Dougherty observes,
surpasses Cela’s work in its documentary realism – was achieved through a
minutely detailed recreation of 1940s Madrid. Almost everything within the
frame (for example magazines, ration coupons, matches and cigarettes) dated
from the period (Deveny 1999, 71). Of the three hundred bottles behind the
bar of the La Delicia café, half were authentic (Deveny 1999, 71) and only
twelve of the costumes had to be made: all the other clothes were antiques
from the period (Mínguez Arranz 1998, 139). Small wonder that contempo-
rary commentators wrote of Camus’s ‘auténtica realidad española’. Diego
Galán’s review in El País (1982), for instance, contrasts the compromised
portrayal of reality in Cela’s novel due to censorship with the authentic por-
trayal of reality in Camus’s film – ‘sólo muchos años después se ha podido
relatar [la auténtica realidad española] con libertad’. That transparent
mimesis was Cela’s aim is of course highly debatable, and in any case the
novelist made no concessions to censorship, first publishing La colmena in
Argentina. Nonetheless, the reviewer’s insistence that in 1980s Spain prog-
ress was such that previously compromised artistic realism could now be
‘authentic’ is fascinating.
The film adaptation can be understood as organized around the quest for
authenticity. The soundtrack consists of dialogue from the novel, archive
recordings from Radio Nacional de España and contemporary music (Ojos
verdes, Mi caravana, La lirios de Ochaita and A media luz are listed in the
credits) which is only occasionally punctuated by music director Antón
García Abril’s original composition. The imagetrack incorporates both orig-
inal footage of street scenes from 1940s Madrid and a NO-DO sequence on
Holy Week in Spain. In the above quotation Camus expresses his concern
that these interpolations jar with the tone of the rest of the film, but – such
was the energy devoted to mise en scène – the point is that they do not. For
example, in the cut from the footage of street scenes back to La Delicia there
is a graphic match between the street lamps and the lighting of the café. Even
POST-FRANCO FILMS OF THE POST-WAR NOVEL 31
though the film is in colour and the original footage in monotone, the browns
and greys selected for mise en scène smooth over the differences. The film
thus displays what Juan Miguel Company Ramón has pertinently described
(1989) as a will for ‘la conquista del tiempo’, employing a discourse of
authenticity to counter the stubborn presentness of all cinematic language.
As such, rather than an example of the new cinema of democratic Spain,
we may understand this early 1980s literary adaptation as set squarely within
the context of the transition. La colmena is a late manifestation of the docu-
mentary film which flourished during the 1970s. There are obvious parallels
between the desire to film an ‘auténtica realidad española’ and the documen-
tary genre characterized by ‘its reintroduction of previously excluded points
of view and its appeal to authenticity’ (Jordan and Morgan-Tamosunas 1998,
20). With its interpolation of contemporary archive film footage, the film
bears clear resemblance to a documentary like Jaime Camino’s La vieja
memoria (1977), which also splices original footage along with interviews of
key figures of Civil War. But in its merging of both documentary and
fictional dramatic forms, La colmena found commercial success, whereas
1970s documentaries had largely been box office failures.
However the fictional referent of La colmena marks a crucial departure
from previous documentary forms. It may be argued that the film sidesteps
the problem of the original text’s fictionality by treating it as a disingenuous
realist account of the period. Indeed the novel itself, and even its author, seem
to be subsumed in the general drive for authenticity in the adaptation, as if
they too were ‘authentic’ period articles to add to mise en scène! We might
interpret Cela’s brief cameo in the film in this context: he appears as Matías
Martí (a character from one of his short stories that Dibildos incorporated in
the script [Mínguez Arranz 1998, 123]) and places a kind of seal of authorial
authenticity on the work. Similarly the introduction of a copy of the novel
itself in the bedroom scene between Martín and Purita (when he reads from it
to her) apparently points to the way the adaptation gives unmediated access
to the ‘authentic’ original text. And finally, the voice-over quotation of a
passage from the end of chapter six of the novel (Cela 1998, 320), as the final
images of the film roll, gives the impression too of a transparent relationship
between film, novel and the historical period represented.
Alternatively, we may explore the possibility that this merging of immis-
cible documentary and fictional genres is a conscious problematizing of the
representation of history in any aesthetic form. The documentary presup-
poses the possibility of authenticity, or an unmediated representation of the
past, but the dependence of a historical film on a pre-existing fictional
referent – and a very well-known one in this case – questions that faith in
authenticity, perhaps suggesting that the representation of the past is neces-
sarily mediated. The foundations of the two genres are mutually under-
mining, and hence La colmena as a historical representation of 1940s Madrid
is a contradictory amalgam of authenticity and aesthetics.
32 SALLY FAULKNER
we know the past today [. . .] through its discourses, through its texts – that
is, through the traces of historical events: the archival materials, the docu-
ments, the narratives of witnesses . . . and historians. [. . .] Postmodern
fiction merely makes overt the processes of narrative representation.
(1989, 36)
14 Although the NO-DO had been questioned in earlier dissident films like Luis
García Berlanga’s ¡Bienvenido Míster Marshall! (1952), Camus was one of the first to
scrutinize its ideological intent in the period following its dismantling in 1981. (From 22
August 1975 it was no longer obligatory to screen the newsreels before all films [Tranche
and Sánchez-Biosca 2002, 15].)
POST-FRANCO FILMS OF THE POST-WAR NOVEL 33
Since these discourses ostensibly give access to the historical period of the
film’s setting, by extension we may argue that Camus’s La colmena demon-
strates the limits of the thesis of authenticity which underpins the documen-
tary genre. Camus and Dibildos’s recourse to a famous fictional referent in
their representation of history, and their suggestion of an equivalence
between this fictional text and the archival texts of original footage and the
NO-DO, demonstrates Hutcheon’s assertion that historiographic metafiction
reveals that ‘the representation of history becomes the history of representa-
tions’ (1989, 58).
The difficulty with this interpretation is the question of self-conscious-
ness. If in La colmena there is a problematization of the question of authen-
ticity in line with that of the historiographic metafiction studied by Hutcheon,
it is at best extremely subtle, in keeping with the understated tone of Camus’s
filmography described by Sánchez Noriega and Smith. It is probably more
accurate to conclude that Camus’s La colmena is an equivocal combination
of an artless quest for authenticity and an artful exposure of the
constructedness of historical representations, with the emphasis on the
former. Such an ambivalence regarding the question of historical representa-
tion explains why La colmena can be interpreted as both mimicking the
Francoist colonization of the past (the 1980s subsidized films turned to the
past to justify the present) and interrogating monolithic Francoist discourses
(the NO-DO). Or, in the terms of Hutcheon’s account of the politics of
postmodernism, the film simultaneously imitates and criticizes the doxa and
is a typically postmodern combination of ‘complicity and critique’ (1989, 11).
Creative Recreation
Notwithstanding this possible hostile interpretation, there is general
recognition in contemporary reviews and subsequent scholarly criticism that
Tiempo de silencio is one of the most artistically successful of 1980s literary
adaptations (Quintana 1986; Guarner 1986; Company Ramón 1989;
Monterde 1989). This is explained by the fact that the film stands up compar-
atively well to an analysis according to the dictates of Fidelity Criticism.
While Aranda would later declare a cavalier approach to adaptation, by
which the original novel ‘es un material bruto que hay que transformar en
película, pero olvidándose de las trascendencias y considerándolo como algo
simplemente utilizable’ (quoted in Costa Ferrandis 1991, 234), his comments
regarding the cinematic version of Tiempo de silencio reveal a desire for
reverent fidelity. Although he was forced to cut half of the novel in the script
(Quintana 1986) and only focus on the aspects related to the plot,16 Aranda
also expressed his aim to maintain the ironic tone of the original and
conserve the ‘spirit’ of the novel’s non-diegetic elements (Mínguez Arranz
1998, 172). Such, in fact, was his desire for fidelity that it was reported in the
press (‘Fascinación por un texto’ 1985) that all actors were obliged to carry
underlined copies of the book with them during the shoot!
Company Ramón’s laudatory Fidelity Criticism of the film (1989, 82–5)
has formed the basis of its subsequent scholarly reception (cited in Mínguez
Arranz 1998, 174 and 176–7; and Carmona 1991, 213–17). He quotes two
16 Aranda has also declared that he sees this process of ‘condensing’ a novel in a film
as a source of inspiration: ‘Me gusta más el problema de síntesis que plantea la hora y
media u hora y tres cuartos que la serie televisiva, me parece que esto obliga a una
condensación, a una tensión y un esfuerzo que conllevan a un producto final superior’
(quoted in Palacio 2002, 521). Recreation for Aranda is creation itself.
36 SALLY FAULKNER
sections of the novel, Pedro and Matías’s visit to a bar during their drinking
binge (Martín-Santos 1995, 91–2) and Ortega y Gasset’s speech
(Martín-Santos 1995, 157–8), and offers shot-by-shot analyses of their filmic
translations. In the first instance, Aranda shoots the entire bar scene from
outside and behind the windows, thus efficaciously replicating the narrative
distance of the novel, self-consciously drawing attention to the unnaturalistic
mode of narration and – by recalling the first images of the film of caged
dogs – conveying the claustrophobia and entrapment of the characters who
drunkenly sing the line ‘gozando el amor y la libertad’ from En los pueblos
de mi Andalucía. The sequence furthermore introduces a menacing and ubiq-
uitous off-screen presence (the dictatorship) through the repressive authority
figure of the night watchman, who puts an end to the song and thus restores
‘silence’ to the film’s soundtrack – from which non-diegetic background
music is completely absent. In his second analysis, Company Ramón
describes Aranda’s introduction of the perspective of an inquisitive Siamese
cat in the cinematic translation of Martín-Santos’s parody of the speech, and
shows that each ironic parenthetical insertion in the novel is matched by a
cinematic cut in the film. By finding such inventive formal filmic equiva-
lents, Company Ramón concludes therefore that Aranda carries out an
‘operativa lectura’ of the novel (1989, 83).
Company Ramón’s excellent close readings of these two sequences of the
film serve as a point of departure for the interpretation proposed here. At its
best, the Fidelity Criticism approach affords a sophisticated formal analysis
of the film under discussion, as is the case here. But Company Ramón’s anal-
yses using this critical method reveal its limitations. In his first close reading
he observes that the film, like the novel, conveys the entrapment and claus-
trophobia experienced by the characters. In fact this experience, and the
complementary notion of circularity, are key motifs in the whole film, and
Aranda departs from the novel and transforms its ending to emphasize these
elements. But while Fidelity Criticism can account for similarities between
literary text and filmic adaptation, it is unable to negotiate changes (which in
unrefined criticism tend to be dispatched as ‘betrayals’ of the original, and
evidence that film cannot do what literature can). This chapter, however, aims
to interpret both similarities and differences from the point of view of the
representation of history. In his second close reading Company Ramón
demonstrates Aranda’s ability to replicate formally the parody found in the
novel. But as Fidelity Criticism cannot account for the different ideological
contexts in which text and film were conceived, Company Ramón overlooks
the effect of the satire of Ortega’s speech and how this functions differently in
Martín-Santos’s novel and Aranda’s film. This chapter seeks rather to inter-
pret the distinct roles played by the parodies of the 1898 Generation philos-
ophy in both the novel and the film in the context of historical representation.
Whereas my analysis of La colmena began with a consideration of
‘authenticity’, and then showed how the film could also be read as a
POST-FRANCO FILMS OF THE POST-WAR NOVEL 37
fictional novel with ‘authentic’ film footage and the NO-DO, Aranda seems
to accomplish a similar end by de-naturalizing film form to a certain degree
in Tiempo de silencio. Aranda thus echoes some of Martín-Santos’s formal
strategies in the cinematic idiom, exposing – as Company Ramón has demon-
strated – the film’s mode of enunciation and drawing attention to the disjunc-
ture between representation and (historical) reality.
If Martín-Santos’s novel innovatively explored the ways language could be
used as a tool to trick and distort, Aranda conveys scepticism over representa-
tional authenticity in his film. Since, as Aranda himself declared, the script
aimed to follow the novel as closely as possible, the passages in which
Martín-Santos’s narrator reveals the duplicity of language are transposed. For
example, in both novel and film, during Pedro’s interrogation by the police
officer, his words unwittingly implicate him in Florita’s death. But as cinema
is composed of images and sounds not just language, the scene in the film
adaptation does not achieve the same self-reflexivity as in the original
passage in the novel. A more accurate recreation of Martín-Santos’s
self-conscious reflection on language would involve images, the primary
means to access ‘reality’ in film.
Just as Martín-Santos shows that language hides the truth, Aranda shows
that images can hide the truth, for example through the treatment of low-life
tough guy Cartucho. Boyfriend of the butchered Florita, Cartucho’s role
throughout the film until his final act of revenge is to spy on events and he is
thus in a sense the viewer’s on-screen surrogate. He spies on Pedro and
Amador on their first visit to Muecas’s chabola, observes the events there
when Muecas and the curandero perform the ill-fated abortion on Florita and
again spies on Pedro and Amador when they arrive after the abortion. On
each occasion, Cartucho’s interpretation of events is erroneous. Pedro first
goes to Madrid’s shanty-town to enquire about the cancerous mice not, as
Cartucho concludes, to deflower Florita who has in fact already been incestu-
ously impregnated by her father. Pedro’s second visit is not to perform the
abortion as Cartucho supposes, but is engineered by Muecas to implicate
Pedro in the crime. In this way the film seems to question whether the image
is a reliable source of ‘truth’.17
This argument that the film self-consciously problematizes access to ‘real-
ity’ also extends to the treatment of its protagonist. The portrayal of Pedro’s
subjectivity challenges the convention of ‘objectivity’ upon which access to
‘reality’ depends. While most of the inner monologues contained in the novel
are incorporated into dialogue in the film, Aranda retains the subjective
perspective of Pedro. Besides the standard cinematic portrayal of subjectivity
17 In his earlier La muchacha de las bragas de oro, Aranda also questioned this link
between image and ‘truth’ by staging the clearly fraudulent memories of ex-Falangist
Forest in flash-back sequences.
POST-FRANCO FILMS OF THE POST-WAR NOVEL 39
through the point of view shot and the inclusion of two sequences of
voice-over quotes of monologues from the novel (Pedro’s famous existential
speech in prison and his final monologue of resignation as he leaves Madrid),
Aranda also experiments with multiple casting to convey Pedro’s perspective
(a technique he would repeat in Si te dicen que caí). Thus Victoria Abril (who
is only listed in the credits as Dorita) not only plays the precocious
‘Carmencita’ of the guest-house, but also a writer Pedro meets in the café
during his night out with Matías and a prostitute in Doña Luisa’s brothel
where the hapless drinkers end up. This multiple casting conveys Pedro’s
desire for Dorita (not to be found in the novel) culminating in their union on
his return to the guest-house, when he smugly crosses himself before an
effigy of the virgin in the hallway before entering Dorita’s room to take her
virginity (which is rather portrayed as unpremeditated quasi-rape in the
novel). Again Charo López’s double role in the film as both the haggard
prostitute Charo and Matías’s aristocratic mother (both acknowledged in the
credits) expresses Pedro’s suspicion of Matías’s Oedipus complex. Finally
the grotesque sight of Florita’s lifeless, bloody body incongruously
stretched out on the floor at Matías’s mother’s drinks reception quite clearly
represents Pedro’s culpability over his involvement in the botched abortion
practised in Muecas’s chabola the previous night.18 This distortion of objec-
tivity through the manipulation of film form to convey Pedro’s point of view
seems to short-circuit our access to ‘reality’ – and by extension ‘history’ – in
the film.
However, the differences between Martín-Santos and Aranda’s treatments
of Pedro and Dorita’s affair mentioned above point to a significant difference
between novelist and director with respect to the representation of (historical)
reality. If the multiple casting of the actress Abril suggests Pedro’s fascination
for Dorita, then the film narrative actually confirms his attraction towards
her. Similarly, if he subjectively assigns her the role of a prostitute (he calls
the writer from the café ‘puta’ and Abril later plays a whore in the brothel),
the narrative bears out that Dorita’s mother and grandmother to all intents
and purposes prostitute her. Again, Pedro’s subjective impression of an
Oedipal relationship between Matías and his mother seems accurate. In other
words, Pedro’s subjective impressions demonstrably correlate with narrative
‘reality’.
It would therefore seem that despite the fact that Aranda cinematically
replicates some of the postmodern deconstructive strategies of Martín-
Santos’s novel, his version of Tiempo de silencio paradoxically reveals a faith
in ‘authentic’ representation which postmodernism questions. To explain this
18 These manifestations of Pedro’s perspective which are far more subjective that the
point of view shot may also be profitably analysed using Bruce Kawin’s theory (1978) of
the ‘mindscreen’. See chapters four and five of this book.
40 SALLY FAULKNER
of the image of Pedro behind bars in his cell. On the stairs outside the
guest-house he and Dorita are framed through the bars of the railing, after
she avows ‘no consentiré que te me escapes’.
Aranda’s interpretation of Franco’s Spain as a society of entrapment is
complemented by the leitmotif of claustrophobic stasis and circularity. This
is inspired by the novel’s emphasis on the ‘ever-repeating vicious circle’ of
incest and abortion pointed out by Labanyi (1989, 69). Circularity is key to
both the formal composition and figurative content of Aranda’s Tiempo de
silencio. The recurring images of circularity in the imagetrack of the film are
matched by the tracing of circularity in its structure. An image taken from the
novel of Pedro’s meal of a whiting eating its own tail (Martín-Santos 1995,
69), which occurs early in the film, serves – like the image of the caged dogs
– as a synopsis. Circularity is also emphasized in the depiction of Florita’s
burial. The sequence is framed by two matching long shots of the façade of a
church. In the first, Florita’s funeral party walks behind her coffin carried by
a hearse from the left-hand side of the screen to the right, as a second party
leaves with their empty, identical hearse from the right-hand side to the left.
The second long shot ends the scene of the funeral, and Florita’s party bears
the now empty hearse from right to left as they leave, while yet another party
approaches with their coffin on yet another identical hearse from left to right.
The formal symmetry of the two matching shots conveys a wearisome sense
of circularity and repetition. Likewise, when Pedro is discharged from prison
Aranda frames a symmetry between foreground and background: as Pedro is
reunited with Matías and Dorita after his release in the background, another
prisoner is detained in the foreground.
These references to cyclical repetition in the film culminate in the final
sequence, when Pedro, Dora and Dorita go to a fair, at which Cartucho
murders the girl. The revolving big wheel and merry-go-rounds in the back-
ground at the start of the sequence may initially appear innocuous, but the
insistent recurrence of circular imagery – alongside Cartucho’s brooding
presence – introduce a menacing tone. When Dorita requests a song the street
organist winds up the instrument in a circular motion; when the couple dance
together they whirl round in circles and Dorita demands Pedro spin her round
more and more; then the pair go round in circles together on the
merry-go-round. This culminates in the murder: as Cartucho stabs the girl
and she bleeds to death, Aranda’s camera circles around them. Martín-Santos
also sets this scene at a fairground, but Aranda filmically exploits that setting
to the full. He firstly recalls the murder sequence of Hitchcock’s Strangers on
a Train (1951) as Cartucho stalks his victim, and, like Hitchcock, points to
the incongruity between the jaunty fairground music and the brutal murder.
Aranda is furthermore able to insist on the motif of circularity in this setting,
framing a ridiculous Pedro clutching a string of circular churros (recalling
his whiting meal) as he peers at his fiancée’s lifeless body, then tilting the
camera upwards to take in an image of the ever-revolving big wheel and
POST-FRANCO FILMS OF THE POST-WAR NOVEL 43
The present reading of entrapment and circularity in the film would extend
this metaphor of imprisonment and repetition to the entire society portrayed
by the film.
One last alteration that Aranda makes to the novel which is pertinent to the
present discussion is his transformation of the character of Dorita, who
becomes the hero to Pedro’s antihero. Little more than eye-candy that her
Celestina grandmother offers to Pedro in the novel, Aranda significantly
expands the role of Victoria Abril’s Dorita in the film. This is in part to take
advantage of a commercially marketable actress and Aranda’s muse who had
starred in all but one of his films by 1986, and in part to add reasonably
explicit sex scenes.21 But Aranda also develops Dorita’s character so she is
everything that Pedro is not. When Pedro deludes himself with the dream of
winning the Nobel prize, she is under no illusion regarding her role in order
that her grandmother might ‘tener un médico en la familia’ (a fact which is
hidden from her in the novel);22 nor is she taken in by her grandmother’s
21 See Rosa Alvares Hernández and Belén Frías’s Vicente Aranda/Victoria Abril: el
cine como pasión (1991).
22 Dorita’s transformation into Pedro’s betrothed is conveyed by the symbol of the
apple. Dorita eats a raw apple (‘nature’) on the evening prior to her deflowering by Pedro,
but a manufactured toffee apple (‘culture’) on her outing with Pedro as his formal fiancée.
44 SALLY FAULKNER
eulogy of her ‘muy hombre’ (Martín-Santos 1995, 18) dead husband, who,
Dorita matter-of-factly informs Pedro, was a diseased adulterer, sterile after
contracting syphilis from a Philippine prostitute (in the novel we learn this
from the grandmother’s monologues [Martín-Santos 1995, 18]). When
Pedro’s response to his implication in the abortion befits the spinelessness
and ineffectuality of the classic existential hero,23 Dorita is conversely
cunning – she does not tell the police of Pedro’s whereabouts – shrewd – she
finds Pedro in the brothel long before the police – energetic – she accompa-
nies Matías on a visit to a Francoist official to discuss the affair and flings his
glasses across the room in frustration at his condescending unwillingness to
see the truth – and resourceful – she visits Muecas’s chabola as she realizes
only Ricarda’s testimony can save Pedro, as later proves to be the case (none
of these instances are to be found in the novel). While in the novel Ricarda,
the wife who finally rebels against her abusive husband to save Pedro, is the
only character who represents a glimmer of hope in dark times (Fiddian and
Evans 1988, 43–6), in the film it is Dorita. If, despite its bitter indictment of
Franco’s Spain, Martín-Santos’s Tiempo de silencio harbours some optimistic
belief in change (Labanyi 1989, 95), by investing Dorita with such positive
qualities only to sacrifice her at the end, Aranda’s adaptation of the novel is
thus wholly pessimistic.
As a member of the same generation (Martín-Santos was born in 1924,
Aranda in 1926), Aranda has claimed he wanted to adapt Martín-Santos’s
novel ever since he first read it on its publication (Fernández-Rubio 1986).
Despite his cinematic replication of some of the novel’s deconstructive
aesthetics, his adaptation of Tiempo de silencio betrays a faith in authentic
historical representation as a means to effect a critique of Francoism. One has
the impression that this is the film Aranda would have liked to have made in
1961. Indeed this film and his subsequent Si te dicen que caí have been inter-
preted as manifestations of the director’s ‘deseo de ajustar cuentas con el
pasado’ (Guarner 1989), a desire also revealed by the way the filmmaker has
taken the unusual step of making second, unabridged, versions of those of his
films which were edited under censorship after its abolition in 1977 (Vera
1989, 26).
However, with respect to period dramas of the Franco period Barry Jordan
and Rikki Morgan-Tamosunas have warned that
It would seem that if filmmakers soften their images of the past they are
damned – as in the criticism of Camus’s La colmena – and if they harden their
images they are damned – Aranda’s Tiempo de silencio could be accused of
‘self-congratulatory liberalism’ as it emphasizes the harshness of the
post-war period. (Given this reception small wonder that in the 1990s direc-
tors turned to the exploration of subjectivity and fantasy in their historical
films.) But if we censor ourselves in the way Jordan and Morgan-Tamosunas
suggest from representing any past event or situation which has improved –
the holocaust, slavery, fascism – we will effectively eradicate historical film
altogether, which is clearly absurd. Aranda’s adaptation of Tiempo de silencio
is a repudiation of a wasted period of Spanish history which is even more
poignant than Martín-Santos’s original because the director carries the
burden of knowledge that the dictator was to die in bed. It should be cele-
brated as a historical achievement, not denigrated as liberalist back-patting.
1 See Bradbury 1976; Timms 1985; R. Williams 1992; Harvey 1990; Clarke 1997a.
48 SALLY FAULKNER
2 Hardy’s novels of 1871–96 were set in the pre-Enclosure rural England of the 1830s
(R. Williams 1985, 9).
3 This instance of an intellectual preoccupation of the turn of the century later
feeding into fascist thought is characteristic of the overlap between modernism and
RURAL AND URBAN SPACES 49
Nazism described in John Carey’s The Intellectuals and the Masses, 1992. For references
to the cult of the peasant see 33–8, and on Hitler’s appropriation of ruralism in Mein
Kampf, 206.
50 SALLY FAULKNER
the ordinary practitioners of the city live ‘down below’, below the thresh-
olds at which visibility begins. They walk – an elementary form of this ex-
perience of the city; they are walkers, Wandersmänner, whose bodies
follow the thicks and thins of an urban ‘text’ they will write without being
able to read. (Certeau 1988, 92–3)
Cinematic art, which is both visual and mobile, is able to adopt the position
of both the ‘voyeur’ and the ‘walkers’, as Wings of Desire demonstrates. In
this chapter I propose reading both urban and rural spaces with these concep-
tual tools of ‘visuality’ and ‘hapticality’.
4 There is a long tradition which traces the significance of this position of visual
control. See for instance, Jeremy Bentham: The Panopticon Writings (Bentham 1995), or
Michel Foucault’s Discipline and Punish (1991) and ‘The Eye of Power’ (1980).
52 SALLY FAULKNER
which they thought and spoke’ (1995, 25). The cultural response to this trans-
formation of country and city in Spain, or the shift from what Lefebvre terms
‘absolute’ space to ‘abstract’ space, has been powerfully articulated in the
ruralist and urbanist films to be discussed below by means of violence and
nostalgia.
RURAL SPACE
Life in the great city and the way stimuli and sociability are defined
provide a preponderance of occasions for people to see, and want to see
(rather than read and hear) things, [. . .] it is the visual element in the arts
which best appeases these compulsions. (1996, 106, original emphasis)
As discussed above, it is not only this shared ‘visuality’ that accounts for the
affinity. At the same time as Soviet filmmakers and theorists were exploring
questions of movement and montage, Ezra Pound noted in relation to Eliot’s
The Waste Land (1922) that ‘in a city the visual impressions succeed each
other, overlap, overcross, they are cinematographic’ (quoted in Timms 1985,
3), which seems to respond to Virginia Woolf ’s demand (discussed in chapter
one) that cinema should represent experience that has ‘so far failed to find
expression’ (1977, 266). Michael Minden, in his reading of cinematic explo-
rations of the city from 1926–28, similarly underscores the ‘cinematographic’
nature of the city:
Used in a certain way, montage can approximate to the visual experience of
being in a city [. . .] namely a succession of different images and angles
constructing a perception in strong contrast to the unifying and uniform
perception of a village or a landscape; a perception radically more rapid
and less continuous than that encouraged by the traditional forms of liter-
ature, sculpture and painting. (1985, 203)
The theoretical attention paid to urban space in film contrasts with a crit-
ical neglect of rural space. The convincing arguments for the overlap of the
city and the cinematic imply that the ‘perception of a village or a landscape’
might be more suited to ‘traditional forms of literature, sculpture and paint-
ing’. Such an assumption is at variance with Spanish cinematic practice. In
the post-Franco period the Spanish film industry may have spawned a gener-
ation of internationally visible urbanist filmmakers, but, taken as a whole,
rural settings and ruralist themes have been fundamental to the national
54 SALLY FAULKNER
cinema.5 In this section I will discuss the ways Ricardo Franco and Mario
Camus utilize the cinematic medium in their adaptations of two ruralist texts,
and demonstrate that the filmic portrayal of what Lefebvre terms ‘absolute’
space is particularly revealing in terms of violence and nostalgia.
Despite the fact that both Cela and Delibes displayed Nationalist sympa-
thies in their youth (Labanyi 1989, 42), their La familia de Pascual Duarte
(1942) and Los santos inocentes (1981) variously debunk the Francoist
mythification of rural space. Cela’s work, the first important novel to be
written since the Civil War (Ward 1978, 200), graphically depicts rural depri-
vation in bitter contrast to the Franco government’s rhetoric that the Spanish
peasant was ‘probably the noblest [. . .] of all creatures populating the globe’
(Hopewell 1986, 128). Withdrawn from circulation by Franco’s censors in
1943 owing to the shock generated by its direct portrayal of violence,6 La
familia de Pascual Duarte inaugurated tremendismo, a brutal literary realism,
which was influential throughout the 1940s.
Only the second feature of the young director Ricardo Franco, Pascual
Duarte was made in 1975, though not released until 1976 after the dictator’s
death. The film was produced by veteran dissident Elías Querejeta, who also
backed such influential contemporary pieces as El espíritu de la colmena
(1973), La prima Angélica (1973), Cría cuervos (1975) and El desencanto
(1976). Like these later works, Pascual Duarte is a key film of the early tran-
sition, which I take as dating from the assassination of Carrero Blanco in
1973 (Grugel and Rees 1997, 182). In addition, along with Borau’s Furtivos
(also 1975), it makes an important contribution to the auteurist ruralist genre
inaugurated by Saura’s La caza (1965). As is typical of a transition film,
Pascual Duarte is profoundly rooted in the contemporary experience of polit-
ical change, yet also urgently concerned to reflect on the experience of dicta-
torship. On the one hand its shocking portrayal of violence and direct
references to the Civil War indicate the comparative aesthetic and political
freedoms of the mid-1970s. Yet as the literary adaptation of a novel published
in 1942, set in the first decades of the twentieth century, on the other it also
5 In particular, these are key to genres like the folkloric musical and the rural drama
(on the latter see González Requena 1988, 14–26). In general, Katherine Kovács has
argued that, owing to the instrumental role played by geography and terrain in shaping
Spain’s history and sense of identity, ‘Landscape and setting occupy a central position in
Spanish film’ (1991, 17). Although he does not mention Spanish film, see also Ian
Christie on a ‘recognizable genre of film in which landscape, or setting, has more than
background significance’ (2000, 166; also 173, n.s 2, 3 and 4).
6 Publication was eventually reauthorized (Vernon 1989, 91–2).
RURAL AND URBAN SPACES 55
The politicization of the film may be understood in the context of the new
freedoms experienced during the transition. As John Hopewell notes,
scriptwriters Emilio Martínez-Lázaro, Querejeta and Franco, ‘were among
the first Spanish film-makers to adapt material to accentuate its political rele-
vance rather than diminish it out of fear of censorial reprobation’ (1986, 128).
Thus the symbolic matricide and patricide towards the end of the film can be
readily interpreted as acts motivated by the Civil War. Prior to both murders,
Franco focuses on the political graffiti seen by Pascual from the train window
and then has him witness the aftermath of the bloody clashes in the village,
two incidents which clearly indicate the Civil War and neither of which are
contained in Cela’s text.
While the contextual significance of the war is emphasized, rural space is
also foregrounded through Franco’s elimination of narrative motivation in his
adaptation. The outrage felt by many viewers on the film’s release, most
notably, and most virulently expressed, by foreign film-goers, results from a
failure to recognize the role played by location in Franco’s depiction of
violence.8 Pascual’s attacks on his dog and mule, which are real, the director
To return to the killing of the mule, that sequence is preceded by a long shot
of Pascual running across the plain. Recalling the camera-work of Saura’s La
caza, this shot is the distinctive cinematographic feature of the piece, recur-
ring at key narrative points such as this one, the opening shot, the killing of
the dog and the farewell between Pascual and his sister when she leaves for
Trujillo. Stylistically the long shot may appear to sever the link between man
and environment, physically reducing him to a speck on the landscape.
However, in terms of narrative content, this long shot, along with its acoustic
accompaniment of the whistling wind sweeping across the plain, is imbued
with motivational significance. Preceding both the killing of the dog and the
mule, it points to rural space as the only motivation behind these actions.
The question of motivation reinforces the tie between man and the land,
and thus constructs in Lefebvre’s terms an ‘absolute’ space, because only
landscape or location explains violence in Pascual Duarte. It is thus note-
North-American reviews of the film expressed unadulterated outrage (see Barrett 1979;
Saenz 1979).
RURAL AND URBAN SPACES 59
worthy that in the film’s press file Franco states: ‘hay [. . .] una cierta
insistencia en el plano muy general para que en ningún momento se pueda
olvidar la desolación física en la que se mueven los sujetos de la acción’ (see
‘Press file for Pascual Duarte’ 1976). Thus through film form, Franco, and
Querejeta’s veteran cinematographer Luis Cuadrado, underscore rural space
as, however terribly, ‘lived’. This renders it a ‘representational space’ in
Lefebvre’s terms.
It is also by formal means that Pascual Duarte eradicates any possibility
of a nostalgic response to the piece. Quite apart from the violence, in stylistic
terms the film systematically denies the viewer any visual pleasure.9 It is
furthermore relentless in the demands it makes on the intellectual contribu-
tion of the viewer. The film contains scarcely any dialogue, and is character-
ized instead by narrative ellipsis and a disorientating cinematography of long
takes (culminating in the unbearable forty-second freeze frame of Pascual’s
face as he is garrotted), long shots, a static camera and a chiaroscuro compo-
sition for which cinematographer Cuadrado is well-known (Kinder 1993,
131). All of these erect a Brechtian distance between spectator and film,
negating any possibility of identification. The few point of view shots from
Pascual’s perspective and the four extreme close-ups of his face, the only
such shots in the whole film (Vernon 1989, 90), stand out as particularly rare.
The stylistic blueprint of the piece is rather, as we have seen, the long shot.
While the narrative function of this shot may be to link the character to space,
it also paradoxically estranges the viewer from that space as we adopt the
dehumanized position of a distant voyeuristic eye. In other words, the depic-
tion of rural space in Pascual Duarte depends on the ‘visuality’ rather than
the ‘hapticality’ of the medium. The spectator must adopt the position of the
detached observer, and experience space uniquely through the eye rather than
through the body.
Thus on the one hand the film narrative, like the novel, traces a bond
between body and space through the questions of violence and motivation,
yet on the other the spectator’s relationship to the image negates the experi-
ence of space as ‘embodied perception’. The former means that the depiction
of violence is instrumental in denouncing the deprivation of rural space; the
latter, that the viewer’s relationship to that depiction can never be one of
nostalgia.
10 At the time of writing, José Luis Cuerda’s version of El hereje is still in production
(Intxausti 2002).
RURAL AND URBAN SPACES 61
11 Delibes’s willingness to criticize Francoism has, however, its limits. Asked to edit
Antonio Larreta, Manuel Matjí and Camus’s script of Los santos inocentes prior to
production, he removed the scene in which Iván takes communion, which would have
emphasized the complicity of the Catholic church in the social inequalities promoted by
the regime (Utrera 1997, 857).
62 SALLY FAULKNER
12 For the laudatory response of the contemporary press, see for instance Egido 1984;
San José 1984.
64 SALLY FAULKNER
1984), and his performance earned him a best actor award at Cannes in 1984,
shared with co-star Alfredo Landa for his Paco (Sánchez Noriega 1998,
258).13
In both novel and film, our relationship to the rural space depicted is one
of nostalgia. If Delibes’s text occasionally lapses into an incongruous lyrical
style, Camus’s cinematographer Hans Burmann, also responsible for the
picturesque nostalgia of La colmena, at times similarly indulges in an exces-
sive pictorialization of the image. It is this tendency which John Hopewell
censures in his influential interpretation of the film. While acknowledging its
social critique at the level of narrative content, Hopewell is scathing of its
formal treatment. ‘The film portrays a family living in squalor, but its
polished camera-work creates an effect of picturesque poverty’ (1986, 227).
This criticism of ‘the tendency to be visually pleasing at any cost’ (Hopewell
1986, 227) is echoed by Jordan and Morgan-Tamosunas, who also observe a
disjuncture between ‘rough’ narrative content and ‘smooth’ narrative form in
the film (1998, 35).
Such an interpretation of Los santos inocentes as a pleasurably nostalgic
collection of ‘moving postcards’ (the phrase is Giuliana Bruno’s [1993, 208])
wilfully ignores several more troubling aspects of the narrative. While the
bond between man and nature may be enjoyably revisited in the manner
intended by Delibes, occasionally this bond is transformed in the film narra-
tive into a far more disturbing link between man and animal. We may find the
way Azarías cries out to communicate with his beloved ‘milanas bonitas’,
like the owl in the prologue, rather gratifying. But such bestial sounds are
extremely disturbing when emitted by the niña chica, the family’s disabled
daughter. The animalization of man culminates in the notorious scene in
which Landa’s Paco, complicit in Iván’s dehumanizing treatment of him as a
dog, drops onto all fours to sniff out the whereabouts of a missing partridge.
Thus if Camus’s portrayal of the countryside is occasionally punctuated by
picturesque camera-work, taken as a whole Los santos inocentes seems to
address the contradictions of nostalgia.
The themes of memory and nostalgia are foregrounded in an obvious way
by the structure of the film. It is organized around four flashbacks, intro-
duced in intertitles by the names of ‘Quirce’, ‘Nieves’, ‘Paco, el bajo’ and
‘Azarías’. The relationship between past and present is the issue addressed
here, not varying cinematic representations of four different subjective
perspectives. Memory and nostalgia are also introduced as themes immedi-
ately after the prologue, as the credits roll to a photograph of the family
fading in and out of view. This photograph, we later discover, is one taken by
a comparatively rich, urban visitor to the cortijo, who wishes to record, we
assume, the curious and alarming spectacle of the family’s poverty. How,
Camus seems to be asking us, does our position as spectators differ from that
of this photographer? And further, if the cortijo and surrounding countryside
are places of leisure and diversion for the demonized Iván, and we similarly
enjoy the pictorialized landscapes of the film, he may even be asking us how
our position relates to Iván’s.
Camus’s Los santos inocentes does not provide the answers, but explores
the contradictions that give rise to these questions. Initially we may enjoy the
‘haptical’ experience of space provided by the film’s prologue, especially as
Camus sets up a contrast between this vital experience of space and that of
Quirce and Nieves in the city. The mobile camera of the ‘cárabo’ sequence
contrasts favourably with the static camera which records Quirce’s arrival in
Zafra by train – an obvious symbol of industrialization and urbanization.
While the camera matches Azarías’s movement in the earlier sequence,
signalling space as ‘lived’ in Lefebvre’s ‘absolute’ realm, in the later one the
relationship between man and space is rather characteristic of the ‘abstract’
realm. Quirce moves towards us in the train, but the camera is still and thus
registers a disjuncture between man and space. Similarly, Nieves is located in
a factory in which our view of her is initially obscured, just as the sound of
the factory machines drowns out the human voices. This exemplifies the
elimination of the body in ‘abstract’ space, which the viewer momentarily
experiences through an inability to see or hear.
The emphasis on Quirce and Nieves’s literacy, their location in an urban
environment, Nieves’s employment in a factory and even the inclusion of a
train and a coach as modern forms of transport, all serve to make the contrast
Camus is drawing between this environment and the rural space recalled in
flashback obvious. Our equivocal feelings regarding that remembered space
are conveyed in the adaptation by the disjuncture between the pictorialized
landscapes and the hardship experienced in them. A particularly poignant
illustration of this is the juxtaposition of Iván’s cruel treatment of Paco
regarding his broken leg with a picturesque shot of the countryside at dawn
on the following day.
In 1980s Spain such exploitative, feudal hierarchies have been largely
dismantled. Nonetheless the somewhat contradictory experience of nostalgia
for the countryside persists, and Camus has found the means to convey this
conflicting memory of suffering tinged with regret. The final images of the
film serve as a summary of this equivocal experience of nostalgia. Quirce,
the urban immigrant, stands in a city street and looks up to a flock of birds in
the sky. The novel ends with a similar description of birds, but they are seen
by Azarías after his murder of Iván and thus underscore his motive of
avenging the murder of his pet kite (Delibes 1994, 176). In the film adapta-
tion, this image eloquently symbolizes a hesitant rapprochment between the
rural and the urban, and in this way Camus’s Los santos inocentes gives cine-
matic expression to the experience of the city and the country in 1980s Spain.
66 SALLY FAULKNER
URBAN SPACE
If the representation of the city has been posed as an aesthetic problem, the
representational capacity of cinema has equally been proposed as a solution.
As discussed above, it was the new medium of film which seemed to respond
to the new experience of the city, whose representation apparently eluded the
traditional arts. Thomas Hardy wrote of late nineteenth-century London that
‘[the city] appears not to see itself. Each individual is conscious of himself but
nobody of themselves collectively’ (quoted in R. Williams 1985, 215).
However the ‘visuality’ of film seems to permit the representation of the city
as a whole (Certeau’s ‘voyeur’), and its ‘hapticality’ apparently approximates
to the experience of its inhabitants (Certeau’s ‘walkers’).
With reference to Lefebvre’s insights into the production of space, in this
section I will explore the parallel between the ‘visuality’ of film and the ex-
perience of the modern city as an ‘abstract’ space. For Lefebvre, this evacua-
tion of ‘lived’ experience in ‘abstract’ space is intimately linked to
urbanization, a process he describes as ‘abstraction in action’ (1999, 269).
This ‘abstract’ space of the modern city is further linked to the development
of the bourgeoisie and capitalism:
‘abstract’ space, in the second part of this section I will consider the implicit
question of nostalgia in the film.
Of particular interest to the present discussion is that Mañas’s portrait of
the violence of a discontented Spanish youth is linked both to the city and the
cinema. In his reading of the novel and film versions of Historias del Kronen,
Santiago Fouz-Hernández has suggested that ‘space, or rather, territories
become a major ground for youth resistance’ (2000, 93). Night-time Madrid,
he argues, is appropriated by the fictional characters ‘by transgressing all the
boundaries and rules imposed by daytime society’ (Fouz-Hernández 2000,
93). While such spaces may be, as Fouz-Hernández indicates, sites of rebel-
lion for the youths, the argument that their deeply anti-social behaviour
(sexism, racism, theft, casual sex, dangerous driving) also constructs an
alternative communality is questionable. On the one hand the characters
obtain pleasure from the urban environment (its bars, clubs, parks and roads
afford them the thrills of alcohol, drugs, sex and danger), in contrast to the
older generations for whom it is a place of fear and regret. Carlos’s aunt
naïvely warns him that ‘hay gente muy mala por la calle, muchos drogadictos
que roban a los viejos para drogarse’ (Mañas 1999, 90), and his grandfather
similarly laments: ‘no hay más que ver en qué se ha convertido Madrid. La
ciudad moderna es monstruosa [. . .]. Yo todavía me acuerdo cuando era
joven y vivía cerca de la puerta de Toledo en una finca’ (Mañas 1999, 92).
Carlos’s response to his older relatives is stereotypically offensive, but none-
theless interesting in spatial terms, ‘los viejos son personajes del pasado,
fósiles. Hay una inadecuación entre ellos y el tiempo que les rodea’ (Mañas
1999, 52, emphasis added). His disgust at their ‘lack-of-fit’ contrasts implic-
itly, therefore, with his own occupation of the city.
On the other hand, however, Carlos also points to his own generation’s
dislocation. In his censure of his father’s ‘rollo sesentaiochista pseudoprogre
de siempre’, he grumbles ‘los viejos [. . .] lo tienen todo: la guita y el poder.
Ni siquiera nos han dejado la rebeldía: ya la agotaron toda los putos
marxistas y los putos jipis de su época’ (Mañas 1999, 74). In fact throughout
the novel Mañas stresses that the leisure pursuits of Carlos’s generation are
never enough. The pleasure they derive from the city is unsatisfactory, and
their occupation of the urban environment is only ever transitory. The youths’
night-time forays only ever skirt around a space which is not theirs. Mañas
conveys their experience of the city streets, for instance, as fleeting,
nocturnal glimpses beheld from a car seat.
This ephemerality is presented in the novel by means of minimalist strings
of names of highways and barrios which link up the various ‘historias’. In
chapter six, for instance, Carlos’s arrival at the Kronen bar is signalled thus:
‘Santa Bárbara, Colón, Avenida de América, Francisco Silvela’; and ‘Avenida
de América, Emetrienta’ conveys his return home (Mañas 1999, 99 and 110).
This listing technique, which omits verb or pronoun, formally conveys the
evacuation of the characters from the urban environment, which is character-
RURAL AND URBAN SPACES 69
istic of Lefebvre’s ‘abstract’ space. It is significant that Mañas also uses this
technique, which Fouz-Hernández likens to scanning newspaper headlines
(2000, 84), for descriptions of the socio-political context of the novel’s 1992
setting. This indicates that the youthful characters are removed from their
socio-political context as they are from urban space (see for example, Mañas
1999, 113).
If a parallel is drawn between urban life and ‘abstract’ space in Mañas’s
novel, this is underscored by the ‘visuality’ of his narrative, which thus far we
have discussed exclusively with reference to film. Mañas’s protagonist states
that his generation conceives of experience through the visual media:
His comments are born out by his narrative, which includes descriptions such
as ‘el monólogo de Amalia, que es como la voz en off que ilustra mi toma de
la Gran Vía’ (Mañas 1999, 80). Roberto’s comments in the epilogue of the
novel are particularly interesting in this respect: ‘[Carlos] nos veía a todos
como si fuéramos personajes de una película, de su película. Pero él era como
si no estuviera ahí. No le gustaba vincularse afectivamente . . .’ (Mañas 1999,
272–3). As discussed above, this experience of the city in terms of ‘visuality’
rather than ‘hapticality’ is characteristic of the evacuation of ‘lived’ space,
and prioritization of ‘conceived’ space, in Lefebvre’s ‘abstract’ field. If
Carlos conceives of urban life in terms of ‘visuality’, like Certeau’s ‘voyeur’,
he cannot therefore participate in it – he is never part of his own film.
Mañas’s narrative of the violence enacted by Madrid’s discontented youth
thus traces an ‘abstract’ space which is both urban and cinematic.
The adaptation of such an ‘abstract’ space to film is therefore in a sense
effortless, given the obvious affinity between the cinema and ‘visuality’
previously discussed. It is worth noting that while film is equally capable of
portraying the city as an ‘absolute’ space, especially though its ‘hapticality’,
cinematic cities have tended to be negative. As Rob Lapsley points out:
The city [on film] is rarely the object of idealisation. Rather surprisingly,
given the preference of many people for the freedoms, excitements and
energies of urban existence [. . .] overwhelmingly, fictional representations
of the city have been hostile. From the London of Griffiths’ (sic) Broken
Blossoms (1919) to the New York of Seven (1995) the modern city has been
presented as inimical to human happiness. Instead of idealising the city the
predominant strategy has been to conjure into existence an elsewhere free
of lack and ruinance. (1997, 195)
‘abstract’ space as a context for the violence of Historias del Kronen, I will
examine whether the film ‘conjures into existence’ an idealized ‘elsewhere’,
which may be understood as a symptom of nostalgia.
While the cityscape of Madrid framed at the start of Historias del Kronen
adheres to the classical cinematic convention of the establishing shot, the
repetition of the cityscape shot throughout the narrative alerts us to its sig-
nificance in the film. This shot punctuates the film narrative, marking the
beginning of each of the eight days narrated, indicating that, like the long
shot examined in Pascual Duarte, it goes beyond its conventional subordinate
role as mere background. A close reading of the cityscape shots of the
prologue points to what Lefebvre terms ‘abstract’ space. The Madrid skyline
in these shots initially recalls Woody Allen’s fond portrayal of New York at
the beginning of Manhattan (1979). However, unlike Allen’s images of New
York, which he couples with the celebratory tones of George Gershwin’s
Rhapsody in Blue, Armendáriz’s Madrid is linked to the discordant notes of
traffic, church bells and voices on telephones and loudspeakers. Thus the
human voice may only figure in this acoustic metropolis if relayed by
machine, which suggests the evacuation of the body from the ‘abstract’ space
previously discussed. Furthermore, in the cityscape shot, urban life is viewed
from on high, as by Certeau’s ‘voyeur’. This abstraction also points to the
‘phallic-visual-geometric’, or ‘conceived’, spaces of Lefebvre’s ‘abstract’
space (1999, 289).
If such cityscape shots make use of the ‘visuality’ of the film medium,
emphasizing space as perceived by the eye and indicating an ‘abstract’ space,
other aspects of the narrative of Historias del Kronen seem to question such
abstraction. For instance the credit sequence of the film shifts from the long
shots discussed above, to a medium shot of the Kronen bar, to rest finally on
a close-up of Carlos, who is thus established as our object of identification
and takes us into the Kronen bar and into the Historias del Kronen narrative.
As the soundtrack changes from the cacophony mentioned above to the
rhythmic beats of pop music, we may interpret this sequence as a movement
away from the ‘abstract’ space of the metropolis to an ‘absolute’ space
constructed by the youths.
However, as in Mañas’s novel, the city is portrayed as an ‘abstract’ space
by the way it is described. Apart from the cityscape shots, Madrid’s streets
are perceived as so many blurred glimpses from a car seat during the adoles-
cents’ nocturnal city tours of alcohol- and drug-abuse. These give visual
expression to the incoherence of their perception of the city and their spatial
dislocation. This experience of space as ‘abstract’ is reinforced by the choral
function of the film’s soundtrack: ‘No hay sitio para ti’ and ‘¡Harto!’ screams
the group’s band. The violent act with which the film culminates, the
‘snuff-movie’ murder of Fierro, recorded on a camcorder which is the cine-
matic equivalent of Carlos’s monologue in the novel, could be seen as moti-
vated by the ‘alienating, urban, nocturnal wasteland of low-life Madrid’,
RURAL AND URBAN SPACES 71
nostalgia for what Lapsley calls an ‘elsewhere’. That idealized other place
would seem to be the countryside framed in Armendáriz’s earlier and subse-
quent filmography. In Tasio, for instance, Armendáriz stresses ‘the centrality
of the rural environment to [a] sense of identity’ (Jordan and
Morgan-Tamosunas 1998, 48), and that film ends with the protagonist’s
refusal to move to the city. This refused transferral to what is understood to
be a hostile urban space indicates the association of the city with the nefar-
ious characteristics of ‘abstract’ space. This association is confirmed in
Historias del Kronen which is a kind of hostile, urban sequel to the earlier,
rural film.
this more recent work is also contrary to his background in comedy films –
indeed Pons’s sober film adaptation of Belbel’s Carícies contrasts with the
many theatrical productions of the play which had emphasized its humour.
Despite the geographical shift from Madrid to Barcelona, and the industrial
differences between mainstream and art house cinema, the grave questions of
violence and alienation in the modern metropolis therefore concern Carícies
as much as they did Historias del Kronen, although the spatial dislocation
experienced by Mañas and Armendáriz’s rich Madrid youngsters seems to
effect inhabitants of Belbel and Pons’s Barcelona regardless of age and class.
As in the above study of Historias del Kronen, in this section I will read the
violence that unfolds in Pons’s modern metropolis in the context of ‘abstract’
space. Whereas nostalgia for an ‘absolute’ space appeared to be implicit in
Armendáriz’s film, I will consider here the remarkable ending of Pons’s
Carícies as explicitly nostalgic.
While Pons is extremely faithful in his adaptation of Belbel’s play,
retaining almost every word of its dialogue and thus its La Ronde-inspired
carousel structure, his representation of urban space in Carícies is entirely
cinematic.15 In terms of the representation of space, Carícies exemplifies the
difference between the media of literature and film. Notwithstanding its use
of the Catalan language, Belbel’s play eschews all references to location.
Despite his replication of every sequence, Pons’s Carícies demonstrates that
film’s closer indexical relationship to reality prevents the construction of a
hypothetical space in the same manner as in literature. While in a literary text
a space may remain unnamed, this is far more difficult in cinema as the
filmed image, unlike the written word, bears the mechanical imprint of place
in the very essence of its form. Thus while Belbel may set scene seven of the
play, for instance, in a non-specific ‘estació central’ (1998, 49), the corre-
sponding sequence in the film adaptation takes place in the actual geographic
location of Barcelona Sants station.
However it is significant that, while Barcelona as a city is recognizable in
the film (Pons even holds the shot which focuses on the name ‘Barcelona
Sants’), at no point do we see its most idiosyncratic monuments. As Núria
Bou and Xavier Pérez note in a contemporary press review, the film is
located in ‘una gran ciutat contemporània que es deixa reconèixer fàcilment,
tot i que el retrat no s’aturi en les llargues ombres de la Sagrada Família o en
traç del dit de l’estàtua de Colom’ (1998, 57). In other words, unlike
Almodóvar’s love affair with Madrid, and in Todo sobre mi madre (1999)
Barcelona, Pons’s Carícies is not a cinematic ‘caress’ of the Catalan capital.
The way Pons shoots Barcelona in fact recalls Lefebvre’s ‘abstract’ space
abstract space reigns phallic solitude and the self-destruction of desire. The
representation of sex thus takes the place of sex itself ’ (1999, 309).
However, this construction of ‘abstract’ space in Pons’s Carícies is coun-
tered by the question of motivation. Just as Ricardo Franco linked man to
environment in this way in Pascual Duarte, the fact that our only explanation
for the violence in Carícies is the hostility of the city indicates that Pons like-
wise points to ‘absolute’ space. The important final sequences of the film
also indicate ‘absolute’ space. Using a tactic he would repeat extensively in
Morir (o no), Pons reverses time in this final vignette, as the beaten-up man
has only just emerged from the scene of domestic violence we witnessed
back at the very beginning of the film. The link-up sequences which frame
this final vignette are of particular interest with respect to the depiction of
urban space. While the portrayals of alienation in the narrative sequences of
the rest of the film have been preceded and succeeded by fast-forward
images, the final encounter between the mother and the beaten-up man is
different, signalling its thematic contrast. It is introduced by a shot of the
street from the woman’s perspective in which her son walks at normal speed
(this echoes the shot of the same, but empty, street of the first sequence) and
is followed by slow motion images of traffic moving in that same street.
These markedly different framing shots underscore the narrative difference of
this single scene in which a caress does not result in rejection (scene three),
incest (six) or payment (nine).
In this sequence there is a harmony for the first time in the film between
the speed of the action in the diegetic space and in the urban backdrop: the
link-up at normal speed is followed by a narrative sequence at normal speed,
and the next link-up in slow motion follows the sequence of the caress in slow
motion. This alignment between the representation of space in the link-up
sequences and in the narrative vignettes, or between man and his environ-
ment, indicates a transition to Lefebvre’s ‘absolute’ space. The beleaguered
body is also reintroduced in these final sequences. At last the city is
represented as a space known by the body, as it is for Certeau’s ‘walkers’
(1988, 92–3), or the occupant of Lefebvre’s ‘absolute’ realm (1999, 110–11).
And just as the view of the street concurs with the body’s experience of
space, the body is nourished in the final narrative vignette by the only
genuine caress of the film. In another contrast, in these final sequences Pons
introduces the human voice on the soundtrack of the film which up to this
point has been uniquely instrumental. As the speed of the images slows
down, the melancholy tones of María del Mar Bonet’s Jo em donaría a qui
em volgués increase in volume, and the song’s lyrics finally articulate the
solitude which racks all but the final two characters in the film.
By releasing the tension built up through the film thus, Pons revises and
points beyond that wholly pessimistic vision of the urban which precedes it,
charting a progression from the portrayal of human relations as the product of
alienating urban space to human beings as producers of their own space in a
76 SALLY FAULKNER
kind of ‘humanist’ city. This resolution at the end of Carícies recalls that of
Wender’s Wings of Desire. In both there is a transition from ‘abstract’ to
‘absolute’ space, and in both this is triggered by romantic love. In Wenders’s
film Damiel’s renunciation of space as known by the angels (defined by its
‘visuality’, thus ‘voyeuristic’ in Certeau’s terms or in Lefebvre’s, ‘abstract’),
for space as known by humans (‘haptical’, thus the space of Certeau’s ‘walk-
ers’ or Lefebvre’s ‘absolute’), is brought about by his love for a mortal
named, significantly, Marion. Similarly, Pons’s depiction of a mother’s caress
also demolishes the hitherto alienating city. The ‘abstract’ space of the city,
conveyed cinematically by ‘visuality’, is replaced by an ‘absolute’ space,
represented by ‘hapticality’.
In comparison to the preceding episodes, the ending of Carícies depicts an
idyll, which might be termed nostalgic. The object of this nostalgia seems to
be ‘absolute’ space, a realm in which there is a harmony between man and his
environment. However, standard interpretations of nostalgia are insufficient
here. In both play and film, Belbel and Pons problematize the tempting inter-
pretation of nostalgia as a return to the nourishing plenitude of the maternal
womb with the following line. The mother-figure soothingly assures the
young man: ‘No pateixi. El tractaré com si fos una mare. Millor i tot’ (Belbel
1998, 72, emphasis added).
In the film Pons similarly checks the critical response which might inter-
pret these final scenes as nostalgic. Unlike Los santos inocentes and
Historias del Kronen, Pons does not portray nostalgia for a lost rural space
which might be explained in terms of Spain’s recent urbanization. Pons’s
1998 portrait of Barcelona demonstrates that rural nostalgia is less relevant
to a city which, with Northern Europe, industrialized in the nineteenth
century (Mackay 1985, v). The idyll Pons evokes at the end of his narrative of
urban alienation – what Lapsley calls the ‘elsewhere’ – is not a rural one.
Neither is Carícies nostalgic for a lost urban space, which might be particu-
larly tempting in the specific context of Catalonia. In Emma Dent Coad’s
account of the continuing centrality of modernista architecture to notions of
Catalan identity, Barcelona is described as ‘pre-eminent in the number of
buildings commissioned and in the number which still exist, immaculately
restored; the same political forces that precipitated modernisme have ensured
the survival of historical examples’ (1995, 58). If those ‘political forces’ have
ossified urban Catalan identity by associating it with a certain architectural
period, Pons’s studied avoidance of its most famous manifestations (Bou and
Pérez 1998, 57) is especially significant. Carícies rejects both nostalgia for
rural space which is evident elsewhere in Spanish film, and nostalgia for
urban space which is aligned with a static definition of Catalan identity. What
emerges in Pons’s film is a more complex examination of the relationship of
city and citizen.
Lapsley’s ‘elsewhere’ of the end of Carícies is emphatically the urban
‘here’ depicted in the rest of the film narrative as the same settings are used.
RURAL AND URBAN SPACES 77
This idyll is thus neither nostalgically rural, rejecting the city wholesale as
hostile, nor simplistically idealized, appealing to images of Barcelona’s cele-
brated architecture. The ending of Carícies rather recalls Lefebvre’s descrip-
tion of the city prior to its abstraction, a space which is both urban and
‘absolute’. In a passage which is particularly evocative of the harmony
between urban and domestic spaces indicated at the end of Pons’s film by the
parallel between the link-up sequences and the narrative vignettes, Lefebvre
calls such a city one in which, ‘for the citizen and city-dweller, representa-
tional space [‘lived’] and the representation of space [‘conceived’], though
they did not coincide, were harmonious and congruent’ (1999, 247).
1 See chapter one, note 1; also Bazin 1977, 14; Mínguez Arranz 1998, 54–7.
2 For this reason, the further the novel moved away from the conventions of
nineteenth-century realism in the twentieth century, the less easily it translated to the
screen. See Gimferrer 1999, 81–3, for an account of this process.
3 Many late nineteenth-century novelists took advantage of the commercial rewards
of collaborating in cinematic adaptations (see the example of Thomas Hardy in Sweet
2000). It is interesting to speculate that had Galdós’s career shifted forward a decade,
rather than making a somewhat unsuccessful conversion to the novela dialogada and then
to drama, the novelist might have turned his hand to screen-writing.
4 On Merchant/Ivory productions see Craig 1991; on British television, see Reynolds
1993, 4.
80 SALLY FAULKNER
5 On the question of gender and the heritage film genre in British cinema, see Monk
1995 and 1996–97. In response to Andrew Higson’s work she asserts ‘monolithic
dismissals of heritage films as overridingly “conservative” produced in the early 1990s
were achieved and were only achievable by silencing questions around the gendering and
sexuality of the films’ (Monk 1996–97, part one, 4).
6 Galdós is the most frequently adapted novelist, but playwrights Serafín and Joaquín
Álvarez Quintero and Carlos Arniches have lent more work to the screen (Utrera 1989, 8).
7 Contributive industrial factors must be taken into account here. While other
Western countries allowed their national televisions and cinemas to develop in harmony,
collaboration between the two in Spain only occurred as late as 1979. On such collabora-
tion in the US see Gomery 1983; on the situation in the Spanish industry, see Gómez
Bermúdez de Castro 1989, chapter five. Hollywood’s insatiable appetite for ‘British’
costume drama is also of significance here (see Hipsky 1989).
RE-VISING THE NINETEENTH-CENTURY NOVEL 81
far been paid to Spanish films of the late dictatorship period,8 and to Spanish
television in general (Smith 2000a, 189).
Feminist criticism of the nineteenth-century Spanish novel has flourished
over the last decade, and more recently this area has expanded to include
other media, such as images of women in the contemporary press
(Charnon-Deutsch 2000). This growing body of work – which has yet to
include screen adaptations – will inform the theoretical framework adduced
here.9 In the section devoted to Fortunata y Jacinta entitled ‘Clipped Wings’,
I will draw on the established importance of the ángel del hogar within
Galdosian scholarship (Aldaraca 1991; Jagoe 1994), and suggest the perti-
nence of that ideology to the study of the adaptations. Lou Charnon-Deutsch
has studied the ways a ‘traditional male observer’ is constructed in the novel
La Regenta (1990, 105); I will suggest an analogous observer is positioned in
the adaptations of Alas’s work in the second section of this chapter entitled
‘The Government of the Gaze’. The ideology of the domestic angel and the
question of gendered spectatorship are not, however, discrete theoretical
concerns, as this necessary division might suggest; thus both areas will
overlap in both sections.
unruly and lustful and was ‘civilized’ by man through marriage, inherited
from classical texts, gave way in bourgeois patriarchal ideology to the angelic
ideal, in which woman was considered ‘cultured’, but also denied sexuality.
As Catherine Jagoe puts it, ‘for the first time in Western history, woman as
sex was constructed as morally superior to man. The price, however, was the
renunciation of female desire’ (1994, 8). Nonetheless, both possible locations
of woman on the nature/culture, or bird/angel, divide coexisted. As Jo
Labanyi summarizes in relation to Galdós’s work:
On the one hand [his novels] stress the ways in which women are moulded
by society (the result being a ‘clipping of their wings’), but on the other
hand they contrast woman as an image of society’s natural (and
unchanging) foundations. (1993b, 12)
Another key aspect of the ideology of the ángel del hogar concerns space.
As Jagoe points out, ‘one of the most pervasive changes in nine-
teenth-century cultural and psychic life occurred in Western perceptions of
social space, which underwent a division into two distinct, engendered, and
sharply differentiated spheres, public and private’ (1994, 15). Aldaraca draws
particular attention to the spatial definition of the bourgeois angel, noting
‘[she] is ultimately defined not ontologically, not functionally but territori-
ally, by the space which she occupies’ (1991, 27). Quoting Fray Luis de
León’s La perfecta casada – written in 1583, but an especially influential text
in the discourse of domesticity – she continues, ‘the frontier of her existence
as a virtuous woman begins and ends at her doorstep, “assí la buena mujer
quanto, para sus puertas adentro ha de ser presta y ligera, tanto para fuera
dellas se ha de tener por coxa y torpe” ’ (Aldaraca 1991, 27). In a language
that still retains the distinction between a ‘mujer pública’ (prostitute) and a
‘hombre público’ (‘el que interviene activamente en la política’) (Moliner
1998, II, 409; I, 1497), the location of the characters discussed, in either the
home or the street, dictates their social status.10 Sandra Gilbert and Susan
Gubar, in their study of nineteenth-century woman writers, The Madwoman
in the Attic (1980), assert that images of spatial confinement and entrapment
proliferate in such writers’ work. The sensitivity of male writers and directors
to this question will be examined here.
This gendering of domestic space promoted by the nineteenth-century
ideology of the ángel del hogar interacted with and reinforced other contem-
porary discourses, especially those concerning the opposition between the
home and the street, or domestic and urban spheres. Drawing in part on the
recent and growing intellectual field of feminist geography (e.g. Rose 1993),
10 ‘Public woman’ carries this meaning in the English language also, but the last
example of its use given by the OED was in 1892 (The Oxford English Dictionary 1989,
XXII, 780).
RE-VISING THE NINETEENTH-CENTURY NOVEL 83
unlike the single-family house and the barely livable tenement, which
opposed the city to the home, apartment buildings linked the city and its
residences in real and imagined ways, and nineteenth-century discourses
about apartment buildings registered the connections and coincidences
between urban and domestic spaces, values and activities. [. . .] By
dissolving the boundary between residential and collective spaces, the
apartment house produced an urban geography of gender that challenges
current preconceptions about where women and men were to be found in
the nineteenth-century city, allowing us to see, for example, that the home
was often a masculine domain, and that heterosexual imperatives
demanded the presence of women in streets as well as homes.
(S. Marcus 1999, 2–3)
the construction of a film’s meaning, star studies have proved a popular field
of film criticism since the publication of Richard Dyer’s Stars in 1979. Femi-
nist critics have contributed to this scholarship by examining the possible
identifications which may occur between female stars and female specta-
tors.14 In the context of Spanish cinema, some initial work has taken place on
female stars of the Francoist era. Labanyi has studied the ways 1940s Spanish
folklóricas encouraged audience identifications with strong female leads
such as Imperio Argentina, who were often cast alongside male characters
played by unknown actors (Labanyi 1997, especially 224–5).15 Similarly, in
Fortunata y Jacinta Penella is cast alongside the unknown Italian actors
Máximo Valverde, who is passable in his role as Juanito, and Bruno
Corazzari, who is simply inadequate, and in La Regenta her co-stars are the
mediocre British actors Keith Baxter and Nigel Davenport. In both films
Penella is clearly the star, and in Fortunata y Jacinta, as in some of the films
Labanyi studies (1997, 225), her name appears first in the credits, even
before the title.
In her work on Ana Mariscal, a popular Spanish star of the 1940s, Susan
Martin-Márquez has suggested that ‘for women spectators of the time’ this
actress perhaps had a ‘uniquely oppositional appeal’ (1999, 86). Similarly,
Peter Evans (1997, 4) has indicated the symbolic resistance to dominant
ideology performed by Amparo Rivelles in Fuenteovejuna (1945). In the
following I will suggest that Penella’s star image as a dynamic, forceful
‘mujer de rompe y rasga’ (Belategui 1999, 1), which is thrown into relief by
her insipid male co-stars, offers the possibility of positive identifications for
female spectators. Owing to a lack of empirical research on contemporary
audiences this point can only, however, be speculative. It seems plausible to
propose nonetheless that Penella’s presence counters the ways Fons’s
Fortunata y Jacinta and Gonzalo Suárez’s La Regenta otherwise encourage
patriarchal readings.
An application of either the theory of the male gaze or the insights of star
studies to television drama is problematic. Mulvey’s account of visual
pleasure is predicated on a psychoanalytic understanding of the processes of
identification which take place once the spectator’s ego is loosened and his
‘voyeuristic phantasy’ (1999, 836) unleashed in the darkened auditorium of
the film theatre. Television, normally consumed in a domestic, family
context, is entirely different. In his comparative work on these two media,
unavailable. Further work on audience reception and the relevance of her off-screen
persona would be immensely valuable.
14 For instance Jackie Stacey’s Star Gazing: Hollywood Cinema and Female
Spectatorship (1998).
15 The forthcoming publication of Labanyi et al.’s empirical research on the practice
of cinema-going in the early Franco period, An Oral History of Cinema-Going in 1940s
and 1950s Spain, will contribute considerably to the study of Spanish stars of this period.
RE-VISING THE NINETEENTH-CENTURY NOVEL 87
John Ellis contrasts cinema’s ‘regime of looking’ (2000, 89) with the ‘glance’
elicited from the television viewer, whose attention is distracted in the dom-
estic context and whose viewing is thus intermittent (2000, 163). Whereas in
the cinema, ‘The spectator is given a position of spectatorship, of voyeurism
[and] the possiblity of seeing events and comprehending them from a position
of separation and of mastery’ (Ellis 2000, 81), there is ‘a lack of a truly
voyeuristic position for the TV viewer. It is not the viewer’s gaze that is
engaged, but his or her glance, a look without power’ (Ellis 2000, 163).
If the avenue for exploring identification in television as a psychic process
is closed, perhaps looser definitions of identification offered by star studies
like ‘sympathising or engaging with a character’ (Stacey 1991, 147) might
have more purchase. We must accept the proviso, however, that television
does not produce ‘stars’ in the same way as film, but rather, as Ellis notes,
‘fosters “personalities” ’ (Ellis 2000, 91).
In the discussions of Mario Camus and Fernando Méndez Leite’s televi-
sion adaptations of Fortunata y Jacinta and La Regenta I therefore suggest an
alternative model for audience identification, the ‘reaction shot’ (Caughie
1990, 54). But in the context of these two works, I also argue that studies of
identification in the cinema are relevant. Literary adaptations on television
like the two examined here are unusual events in broadcasting schedules and,
as noted above, they are especially rare in Spanish television. Camus’s
Fortunata y Jacinta is a case in point. With a budget of one hundred and forty
million pesetas (the average for a film at the time was ten million) it dazzled
audiences with a set and cast of a size never seen before on Spanish television
(Palacio 2002, 528).16 Television adaptations such as this potentially attract
the attentive concentration of the viewer. I suggest therefore that television
viewers may be active and observant, against the received wisdom that televi-
sion watching is passive (Morley 1991, 16).17 Moreover, as they are
high-profile productions, cinema stars play key roles in such literary adapta-
tions. As it would be in a film, the selection of Carmelo Gómez as the
Magistral in Méndez Leite’s La Regenta is significant, although neither Ana
Belén, who plays Fortunata in Camus’s Fortunata y Jacinta, nor Aitana
Sánchez-Gijón, who portrays Ana in La Regenta, contribute to the series in
such radical ways as Penella does in the two films. In what follows, while I
16 Tele Radio reported details of its twenty thousand square metres set, thirty-one
main actors, one hundred supporting players and three thousand five hundred extras
(quoted in Palacio 2002, 528).
17 Furthermore, society has coded this passive television viewer as feminine (Seiter et
al. 1991, 1; for a summary of feminist responses to this assumption, see Stacey 1998,
37–9). This is an interesting echo of the way an intelligentsia suspicious of the mass read-
ership commanded by newspapers in the early twentieth century also coded such readers
as feminine (Carey 1992, 8).
88 SALLY FAULKNER
CLIPPED WINGS:
FILM AND TELEVISION ADAPTATIONS OF FORTUNATA Y JACINTA
18 Rich’s quotation inspired the title of a collection of essays on feminist film criti-
cism, whose introduction uses the sentence cited here as its epigraph (Doane, Mellencamp
and Williams, 1984a, 1).
19 For contemporary reception see Martialay 1970; Cebollada 1970. For later hostile
criticism, see López-Baralt 1992–93, 94; Torreiro 1995a, 364.
20 That success was indeed surprising given the industrial context of production. TVE
had no fewer than eight directors in the period 1975–82, when national television was
subjected to political pressure during the turbulence of the transition (Barroso and
Tranche 1996).
RE-VISING THE NINETEENTH-CENTURY NOVEL 89
21 Pedro Mario Herrero’s ¡Adiós, Cordera! (1966) predated it, but was not successful.
It is not even listed in Román Gubern et al.’s Historia del cine español (1995).
90 SALLY FAULKNER
22 Consider: Tristana (Pérez Galdós 1892; Buñuel 1970); Marianela (Pérez Galdós
1878; Fons 1972); La duda (based on El abuelo, Pérez Galdós 1897; Gil 1972); Tormento
(Pérez Galdós 1884; Olea 1974); Doña Perfecta (Pérez Galdós 1876; Fernández Ardavín
1977). Note also: Alas’s ¡Adiós, Cordera! (Alas 1893; Herrero 1966) and La Regenta
(Alas 1884–85; Gonzalo Suárez 1974); and Valera’s Pepita Jiménez (Valera 1874; Moreno
Alba 1975). These film adaptations might be considered alongside information on publi-
cations of those novels. That La Regenta was re-published in 1966 ‘tras décadas de
ostracismo y prohibición’ and that a new edition of Fortunata y Jacinta appeared in 1969
(Sánchez Salas 2002, 198 and 199), for instance, indicate the same liberalizing impulses.
RE-VISING THE NINETEENTH-CENTURY NOVEL 91
their prohibition was never enforced (Hooper 1995, 166). We might consider
Galdós’s text therefore in the light of Helen Graham’s observation that in
authoritarian Spain ‘the highest price [. . .] was paid by the thousands of
women who experienced in their own lives the most acute contradictions
between state ideology/policy and the material reality of autarkic Spain’
(1995, 191). The potential for Fons to relate Fortunata y Jacinta to the
eroding ideology of femininity, and evolving sexual mores of late Francoism,
was great.
En el momento de ver al Delfín, se infló con él, quiero decir, hizo ese
característico arqueo de brazos y alzamiento de hombros con que las
madrileñas del pueblo se agasajan dentro del mantón, movimiento que les
da cierta semejanza con una gallina que esponja su plumaje y se ahueca
para volver luego a su volumen natural. (Pérez Galdós 1994–95, I, 182)
the film’s symbolic code than López-Baralt suggests. For example, when
Jacinta confronts her husband regarding his relations with Fortunata, she
does so by showing him a box of feathers she has picked off his clothes, figu-
ratively reducing Fortunata to the metonym of a feather. This detail is not
present in the novel – although Galdós’s Jacinta does hoard incriminating
hairs and buttons later (Pérez Galdós 1994–95, II, 58–9). While her links
with the poultry shop are diegetic ones, Fons’s addition of Fortunata’s further
association with doves is a romantic gesture, bringing with it inappropriate
connotations. For example, Fortunata and Juanito first meet in a dovecot to
the sound of cooing birds – in Galdós’s original it is merely a room on the
first floor (1994–95, I, 182) – a clichéd locus amoenus which unfortunately
recalls the romantic literature that Galdós was in fact parodying (Rodgers
1987, 136).
In another oversight, Fons misses the opportunity of contrasting
Fortunata’s birdlike wings with Jacinta’s angelic ones. The absence of
Jacinta’s characterization as an angel is particularly conspicuous as, along-
side the ave/carne symbolism discussed, Fons also manipulates Christian and
classical iconography. While Galdós highlights the parallel between Juanito
and Christ, the emphasis on this imagery and its counterpoising with pagan
models are original to Fons. The introduction of this visual vocabulary is
furthermore entirely appropriate to the medium of film. Following a credit
sequence consisting of various shots of a faded cover of the novel, the film
proper opens with an extreme close-up of a model of the baby Jesus, then
pans over other icons of the nativity scene, of the type Almodóvar would
famously parody a decade later, in continued extreme close-up. The camera
finally rests on another model of the infant Christ, which Estupiñá caresses
shortly before he is apprised of the birth of the Santa Cruz heir.23 This icono-
graphical code is of such importance in the film that while we see the biblical
family in extreme close-up in this sequence, the real family is virtually
absent. In a carefully composed shot, Fons uses depth of field to contrast
Estupiña holding the infant Christ model in the foreground with Baldomero
holding his new-born son Juanito in the background. The parallel alluded to
between these two nativity scenes thus clearly associates the Santa Cruzs
with the Holy Family and Juanito with the Messiah, a point which is rein-
forced by a subsequent pan from Juanito as a child to a model of the child
Christ. His passage to adulthood is then conveyed by a fade from the child to
an adult Jesus, then a corresponding pan to an adult Juanito.
Aside from the ludic blasphemy of comparing Juanito, a useless philan-
derer, to God’s only son, attributable to both Galdós and Fons, this symbolic
23 This is an addition to the novel. Although Galdós describes the Santa Cruzs’ antici-
pation of their son’s arrival as ‘deseándole como los judíos a Mesías’, he is born in
September not at Christmas (1994–95, I, 142).
RE-VISING THE NINETEENTH-CENTURY NOVEL 93
the part, and despite an interval of four years from acting owing to marriage
and childbirth (a break, Galán reports, she accepted ‘seguramente [. . .] con
alegría’ [1990, 53]), Penella enthusiastically took on the part. This was to be
the role of her career, and Galán quotes her comment (which is unfortunately
undated) that ‘Si Dios me dijera qué película querría hacer otra vez, no hay
duda: Fortunata’ (Penella quoted in Galán 1990, 55).24
It is telling that Penella conflates the title of the film with the name of her
own character here, and without doubt she carries the picture. This creates a
number of tensions in the film, of the type that have been analysed so fruit-
fully in ‘against the grain’ feminist criticism. One such tension is the oppo-
sition between cinematography and her star presence. Even when point of
view shots, like the one examined in detail of Juanito’s first sighting of her,
apparently control and objectify her character, Penella’s own defiant look,
physical gestures and bearing seem to allow her to break free of the control-
ling cinematic frame. Galán recounts that the actress’s stoutness and propen-
sity to gain weight were a source of anguish to her (1990, 51), and that her
deep, throaty voice was often dubbed (1990, 56). But in this film Penella’s
figure reinforces the robustness of her character, as does her voice which was
not dubbed in this film.
Another tension in the film is that between the supposedly male gaze
encouraged by cinematography and the plot. There are two notable juxtaposi-
tions which augment our sympathy for Penella’s Fortunata. Firstly, when
Juanito promises Fortunata they will live together, Fons slyly cuts to an image
of the philanderer’s wedding to Jacinta. Secondly, an image of the then aban-
doned pregnant Fortunata is juxtaposed with that of Guillermina’s orphans,
indicating the heroine’s own parentlessness and the possible future fate of her
bastard child.
The resistance to gender ideology embodied by Penella’s Fortunata culmi-
nates towards the end of the film in Fons’s depiction of her visit to the bour-
geois busybody, Guillermina. Fortunata’s forceful attack on the restrictive
ideology which bars her contact with Juanito, the father of her children, is a
rousing repudiation of the kind of comportment advocated by the Sección
Femenina. Her blunt response to Guillermina’s accusation that she is
breaking ‘todas las leyes divinas y humanas’, is ‘para usted es fácil pensar así
. . . como es santa . . . pero yo soy de este mundo. [. . .] Para mi sólo hay una
ley: querer a quien se quiere no puede ser cosa mala’. This rejection of bour-
geois hypocrisy is particularly convincing, not least due to Penella’s forceful
performance.
The argument that Fons’s adaptation pulls against itself in contradictory
directions is again suggested by the ending of the film. Fortunata, at times
24 It is noteworthy that Penella has thus far not received attention as an individual
artist, but has rather been described in a chapter called ‘Emma’ in a book on her husband
(Galán 1990).
RE-VISING THE NINETEENTH-CENTURY NOVEL 97
It has been some seventy years since Marxists of the Frankfurt school
condemned mass culture as conservative and reconciliatory, compared to ‘art’
which could uniquely convey such nebulous qualities as negation and tran-
scendence (David Morley quoted in Kaplan 1983a, xii). Yet theorists as
25 The film credits Ricardo López Aranda, author of the play version of Fortunata y
Jacinta discussed above, and Fons for the script also, but following Galán (1990, 53), I
take Mañas to be the principal writer.
26 This concept of contradiction follows that outlined by Christine Gledhill in her
introduction (1991a, xv) to Stardom: Industry of Desire.
98 SALLY FAULKNER
different as Raymond Williams and Jean Baudrillard echo this criticism with
respect to television, describing it as non-discriminatory ‘flow’ which unifies
discrete items (R. Williams 1990), or a medium ‘delivering its images indif-
ferently, indifferent to its own message’ (Baudrillard quoted in Giles 1993,
70). Such criticism has been subsequently challenged for relating exclusively
to North-American practice (John Caughie quoted in Giles 1993, 70), but
continues to colour views of the medium. Television scholarship has thus
confronted the same kind of institutional ‘fetishization’ which characterized
the birth of film studies – the supposed superiority of literature over film
which still frames some approaches to adaptation, as discussed in chapter
one. Television is still considered ‘the movies’ poor relation’ (‘A very British
stew’ 2000), ‘journalism’ to its ‘literature’ (Mamoun Hassan quoted in Giles
1993, 79).
However, critics have begun to address the academic neglect of a medium
which is today, as Paul Giles has argued with respect to British television,
‘the focal point of social narratives and popular memory’ (1993, 72). Formal
analyses of television are pertinent to our discussion of Camus’s adaptation
and point towards the propensity of this medium for the adaptation of the
nineteenth-century novel. A matter as simple as length (Fons’s one and a
half-hour film compared to the ten, hour-length chapters of Camus’s series)
indicates that television is far more suited to convey the Balzacian broad
sweep of these novels. Furthermore, as John Ellis has pointed out in his
comparison of the aesthetics of cinema and television fiction, television is
‘orientated towards the repetition of a basic dilemma’ unlike film which aims
for ‘the resolution of an onward narrative movement’ (2000, 170). This
constantly arrested nature of television narrative, or the viewing experience
as what Fernando Lara calls ‘emoción interrumpida’ (1995), suggests that
television might better communicate the lengthy intricacies of the nineteenth-
century novel.
Produced and broadcast during the upheaval of the transition, the histor-
ical parallels between the political uncertainties of Galdós’s 1870s and
Camus’s 1970s are clear. The student riots with which the director
commences the first chapter of his ten-part series would have been particu-
larly relevant to the television audiences of a country only recently emerging
from dictatorship.27 More disturbing perhaps would have been Camus’s
27 Such scenes also document the abolition of censorship in 1977. Only eight years
previously similar scenes were cut from Fons’s adaptation. David Sánchez Salas has spec-
ulated that they were censored because of current legal proceedings against Emilio
Castelar (2002, 200). The fact that from the 1960s until Franco’s death the major Spanish
cities frequently witnessed often violently-repressed student rioting, culminating in the
abolition of the student union in 1965 and reaching an ‘unprecendented level of activity’ in
1968 (Grugel and Rees 1997, 92), was surely also relevant. Juan Antonio Bardem did
manage to include images of student riots in his Muerte de un ciclista (1955), though they
were greatly reduced in number by the censors (R. Stone 2002, 49).
RE-VISING THE NINETEENTH-CENTURY NOVEL 99
Constant clashes over the link between past and present, and the competing
sets of values which swirl around them, are best seen as a narrative enact-
ment of the struggle of Spain’s younger generations to demand their rights
to a modern and participatory society from a dictatorial and self-seeking
past. (2000, 302–3)
This clash between ‘past and present’, which characterizes both the transi-
tion period, and, according to O’Donnell, the telenovela generally, is chan-
nelled through the portrayal of femininity in Fortunata y Jacinta. Much of the
background to Fons’s film elucidated above is equally relevant here, although
we might note also that the rapid and surprisingly smooth shift from patriar-
chal to egalitarian society – as rapid and surprisingly smooth as all the
changes of the transition – led to what Anny Brooksbank Jones has labelled a
‘value disorientation’ (1995, 390) with respect to femininity and the family. It
is this type of disorientation that Galdós had already explored in Fortunata y
Jacinta in the context of the nineteenth-century ‘woman question’, and which
Camus successfully echoes in his television series in the context of the
transition.
That the series was produced when Spain was poised between past and
future is conveyed by Camus’s casting, which efficaciously complements
Galdós’s original text. Veteran figures such as Fernando Fernán Gómez and
Francisco Rabal, emblematic of the left-wing dissident tradition, rub shoul-
ders with artists who were to become symbols of a modern Spain like Ana
Belén and Charo López. Belén in particular, who portrays the lusty prole-
100 SALLY FAULKNER
The growing solidarity between Fortunata and Jacinta and its final crystal-
lization in the exchange of Juanín is also underscored by Camus’s use of
space. Fortunata’s resolution to reject Juanito on his second break with her is
conveyed by slamming her bedroom door in his face. Admittedly a standard
manifestation of anger, this becomes significant through repetition. After
Jacinta’s acquisition of the baby, it is Juanito who must adopt the liminal
position at the doorway when he feels he is losing control over his wife. And
indeed Jacinta subjects him to exactly the same treatment as Fortunata by
rejecting him and slamming the door on him. Interestingly, at this point
Jacinta asserts herself, yet remains within the limits of the comportment of
the ángel del hogar. She stays in the house yet exerts her power from within
it.
29 This criticism also ought to be levelled at both Camus and Ricardo López Aranda,
the scriptwriters of the series, and Pedro Ortiz Armengol, its literary consultant.
30 López-Baralt (1992–93, 101) points out that this recalls the link between Emma
Bovary’s death and the blind-man’s song accompanied by the street organ in Flaubert’s
Madame Bovary (1857).
RE-VISING THE NINETEENTH-CENTURY NOVEL 105
geois phenomenon which Galdós and Camus show was irrelevant to the
working classes.
Thus Camus would again appear to reinforce stereotype: the proletarian
Fortunata resists spatial prescription and the bourgeois Jacinta complies with
it. However, the strength of Galdós’s text, and subsequently Camus’s adapta-
tion, lies in the deconstruction of this opposition between the two female
characters. Through her marriage to Maximiliano and quest for decencia,
Fortunata upsets this divide between bourgeois ángel and proletarian pájara.
Apart from the first view of Jacinta in the laundry room, it is henceforth
Fortunata who is seen engaged in domestic tasks: washing, cooking, sewing,
child-minding (Juanín), caring for invalids (Maximiliano and Mauricia). (Of
course the bourgeois ángel del hogar would oversee the servants’ completion
of many of these labours.) As discussed above, in the novel this culminates in
Fortunata’s declaration of her angelicness on her deathbed. Although Camus
removes this statement of self-affirmation from his television version, no
reconfirmation of patriarchy takes its place, as at the end of Fons’s film.
Camus’s treatment of Jacinta likewise eschews a one-dimensional por-
trayal of an ángel del hogar, as his characterization of Fortunata does a
pájara. López-Baralt notes that Camus’s sensitive study of Maribel Martín’s
Jacinta is a forerunner for critical re-evaluation of this character, citing the
director’s exploration of Jacinta’s sexuality (the angel is, of course, officially
sexless) and noting the addition of a sequence to Galdós’s text in which
Jacinta visits Estupiñá (1992–93, 99–100). This visit follows Juanito’s
encounter with Fortunata, and his future spouse passes the notorious poultry
shop and hears birds squawking and an anonymous woman singing
(Fortunata?), a sequence which looks forward to the future rivalry between
these women and their final solidarity.
Thus despite her introduction within the home, the complexity of Jacinta’s
character is developed spatially. In contrast to Fons’s clumsy treatment of the
Pitusín affair, Camus develops this maternal quest. Jacinta is shot on the
street in her search, and, as in Galdós, visits the slums to look for the child,
while cinematography – point of view shots and a hand-held camera – fosters
our identification with her. Camus, following Galdós, thus challenges the
spatial prescription of the bourgeois angel as ‘quick and lively’ in the home,
yet ‘lame and dull-witted’ in the street (Aldaraca 1991, 27).
As in Galdós’s original, the character Guillermina also troubles spatial
divisions. Supreme embodiment of certain aspects of the angel ideology –
religiosity, selflessness, asexuality, charity – and of Wilson’s ‘heroic woman-
hood’, Guillermina as street-wise businesswoman conversely suggests
‘masculine’ qualities. Breaking down the boundary between interior and
exterior, and the strict gendering of those spaces, Guillermina is both
arch-supporter of female permanence inside buildings, yet herself organizes
the construction of buildings, orphanages and is a landlady. Her simultaneous
urban, public power and domestic, private influence is suggestively similar to
106 SALLY FAULKNER
the linguistic richness of Galdós’s work. However the director does repeat
Galdós’s depiction of Juanito’s changes in dress due to his contact with
Fortunata (1994–95, I, 187–9), which is fitting for the visual medium. Again,
as in Fons’s introduction of Fortunata, in his version of the egg-sucking
sequence Camus also overlooks the fact that both characters spy on each
other in Galdós’s original (1994–95, I, 182), and inscribes the male/female,
active/passive paradigm. Finally we only learn of the first period of Juanito
and Fortunata’s relationship from Juanito’s perspective, in flashback when he
reminisces about the affair during his honeymoon. This male perspective is
reinforced when Maximiliano’s introduction to Fortunata is also framed from
his point of view.
In relation to other areas of narrative communication we might perceive a
challenge to this gendered gaze. With respect to the aural field we have
already noted Fortunata’s domination of the soundtrack. Further, not only are
the patriarchal connotations of the male narrator in voice-over absent in this
piece, but the use of voice-over is divided equally between Fortunata and
Maximiliano – they are each assigned identical monologue sequences in
which they reflect on their forthcoming marriage. Again, unlike Fons’s por-
trayal of the Pitusín affair, Camus relates this episode entirely from Jacinta’s
point of view. In her visits with Guillermina to Madrid’s slums, Camus uses a
hand-held camera which encourages our identification with her perspective
and conveys Jacinta’s unease in such a place.31 Finally, the only two dreams
included in the series – a clear invitation to the spectator to identify and also
an area of particular interest to Galdós – are those of Jacinta (concerning her
infertility) and Fortunata (concerning her love for Juanito).
This focus on the female characters erodes the male perspective originally
encouraged by the narrative. Jagoe’s feminist reading of Fortunata y Jacinta
is not only relevant to Camus’s emphasis on female solidarity, it is also appro-
priate here in its use of the vocabulary of the gaze:
31 The use of the hand-held camera in the slums might be cited as evidence of
Camus’s equivalent of Galdós’s bourgeois narrator. This conveys the novelistic narrator’s
distance from the proletariat, but Camus is unable to convey what critics have called the
narrator’s Cervantine irony. On the question of the cinematic narrator, see chapter five
below.
108 SALLY FAULKNER
32 The regime thought La Regenta an ‘admirable novela, pero no apta para señoritas’
(article in El Español published in 1945, quoted in Martín Gaite 1998, 149). See note 22
of this chapter on the novel’s republication in 1966.
RE-VISING THE NINETEENTH-CENTURY NOVEL 109
34 Gonzalo Suárez collaborated with Aranda on his Fata Morgana (1966), and later
produced his own El extraño caso del Dr Fausto (1969). On the Barcelona School and
Nuevo Cine Español see Torreiro 1995b and Caparrós Lera 1983; on Gonzalo Suárez’s in-
volvement, Hernández Ruiz 1991, chapters four and five.
RE-VISING THE NINETEENTH-CENTURY NOVEL 111
A City of Voyeurs
The scene in which Alas’s Fermín de Pas climbs to the top of the cathedral
tower, unambiguously aligning the phallus with power in the symbolic
register of the novel, and surveys the city of Vetusta, ‘su pasión y su presa’
(Alas 1995, 14), with his, equally phallic, spyglass has not gone unheeded by
literary critics. The patriarchal power allied with this gaze is summarized by
James Mandrell thus, ‘to exist in this world is to exist within the purview of
the phallus, be it the law of the Father or the spyglass of the Magistral’ (1990,
23).
Gonzalo Suárez’s translation of this sequence to film is firstly significant
in spatial terms. Silent and inert – like Ana on the cathedral floor at the end
of the adaptation – Vetusta stretches out before Fermín as virginal terrain to
be conquered by his colonizing gaze. Secondly, Fermín’s perspective from on
high is significant as we have already noted with reference to Fortunata y
Jacinta. In the novel, Fermín’s fondness for climbing to the top of the tallest
tower or mountain in any place he visits is attributed to his prowess as a
hunter (Alas 1995, 14–15), but Alas also makes the Magistral’s sexual enjoy-
ment of this position of mastery explicit: ‘llegar a lo más alto era un triunfo
voluptuoso para de Pas’ (1995, 14). Gonzalo Suárez reveals this dimension of
35 The filming of this portrait of a childless young woman also had to be postponed
until after the birth of Piedra and the then forty-three-year-old Penella’s third daughter.
Olea would not accept the delay caused by the pregnancy and thus the film passed to
Gonzalo Suárez (Galán 1990, 59).
36 This is not the case in the novel. While Alas also commences with this archetypal
instance of male urban panopticism and omnipotence, it is in fact female characters such
as Visitación and Obdulia whom he describes flitting about Vetusta’s muddy streets.
112 SALLY FAULKNER
37 Another British actor, Nigel Davenport, plays Álvaro, Vetusta’s Don Juan, and this
casting of non-native actors perhaps diminished the subversiveness of these characters.
This could explain the selection of Nickolas Grace to play Lorca in Lorca, muerte de un
poeta (Bardem 1987), although the appeal to Anglo-American audiences of this British
star was surely an important factor. My thanks to D. Gareth Walters for drawing my atten-
tion to casting in this film.
114 SALLY FAULKNER
husband’s side, begging for his forgiveness. Gonzalo Suárez also draws a
circle in this ending from the opening shot of Fermín’s voyeurism. In the
penultimate sequence, we share a total of four point of view shots with Ana
as she spies on the Vetustans gossiping about the duel, and then follow her as
she flees to the cathedral to receive Fermín’s rejection as he glares down on
her – this time without spyglass – from a high angle shot which matches that
of the start. But while at the beginning of the film this panopticon perspective
framed Ana as an object or spectacle, by the end it possibly encourages us to
sympathize with the heroine as a subject.
As in Fons’s Fortunata y Jacinta, Penella’s commanding screen presence is
of relevance here, as it encourages us to identify with her desperate plight,
especially as up to this point her performance as the feeble Ana has been
unconvincing.38 Probably owing to the fact that Penella was not his own
choice for the role, Gonzalo Suárez fails to render this an instance of casting
against type. Penella herself has subsequently spoken of the difficulties she
encountered interpreting this character, which contrasts with her experience
as Fortunata. A number of factors contrived to make it especially difficult for
the actress, the delay occasioned by childbirth mentioned above and the
necessity of losing weight, then the death of her mother on the day before
shooting began (Galán 1990, 59). Penella has later admitted of the character
that: ‘Llegué a odiarla, a amarla, a aburrirme, a entusiasmarme y así
sucesivamente’ (quoted in Galán 1990, 59).
It seems plausible to conclude that Penella ‘hated’ the character and was
‘bored’ earlier in the film, but ‘loved’ her and felt ‘enthused’ towards the end.
In the final sequences of Ana’s desperation, Penella is imposing and
convincing and a portrait emerges of Ana as a thinking, sentient being, in
contrast to Alas’s protagonist, whom Charnon-Deutsch describes as nothing
more than ‘a lump of silent, swooning flesh awaiting the frog’s kiss’ (1994,
70). Without empirical evidence regarding audience identification, we can
only speculate about contemporary responses, but the suggestion that Penella
offers a positive model for female identification at the end of the film seems
credible.
As a cultural artefact, if not on occasions as a film, Gonzalo Suárez’s La
Regenta is therefore interesting because, like Angelino Fons’s Fortunata y
Jacinta, it explores the tension surrounding gender roles which characterize
the dying days of the dictatorship. It simultaneously reconfirms the patriar-
chal tenets of both the nineteenth century and Francoism, yet also apparently
questions that gender ideology. If in Alas’s novel social critique is achieved
39 Alas was a university law professor in Oviedo, for which Vetusta is the fictional
surrogate, when he was writing the novel.
116 SALLY FAULKNER
TVE to accept the work, Méndez Leite was forced to cut it from the
ten-and-a-half hours filmed to six, then finally to four-and-a-half – much to
the director’s chagrin, as maximum fidelity to the text was, he claims, his
main aim (1995, 111).
Separated by over a century which took Spain from the Bourbon restora-
tion to fully fledged democracy, we might expect Méndez Leite’s television
adaptation to register the transformation of gender roles between the publica-
tion of the novel (1884–85) and the broadcasting of the series (1995). As in
the preceding discussions, the question of gender and representation will be
considered with respect to imagery, space and narrative point of view.
mansion’s park and there confronts Álvaro, the manifestation of her adul-
terous desire.
Fermín’s realization that Ana is straying to these limits is conveyed
spatially by Méndez Leite through the priest’s symbolic desire to (re-)capture
her. Thus a number of shots representing Fermín’s point of view of his
confessee appear to trap and contain her behind the confessional mesh. This
point is reinforced when he summons up her face in his mind’s eye, or
mindscreen, from a page on which he has just sketched a cage- or confes-
sional-like grid. Ana’s corresponding visualization of her confessor’s face
takes place in the countryside, and so conversely connotes freedom.
space, which paradoxically becomes more public the greater her attempts to
make it private. This ironically subverts the feminist drive to escape spatial
entrapment apparent in Fortunata y Jacinta, though there is no sustained
attempt on Ana’s part to be a bourgeois angel: her withdrawal is now
explained by her emulation of a wifely ideal; now her hysterical illness; now
her religious mysticism.
In this spatial reading of the novel, adultery may be understood as the in-
evitable consequence of the contradictions of Ana’s project of interiorization.
Alas’s metaphor of Ana’s marriage as a building is significant in this respect.
The conjugal building is constructed on her union with Víctor, whom she
later reflects was ‘la muralla de la China de sus ensueños’ (Alas 1995, 108),
and the prospect of infidelity is conveyed through images of the penetrability
of this building. Álvaro thus initially refers to Ana as ‘una fortaleza
inexpugnable’ (Alas 1995, 127), and to his seduction of her as a siege (Alas
1995, 434). But just as the opacity behind which Ana tries to hide is illusory,
the walls of her marital home are transparent. Álvaro’s friendship with Víctor
allows him access to her home and, just as Fortunata dreams of permeable
boundaries in a manifestation of her adulterous desire (Pérez Galdós
1994–95, I, 681), during the play of Don Juan Tenorio Ana also writes
herself into an adultery narrative in symbolically spatial terms:
wanted the series to be screened at prime time. We may even speculate that
much of it ended up on the cutting-room floor when Méndez Leite was
forced to reduce the length of his adaptation by more than half.
The argument that Méndez Leite stages a patriarchal reading of the novel
is in fact reconfirmed throughout the series. In Ana’s further dreams and
hysterical attacks, we are not privy to her thoughts through ‘reaction shots’,
but only see her dishevelled – yet beautiful – dreaming, hysterical or
swooning body. This voyeuristic perspective recalls Gonzalo Suárez’s focus
on the voluptuous Penella, and contrasts with Camus’s subjective treatment
of Jacinta and Fortunata’s dreams. As such, our response to Ana is aligned
with that of the lecherous male characters, Fermín and Álvaro. This is made
clear when Visitación describes one of Ana’s ‘ataques’ to an eager Álvaro –
the viewer has already seen the lewd images Visitación conjures up in the
rake’s imagination.
With respect to the ending of Méndez Leite’s adaptation, a comparison
with Gonzalo Suárez’s film is revealing. As previously mentioned, Alas
expels his heroine from the text after her adulterous fall. Despite Méndez
Leite’s strange claim that in the last section of the adaptation he transforms
the novel (1995, 118), the director in fact faithfully adheres to the word of
Alas’s text: after succumbing to Álvaro, Ana largely disappears from the nar-
rative, and the events of the duel are filtered through the gossip of the cabildo
and casino. Thus, while in his 1974 film adaptation Gonzalo Suárez mounts a
challenge to the preceding phallic/visual hegemony by changing the end of
the novel, in the television series Méndez Leite simply reconfirms patriarchal
dominance.
Méndez Leite therefore offers a version of Alas’s text which displays
Mulvey’s familiar paradigm of male visual pleasure and eschews the formal
possibility of television, exploited by Camus, to inscribe a potentially femi-
nist ‘reaction shot’. This reading of the gaze as authoritative and male is
underscored by an analysis of the role of the voice in the series. The very first
scenes are significant in this respect, as they portray Ana in her garden as she
is addressed by her husband and her friend. In blatant contrast to the previ-
ously discussed introduction to the pontificating Fermín, Ana is symbolically
silent in our first images of her – both Víctor and Visitación simply speak for
her.
Méndez Leite’s use of the voice-over is of particular interest in this
respect, as it features both at the adaptation’s opening and its close. Just as a
‘dictatorial’ male gaze visually objectifies Ana, a similarly authoritative
voice linguistically objectifies her. As previously mentioned, in her study of
the voice in mainstream Hollywood film, Kaja Silverman lays bare the
empirical fact that, with one exception, the disembodied voice-over is exclu-
sively male (1988, 48–9). With reference to psychoanalytic theory, she
furthermore makes the case that such voice-overs
RE-VISING THE NINETEENTH-CENTURY NOVEL 123
align [the] male subject with potency, authoritative knowledge, and the law
– in short, with the symbolic father. [. . .] The female subject, on the other
hand, is excluded from positions of discursive power both outside and
inside the classic film diegesis; she is confined not only to the safe place of
the story, but to safe places within the story (to positions, that is, which
come within the eventual range of male vision or audition).
(Silverman 1988, 163–4)
ARTFUL RELATION:
BUÑUEL’S DEBT TO GALDÓS
It would be folly to discard this view outright; one need only consider
Buñuel’s transformation of Joseph Kessel’s ‘trite’ (Buñuel quoted in Havard
1982, 64) Belle de jour (1929) into his potent attack on the bourgeoisie (Belle
de jour 1966), or his knowing reconstruction of the exoticized Spain of Pierre
Louÿs’s La Femme et le pantin (1895) (Kovács 1979–80) in his cerebral,
surrealist Cet obscur objet du désir (1977). The director also leaves behind
him a host of interviews and statements in which he frequently defines his
source texts as poor, as if to discourage the would-be student of adaptation.
While it is possibly ill-advised to disregard such indications of authorial
intent, it seems more logical to scrutinize any of the director’s statements in
the same way we would approach any apparently simple image in his films.
Critical assumption of an a priori superiority of any Buñuelian film over
its literary source is particularly misguided in the case of the director’s
Galdós adaptations. Notwithstanding Buñuel’s red herring declarations that
the novels Nazarín (1895) and Tristana (1892) were inferior, ‘not one of
[Galdós’s] best’ he said of Tristana (1994, 246), close examination of the
adaptations reveals a surprising debt to the texts. As Antonio Monegal has
noted (1993, 234), it is significant that, while Buñuel transforms the work of
Daniel Defoe, Mercedes Pinto, Rofoldo Usigli, Octave Mirbeau, Kessel and
Louÿs among others in his film versions of their work (Robinson Crusoe
1952; Él 1952; Ensayo de un crimen 1955; Le Journal d’une femme de
chambre 1964; Belle de jour; Cet obscur objet du désir), in his adaptations of
Galdós and Charlotte Brontë (Nazarín 1958; Tristana 1970; Abismos de
pasión 1953), he makes far fewer changes.
The debate regarding the superiority of literary text or filmic adaptation
hinges here on the question of auteurism. As I briefly discussed in chapter
one, there is a clear distinction between ‘commercial’ and ‘auteurist’ adapta-
tions. In the former case, the director may be commissioned, and the literary
original is usually considered superior to the film; the latter will conversely
be an expression of the director’s creative vision, and the literary text will
often be regarded as the mere pretext for a superior film. There may be some
potential in comparing Buñuel’s Nazarín (1958) and Tristana (1970)
according to this division. A late film in his ‘Mexican period’, during which
Buñuel had to conform to the commercial dictates of the industry, Nazarín
adhered to generic prescriptions of a linear plot, unambiguous characteriza-
tion and filmic realism. Indeed Buñuel persuaded his previous producer
Pancho Cabrera that Galdosian realism would appeal to Latin-American
audiences and Cabrera footed the bill for the purchase of the rights to
Nazarín, and also Doña Perfecta 1876, from the novelist’s daughter (Baxter
1995, 206).3 On the other hand, the production history of Tristana was one of
3 Manuel Barbachano Ponce in fact produced Nazarín, but Cabrera did produce
Doña Perfecta in 1950 (released 1951), but it was directed by Alejandro Galindro. On this
film see Gramley 1995.
128 SALLY FAULKNER
4 Buñuel contradicts this in his autobiography, reporting that only for Robinson
Crusoe was he permitted a shoot of more than twenty-four days (Buñuel 1994, 190).
5 Although some critics describe her as unsuitable for the part (Evans 1991, 96;
Sánchez Vidal 1984, 327), physically, Deneuve exactly replicates the Tristana described in
Galdós’s novel (1982, 10).
ARTFUL RELATION: BUÑUEL’S DEBT TO GALDÓS 129
springboards for his creative project, critics cite the surrealist flourishes
added to Galdós’s Nazarín, and affirm the obvious link between the director’s
much commented foot fetishism and the severed leg in Tristana (e.g. Sánchez
Vidal 1984, 330–1; Edwards 1982, 240). A case in point, Gwynne Edwards’s
response to the suggestion that the original Tristana may be superior to the
adaptation is to dismiss it as ‘a view of someone (and it is not uncharacter-
istic) who does not understand Buñuel’ (1982, 225). This is an inverted form
of Fidelity Criticism as previously discussed with respect to Andrew Horton
and Joan Magretta’s anthology in chapter one. Any demonstration of an
assumed hierarchy between novel and adaptation is autotelic, relying on a
previous understanding of the superior text, in this case the film, and
restating it. It is discouraging that such film critics are so quick to forget the
prejudices which surrounded cinema’s own admission into the academy as an
art form. Once again adaptation between the media is the battleground, and
the assumed superiority of the literary author effortlessly shifts to an
assumed superiority of the film auteur.
More recently, alternative critical approaches to Buñuel’s work have been
adopted, especially as auteurism has lost its theoretical appeal in film studies.
With respect to work on Buñuel’s films of Galdós’s novels, a curious
dichotomy has emerged between critical approaches which hold the novels to
be incidental to the films’ meaning, political/historicizing or psychoanalytic
readings, or fundamental to it.
Illustrative of the first tendency, Dominic Keown (1996) elaborates a
Marxist/Althusserian reading of Buñuel’s œuvre according to which his
protagonists rebel against then acquiesce to ideological dictates, articulated
by Althusser as ‘ideological state apparatuses’, which is independent of the
original novels. Thus the eponymous priest of Nazarín fails in his emulation
of a Christian life in the context of ‘a patently hypocritical and capitalistic
society’, and the amputation of Tristana’s leg is a metaphor for the constric-
tion imposed on the individual in a patriarchal system (Keown 1996, 63).
Historicizing accounts similarly bypass novelistic origins. Marcel Oms for
instance interprets Tristana as an ‘allégorie politique’ of the specific histor-
ical events of its setting, which ‘dépassait largement l’anecdote romanesque
de l’origine’ (1985, 160–3). As this setting shifts from the twilight of Primo
de Rivera’s dictatorship (1929), to the declaration of the second Republic
(1931) and the bienio negro (1933–35), Buñuel’s plot development and char-
acters become imbued with symbolic meaning.6 Tristana, for Oms, is the
symbol of Spain, caught between the despotic liberalism of Lope and the
ineffectual intellectualism of Horacio. She elopes with the artist, and the
Republic’s bloody repression of proletarian rebellion from 1933 coincides
6 Buñuel was living in Madrid towards the end of this period, as he recounts in My
Last Breath (1994, chapter twelve).
130 SALLY FAULKNER
with the amputation of her leg; in the first scene following the operation,
Tristana plays Chopin’s Revolutionary Study on the piano. Tristana and
Saturno are both symbols of Spain for Oms, who describes the latter as a
‘symbole d’une classe ouvrière encore muette et refermée sur elle-même’
(1985, 161). In a similar historicizing account, Beth Miller also reads the
crippled Tristana’s turn to religion at the end of the film as reflecting the
power of the new Catholic party, the CEDA, after the elections of 1933
(1983a, 346–7).
Oms cites Miguel Bibatua’s 1970 review of the film as a representation of
the failure of a number of different ‘Spains’ (bourgeois, liberal, intellectual,
oppressed) prior to the Civil War (Oms 1985, 163), and his and Miller’s
accounts generally echo contemporary Spanish reviews of the film as a
reflection on the historical period (Julio Pérez Perucha in El Urogallo 1970,
quoted in Company 1997, 676) or ‘una parábola sobre España’ (‘Tristana de
Luis Buñuel’ 1979). That specific context of the 1930s was also linked to
1970s Spain, for example by Francisco Aranda (1971, 11). Likewise Juan
Miguel Company observes:
La exhibición de la mutilada desnudez de Tristana – una libertad
amputada, desgarrada – ante Saturno (sordomuda representación del
pueblo) para alimentar solamente un intangible imaginario masturbatorio,
trasciende ampliamente las coordenadas históricas en las que se desarrolla
la ficción para inscribirla, ejemplarmente, en el aquí y ahora del
tardofranquismo de los años setenta. (1997, 676)
Equivocal Narrators
Scholarly reception of Buñuel’s work is especially remarkable as his films
seem to support absolutely opposing critical approaches, some of which have
been summarized above as ‘historicizing’ and ‘psychoanalytic’. Author of
Figures of Desire (1992), an important Lacanian reading of the surrealist
films, Linda Williams has retrospectively criticized her own work as
‘posit[ing] an ultimately static statement of meaning that it has been the work
of the Buñuelian cinema to perpetually evade’ (1996, 205). In her revisionist
ARTFUL RELATION: BUÑUEL’S DEBT TO GALDÓS 133
7 With respect to the disparate interpretations of La Voie lactée (1969), for example,
he summarizes: ‘Carlos Fuentes saw it as an antireligious war movie, while Julio Cortázar
went so far as to suggest the Vatican must have put up the money for it. The arguments
over intention leave me finally indifferent, since in my opinion The Milky Way is neither
for nor against anything at all. [. . .] It can represent, finally, any political or even aesthetic
ideology’ (Buñuel 1994, 245).
134 SALLY FAULKNER
8 Given the job of editing Nazi propaganda movies during his stay in America in
1938, Buñuel was no stranger to the translation of these into film (Buñuel 1994, 179–80).
9 For example, Historia del cine español by Fernando Méndez Leite (senior) (1965)
omitted Buñuel. See Gubern et al. 1995, 10.
ARTFUL RELATION: BUÑUEL’S DEBT TO GALDÓS 135
11 All but written out of Spanish cultural life in Franco’s Spain (for further details see
chapter four of this book), Galdós was the darling of the Spanish exile community. The
centenary of his birth in 1943 was therefore celebrated by Spanish exiles, but ignored in
Spain (Fuentes 2000, 141). This despite the fact that some, like Buñuel, had rejected
Galdós’s work in their youth (Harold Bloom’s thesis of the ‘anxiety of influence’ [1973]
seems readily applicable here).
ARTFUL RELATION: BUÑUEL’S DEBT TO GALDÓS 137
Nazarín strides out, apparently more convinced than ever about his identity
with the king of kings. The masterful final image reiterates the standard
icon, which is magnificently subverted as we become aware that the orb of
majesty he proudly holds in his left hand is, in fact, a pineapple! (1996, 64)
12 This Catholic praise perhaps partly explains why Buñuel was allowed back to
Franco’s Spain to shoot Viridiana. Nazarín was, however, banned until 1968 (Quesada
1986, 82).
13 These multiple interpretations of the pineapple recall the debate over the enigmatic
box, the contents of which the spectator never sees in Belle de jour. When asked what was
in it, Buñuel of course disarmingly responds: ‘whatever you want there to be’ (1994, 243).
138 SALLY FAULKNER
dialogue and setting: both Galdós and Buñuel’s priests are introduced in poor,
run-down boarding houses, whose fellow occupants are prostitutes and the
generally destitute or disreputable. More revealing is Buñuel’s scrutiny of the
stylistic ambiguity of this episode and its replication in the cinematic
mindscreen.
The film credits roll over a series of engravings of street scenes, to the
sound of street music, horses, cattle and vendors’ cries, ending in a cut
between an engraving and a matching shot in which the actors initially strike
the same poses. Similarly used by Saura who opens his Carmen (1983) with
Gustave Doré’s engravings, such a beginning self-consciously foregrounds
the constructedness of representation, as does Galdós’s prologue.16 Next, the
camera tilts to take in the name of the guest-house, ‘Mesón de Héroes’ – as
the street organ continues and a donkey brays – then fades to a group of
gossiping prostitutes. This transposes the novelistic narrator’s knowing
reflection on the disjuncture between the street name and its squalid reality
(cited above) and his advice that the reader ‘no tome [. . .] al pie de la letra lo
de casa de huéspedes [. . .] pues entre las varias industrias de alojamiento que
la tía Chanfaina ejercía [. . .] que todos hemos conocido en edad estudiantil
[. . .] no hay más semejanza que la del nombre’ (Pérez Galdós 1999, 10–11).
Recalling the opening lines of La Regenta, the irony of which was overlooked
by Fernando Méndez Leite, Buñuel’s camera, like Alas’s narrator, points to
the contrast between the heroism of the name, and the humbleness of the
nature of the inn.
Ironic juxtapositions such as this are named by Gwynne Edwards as a
principal stylistic feature of this film (1982, 136). Edwards argues that these
juxtapositions point to the gulf between the protagonist and the environment
he fails to understand, but this is wrongly summarized as ‘characteristic
Buñuelian irony’ (1982, 118). Thanks to his misreading of the novel (Rodgers
1995, 51), Edwards fails to appreciate that the irony is Galdosian, and that the
Cervantine references he attributes to Buñuel are also Galdós’s. Further, the
juxtapositions might more fruitfully be understood as evidence of an
off-screen controlling presence: the cinematic narrator or the mindscreen.
An overview of the editing of Buñuel’s Nazarín reveals a consistently wry,
ironic perspective which gives the impression of what Kawin terms the
‘mindedness’ of the camera eye (1978, 114). The bathos created by the
repeated opposition contrived between the worldly and the otherworldly
leads the spectator to surmise a satirical, secular off-screen narrator. Like the
ironic contrasts of the prologue, a particularly eloquent opposition is set up
when Nazarín begins to explain major theological questions and the funda-
mental tenets of Christianity to Ándara. Before he begins the camera deliber-
16 In Kawin’s terms this would be a ‘mindscreen [. . .] in which the film itself, or the
fictitious narrator, is aware of the act of presentation’ (1978, 18–19).
ARTFUL RELATION: BUÑUEL’S DEBT TO GALDÓS 141
ately cuts to an image of a pot on the stove. While his voice trails away
addressing the first question ‘¿por qué nacemos?’, the action has jumped
forwards and Ándara comes into view adding meat to the stew. This may be
an indication of Ándara’s subjective response to the priest’s sermon – she
forgets it in favour of more urgent corporeal needs – but could also plausibly
be evidence of a narrator pointing to the gulf between spiritual speculation
and earthly necessity.17
A graphic match between the fire at the inn and the stove on which choco-
late is prepared for Nazarín and Don Ángel (the name is not accidental) not
only highlights the difference between basic and luxury foods, but also simi-
larly reveals Nazarín’s detachment from all practical concerns. Following the
sequence of the priests drinking hot chocolate (a favourite Buñuelian object
of satire, to be repeated in Tristana), there is a conspicuous graphic contrast
between an unusual high-angle shot of Nazarín’s snack of chocolate and
cakes, and an eye-level horizontal shot of the railway labourers at work. Such
a juxtaposition of clerical ineffectuality and working activity clearly looks
forward to Buñuel’s more elaborate development of this technique in the
famous cross-cut sequence between the Ángelus prayer and the building site
in Viridiana.
If we return to the novel’s prologue, it seems possible to make the case that
the first-person mindscreen, whose presence is felt through these ironic
juxtapositions, is akin to Galdós’s bourgeois visitor to the calle de las
Amazonas. The tracking shot of the inn’s name could be a point of view shot
of one of the wealthy gentlemen who is surveying the building for electrical
installation, who then observes the prostitutes, and in turn is one of the two
who interviews Nazarín, like Galdós’s narrator and his journalist friend in the
novel. These two men, who are revealed to be the proprietors of the house,
and one of them a pimp to boot, seem to fulfil the role of narrator. They act as
‘on-screen observers’ (to borrow Marvin D’Lugo’s phrase)18 for the initial
descriptive shots of the inn, and as mouthpieces for the narrator in the inter-
view with Nazarín, which triggers the narrative of the film.
However this coincidence between the cinematic narrator and a bourgeois
on-screen observer is only sustained during the prologue. The presence of
these men in the squalid boarding house is in fact another juxtaposition char-
acteristic of the mindscreen. Their clothing, accent and activity of electrical
installation (this detail is original to Buñuel) serve to counterpoise those of
the inhabitants of the inn. Moreover, as Rodgers notes (1995, 54), Buñuel’s
17 Velázquez’s Christ in the House of Mary and Martha (bearing the date 1618),
which subordinates Mary and the Messiah to the background and focuses on Martha
cooking in the foregound, seems to have influenced this sequence. I am indebted to Xon
de Ros for pointing out the relevance of this painting to me.
18 D’Lugo 1991b, 7. His concept develops Nick Browne’s ‘spectators-in-the-text’
(D’Lugo 1991b, 38; Browne 1999).
142 SALLY FAULKNER
He encontrado el truco para trabajar con Luis [. . .] No hay más que plantar
la cámara frente a un paisaje soberbio, con nubes magníficas, flores
maravillosas, y cuando estás listo le vuelves la espalda a todas esas bellezas
y filmas un camino lleno de pedruscos o una roca pelada.
(quoted in Sánchez Vidal 1984, 219)
has now become a famous anecdote (for example see Carlos Saura quoted in
Hopewell 1986, 227), but also describes the narrative mindscreen which
governs the imagetrack of this film. Just as the soundtrack contrasts with
Nazarín’s delusion as Rodgers has shown, Buñuel’s insistence on unobtrusive
eye-level or high angle shots of the dull, gritty and ugly also ironically throw
into relief the priest’s high-flown tender-hearted ideals. As Figueroa laments,
there is an unrelenting denial of visual pleasure to the viewer in terms of mise
en scène and cinematography. Barely one long shot of the Cuautla landscape
intrudes, and when it is glimpsed from the hilltop upon which Nazarín and
his followers take refuge the camera immediately tilts downwards to witness
the dwarf Ujo threading his way through the undergrowth. Again, when the
prisoners march through the countryside, Buñuel is careful to train his
camera on the actors and dusty road with eye-level and high angle tracking
shots ensuring that only the shabby convicts fill the frame.19
Just as cinematography reveals the work of a cinematic narrator, mise en
scène similarly provides an ironic commentary on the film’s protagonist. The
picturesque villages Buñuel mentions are either plague-ridden or teeming
with animals – the train of prisoners marches through the picturesque Cuautla
countryside but we only see the dusty track; in short we are treated to none of
the bucolic pleasures of which Nazarín himself dreams as he thinks of ‘el olor
de las flores del campo’ from the stinking inn/brothel.20
A final aspect of the mindscreen in Nazarín concerns recontextualization.
Julio Alejandro, who co-wrote the scripts for both this film and Tristana with
Buñuel, has reflected: ‘Galdós es enormamente fílmico: el problema está en
que hay que envolverle en un ambiente que necesita, que le urge’ (quoted in
Sánchez Vidal 1984, 325). Thus, just as Tristana is transposed to 1929, the
late nineteenth-century Madrid of Galdós’s novel becomes military dictator
Porfirio Díaz’s Mexico, and for Rodgers (1995, 57) this refers, by implica-
tion, to Franco’s Spain. It is owing to the way the mindscreen is aligned with
an off-screen narrator, transcending identification with any fictional charac-
ter, that it may effect an ironic treatment of both Nazarín who is detached
from his environment, and that very environment itself. Two additions relo-
cate the novel in Díaz’s dictatorship. Firstly the railway workers’ dispute
which is triggered by the penitent’s offer to undertake unsalaried work, and
secondly Nazarín’s rebuke of the stock figures of a colonel, a priest and a
bourgeois woman for mistreating a peasant. It is because the narrative
perspective is not aligned with that of the bourgeois proprietors of the
prologue that this satire can take place on so many levels. In the first
instance, Nazarín’s naïvety is parodied in his unbrotherly act, but, in the
second, our protagonist shows solidarity with the working man so the
narrator can critique a military, Catholic, bourgeois society.
Buñuel’s manipulation of narration in this way also highlights one of the
unintended contradictions of Galdós’s novel. To have a bourgeois narrator of
such a novel is highly problematic, as it embraces then recoils from the class
implications of its message. As Jo Labanyi explains:
21 Buñuel alters Galdós’s name for the same character, Bálsamo, which, with its
connotations of the provision of comfort, is similarly knowing (Pérez Galdós 1999, 54).
22 See Julia Kristeva, Powers of Horror, on the permeable interface between the
sublime and the abject (1982, 11–12).
146 SALLY FAULKNER
23 Labanyi notes (1999, 88) that it is a Buñuelian convention to frame characters who
stare at something off-screen.
ARTFUL RELATION: BUÑUEL’S DEBT TO GALDÓS 147
o era don Nazario el pillo más ingenioso y solapado que había echado Dios
al mundo, como prueba de su fecundidad creadora, o era . . . ¿Pero quién
demonios sabía lo que era, ni cómo se había de discernir la certeza o
falsedad? (1999, 195–6)
However this uncertainty is not upheld in Buñuel’s Nazarín. Apart from the
instance of solidarity between the priest and the mistreated peasant which
Buñuel added to Galdós’s text, Monegal may summarize ‘de la película se
borran las acciones eficaces del personaje galdosiano para subrayar, por el
contrario, la vertiente destructora de su pasividad: su pulsión irrumpe en el
mundo como una amenaza a la razón’ (1993, 188). It is this threat to reason
which leads Rodgers (1995, 53) to conclude that Buñuel develops Galdós’s
irony in a more radical direction to a censorious treatment of the character.
Considering, however, that the reader of Galdós’s novel cannot even be sure
where the limits of reason lie, the 1895 text which inspired Buñuel must be
seen as more radical.
148 SALLY FAULKNER
the ambiguity itself may serve to satirize patriarchal convention, but like
Friedman fails to note that it is more often aimed at the novel’s feminist
heroine (Condé 2000, 85).
Galdós’s take on feminism is clearly problematic, but this is not what
interested Buñuel in the text. He was not, as Condé proposes, ‘fired by the
plight of Galdós’s Tristana’ (2000, 70), but rather by the equivocal narrative
presentation of the character.24 The tendency to discuss the adaptation in
terms of feminism is explained partly by the change Buñuel makes to
Galdós’s ending by empowering Tristana, and partly because equivocal narra-
tion and ‘the woman question’ are inextricably linked in the original text. It is,
however, far more profitable to separate the two with regard to Buñuel’s film:
if we set aside both Galdós’s feminism and Galdós’s narrator in our examina-
tion of the adaptation, we would be throwing out the baby with the bathwater.
In his film version Buñuel draws on Galdós’s formal techniques, albeit to
develop other interests in narrative content.
Tightly dramatized scenes are pared down to their barest essentials; abrupt
shifts between scenes break smooth narration; different protagonists may
enter and dominate different consecutive sequences; dream imagery
possesses an actuality more powerful than normal reality; time changes are
25 For example, the narrator mixes up Tristana and Horacio’s love letters, ‘ “Te quise
desde que nací . . .” Esto decía la primera carta . . ., no, no, la segunda’ (Pérez Galdós
1982, 44), thus deflating the trite sentiments expressed.
ARTFUL RELATION: BUÑUEL’S DEBT TO GALDÓS 151
inferred more often than indicated; and subtle, almost non-existent, camera
movements suggest a watchful analytical presence as the camera takes the
place of Galdós’s hidden narrator. (Partridge 1995, 208)
of the cathedral and of the tower (Buñuel 1971, 36); but these have been subsequently
removed.
29 For a psychoanalytical interpretation of the severed head image, see Labanyi 1999.
Note also the significance of the Toledan legend that when the Moors took the city, they
used Christians’ heads as bell-clappers (Sánchez Vidal 1984, 336).
30 See Kinder on the importance of sound in Buñuel’s work in general. Despite the
fact that his first two films were silent, she notes he began his career as a director in 1928,
a moment when cinema was converting to the sound film (Kinder 1993, 292).
31 Antonio Lara (2001, 66) is wrong to claim that the changes Buñuel made to the
script when shooting and editing never deprive the viewer of ‘información esencial’.
ARTFUL RELATION: BUÑUEL’S DEBT TO GALDÓS 153
(This is not a naturalistic detail as the railway station is not nearby in Toledo.)
The sound of the bells is later playfully and obliquely referred to when the
bell-ringer tells Tristana that people no longer understand the language of
bells. This is not, however, an explanation and the spectator can only ever
guess at the meaning of the various sounds. This position of epistemological
disadvantage experienced by the viewer brilliantly parallels, nevertheless, the
disability of the deaf boys. In other words, the cinematic narrator engineers a
kind of figurative deafness, or disability, in the spectator, which echoes the
visual action and looks forward to disablement as the main theme of the film
through Saturno’s deafness then Tristana’s amputation.32
Prefiguration of the amputation through word play originates with
Galdós’s playful narrator, which Buñuel replicates in the mindscreen. The
repeated close-ups of legs in the film obviously recall Buñuel’s interest in
foot fetishism (see for example Le journal d’une femme de chambre 1964),
but also patently foreshadow Tristana’s operation. In fact such prefigurative
images (the presence of the amputee outside Lope’s café in the scene
preceding the one when Tristana meets Horacio; or the amputee on crutches
who crosses Tristana and Lope’s path as they are walking in the park, shortly
after Lope suspects Tristana’s infidelity and confronts her about it) rather
brutally transpose the subtle verbal puns in the text. Robert Havard argues
that:
The visual medium has a two-fold advantage over the novel with regard to
the vital issue of amputation. The shock effect of deformed beauty is
presented with a clinical directness which avoids sentimentality, yet, at the
same time, the persistence of visual focus on legs provides a prophetic
context which reduced the arbitrariness of the event [in the novel].
(1982, 65)
32 Buñuel’s own deafness, which grew worse in the year 1969 when Tristana was shot
(Aranda 1975, 239), may also be significant in this context. I am again grateful to Xon de
Ros for drawing my attention to this important biographical detail.
154 SALLY FAULKNER
Saturna’s warning not to ‘saca[r] los pies del plato’ (Pérez Galdós 1982, 29):
but Tristana does allow her feet to wander, and one is removed. Indeed the
narrator slyly reports that Tristana’s first thoughts after the operation are of
her ‘pasito ligero que la llevaba en un periquete al estudio de Horacio’ (Pérez
Galdós 1982, 148), thus implying that the leg has been removed because of
this activity.
This association between feet or legs and moral errantry is further devel-
oped by the use of the verb ‘claudicar’, both to limp, and figuratively ‘fallar
por flaqueza moral en la observancia de los propios principios o normas de
conducta’ (Diccionario de la lengua española 2000, I, 487). This semantic
play therefore makes it clear that the removal of the leg, or permanent
limping, is a direct consequence of moral waywardness – as Lope makes
obvious when he reprimands his ward ‘sé que has claudicado moralmente,
antes de cojear con tu piernecita’ (Pérez Galdós 1982, 125). Although in a
similar vein the cinematic narrator draws attention to the equivalence
between the piano bought for Tristana and her removed limb, which trans-
poses the pun on ‘órgano’ in the novel (Labanyi 1999, 80), in general the
cinematic mindscreen must rely on a direct transcription, while the literary
narrator may convey double meaning through pun.
Finally, the filmic mindscreen can be understood as responsible for the
recontextualization of the novel, and the parallels made through cross-cutting
between the narrative and historical events. To transform the personal lives of
his characters into emblems of contemporary socio-political events is of
course one of the hallmarks of Galdós’s novelistic art; this is often more diffi-
cult on screen, and Mario Camus is only able to hint at the marriage/adultery,
monarchy/republic metaphor in his television adaptation of Fortunata y
Jacinta, as we have seen in chapter four. However, the suggestive parallels
between the diegesis of the film and the contemporary events of 1929–35,
noted by Marcel Oms and others, seem to suggest the work of an off-screen
consciousness akin to the one that transposes the Madrid of Galdós’s Nazarín
to Díaz’s Mexico. This is firstly indicated by the transposition of the work to
Toledo. The long take of the cityscape mentioned above enables viewers to
reflect that this city is both the seat of the Catholic Church, and is historically
linked to the siege of its Alcázar, defended by Nationalist soldiers during the
Civil War (Labanyi 1999, 76): in other words Toledo is associated with these
two cornerstones of Francoist repression.33 With this in mind, the camera cut
which links Tristana’s seduction by Lope to the proletariat riot and its
sketches which deftly reveal his character in the film. Thus after the school-
master’s description of Lope as ‘un grand monsieur’ – which acts as a sound
bridge to our first image of Fernando Rey’s Lope – there follows a brilliantly
succinct contrast between the character’s moustache-twirling flirtation with a
woman in the street, immediately followed by his hat-doffing servility
towards an older bourgeois woman passing by with her child. In a similar
vignette, Lope is shown directing a thief ’s pursuers down the wrong street to
demonstrate his liberal principle of defending the underdog. Finally two
exempla reveal his gentlemanly disdain for commercial matters, on pawning
his silverware to an antique dealer, and honour-bound refusal to fight a duel if
it be concluded at first blood, in a meeting with the seconds.34
Although the cinematic narrator does not afford the spectator the mocking
view of Lope in his slippers brandishing his now ornamental foils, the ironic
treatment of this character is one of comic detachment, rather than the
ambiguous condemnation of his ideology we have seen in the novel. Signifi-
cantly, certain positive elements of his characterization found in the novel are
removed, such as the fact he is poor because he sold a house and his paintings
to help Tristana’s financially ruined father, then his collection of arms to pay
for her mother’s medication and funeral (Pérez Galdós 1982, 16 and 20). In
the film we can only assume the impoverishment which forces him to pawn
his belongings is a result of his previous life of dissipation, and Buñuel and
Julio Alejandro’s reference to Lope’s ‘fortuna dilapidada en gustos’ in their
synopsis of Tristana makes this clear (quoted in Lara 2001, 34). However,
lest the viewer become complacent and entertain an illusion of moral superi-
ority, this is deflated by the formal treatment of Lope’s seduction of his ward.
We are denied voyeuristic titillation when Lope slams the door in our face
after throwing the dog out of the room. As John Hopewell puts it, ‘the spec-
tator, slyly looking forward to the scene (whatever his judgement of Don
Lope’s morality), is caught by Buñuel and left with his tail between his legs
in a delightful denial of (here visual) omniscience typical of the oral ironist’
(1986, 164–5).
At this point the cinematic narrator emphasizes his distance from the char-
acter Lope, which is akin to the ironic detachment between the cinematic
narrator and the priest in Nazarín, as previously discussed. By contrast, the
off-screen narrator of Tristana apparently creates a sense of involvement with
the abused heroine. She is described in the published script as having ‘an air
of almost childlike innocence’ at the start of the film (Buñuel 1971, 15), and
her future fate as Lope’s concubine and an amputee is prefigured as the cine-
matic narrator focuses on the picture she polishes of one of Lope’s conquests,
and includes a number of close-ups of legs. The early sequence of her
pretending to play the piano on a table eloquently expresses both her affinity
34 In the script Lope’s participation in a duel was planned (Buñuel 1971, 34–6); on the
censors’ behest it was not shot.
ARTFUL RELATION: BUÑUEL’S DEBT TO GALDÓS 157
with the deaf-mute Saturno, whose world is also silent and who only commu-
nicates through mime, and her future disablement. As already discussed this
also recalls the viewer’s figurative disablement, by which the mindscreen
seems to reinforce further our affinity with her. Thus her first nightmare of
Lope’s severed head generates a sense of fear and foreboding shared by the
viewer, suggesting also the sympathy of the cinematic narrator.
If we return to the novel, we see that Galdós’s narrator is also initially
sympathetic in his treatment of the heroine, but that this is cast into doubt by
an undercurrent of ambiguity. Thus while the literary narrator does not
condemn Tristana’s unconventional proto-feminist ideas, the way in which he
frames them is revealing. While Lope’s ‘sistema seudo-caballeresco’ (Pérez
Galdós 1982, 15) is described with ambiguity, it is framed in indirect free
style; thus the narrator’s complicity in the character’s rakish philosophy is
conveyed by the formal overlap between first- and third-persons. The descrip-
tion of Lope’s ideology by means of indirect speech in chapters one–four
contrasts with the use of direct speech to express Tristana’s ideas in chapter
five. This first exposition of Tristana’s ‘feminist’ ideology is framed in direct
speech in its entirety as a dialogue with Saturna. The overall impression,
therefore, is of the narrator’s implication with the male character, yet detach-
ment from the female.
Despite the impression that the first part of Buñuel’s film adaptation,
which corresponds to Tristana’s innocence, traces an opposition between
condemnation of the abuser and sympathy for the abused, Galdós’s ambiguity
is echoed in the mindscreen. The ultimate act of betrayal performed by
Tristana upon her guardian – implication in his murder – is slyly indicated by
her first action in the film: despite her pale, fragile girlishness at this point,
Eve-like, she offers an apple to Saturno.35 Furthermore the disruptive formal
characteristics discussed in the previous section hinder any establishment of
viewer sympathy with her. The involvement of the cinematic narrator with the
character is problematized by the ceaseless insistence on uncertainty. For
example the interruptive way the narrator presents Tristana’s nightmare, and
later Lope’s, problematizes an interpretation of it as a mindscreen. Had the
narrator employed a conventional formal treatment of the subject – we, with
Tristana, see the bell-clappers, we see her return home, we see her go to bed,
then we see her vision of Lope’s severed head – this might be read as a sketch
of her subjectivity. But the off-screen narrator removes these two linking
sections, the closing shots of the first scene and the opening shots of the
second, rendering the sequence an unsettling surrealist disruption of the logic
which divides the waking from the dreaming.36
¿Qué hombre era aquél? Habíale visto antes, sin duda; no recordaba
cúando ni dónde, allí o en otra parte; pero aquélla fue la primera vez que al
verle sintió sorpresa hondísima, mezclada de turbación, alegría y miedo.
Volviéndole la espalda, habló con Saturno para convencerle del peligro de
jugar con fuego, y oía la voz del desconocido hablando con picante viveza
de cosas que ella no pudo entender. (Pérez Galdós 1982, 40)
37 Some critics wrongly call the whole novel epistolary (Sánchez Vidal 1984, 328).
ARTFUL RELATION: BUÑUEL’S DEBT TO GALDÓS 159
38 The ironic voice-over of Las Hurdes (1930) which Buñuel wrote with Pierre Unik is
an early example of formal self-consciousness, thirty years prior to his first Galdós
adaptation.
162 SALLY FAULKNER
39 Critics have previously noted the ‘Galdosian’ feel of this film (Monterde 1995a,
292), or, more specifically, that it draws on Halma (Hopewell 1986, 261 n.10), but it is
debatable to regard it as another, unacknowledged, Galdós adaptation as Román Gubern
has done recently (2000). It is nonetheless intriguing that Buñuel used the same script-
writer for Nazarín, Tristana and Viridiana, Julio Alejandro, and that the director originally
intended to combine both Galdós’s Nazarín and Halma in the 1958 film adaptation, but
later rejected the idea (Sánchez Vidal 1984, 224).
CONCLUSION: CINEMA AND HISTORY
CONCLUSION:
CINEMA AND HISTORY
silencio eschew nostalgia and appropriate the potential directness of the cine-
matic image to depict violence and suffering in ways that politicize their
representations of the past. La colmena and Los santos inocentes are more
equivocal as they combine the directness of cinema with the medium’s
tendency towards a nostalgic revelling in surfaces. This simultaneous adop-
tion and critique of the discourses of nostalgia seems to exemplify the contra-
dictions of representing history in film. Since ‘reconstructing the past’
(Jordan and Morgan-Tamosunas 1998, v) has been identified as a key feature
of Spanish film and culture of the post-Franco period, it is important to reas-
sess what has previously been understood as a uniquely postmodern tendency
in the light of the ways literary adaptations connect cinema and history.
FILMOGRAPHY
FILMOGRAPHY
Carícies (1998)
Director: Ventura Pons
Producer: Ventura Pons
Production Companies: Els Films de la Rambla; Televisión Española;
Televisió de Catalunya
Scriptwriters: Sergi Belbel; Ventura Pons
Director of Photography: Jesús Escosa
Editor: Pere Abadal
Main Actors: Rosa María Sardà (woman)
David Selvas (young man)
Running Time: 90 minutes
La colmena (1982)
Director: Mario Camus
Producer: José Luis Dibildos
Production Companies: Ágata Films; José Luis Dibildos; Televisión
Española
Scriptwriter: José Luis Dibildos
Director of Photography: Hans Burmann
Editor: José María Biurrún
Main Actors: María Luisa Ponte (Doña Rosa)
José Sacristán (Martín Marco)
Running Time: 108 minutes
Nazarín (1958)
Director: Luis Buñuel
Producer: Manuel Barbáchano Ponce
Production Company: Producciones Barbáchano Ponce
Scriptwriters: Luis Buñuel; Julio Alejandro
Director of Photography: Gabriel Figueroa
Editor: Carlos Savage
Main Actors: Marga López (Beatriz)
Rita Macedo (Ándara)
Francisco Rabal (Nazarín)
Running Time: 97 minutes
FILMOGRAPHY 169
La Regenta (1974)
Director: Gonzalo Suárez
Producer: Emiliano Piedra
Production Company: Emiliano Piedra Producción
Scriptwriter: Juan Antonio Porto
Director of Photography: Luis Cuadrado
Editor: José Antonio Rojo
main Actors: Keith Baxter (Fermín)
Nigel Davenport (Álvaro)
Emma Penella (Ana)
Running Time: 89 minutes
Tristana (1970)
Director: Luis Buñuel
Executive Producers: Joaquín Gurruchaga; Eduardo Ducay
Production Companies: Época Films; Talía Films; Selenia
Cinematográfica; Les Films Corona
Scriptwriters: Luis Buñuel; Julio Alejandro
Director of Photography: José F. Aguayo
Editor: Pedro del Rey
Main Actors: Catherine Deneuve (Tristana)
Lola Gaos (Saturna)
Franco Nero (Horacio)
Fernando Rey (Lope)
Running Time: 95 minutes
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INDEX
Don Juan Tenorio (play), 119 film criticism, 84–5, 86, 108, 109, 112,
Don Quijote (novel), see Cervantes, 120
Miguel de literary criticism, 81, 82, 84–5, 88, 93,
Don Quijote (television series), 89 97, 107, 109–10, 117, 119–20, 121,
Don Quijote (unfinished film), see Welles, 124, 148–9
Orson ‘the woman question’, 99, 148–9, 157
Doña Perfecta (novel), see Pérez Galdós, Femme et le pantin, La, see Louÿs, Pierre
Benito Fernán Gómez, Fernando, 99
Doré, Gustave, 140 Fernández, Luis Miguel, 13
Dougherty, Dru, 27, 30, 40 Fernández Flórez, Wenceslao, 9
Drove, Antonio, 21 Fernández-Santos, Ángel, 71
La leyenda del alcalde de Zalamea Fiddian, Robin, 21
(film), 10 ‘Fidelity Criticism’, 3–4, 5, 6, 11, 12,
La verdad sobre el caso Savolta 16–17, 20, 26, 34, 35–6, 40, 129
(novel), 21 Figueroa, Gabriel, 128, 142, 143
duquesa de Benamejí, La (film), 9 film noir, 12
Durgnat, Raymond, 1 f lâneur, 103, 106
Dyer, Richard, 86 Fons, Angelino
La busca (film), 10, 21
Edwards, Gwynne, 129, 138, 140 Fortunata y Jacinta (film), 11, 80, 85,
Eidsvick, Charles, 128, 131 86, 88, 89–97, 98, 100, 101, 105,
1898 Generation, 36, 40, 43, 48, 60 106, 107, 108, 111, 112, 113,
Él (film), see Buñuel, Luis 114, 120, 123, 124–5, 145, 164,
Eliot, T. S., 53 165
Ellis, John 5, 87, 98 Fortunata y Jacinta (film), see Fons,
Ensayo de un crimen (film), see Buñuel, Angelino
Luis Fortunata y Jacinta (novel), see Pérez
Erice, Víctor Galdós, Benito
as auteur, 11 Fortunata y Jacinta (play), see López
El espíritu de la colmena, 54 Aranda, Ricardo
escándalo, El (film), 10 Fortunata y Jacinta (television series), see
España, Rafael de, 9, 10 Camus, Mario; López Aranda, Ricardo
españolada/folklórica, 12, 86 Fouz-Hernández, Santiago, 68, 69
Espina, Concha, 9 Franco, Francisco, 61
espíritu de la colmena, El, see Erice, death of, 15
Víctor Franco, Ricardo, 54
Esquilache, see Molina, Josefa Pascual Duarte, 11, 49, 54–9, 60–1, 63,
estética franquista, 21 71, 75, 77, 78, 165–6
see also oppositional cinema Francoism, 28, 32, 78, 90, 131, 143, 144,
europeanization of Spanish cinema, 18–19, 148, 154, 165
21, 24 post-war period (años de hambre),
Evans, Peter, 13, 21, 86, 128, 130, 132 21–2, 26, 27, 37
exile, 22, 133, 136–7 women’s roles, 9, 22, 90, 114, 125
existentialism, 39, 44 see also censorship under Franco;
representations of the past; rural
familia de Pascual Duarte, La, see Cela, space; Sección Femenina;
Camilo José Spanishness
farsantes, Los, see Camus, Mario Francoist cinema (cine oficial), 8–9, 10,
Fata Morgana, see Aranda, Vicente 11, 23, 37
feminism, 132, 148–9, 160 Frankfurt school, 97
female perspective, 22, 94, 95–7, 103, French New Wave, 2, 3, 12, 110
105, 107–8, 113–15, 120, 125, Freud, Sigmund, 130
148–9, 164 Friedman, Edward, 148, 149
INDEX 193
Labanyi, Jo, 37, 40, 42, 82, 86, 132, 144, Mandrell, James, 111
151 Manhattan, see Allen, Woody
Lacan, Jacques, 132 Mañas, Alfredo, 95, 97, 164
Landa, Alfredo, 64 Mañas, José Ángel
Lapsley, Rob, 69, 72, 76 Historias del Kronen (novel), 12,
Lara, Antonio, 18 67–72, 74, 77
Lara, Fernando, 98 Marcus, Sharon, 83, 103, 104, 106, 118,
largas vacaciones del 36, Las, 22 125
Lasch, Christopher, 124 Marianela (film), see Perojo, Benito
Last Temptation of Christ, The, see Marianela (novel), see Pérez Galdós,
Scorsese, Martin Benito
Lefebvre, Henri, 51–3, 54, 55, 56, 58–9, Mariscal, Ana, 86
61, 62, 65, 66, 67, 69, 70, 73–6, 77, 78, Marsé, Juan, 33
163 Martialay, Félix, 18
see also ‘absolute space’; ‘abstract Martín, Maribel, 105
space’ Martín Gaite, Carmen, 90
León, Fray Luis de Martínez-Lázaro, Emilio, 57
La perfecta casada, 82 Martin-Márquez, Susan, 86
leyenda del alcalde de Zalamea, La (film), Martín-Santos, Luis, 34, 48, 165
see Camus, Mario; Drove, Antonio Tiempo de silencio (novel), 33–45
liminality, 101–3, 117–19 Marxism, 97, 129, 137
Linares, Luisa María, 9 see also postmodernism
literacy, 4, 5 Mata Moncho Aguirre, Juan de, 10
Llanto por un bandido, see Saura, Carlos McFarlane, Brian, 6–7, 20
Lola se va a los puertos, La (film), 9 memory, 64–5
Lope de Vega, 10 see also nostalgia
López, Charo, 39, 40, 99 Méndez Leite, Fernando
López Aranda, Ricardo Director-General of Film, 115
Fortunata y Jacinta (play), 89 La Regenta (television series), 11, 13,
Fortunata y Jacinta (television series), 80, 87, 95, 109, 115–24, 125, 140,
106 165
López-Baralt, Mercedes, 89, 91, 92, 100, Merchant/Ivory films, 79, 108
104, 105 Mérimée, Prosper, 21
Lorca, muerte de un poeta, 15 Metz, Christian, 7
Losilla, Carlos, 16, 18, 19 Mexican cinema, 126, 128, 136–7
Louÿs, Pierre ‘middlebrow’, the, 13, 24
La Femme et le pantin, 127 Miller, Beth, 130, 131
Luces de Bohemia (film), 15 Minden, Michael, 53
lute, El, see Aranda, Vicente ‘mindscreen’, 14, 94–5, 135–6, 140–7,
150–3, 154–61, 164
Machado, Antonio, 9 Mínguez Arranz, Norberto, 19–20, 28, 43,
Machado, Manuel, 9 56
madre naturaleza, La (part of Los Pazos de Mirbeau, Octave, 127
Ulloa television series), see Suárez, Miró, Pilar, 34, 115
Gonzalo ‘Miró adaptations’, 13, 15–16
Madrid ‘Miró’ decrees, 15, 16, 18, 19–20, 24, 34,
nineteenth-century, 47, 83–4, 100, 103, 60, 115, 164–5
104, 107, 139, 143 modernism, 4–5, 8, 13, 47, 162
post-war, 27, 29–30, 31, 40 modernisme, 73, 76
contemporary, 67–71 see also Barcelona
Magretta, Joan, 12, 129 Molina, Josefa
Mahoney, Elisabeth, 106 Esquilache, 21
male gaze, see implied male perspective Monegal, Antonio, 126, 127, 130–1, 147
INDEX 195
nostalgia for, 48, 49–50, 52, 55, 59, 60, star studies, 85–6, 87
61–5, 70, 72, 76–7, 163, 165 see also Penella, Emma
see also ‘absolute space’; ‘hapticality’ Strangers on a Train, see Hitchcock,
Alfred
Sabotage, see Hitchcock, Alfred structuralist approach to adaptation, 5–7,
Sacristán, José, 28 8, 11, 19–20, 130–1, 163
Sade, Marquis de Suárez, Gonzalo, 110
Dialogue entre un prêtre et un La madre naturaleza (part of Los
moribund, 147 Pazos de Ulloa television series),
sainete, 9, 12, 155 111
Salomé, see Dieterle, William Los Pazos de Ulloa (television series),
Sánchez Noriega, José Luis, 5–6, 25, 33, 80, 111
88 La Regenta (film), 11, 80, 85, 86, 89,
Sánchez Vidal, Agustín, 136 95, 108–9, 110–15, 120, 122, 125,
Sánchez-Gijón, Aitana, 87, 117, 121 165
Santoro, Patricia, 61, 63 subjectivity, see narration in film;
santos inocentes, Los (film), see Camus, narration in literature
Mario subsidies, 15, 16, 19, 20, 23, 24, 26, 33,
santos inocentes, Los (novel), see Delibes, 34, 60, 164–5
Miguel see also ‘Miró’ decrees
Saura, Carlos, 143 surrealism, 4, 127, 128, 129, 132, 133,
as auteur, 11, 25n 152, 155, 157
Bodas de sangre (film), 15
Carmen (film), 21, 140 Talens, Jenaro, 161
La caza, 21, 41, 54, 58, 61 Tanner, Tony, 93
Cría cuervos, 54 Tasio, see Armendáriz, Montxo
Los golfos, 25 Tejerazo, the, 99
Llanto por un bandido, 25 television adaptations, 13
La prima Angélica, 54 see also nineteenth-century novel
Scorsese, Martin television studies, 86–8, 97–9, 108, 122,
Cape Fear, 6 124
The Last Temptation of Christ, 147 Ten Commandments, The, 142
Sección Femenina, 90, 95, 96, 106 theatre adaptations, 1n, 13, 72, 79
second Republic, 129 39 Steps, The (film), see Hitchcock, Alfred
Secretos del corazón, see Armendáriz, tía Tula, La (film), see Picazo, Miguel
Montxo tía Tula, La (novel), see Unamuno, Miguel
Shakespeare, William, 89 de
Si te dicen que caí (film), see Aranda, Tiempo de silencio (film), see Aranda,
Vicente Vicente
Silencio roto, see Armendáriz, Montxo Tiempo de silencio (novel), see Martín-
Silverman, Kaja, 95, 122 Santos, Martín
Sinclair, Alison, 109–10, 112, 121 Todo sobre mi madre, see Almodóvar,
sirena negra, La (film), 10 Pedro
Smith, Paul Julian, 16, 17, 25, 29, 33, 66 Tormento (film), see Olea, Pedro
Spanish Civil War, see Civil War Tormento (novel), see Pérez Galdós,
Spanishness Benito
of Buñuel, 134 Torreiro, Casimiro, 110
in film, 18, 21 Torres Nebrera, Gregorio, 62
Francoist view of, 164 Trainspotting (film), 67
see also exile transition to democracy, the, 15, 21, 22,
Stage Fright, see Hitchcock, Alfred 29, 31, 54, 57, 61, 98–9, 125
stars, 16, 28, 86, 87 tremendismo, 27, 54
female, 43, 85, 86, 95–7 Tristana (film), see Buñuel, Luis
198 INDEX
Tristana (novel), see Pérez Galdós, Benito political, 49, 60, 166
Trueba, Fernando, 34 see also urban space
Belle Époque, 17, 46, 48, 49, 50 Viridiana, see Buñuel, Luis
Two Heavens, see Notari, Elvira ‘visuality’, 50–1, 52, 53, 59, 66, 69, 70,
74, 76, 78, 163
UCD (Unión de Centro Democrático), 16, voice-over, 29, 31, 39, 95, 107, 122–3
23, 164
Unamuno, Miguel de, 164 Welles, Orson
La tía Tula (novel), 10 Campanadas a medianoche, 89
urban space, 47–8, 66 Don Quijote (unfinished film), 89
in literature, 68–9, 73, 103–6 Wenders, Wim
in film, 50–1, 53, 65, 66, 68, 69–71, Wings of Desire, 50, 51, 76
73–5, 78, 163, 165 Widdis, Emma, 50
in television, 103–6 Williams, Linda, 128, 132–3, 135, 144
violence in, 49–50, 67, 70, 71, 73, 74, Williams, Raymond, 47, 48, 49, 55, 60, 98
77, 78 Wilson, Elizabeth, 103, 105
see also ‘abstract space’; ‘visuality’ Wilson, George, 162
Urey, Diane, 138 Wings of Desire, see Wenders, Wim
Usigli, Rodolfo, 127 Wood, Michael, 126, 133
Utrera, Rafael, 58 Woolf, Virginia, 2n, 5, 13, 53
Wuthering Heights (novel), see Brontë,
Valle-Inclán, Ramón María del, 15 Charlotte
Valverde, Máximo, 86
verdad sobre el caso Savolta, La (film), Young Sánchez, see Camus, Mario
see Drove, Antonio youth, 67, 68–9, 70–1
Vernon, Kathleen 57
vieja memoria, La, see Camino, Jaime zarzuela, 12, 100
Vincendeau, Ginette, 7, 12
violence, 41, 49–50, 52, 54, 55, 56–9, 61,
63, 77, 144, 163