LITERARY ADAPTATIONS IN SPANISH CINEMA

Sally Faulkner
Monografías A

Colección Támesis SERIE A: MONOGRAFÍAS, 202

LITERARY ADAPTATIONS IN SPANISH CINEMA
Literary Adaptations in Spanish Cinema offers new readings of literary and cinematic texts, and demonstrates that adaptations from literature to film can be creatively energetic and conceptually challenging. Attentive to historical context and informed by cultural theory, the book surveys the history of Spanish cinema in the dictatorship and democratic periods, and argues that studies of adaptations must simultaneously address questions of ‘text’ – formal issues central to the study of film and literature – and ‘context’ – ideological concerns crucial to late twentieth-century Spain. It examines three themes of particular importance to contemporary Spanish culture – the recuperation of history, the negotiation of the rural and the urban, and the representation of gender – and considers the related stylistic issues of the affinities between cinematic expression and nostalgia, the city and phallocentrism. The study concludes with an analysis of the formal question of the narrator in film and literature by assessing Buñuel’s previously unacknowledged stylistic debt to Galdós as manifested in his adaptations of Nazarín and Tristana. SALLY FAULKNER is a lecturer in the Department of Hispanic Studies at the University of Exeter.

SALLY FAULKNER

LITERARY ADAPTATIONS IN SPANISH CINEMA

TAMESIS

Woodbridge. Serie A. Monografías . recorded or reproduced in any form or by any means. stored in a retrieval system. Rochester.co. cm. I. PN1993. Motion pictures – Spain. Spanish literature – Film and video adaptations. Wiltshire . Chippenham. performed in public.S7 F34 2004 791.5. Sally. USA website: www. ISBN 1–85566–098–9 (alk. 1974– Literary adaptations in Spanish cinema / Sally Faulkner. 2. broadcast. published. adapted.© Sally Faulkner 2004 All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under current legislation no part of this work may be photocopied. transmitted. UK and of Boydell & Brewer Inc. London ISBN 1 85566 098 9 Tamesis is an imprint of Boydell & Brewer Ltd PO Box 9. Includes bibliographical references and index. paper) 1. without the prior permission of the copyright owner First published 2004 by Tamesis. Title.43'6 – dc22 2003015317 This publication is printed on acid-free paper Printed in Great Britain by Antony Rowe Ltd. PO Box 41026.boydell. p. NY 14604–4126.uk A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Faulkner. Suffolk IP12 3DF. – (Colección Támesis. 202) Filmography: p.

. . . . . Artful Relation: Buñuel’s Debt to Galdós . . . . . . . . 115 5. . . . . . Conclusion: Cinema and History . . . . . . . 79 Clipped Wings: Film and Television Adaptations of Fortunata y Jacinta . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 163 Filmography . . . . . 15 La colmena (Camus 1982): In Search of Authenticity . . . 33 3. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 189 . . . . . . . . . . 47 53 54 60 66 67 72 4. . 148 6. . . . . . . . . . . . Rural and Urban Spaces: Violence and Nostalgia in the Country and the City . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 108 La Regenta (Gonzalo Suárez 1974) . Time of Protest: Tiempo de silencio (Aranda 1986) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 136 Tristana (Buñuel 1970): From Ambiguity to Sabotage . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1. . . . . 97 The Government of the Gaze: Film and Television Adaptations of La Regenta . . . . . . . 110 La Regenta (Méndez Leite 1995) . . 126 Nazarín (Buñuel 1958): From Uncertainty to Censure . . 24 Time of Silence. . . . . . . . . Introduction: Texts and Contexts . . . . . . . . . 171 Index. . . . . . . Re-vising the Nineteenth-Century Novel: Gender and the Adaptations of Fortunata y Jacinta and La Regenta . . . . . . . . . 88 Fortunata y Jacinta (Fons 1970) . 89 Fortunata y Jacinta (Camus 1980) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Post-Franco Films of the Post-War Novel: Aesthetics and History . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Urban Space . . . . . . .CONTENTS Acknowledgements . . . . 167 Bibliography . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Pascual Duarte (Franco 1976): Violence in Absolute Space . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Rural Space . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Historias del Kronen (Armendáriz 1995): Violence in Abstract Space Carícies (Pons 1998): Beyond Abstract Space . . . . . . vii 1 2. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Los santos inocentes (Camus 1984): Nostalgia for Absolute Space . . .

For my parents. Anthony and Helen Faulkner .

aided with the final stages of publication. University of Cork. Parts of chapters two–five have been presented as papers in 2000–2002 at the following gatherings: the 6th Forum for Iberian Studies devoted to ‘Cinema and History’. the ‘Gendered Spaces’ Conference. University of Stirling. Davies Scholarship for research in the arts from 1999 to 2001. Some of the material in chapters two. Queen Mary College. University of London. University of Wales at Aberystwyth.ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS This book is a revised version of a doctoral thesis submitted to the University of Cambridge in 2001. Many thanks also to Professor D. the Centre for Research in Film Studies Seminar. the ‘Screening Identities’ Conference. University of Exeter. offered many valuable insights as examiner of the thesis. I am grateful to all organizers and participants for their helpful suggestions. University of Oxford. Gareth Walters of the University of Exeter for his helpful comments on a draft of this book. Spain and the Annual Conference of the Association of Hispanists of Great Britain and Ireland. My doctoral thesis was funded by an Arts and Humanities Research Board Postgraduate Award. I would also like to thank Fitzwilliam College. University of London. ‘Catalan City Cinema: Violence and Nostalgia in Ventura Pons’s Carícies’ and ‘Artful Relation: Buñuel’s Debt to Galdós in . It was a privilege to be guided by such an inspirational scholar. The School of Modern Languages Research Committee and the Department of Hispanic Studies. supervised by Professor Paul Julian Smith. University of Huelva. the Twentieth-Century Graduate Reading Group. I would also like to thank Professor Alison Sinclair and Dr Dominic Keown. three and five has previously appeared in ‘The Question of Authenticity: Camus’s Film Adaptation of Cela’s La colmena’. University of Cambridge. Ireland. the Hispanic Research Seminar. D. University of Cambridge. the Hispanic and Latin-American Film Seminar. encouraging me to continue with postgraduate research and sustaining me with their generous advice ever since. for my election to the E. University of Cambridge. the ‘Travelling Texts: Spain and Latin America’ Conference. both University of Exeter. Professor Peter Evans of Queen Mary College. The Fitzwilliam College Trust Research Fund and Jebb Fund Grant funded my research trips to Spain. for nurturing my interest in modern Spanish culture as an undergraduate. both University of Cambridge.

Dr Nicholas McDowell. . My thanks to the editors of Studies in Hispanic Cinema. for his emotional and intellectual companionship. I would finally like to thank.viii ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS Nazarín and Tristana’. New Cinemas: Journal of Contemporary Film and the Hispanic Research Journal respectively for allowing me to reprint this material here.

‘Dickens. fosters the investigation of two important and specific questions. W. Firstly the formal nature of cinema in comparison to literature. Griffith’s narrative techniques developed from the nineteenthcentury novel. While it is generally taken as axiomatic that. . and from the recherché literary intertextuality of art house cinema to the lucrative commercial exploitation of a pre-sold book title of Hollywood movies. A much-quoted 1942 article by Sergei Eisenstein. however. From the consolidation of the still prevailing ‘Institutional Mode of Representation’ in early sound film.1 to the purchase of the rights of bestsellers by contemporary global film conglomerates. 128–54). 208 and 212–15). is a fact of all cinematic fiction. including the novel. theatre and the magazine serial (Brewster and Jacobs 1997. not even with drama. Raymond Durgnat’s ‘Mongrel Muse’ (1977). Griffith and Ourselves’ (1999). 2 For a (hostile) overview of the development of adaptation criticism. vi). cinematic adaptations of literary texts. Approaches to Adaptation A field of academic study which is so richly suggestive for the analysis of both aesthetic and ideological questions has.INTRODUCTION: TEXTS AND CONTEXTS 1 INTRODUCTION: TEXTS AND CONTEXTS Narrative film is as we know it today due to literature. 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. it should be noted that the development of filmic syntax was influenced by plural media. cultural and industrial contexts in which the literary text and its screen adaptation are produced. The history of the relationship between literature and cinema is therefore logically the history of cinema itself. Griffith’s work in turn formed the basis of the IMR (see for example. but the study of one particular aspect of this relationship. ‘The narrative potential of film is so marked it has developed its strongest bond not with painting. as James Monaco affirms. but with the novel’ (2000. demonstrates how D. based on the techniques of the nineteenth-century novel. been hampered by limiting critical and theoretical approaches.2 This is because literary adapta1 Noël Burch coined the term ‘Institutional Mode of Representation’ to refer to the structures of the classic narrative system (see Cook 1995. the influence of literature on film. Peña-Ardid 1996. see Ray 2000. 44). and secondly the dialogue generated between the different historical.

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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 fairground 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. Conveniently 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).

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Scholarly work on literary adaptations was also a casualty of the birth of film studies as an academic discipline. Adaptations of canonical texts became the bridge between literary and film studies (for a typical account see L. Friedman 1993a, xi–xii), and scholars with academic training in the older art interpreted film adaptations from the perspective of literary criticism. Keen to emphasize the autonomy of film as an academic discipline, film scholars, on the other hand, followed the ideas of the French New Wave and either saw literary adaptations as insufficiently ‘cinematic’ and neglected their study altogether (Braudy and Cohen 1999, 397),6 or they simply ignored literary origins and interpreted adaptations like any other film (Peña Ardid 1999b, 13). Their study thus continued to fall to literary scholars with little knowledge of the new medium.7 As a result an approach which has been termed ‘Fidelity Criticism’ emerged, which displayed this disparity in knowledge. Fidelity critics judge the extent to which a film is faithful to the text, but since their expertise in the latter outweighs their understanding of the former, such studies tend to take the artistic superiority of literature as an a priori, and, through the comparison of a canonical text and its adaptation, simply reconfirm this hierarchy and demonstrate ‘adaptation-as-betrayal’ (Horton and Magretta 1981b, 1). Robert Ray offers a convincing account of the development of this approach, arguing that many scholars of adaptation studies simply transposed the insights of New Criticism, with its ‘reified notion of the text’ and its ‘famous hostility to translation’, to ‘sponsor [. . .] the obsessive refrain [that] cinematic versions of literary classics failed to live up to their sources’ (2000, 45). The problem with Fidelity Criticism is not therefore that literary text and film adaptation are compared according to how faithful they are. One dictionary definition of adaptation is ‘something that is produced by adapting something else’ (Collins Concise English Dictionary 1992, 13). The study of adaptation is therefore logically a comparison of ‘something’ and ‘something else’, and any comparison has fidelity as its core principle because difference is logically dependent on the possibility of sameness. The problem with Fidelity Criticism is that it is ideologically compromised because it assumes the superiority of literature, and thus a hierarchy between the arts. The first book-length study of literary adaptation, George Bluestone’s Novels into Film (1973, first published 1957), presupposes such a hierarchy. Written at the same time that European filmmakers were rejecting literary
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).

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adaptations in their respective national cinemas, Bluestone takes the artistic superiority of the novel as a given, and selects mediocre American film adaptations as his source material. The resulting study is a lengthy illustration of the tautology that novel and adaptation are different because literature and cinema are different, or in his own words, ‘the two media are marked by such essentially different traits that they belong to separate artistic genera’ (Bluestone 1973, viii). While unilluminating, this statement is at least uncontroversial. However, claims such as ‘only language can appropriate [. . .] tropes, dreams, memories’ (Bluestone 1973, viii) not only bespeak a simple lack of cinematic knowledge (surrealist film for example had explored precisely these areas) but betray his ideological bias towards the older art. With almost stereotypical reverence for the elitist and disdain for the popular and the mass, he observes that ‘an art whose limits depend on a moving image, mass audience and industrial production is bound to differ from an art whose limits depend on language, a limited audience and limited creation’ (Bluestone 1973, 64). Bluestone’s distinction between a ‘mass audience’ and a ‘limited audience’ reveals modernist thinking regarding artistic hierarchies, according to which Fidelity Criticism is a logical approach. It is rewarding to consider the issue of literary adaptations in the light of John Carey’s The Intellectuals and the Masses (1992). Carey provokingly argues that the phenomenon of widespread literacy in late nineteenth-century Europe threatened what had up to that point been the exclusivity of high literary art. ‘The purpose of modernist writing’, Carey suggests, ‘was to exclude these newly educated (or “semi-educated”) readers, and so to preserve the intellectual’s seclusion from the mass’ (1992, vii). Prior to this, a distinction had existed between ‘the intellectuals’ and ‘the masses’ owing to disparities in education. Carey draws on the leading Spanish philosopher of the modern period, Ortega y Gasset, to show that modernism in art sought to maintain that difference and, by developing its notoriously recondite aesthetics, ‘divide the public into two classes – those who can understand [. . .] and those who cannot’ (1992, 17).8 Carey’s compelling argument throws light on the question of literary adaptation because there are telling similarities between modernist denigration of the type of literary works read by the newly-educated ‘masses’, and hostile criticism of film adaptations of works of the revered literary canon. The modernist intelligentsia condemned popular literature ‘for the masses’, like the early novels of J. B. Priestley (Carey 1992, 38), as it meant literature was no longer their exclusive preserve. Their response was to enshrine obscurity, abstraction and difficulty, in order that ‘what is truly meritous in art is seen as

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.

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the prerogative of a minority, the intellectuals’ (Carey 1992, 18). What a disaster, then, that the literary canon, and even modernist literary works themselves, might be adapted to film, and thus be made accessible to all. It comes as no surprise that a quintessential modernist like Virginia Woolf should call literary adaptations ‘disastrous’ and ‘unnatural’ (1977, 265). How could it be otherwise if she considers film watching a practice of ‘the savages of the twentieth century’, whereby ‘The eye licks it all up instantaneously and the brain, agreeably titillated, settles down to watch things happening without bestirring itself to think’ (Woolf 1977, 264)? With a telling reference to the advent of state education, Woolf protests that in such a medium great literature is ‘spell[ed] out in words of one syllable written in the scrawl of an illiterate schoolboy’ (1977, 266). What is surprising is that this distrust of the new medium should continue to have such influence. The language may have been moderated, but the sentiments remain the same. Fidelity Criticism now tends to condemn the ‘betrayal’ of a subjectively perceived ‘essence’ of the inevitably superior literary text. Critics of both American and European cinemas, often drawing on the postmodernist repudiation of ‘the idea of a pure originating text spawning debased copies’ (Vincendeau 2001b, xvi), have lined up to attack Fidelity Criticism as a ‘glorified exercise in personal taste’ (M. Marcus 1993, 16) (Horton and Magretta 1981b; Andrew 1999; C. Orr 1984; Gould Boyum 1985; Rentschler 1986b; M. Marcus 1993; Fernández 1996; McFarlane 1996; Mínguez Arranz 1998; Whelehan 1999; Naremore 2000b; Ray 2000; Stam 2000). But the ideological doubtfulness of Fidelity Criticism should not make us banish the word fidelity from the vocabulary of adaptation studies altogether. We must bear in mind John Ellis’s observation that ‘the whole marketing strategy of adaptations from literary classics or from “bestsellers” encourages [. . .] assessment [based on fidelity]’ (1982, 3). What must be avoided is the elitist assumption of a hierarchy between the arts. In the following chapters fidelity is therefore implicit in my comparisons of texts and their adaptations, but never is the superiority of one or the other assumed. While previous critical repudiations of Fidelity Criticism have been persuasive, alternative methodologies proposed for the study of adaptation prove less convincing. Since it is the subjective nature of Fidelity Criticism which generates greatest censure, critics have revealed a special desire conversely to inject objectivity into the analysis of adaptations. Thus to redefine the field of adaptation studies, critics firstly proposed various typologies of adaptations, according to which it was hoped adaptation might be objectively categorized (Wagner 1975; Beja 1979; Andrew 1999; Quesada 1986; Sánchez Noriega 2000; Jaime 2000, 105–17). For example José Luis Sánchez Noriega proposes a convoluted classification system by which novelistic adaptations may be categorized according to fidelity or creativity (‘ilustración [. . .] transposición [. . .] interpretación [o] libre’), type of narrative (‘coherencia estilística [o] divergencia estilística’), extension (‘reducción

. he adds a most interesting section on evolving ideological contexts. enabling the critic to establish ‘the kind of relation a film might bear to the novel it is based on’ (1996. cannot be transferred (essentially. McFarlane argues that these categories translate into ‘that which can be transferred from one narrative medium to another (essentially. 187–93).] equivalencia [o] ampliación’) or aesthetic or cultural aims (‘saqueo: simplificación y/o dulcificación [o] modernización o actualización’) (2000. theoretical approaches developed during the 1960s have proved enduringly attractive to those wishing to counter the nebulous subjectivity of Fidelity Criticism with systematic objectivity. McFarlane proposes a quasi. all provided adaptation critics with the tools to compare literature and film and avoid the hierarchy implicit in the discourse of fidelity. being dependent on different signifying systems. 22). whose point of contact at the level of narrative makes adaptation between media possible.g. In his introduction he tries to repress ideological questions with the vague disclaimer that ‘it is difficult to set up a regular methodology for investigating how far cultural conditions (e. original emphasis). objective statements’ (1996. But such typologies simply classify and offer no alternative method for comparing texts and their adaptations. 195). Brian McFarlane’s recent Novel to Film (1996) testifies to the way adaptation critics continue to be seduced by this structuralist model. yet also betrays the paradox that this approach has obvious shortcomings. and its development in Genette’s narratology. the repressed returns. Relying on the standard structuralist strategy of analysing all narrative according to a division between ‘histoire’ and ‘discours’. 76). What is attractive about this approach is that it banishes the subjective hierarchies of Fidelity Criticism. the cinematic and the literary are considered codes. but separates it from the rest of his interpretation as an area of ‘Special Focus’ (McFarlane 1996.6 SALLY FAULKNER [. but the problem with structuralism is that it cannot account for ideological context. narrative) and that which. Thus despite his concern to offer only ‘rigorous. However. Barthes’s formulation of Structuralism in his early work. although still typographically and conceptually bracketing ideological questions. By the time he concludes his study. Secondly. According to the structuralist model. on realization that such issues are crucial to an understanding of Martin Scorsese’s adaptation Cape Fear (1991) which he assesses as a case study. After a conventional rejection of Fidelity Criticism. vii. McFarlane indirectly confesses the limitations of his ‘quantifying’ structuralist approach: . .scientific methodology of comparing novel and adaptation in terms of literary and cinematic codes using Barthes and Metz respectively. enunciation)’. McFarlane can barely stop the question of ideology from creeping into the study. the exigencies of wartime or changing sexual mores) might lead to a shift in emphasis in a film as compared with the novel on which it is based’ (McFarlane 1996. Metz’s application of this theory in his study of the semiotics of cinema.

] extra-cinematic inf luences such as the prevailing ideological 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. over thirty years on. [. such a disjuncture between artistic practice and critical response is particularly marked. (1996. Bikandi-Mejias 1997. 201. Twentieth-century Spanish history teaches us nothing if not that creative activity is embedded in its ideological context.INTRODUCTION: TEXTS AND CONTEXTS 7 The fact that the effect on the spectator of other texts [. Román Gubern has argued that a contextual approach is especially apt: 9 For the purposes of brevity. who have affirmed in the introduction to their French Film: Texts and Contexts that ‘Film texts emerge from a complex network of contexts’ (2000b. political and cultural contexts so crucial to the text and film. Sánchez Noriega 2000) disappointingly avoid these very patent ideological issues and adopt a structuralist approach. who has called for the study of ‘the sociology and aesthetics of adaptation’ (Andrew 1999. . .9 It thus follows Susan Hayward and Ginette Vincendeau. original emphasis) and Dudley Andrew. Caparrós Lera 1995. Monegal 1993. . 458). Yet many scholars of literary adaptations in Spanish cinema (Gordillo 1992. The comparison of the two media in terms of narrative codes addresses the question of form. . 2. Quite apart from the intellectual inconsistencies of the approach pointed out long ago by post-structuralist philosophers like Derrida. structuralism remains attractive to adaptation critics like McFarlane. here as elsewhere I include television under cinema as an umbrella term. but cannot account for the equally important ideological questions raised by the contact between the social. emphasis added) It is surprising that. and even the rejection of the model by Barthes and Metz themselves in their later work. Mínguez Arranz 1998. the preceding discussion of the specific question of adaptation from literature to film reveals that a structuralist analysis is inadequate. In the field of Spanish film studies.g. . a contributor to Hayward and Vincendeau’s collection (Andrew 2000). Texts and Contexts in Spanish Cinema This study examines both texts and contexts in its analysis of literary adaptations of Spanish cinema. This book aims to fill the void created by that contradiction. especially during the Francoist dictatorship and subsequent democratic emergence from that era. In Spanish cinema.] and of other pressures (e. Gómez Blanco 1997.

but a study of twelve adaptations both as texts. . 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. like Gubern. 1998). and within their contexts. 23–41). inmersa en unos vaivenes sociopolíticos tan pronunciados. Nonetheless cinema under the dictatorship was ideologically . 17) One argument that runs through this book is that a modernist hierarchy between the media is not only ideologically dubious. to counter the ahistoricism of structuralist studies of adaptation.13 With regard to cine oficial. a field first addressed by C. 4). My approach to literary adaptation promotes however the analysis of both form and ideology. 1982. incluso más allá de la voluntad o de la conciencia de sus cineastas. ‘cainismo’. Santos Zunzunegui (1999) has provocatively attacked North-American work on Spanish cinema as excessively concerned with ideological themes (e. 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. (1995. violence) at the expense of questions of form.g. expressive possibilities of both novels and plays. following Andrew and others. but equally profound. an approach which. and films and television. . a study of the related question of the impact of cinema on contemporary writers. Another thread is this book’s aim. While the criteria for selecting literary texts for adaptation during the silent period of Spanish cinema were largely commercial (Mata Moncho Aguirre 1986.] intenten explicar [las adaptaciones] en virtud de los motivos sociales e ideológicos’ (1994. B. and the fact that Franco himself scripted Sáenz de Heredia’s Raza (1941) has perhaps been overstated. Oedipality. and analysis of the reception of the films in particular. but a brief examination of literary adaptations during the dictatorship at this stage demonstrates why a historicist approach is so necessary. 207). 23) of peninsular hispanism (López. but also demonstrably mistaken. and clippings often lack page references and full attributions. Smith 2000b. permite como pocas detectar estas turbulencias en la escritura de sus textos. 1989.11 This book is not however a comprehensive survey of literary adaptations in Spanish cinema as a whole. under the dictatorship that process of selection was also determined by an ideological programme. 1985. therefore. I show is particularly inappropriate to the study of Spanish cinema. 1987. The amount of material available for different films varies considerably.10 Questions of context are addressed here through both examination of historical background in general. 30). I offer close readings of both literary texts and their film adaptations throughout to reveal the different.12 My examples are drawn from cinema and television of the late dictatorship. 12 This book is neither.8 SALLY FAULKNER el caso particular de la cinematografía española. transitional and democratic periods. See in particular the work of Rafael Utrera (1981. ix–xii. Morris in This Loving Darkness (1980). 11 My arguments regarding reception are based on the examination of press clippings held at the Filmoteca Nacional. the 10 This book thus responds to Jorge Urrutia’s lament that ‘no existen prácticamente estudios que [. Talens and Villanueva 1994b. While scholars of the Anglo-American tradition have criticized the ‘scientism’ (Smith 2000b.

71).] bajo la forma de una palpable censura política – y eclesiástica – que seleccionaba obras. the NO-DO. selection of texts for adaptation was governed by ‘condicionantes [. tended to marry grassroots popularity with party line politics. 70). and rejected. for example by exiled writers. newsreels obligatorily screened before all film showings from 1943–75 (Tranche and Sánchez-Biosca 2002. 15). Román Gubern (2002. since if a book had previously passed through the censors it regulated through censorship. Rafael de España demonstrates that Francoist cinema was an ‘escaparate cultural [que reflejaba] los criterios ideológicos dominantes en esa época: principio de autoridad. Jacinto Benavente. which were both popular and consensual. established in 1942. La Lola se va a los puertos (Orduña 1947) and La duquesa de Benamejí (Lucia 1949). . España shows that the literary texts adapted during this period. The selection of those texts written with his right-leaning brother Manuel for adaptation. but of course excludes ideologically dissident and non-Castilian Spanish texts. 30).INTRODUCTION: TEXTS AND CONTEXTS 9 promotion of certain texts from the national literature. top the list of most adapted authors. The category of interés nacional. most notably. the way the filmmaker might manipulate the material could therefore be another matter. Thus in his survey of the literary adaptations between 1939 and 1953. .2% of total production (1995.] nada desdeñables de tipo ideológico que actuaron [. who is discussed in chapters four and five of this book. Benito Pérez Galdós. also bore an obvious resemblance to the Nazi Film der Nation (España 1995. the plays were adapted in such a way as virtually to transform him into a Francoist sympathizer.14 Perhaps more revealing of the drive to promote monolithic ideology is the treatment of Antonio Machado. The clichéd Andalusian sainetes of the Álvarez Quintero brothers. according to España (1995. followed by Luisa María Linares’s novelas rosas. and the regime sought self-justification and aggrandizement through state-sponsored films and its Noticiarios y Documentales Cinematográficos. which amounted to 33. Armando Palacio Valdés and Concha Espina. through their adaptation to film may be readily interpreted as a function of propaganda. though naturally the films were produced in Spanish (1995. If the texts selected. and the preclusion of others. 14 España notes that in fact certain Catalan authors were adapted in the period. patriotismo irracional y defensa de los valores morales más tradicionales (familia y religión en primer lugar)’ (1995. As might be expected the list includes the work of other conservative writers such as Wenceslao Fernández Flórez. not only smothered his dissident voice but. . 77). 57) has argued that the choice of texts was probably as opportunistic as it was actively political. 76). which reinforced the gender roles defended by the regime. autores e introducía modificaciones en los guiones escritos a partir de las obras literarias’ (1996. The process of selecting texts for adaptation was analogous to the activities of the censorship office. . . 73). As Carmen Peña-Ardid stresses. for adaptation in this period matched the preferences of the censors. and.

then subvert that classic’s sense’ (Hopewell 1986. However. Ruiz-Castillo 1946). La sirena negra (Pardo Bazán 1908. conversely. ‘la censura permitía cierto atrevimiento moral’. original emphasis). Serrano de Osma 1946). there is little evidence to suggest. made as late as 1972. that ideological opposition was voiced by subversively adapting conservative texts. 5). and his example of such a smoke screen strategy is Mario Camus and Antonio Drove’s La leyenda del alcalde de Zalamea. it seems that while consensual filmmakers adapted potentially radical texts in such a way that they promoted Francoist ideology. Hopewell is referring to the later auteurist tradition of dissent here. and launched an attack on the gender ideology promoted by the regime. an adaptation of Calderón and Lope de Vega’s two versions of El alcalde de Zalamea.15 The oppositional legacy of these film adaptations was inherited by the dissident directors of the 1960s and 1970s. and Juan de Mata Moncho Aguirre (1986. Nada (Laforet 1944. 77. Similarly. Neville 1947) and Historia de una escalera (Buero Vallejo 1949. as Hopewell suggests. . For many of the directors of the Nuevo Cine Español (see chapter four for a discussion of this movement) literary adaptation. he points out.) In fact dissident film adaptations during this period tended to be based on dissident texts overlooked by the censor. Her study. which has been described as the best Spanish film of the 1960s (Torreiro 1995b. Iquino 1950) would be the major examples. Miguel Picazo’s outstanding 1964 adaptation of Unamuno’s La tía Tula (1921). whose influence can in turn be perceived in adaptations of the transition and beyond. all of which presented ‘un mundo menos edulcorado y edificante que el que contenían las novelas adaptadas antes’ (Mata Moncho Aguirre 1986. .] to home’ (1995b. . One way to ‘get round the censor’. was a means of questioning. 5] may be exceptions here. provides a model of how literary adaptations in the early Franco period might be studied. 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 [. 11). 5) similarly notes that owing to the ‘respetable carácter literario’ of literary adaptations. 314). (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. therefore manifests a debt to Carlos Serrano de Osma’s work. Serrano de Osma 1947). In the period discussed by España. if not denouncing. was to ‘base your film on a classic. which pays attention to both the specificity of film (the conventions of film noir) and addresses the ideological significance of adapting this text at this time. Francoist ideology. John Hopewell goes a step further than this to suggest that adaptation became part of a tradition of dissent. Las inquietudes de Shanti Andia (Baroja 1911. Ábel Sánchez (Unamuno 1917. Angelino Fons in his critically acclaimed début La busca (1966) adapted Baroja’s novel of social critique of the same title (1904).10 SALLY FAULKNER was likely the film would also be passed.

and thus far such an analysis has not been undertaken with regard to Spanish cinema. along with Buñuel’s Tristana. it triggered a number of adaptations of black-listed nineteenth-century novels. to emphasize only these auteurist and dissident aspects in the present study. M. Though perhaps ultimately limited in its resistance. Others echo the tendencies of Francoist cine oficial and offer images of consent (for instance Fernando Méndez Leite’s La Regenta [1995]). as I discuss in detail in chapter four. Lorca 1933) and Carmen (Saura 1983. Further work on these Golden Age films. note 22. Mérimée 1847. . especially as the literary adaptations of Spanish auteurs like Luis Buñuel. if not released. the present study traces one of the legacies of the Nuevo Cine Español. it promotes a distorted account as it only addresses one particular and exceptional area of literary adaptations as a whole. 75). Antonio Santamarina lists nine adaptations of Golden Age texts in the same period. It is tempting. I count eight such adaptations. Bizet 1875). However. in this period. For instance. Carlos Saura and Víctor Erice readily lend themselves to such examination. 171). Fortunata y Jacinta (Fons 1970). Whatever the political position promoted by the adaptation – whether one of consent or dissent. While literary adaptations are often considered a pedestrian area of film practice. for Buñuel’s literary adaptations see chapter five. although an auteurist study might redress a critical imbalance. would be very valuable. this quickly forgotten and often overlooked movement. Orr and Nicholson 1992.17 Furthermore a number of judicious critical revisions of literary adaptations have successfully repudiated both Fidelity Criticism and structuralism by adopting an auteurist approach (Horton and Magretta 1981b. Andrew Horton 16 In chapter four. 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. in harmony with or in contrast to the original literary text – an examination of literary adaptations during the Franco regime which overlooks ideological questions is therefore untenable. Morales 1985).16 In part. part one). and Erice’s El sur (Erice 1983. ideological context remains crucial to a discussion of films of the post-Franco period. which was the will to articulate opposition through literary adaptation. therefore. However. Fons’s 1970 adaptation of Galdós’s Fortunata y Jacinta. Tristana (Buñuel 1970).INTRODUCTION: TEXTS AND CONTEXTS 11 recurs in the most commercially successful film of the movement. 1968–77 (Santamarina 2002. Four of the twelve adaptations discussed in this study were made. this film was important as. 17 For example Saura’s Bodas de sangre (Saura 1981. this overview of the Franco period demonstrates that they could reveal both artistic creativity and subversive intent. Marcus 1993. La Regenta (Gonzalo Suárez 1974) and Pascual Duarte (Franco 1976) (Buñuel’s Nazarín [1958] was made in Mexico). Some are testimony to the legacy of the literary adaptation as an expression of dissent (for example Vicente Aranda’s Tiempo de silencio [1986]).

but most fall somewhere between the two as they simultaneously combine cultural and commercial aims.18 However. Following this argument one could trace the commercially successful adaptations of the sainete. 2). Pasolini. examples of which are as abundant in Spain as in any cinema. this approach would generally focus on adaptations that have been subsumed into other popular genres. For Horton and Magretta. literary adaptations might alternatively be read as a manifestation of popular culture. 23–41). 18–19). The adaptations examined here are linked by the fact that they all foreground their literary origins by sharing the same title. série noire (Cook 1995. This hierarchy is implicit in their stated aim to demonstrate that adaptations ‘provide a privileged map of the “creative road” a filmmaker has “traveled” ’ (Horton and Magretta 1981b. 1–2. most notably the musical or españolada and film noir (see Fernández 1996. Wenders and Buñuel.12 SALLY FAULKNER and Joan Magretta’s study – conceived in response to George Bluestone’s selection of mediocre films in his 1957 work – aims to show ‘adaptation as an art’ (1981b. the director is supreme and the writer lowly (see the paper on Buñuel’s adaptation of Galdós’s Tristana for a representative example of this assumption [Eidsvick 1981. 173–87]). 19 Film noir was born of the desire to adapt ‘hard-boiled’ fiction to the screen. 93). or as ‘a new type of popular cinema’. auteurist films and work that might be described as consensual and commercialized is important because as such it reflects the wide range of ways that literary adaptations have been used in Spanish cinema. original emphasis). despite the fact it inverts. Some are classically art house (for instance Buñuel’s Tristana [1970]). zarzuela and novela rosa during the Franco period. and address the contemporary commercial exploitation of the bestseller. and its name is derived from the term for the series of such books. . xxi). In diametric opposition. as Ginette Vincendeau has claimed recently (2001b. the assumptions about artistic superiority of Fidelity Criticism. Literary adaptations have proved particularly 18 See Labanyi’s overview of contemporary Spanish narrative (2002) in which she indicates which novels have been adapted. But there is a tendency for the study to emphasize the achievements of the filmmakers at the expense of the writers and it thus repeats. like the New Wave theorists (much of whose work is included in the volume). and the volume consists of twenty-three papers on the adaptations of heavy-weight European auteurs including Godard. and often highlight them through marketing (the jacket of the video of Mario Camus’s La colmena distributed by Suevia Films for instance proclaims that the film is ‘la obra maestra de Camilo José Cela’).19 The fact that this book addresses both dissident. 20 See Paul Julian Smith’s examination of the term ‘art house cinema’ in his reading of Víctor Erice’s El espíritu de la colmena (2000a.20 and some may be described as popular cinema (for example Montxo Armendáriz’s desire to capitalize on the success of recent bestseller Historias del Kronen [1995]).

With regard to the genre of the source text. and by the application of critical theory pertaining to these topics. I have not differentiated between adaptations of texts in Castilian and Catalan. chapter four) owing to their bearing on the theme under discussion of gender and representation. In this context. 115) is even more energetic than her denunciation of the art of the ‘masses’. it could be argued that her condemnation of middlebrow art in her famous quip against the ‘betwixt and between’ (1943a. while on the one hand we must acknowledge a difference between novelistic and theatrical adaptation – as we have seen (note 1 of this chapter) the novel is generally considered more cinematic – on the other exactly the same theoretical issues are raised by theatrical adaptations as by novelistic ones. is even more understandable. Another way of describing how literary adaptations marry ‘high’ and ‘low’ cultural forms is with a third term. 2). Similarly.INTRODUCTION: TEXTS AND CONTEXTS 13 responsive to the impact on art of changes in the sociology of spectatorship in the post-Franco period. the middlebrow is a polluting hybrid which might taint or adulterate highbrow art. the negotiation of urban space. with playgoers accustomed to seeing different productions staging the text in a variety of ways. In any case my interest in the play adaptation included here (Carícies. Pons 1998. In the early twentieth century there was a vested interest in keeping art of the ‘intellectuals’ separate from art of the ‘masses’. for the latter was less threatening if kept entirely separate from the former. Méndez Leite 1995. In the light of these modernist prejudices. Camus 1980 and La Regenta. unlike novels. which dangerously mesh elements of high. The anomaly that critics dichotomously address ‘highbrow’ esoteric art. As Luis Miguel Fernández has pointed out. 18).and lowbrow cultures. Peter Evans has pointed out in this regard that ‘even though plays. again recalls the modernist prejudices examined by Carey. chapter three) is its relevance to the topic examined. ‘la adaptación literaria mantiene un alto grado de aceptabilidad en la medida que satisface las expectativas de un público cada vez más escolarizado e informado [y] conocedor de los modelos literarios canónicos’ (1996. all but one are based on novels. To turn to Woolf again. the problem of fidelity remains’ (1997. Of the twelve adaptations discussed over the following four chapters. normally exist to be performed. For Woolf. while again recognizing that television is a medium distinct from film – especially in terms of consumption – I have included two television adaptations (Fortunata y Jacinta. where appropriate or illuminating. this study seeks in part to question the assumption that the middlebrow is necessarily conservative and reactionary (a criticism which has been levelled at the ‘Miró adaptations’ of the 1980s in particular) and thus synonymous with artistic conformity and ideological orthodoxy. Likewise. and ‘lowbrow’ popular culture. but . her opprobium of the practice of film adaptations of literary classics. the ‘middlebrow’. This book’s twin objectives of addressing questions of text and questions of context are married by discussing certain topics. and all but two texts are adapted to the cinema rather than to television.

and relate the formal issue of the subversion of realism to the ideological question of the transgression of orthodoxy. Questions of text and context are therefore inseparable. three and four I foreground questions of historical context by examining three themes crucial to late twentieth-century Spain: the recuperation of the history of the dictatorship in the post-Franco period (chapter two). In this final chapter I adduce theoretical considerations of the narrator in cinematic fiction (the ‘mindscreen’). and the negotiation of feminism and patriarchy in the period of social change spanning the late dictatorship. cinema and the city (chapter three) and cinema and phallocentrism (chapter four).14 SALLY FAULKNER incorporated both in the discussion of particular topics. transition and democracy (chapter four). In chapters two. and demonstrate the previously unconsidered aesthetic influence of Galdós on Buñuel. the form and ideology of the literary text on which it is based. or its inflection of. and each raises related formal questions of the affinity between cinema and nostalgia (chapter two). although a study of literary adaptation in non-Castilian cinemas would be a potential line of further investigation. In chapter five I conversely place stylistic questions centre stage. the representation of rural and urban spaces following massive industrialization from the 1960s onwards (chapter three). urbanism (chapter three) and feminism (chapter four). . and every cinematic adaptation holds in tension its influence by. Each topic is placed in the framework of relevant theoretical discussions of postmodernism and historicity (chapter two).

Réquiem por un campesino español. The Miró decrees. 1–5. Betriu 1985. Tiempo de silencio. It is odd therefore that Ginette Vincendeau’s Film / Literature / Heritage (2001a) should only focus on the 1990s. Divinas palabras. 2 On the first film-television financing deal. La casa de Bernarda Alba.300 millones’ of 1979. like France and Britain.POST-FRANCO FILMS OF THE POST-WAR NOVEL 2 POST-FRANCO FILMS OF THE POST-WAR NOVEL: AESTHETICS AND HISTORY The 1980s Literary Adaptation Genre The coincidence of a number of social. Camus 1987. the regime. Thus as well as biopics (Lorca. Director-General of Film (1983–85). Bodas de sangre. García Sánchez 1987) and the cinematic adaptation of major post-war novels (e. Clearly forming part of the drive towards the recuperation of literature and history evidenced elsewhere in Spanish culture. See Gómez Bermúdez de Castro 1989. set up a subsidy system based on the French model of avance sur recettes. Betriu 1982. muerte de un poeta. Saura 1981. the 1980s saw a number of film versions of Lorca and Valle-Inclán’s plays (e. named after Pilar Miró. Losilla 1989. ‘El concurso de los 1.1 These were: the will to recuperate a previously colonized past which characterized Spanish culture from the mid-1970s.2 While in the previous decade there had been a short-lived burst of enthusiasm for adapting nineteenth-century novels (see chapter four of this study) the death of Franco and Spain’s transition to democracy generated an interest in filming literature banned by. political and industrial factors from the late 1970s onwards gave rise to a flourishing of the literary adaptation genre in 1980s Spanish cinema. La plaza del diamante. 95–142. or conceived in opposition to. On the French system see Hayward 1993. . La colmena.g. the victory of Felipe González’s Socialist party in the elections of 1982 and their policy to subsidize art which projected their vision of a new.g. European Spain. Aranda 1986). see Gómez Bermúdez de Castro 1989. Camus 1982. Díez 1985. Bardem 1987). Jordan and Morgan-Tamosunas 1998. Luces de Bohemia. and the changes in film funding which crystallized in the cinema-TVE deal of 1979 to co-produce films based on the Spanish literary canon. 151–4. these films complemented the ideology of the 1 This decade saw a boom in literary adaptations in other European cinemas. democratic. a policy formalized by the PSOE’s ‘Miró’ decrees of 1983.

The 1980s literary adaptation genre has then firstly been interpreted foregrounding the PSOE’s cultural policy (inherited from the UCD) of producing films which were both ‘solidly middle-brow’ (Hopewell 1986. 5 Accounts of similar changes in the 1980s French film industry state the cost of an average film tripled (Powrie 1997. Jordan and Morgan-Tamosunas 1998). secondly a Fidelity Criticism approach to the film versions of the literary originals which is inclined to demonstrate ‘adaptation-as-betrayal’ and thirdly an appeal to sceptical accounts of postmodern historicity.] is that of a Socialist government which sponsored a cinema intended to mirror its own consensus politics. especially those offered by Marxist critics. for example. Cela 1951) were filmed using all the aesthetic hallmarks of luxury (La colmena. centrist governments and were financed either by the cinema-TVE or Miró subsidy policies. for example. the literary adaptations have been judged as invariably wanting. Monterde 1989. Jordan and Morgan-Tamosunas 1998. 402). Camus 1982). On retrospective tendencies in Spanish cinema. . on the post-war novel of hardship (e. López i Llavi 1986. As Paul Julian Smith writes of the state-subsidized La casa de Bernarda Alba (Camus 1987). Firstly a questioning of the contentious issue of state subsidies. and critical responses to the genre have followed John Hopewell’s assertion that the subsidized Spanish cinema displays a will to be ‘visually pleasing at any cost’ (1986. Carlos Losilla similarly observes that the 1980s literary adaptation was ‘un 3 See Jo Labanyi on the ‘recuperation industry’ of post-Franco Spanish culture (1995c. 227).g. 2).5 In other words. 4 This criticism echoes much contemporary commentary on the films. 12). Thanks to the generous subsidies.3 From the late 1980s onwards. films based. Secondly. notably in the Catalan press. La colmena. 226) and ensured ‘the maintenance of certain cultural standards’ (Jordan and MorganTamosunas 1998. far more money was available for film making than ever before. there has been a remarkable homogeneity of hostile critical response to these adaptations (Hopewell 1986. By appealing to the discourse of fidelity. Marinero 1988. On Tiempo de silencio.16 SALLY FAULKNER liberal.4 This criticism tends to stress three problematic areas. . Smith 1995. 227) proved a particularly unhappy one. see Hopewell 1986. This combination of ‘Spanish themes and American production values’ (Hopewell 1986. For example. its ‘hidden history [. critics have censured the directors’ treatment of the literary originals. This is explained by the fact that the policy of adaptation coincided with far-reaching changes in production in the Spanish film industry. . chapter one. a cinema specialising in adaptations of literary classics with unimpeachable anti-authoritarian credentials’ (1995. 2). and hence this genre is characterized by high production values including costly mise en scène and the casting of star actors. Riambau 1995. Quintana 1986. see Guarner 1986. Company Ramón 1989.

in which the history of aesthetic styles displaces “real” history’ (Jordan and Morgan-Tamosunas 1998. 37). sustancialmente. 42) cites Baudrillard’s argument that in the postmodern era ‘history [. 81. 35–6. but emptied of references. aspects: El carácter fallido de las múltiples adaptaciones literarias perpetradas por el último cine español estriba. 79. leaving behind it an indifferent nebula. . the historical mise en scène of these literary adaptations (mainly the civil.] invades the cinema [. the failure of the adaptations to live up to the literary originals lies in their excessive prioritization of mimetic. 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). 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. Rikki Morgan (1995). These studies echo criticism of . 173–4) interprets the treatment of history by the ‘consensus culture’ of transitional Spain according to Jameson and Baudrillard. Besides this censure or ‘betrayal’ at the level of content. on La plaza del diamante). . critics have also noted filmmakers’ inability to emulate the formal nature of the literary texts. ref lejando [. In sum. (Company Ramón 1989. on Réquiem por un campesino español). original emphasis) Thirdly and finally. which were published in the same period the films were released. 43–4). 60. . . traversed by currents.POST-FRANCO FILMS OF THE POST-WAR NOVEL 17 Film bonito. . Teresa Vilarós (1998.6 6 Many other accounts of post-Franco culture demonstrate the pertinence of postmodern theory.].and post-war periods) has been interpreted according to Marxist accounts of postmodern superficiality.] history has retreated. Smith (2000b. Thus intense interiority becomes facile specularity (Company Ramón 1989. dejándose llevar por la susodicha ilusión mimética. The great event of this period [is] these death pangs of the real and of the rational that open onto an age of simulation [. It is into this void that the phantasms of a past history recede’ (Baudrillard 2000. over poetic. on La colmena) and unsettling narrative distance becomes familiar identification (Company Ramón 1989. fino. . disorientating fragmentation becomes comforting coherence (Jordan and Morgan-Tamosunas 1998. . 41). en el abandono de las sugerencias poéticas que toda narración literaria encierra.] el texto sin leerlo. Marvin D’Lugo (1998) and Barry Jordan (1999) have all reiterated the relevance of Jameson’s theory of ‘pseudo-history’ to film. agradable para la vista y para el oído aunque trate el tema más escabroso’ (1989. .

and that ‘el indiscutible desarrollo comercial [del cine] debe adecuarse a unas exigencias claras de política cultural’ (Lara 1983). It may be pointed out. Austin 1996). Losilla (1989. clearly lending public support to the Miró decrees. for Spanish audiences at least. they were of a higher quality – a kind of ‘historia ascética de una purificación’ – but Hopewell (1986. however. Amongst later scholarly responses. lamenting ‘ya no podrán existir esos films serie B más propios del cine español que estas grandes producciones supermillonarias’ (Martialay 1984). on the other commentators mourned the older genres. therefore making the theory of the postmodern phenomenon adduced pertinent. a tendency which was reinforced by the Miró legislation of 1983 (Jordan and Morgan-Tamosunas 1998. 32). ‘Europeanization’ entailed an improvement in production values which might enable Spanish films to compete in an international market. The argument that the literary originals upon which these films were based were often more complex and innovative also seems convincing. and during the ‘desencanto’ of the 1980s Spanish culture did exhibit nostalgic tendencies analogous to those identified globally. rather than connoting improved production standards they merely suggest a glossier fictional reality. one which seems a lie’. Meanwhile. a process tempered by simultaneously affirming autochthonous tradition by appealing to the literary canon (Jordan and Morgan-Tamosunas 1998. it seems incontestable that. the Miró policy was misguided. which were seen as more ‘Spanish’.18 SALLY FAULKNER Given the notorious commercial failure of most of the costly adaptations funded by the Spanish taxpayer in the 1980s. Thus the literary adaptation genre of the 1980s became synonymous with similar tendencies in British and French culture (Walsh 1992. Félix Martialay of the conservative El Alcázar perhaps surprising lends support to popular culture. 227) echoes the El Alcázar article. . 32). The Real Decreto of 1 December 1977 demonstrated that ‘el cine español empieza a querer ser europeo’ (Losilla 1989. on the whole. On the one hand this Europeanization of the Spanish cinema during the 1980s had its vocal advocates. Powrie 1997. while far fewer films were produced in the 1980s. 35). pointing to a disjuncture between European and Spanish cinematic practices: ‘the problem with Spain’s new glossier films is that. that these critical accounts of the 1980s literary adaptation genre in fact contain a more or less hidden narrative of the transformation of Spanish cinema after Franco: the story of its Europeanization and its adaptation to changes in cinema audiences. in a hostile review of Las bicicletas son para el verano (Chávarri 1983). 33) has noted that. Antonio Lara in his survey of Spanish films of 1982 for Ya argues for instance that ‘el cine es parte insustituible de la cultura y necesita ser ayudado y sostenido por los poderes públicos’. Higson 1993.

a problem not unique to Spain at the time. La novela y el cine (1998) by Norberto Mínguez Arranz suggests a possible model of reappraisal. Europeanization and audience change (Jordan and MorganTamosunas 1998. 32). as betrayals of their literary originals. occasioning the need for films intended for both cinema and television screenings. secondly as works which nostalgically evoke a ‘pseudo-past’ and thirdly as examples of the shortcomings of state interference in art by means of the system of subsidies. mocks Camus’s ‘impeccably produced literary adaptations which aim more to fill the state television screen quotas than to attract the general audiences who attend cinemas’ (quoted in Smith 1998b. In his industrial survey of Spanish cinema from 1973–87. 33) states that at the start of that period eighty-six million Spaniards saw Spanish films in 5632 cinemas. . although many of the 1980s adaptations were commercial flops. and at the end of it the number had dropped to less than thirteen million in 2234 cinemas. Jorge de Cominges writing in El Periódico. namely the Miró . Cominges in fact mourns the transformation of Spanish cinema to which this policy responds. Firstly. Mínguez Arranz studies five post-war novels including La colmena and Tiempo de silencio within a structuralist framework of an ‘análisis comparado de dos discursos narrativos’ (1998. Audiences had deserted cinemas for television. These figures of course tell the tale of the fierce competition cinema faced from television and home video. which has condemned these films on three counts. . educated and liberal’ (summarized in Jordan and Morgan-Tamosunas 1998.POST-FRANCO FILMS OF THE POST-WAR NOVEL 19 the bemoaned Europeanization of the Spanish cinema. Reappraisals of the Genre This chapter seeks to go beyond the ‘standard’ critical view of 1980s literary adaptations. subtitle). and also came to be associated with the transformation of the cinema-going audience which occurred during that decade. ‘increasingly [. Yet there is a critical tendency to view the policy of subsidy as somehow responsible and to place the blame on the effect rather than the cause. 32). it seems to be the case that the literary adaptation genre of the 1980s became the arena in which these new directions taken by post-Franco Spanish cinema were critically contested. Since the state-subsidized films responded so well to these two transformations. 116).] middle-class. Additionally. While the standard view of the 1980s literary adaptation genre delineated above rightly foregrounds questions of industrial context. as Francesc Llinás has noted. and the films made were of a higher ‘quality’ as the closure of cinemas in rural areas and the barrios meant audiences became. for instance. The subsidized 1980s films responded to these transformations: fewer films were produced due to the dramatic drop in audience figures. While these comments are targeted at the policy of subsidy. Camus’s films have in fact been remarkably successful at the box office. Losilla (1989.

Mínguez Arranz’s case studies (part three) pertain to the specific and localized phenomenon of Spanish adaptations of the Spanish post-war novel. is a reading of the 1980s literary adaptation genre as a history of that decade. By prioritizing close readings of the films as visual codes.g. An alternative strategy for reappraisal. this focus on the extratextual is occasionally achieved at the expense of the textual. when so many works of twentieth-century oppositional Spanish literature were adapted in this period that in total they constitute a genre. In other words. no reference is made to the standard critical view of these films. D’Lugo 1991a. political and cultural history of the 1980s. this approach would be cognate with that frequently adopted to analyse Pedro Almodóvar’s early work. While Almodóvar’s early films are ostensibly set in a present-without-a-past. Like McFarlane. Similarly. critics (e. As was the case with Spanish cinema under Franco discussed in chapter one. 47) have exposed the many ciphers of the Francoist era contained within them. he offers a detailed overview of ‘theoretical aspects’ (Mínguez Arranz 1998. His structuralist ‘comparación directa de los distintos lenguajes y mecanismos narrativos’ (Mínguez Arranz 1998. Such an interpretation would also respond to the criticism frequently . who reads a wide range of adaptations to demonstrate this universality. Moreover. However. which are compared to the verbal codes of the novels. an assumption supported by the director’s statements regarding the desmemoria of his generation. ideology is equally crucial to an understanding of 1980s literary adaptations.20 SALLY FAULKNER decrees. The adoption of a structuralist model seems particularly odd in the case of Mínguez Arranz’s study. or fails to tell us about the historical periods in which it is set. This critical approach therefore allows Mínguez Arranz to bypass one problematic area of the standard critical view. Such an examination would therefore focus less on what the genre fails to tell us about the literary texts it is based on. and more on what it does tell us about the social. as the subjective categories of ‘better’ and ‘worse’ which underpin accusations of ‘betrayal’ are simply irrelevant to his ‘objective’ comparison of codes. Mínguez Arranz’s account is a welcome attempt to redress the critical balance. it is critically untenable to bypass the key ideological questions which are so crucial to the reasons why film adaptations are produced. the debate on the policy of subsidies. 183) also allows him to transcend the problem of Fidelity Criticism. which accounts for ideological questions without aping the standard critical view and includes textual analysis of the films without appealing to structuralism. but unlike McFarlane. part two) which are universal in their application. A reappraisal of the literary adaptation genre would aim to reveal that while apparently set in the past. the tricky issues of history and nostalgia within a postmodern context are extraneous to his linguistic analysis. as discussed in chapter one with respect to the work of Brian McFarlane (1996). the films indirectly refer to the present.

dissident directors developed the estética franquista. Saura’s film is hence a ‘Europeanization’ of the myth (Fiddian and Evans 1988. Jordan and Morgan-Tamosunas appeal to this theory of ‘retrospective presents and contemporary pasts’ in which ‘period film functions as a two-way mirror reflecting both images of the past and contemporary perspectives’ (1998. but according to this reading the similarity between the fictional post-war characters on screen and the considerably better-off Spaniards of 1982 is precisely the point. On a textual level. Camus draws a parallel between the (enforced) . 53–4). a phenomenon Carlos Heredero has named the ‘historia de un desencuentro’ (1989). whether losers or winners. There seems to be considerable potential in interpreting the 1980s literary adaptations based on the post-war novel in this way.g. Powrie 1997). Alonso Barahona quoted in Morgan 1995. Spaniards. Fons 1967). it was also common for directors to use the past as a metaphor for the present (e. supposedly ‘un-Spanish’ new cinema of the 1980s to indigenous filmic tradition. ‘the testimony of a nation attempting to pick up the pieces of its lost identity’ (Fiddian and Evans 1988. As mentioned above. critics have censured Camus’s failure to portray the hardship of life in the 1940s. ‘the practice of making oblique reference to the present by reference to the past continued well into the transition period. It would furthermore link the ‘European’. metaphorical cinematic idiom with which they made indirect reference to the present. 164). 19). are depicted getting on with everyday life. 52). like so many drones in a beehive. Due to the strictures of Francoist film censorship. Thus Robin Fiddian and Peter Evans read Prosper Mérimée and Georges Bizet’s nineteenth-century narratives of passion and jealousy in Saura’s Carmen (1983) as allegories of contemporary processes of social and political change in Spain – the transition and the entry into Europe. Austin 1996. 83). or the turbulent eighteenth-century politics of Josefina Molina’s Esquilache (1989) as a metaphor for contemporary Spanish political experience (Jordan and Morgan-Tamosunas 1998.POST-FRANCO FILMS OF THE POST-WAR NOVEL 21 levelled at Spanish cinema of the period that national films (Almodóvar’s notwithstanding) wilfully ignore the contemporary experience of the country (Heredero 1989. but also because of its well established effectiveness’ (1998. an oblique. and rightly redirect critical evaluation away from regarding Spanish literary adaptations as simply an Iberian inflection of the ‘heritage film’ genre identified in other European cinemas (Higson 1993. an analysis of Camus’s La colmena for example reveals an encoding of the consensus politics of the transition. La busca. 7). As Jordan and Morgan-Tamosunas note. not only because of the delay in the abolition of film censorship in November 1977. Again. They interpret Antonio Drove’s La verdad sobre el caso Savolta (1978) for example as a ‘vision of the period of the political transition through the prism of historical events in Barcelona in 1917’. Set in Spain after the momentous change of the Civil War. While the most famous example of this is Saura’s use of the metaphor of the hunt to refer to the Civil War in La caza (1965).

48) of that historical period. but the film and television series also give prominence to Catalan historical experience.7 The adaptation thus seems to exemplify José Enrique Monterde’s assertion that the greater the weight of contemporary social and political issues on a director. while on Spanish television it was scheduled at a high audience time (Casals 1984).22 SALLY FAULKNER consensus between Spaniards after the Civil War. (1991. Not only were two versions produced in both Castilian and Catalan languages. adaptations such as Camus’s Los santos inocentes and Betriu’s Réquiem por un campesino español respond to the rural exodus experienced in Spain shortly before these films were produced. Secondly. Mercè Rodoreda. This could be explained by a specifically Catalan rejection of historical literary adaptation films in this period. the film was curiously more successful in Madrid than in Barcelona. and the (voluntary) consensus between Spaniards during the transition. This ‘presentización’ of history through the treatment of rural space will be examined in chapter three. egalitarian Spain inaugurated by democracy. This interpretation echoes Román Gubern’s reading of a parallel between contemporary consensus transition politics and the Civil War films produced during that period. 7 This said. Furthermore. they reflect the invigoration of Catalan political. Francesc Betriu’s La plaza del diamante could be read as encoding a number of the key transformations in contemporary Spain. In a similar vein. the film raises the profile of Catalan literary heritage as it is based on the most acclaimed novel of Barcelona native and exile of Francoism. La plaza del diamante was the first literary adaptation set in this period with a working-class protagonist (Gubern 1991. La plaza del diamante is a box-ticking adaptation in this respect. 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.and post-wars reflects the increasing visibility of women in Spanish life after the collapse of Franco’s patriarchy. and is thus representative of the hoped-for inclusive. and was consequently broadcast on Catalan television at a low audience time. as the film and subsequent television series place Catalonia centre stage. 104) Likewise. historical and cultural identity following the establishment of the estado de las autonomías in the 1978 constitution. 104). . Firstly its adoption of a female point of view on the turbulent events of the civil. And thirdly. the more likely the historical film produced will be a ‘presentización’ (1989. like Retrato de familia (Giménez Rico 1976) and Las largas vacaciones del 36 (Camino 1976): The process of transition to a democracy based on a consensual political reform between the right and the left was reflected in a cinematic discourse which was predominantly centrist (everyone lost the war) and in a look back without anger.

I will furthermore address the issue of literary adaptation with specific reference to the question of the representation of history. 47). The interpretation of the 1980s literary adaptation genre in this chapter seeks to account for this equivocal approach to history in these works. then the PSOE. Avoiding the reductive discourse of fidelity. The genre furthermore bears witness to the ambiguous heritage of the history film in Spain – in both its Francoist and oppositional guises. to project their visions of the new Spain. the tendency towards ‘presentización’ informs our understanding of post-Franco Spain.POST-FRANCO FILMS OF THE POST-WAR NOVEL 23 On an extratextual level. in this chapter I therefore propose an analysis which accounts for the contradictory nature of its representation of history in the context of the Spanish historical film. Rather than an interpretation of the genre in line with hostile accounts of postmodern ‘pseudo-history’. Monterde has observed that the ‘gran y contradictoria característica del cine histórico español de la transición [es] la voluntad de recuperación histórica’ (1989. or a reading of it as a cipher of 1980s society. which are often carefully reconstructed through mise en scène. The texts selected for close analysis are two of the more successful manifestations of the genre. or reinterpret the literary canon. Thanks to this untimely echoing of the Francoist practice of exploiting the past to justify the present. for example those produced by CIFESA. and considering the 1980s literary adaptation genre as a whole. While the films are apparently faithful to the historical settings of the original literary texts. in accordance with the present is suspiciously similar to the Whig version of history and literature pedalled under Francoism. on the other these literary adaptations paradoxically repeat the way Francoist historical films. used the past to carry the ideological message of the regime. that the tendency to re-write the past. it may be suggested that the system of subsidy was a mechanism which enabled the UCD. History and Historicity While on the one hand the treatment of history in the literary adaptation genre of the 1980s recalls non-conformist cinematic practice in which the past was used as a metaphor for the present. who interprets postmodern culture as uniquely combining questions of aesthetics and history. As discussed above. these settings in fact become a reflection of contemporary times. It should be noted however. If many of these films seem to re-write the past so it would tally with the present. I will approach the cinematic adaptation of texts written in a previous historical period as a privileged site for the interaction of aesthetics and history. in terms of commercial profitability (La colmena) and . I will refer to the revisionist account of postmodernism offered by Linda Hutcheon (1989). the literary adaptation genre of the 1980s firstly displays symptoms of the postmodern historicity of contemporary global culture and secondly constitutes in itself an important historical document of 1980s Spain.

Just as criticism of 1980s literary adaptation encodes a response to the transformation of post-Franco Spanish cinema. for example. 8 9 .8 Recipient of state subsidies for his adaptations of La colmena. and its replacement by a homogenous. the standard criticism of the 1980s literary adaptation genre outlined above is frequently levelled at this director. working on demand under political and commercial pressures rather than pursuing a personal esoteric artistic project. 181).+Mario. LA COLMENA (CAMUS 1982): IN SEARCH OF AUTHENTICITY Mario Camus: Craft and Commerce With a third of his feature films to date based on literary texts. ‘se ha convertido con el tiempo en el más solicitado de los especialistas en limar aristas. 2). and having directed three television versions of well-known novels. 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. Camus’s filmography refracts these transformations in the Spanish cinema. Antonio Castro in Dirigido Por. Trained at the Instituto de Investigaciones y Experiencias Cinematográficas. Castro’s comparison with globally recognized veteran auteur Luis Buñuel is telling. contrasts Buñuel’s cinema of transgression with Camus’s cinema of conformity. en hacer aceptable y digerible para la burguesía. Mario Camus is the filmmaker most associated with the literary adaptation genre in Spain. then the Escuela Oficial de Cinematografía. the consistently hostile reception of Camus’s œuvre perhaps reveals critical discomfort over the changes in the role of the director.imdb.24 SALLY FAULKNER critical acclaim (Tiempo de silencio).9 As such. the rise of the 1980s literary adaptation genre muddied the waters.com/Name?Camus. European and middlebrow cinema in the 1980s. or auteur and director de encargo. 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. Whereas previously a distinction existed between artist and artisan. the latter. Before Almodóvar and a new generation of directors successfully combined art and commerce. Camus is also a figure identified with the Miró policy. Both are based on canonical post-war novels and are set in the post-war period. not the PSOE Miró subsidy system. Note that the funding for La colmena derived from the UCD cinema-TVE deal of 1979. textos más o menos famosos’ (quoted in Sánchez Noriega 1998. as has been claimed (Jordan and MorganTamosunas 1998. the young See http://us. Los santos inocentes and La casa de Bernarda Alba.

4). early collaborations and first politically committed films. 9) – an outdated auteur studies approach suited. if at all. as a contemporary review puts it ‘rodar y callar’ (Hidalgo 1983). 10 The work of Carlos Saura displays a similar trajectory. 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 original. but always emphasizes his ‘humility’ (Frugone 1984) and deference to the literary authors he adapts.10 As such. refusing to court publicity by attending first nights and rarely conceding interviews. clarity and realism in Camus’s ‘estilo de tono menor’ (1998. With regard to his early films Young Sánchez and Los farsantes (both 1963). as his adaptation of La colmena exemplifies. to a director like Buñuel. In fact. Given his background training. This neutrality in fact makes Camus the ideal director of the kind of literary adaptation genre promoted in the 1980s. Both respectable yet neutral enough for the emphasis to be placed on the original texts. 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. the point about Camus is that he consistently effaces himself from his work. 699). or Smith criticizes his ‘anaemic style’ (1995. 20–34). original emphasis). El dorado (1987) – at the time the most expensive Spanish film ever made. thus despite his commercial and critical success he has avoided the creation of a director ‘persona’. his or her authorial identity may be constructed (Sánchez Noriega 1998. Camus displays a similar neutrality in life as in work. in the 1980s the dissident auteur found himself in a transformed industry. As Phil Powrie points out regarding contemporary French cinema (1997. Camus was thus ideally suited to the post-Franco cultural project to elaborate a new Spanish identity by co-opting twentiethcentury contestatory literature. 69). and made his commercially orientated dance trilogy and even a state-subsidized commercial flop. José Luis Sánchez Noriega’s auteur study of the director seems misconceived. He proposes that through the analysis of a director’s filmography. 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. Camus has affirmed ‘yo pertenezco a una generación que creía en una revolución’ (quoted in Sánchez Noriega 1998.POST-FRANCO FILMS OF THE POST-WAR NOVEL 25 Camus was influenced by neorealism and the ‘new cinemas’ of the 1960s. Camus has this air of auteurist respectability. 379. . and worked as a scriptwriter on Saura’s Los golfos (1959) and Llanto por un bandido (1963) (Sánchez Noriega 1998. Thus Sánchez Noriega writes of the minimal disruptions to narrative linearity. 68). After his brilliant oppositional work during Francoism.

. muy dura’ (Santa Eulalia 1982). I argue. . Camus was criticized for allowing the excessively pictorial cinematography of Hans Burmann to shatter this synthesis. 229) and won the Golden Bear at the 1983 Berlin film festival. then stripping to parade for the clients. 38. After firstly assessing this criticism. on details of production and administrative problems see review of La colmena 1982a and 1982c. . desechando la más consecuente opción de un feísmo concordante con la vulgaridad de esas vidas casi inexistentes.26 SALLY FAULKNER La colmena was a high-profile film production: an adaptation of the canonical post-war novel of future Nobel-prize-winner Camilo José Cela. . Consider for instance Enrique Alberich’s review for Dirigido Por: Cela empleaba un lenguaje [que] encaja de forma excelente con el triste trasfondo social que reflejaba. Another problematic area of the adaptation is the transformation of the labyrinthine formal layout of Cela’s text into conventional cinematic 11 For contemporary press reports of Cela’s responses see review of La colmena 1982b. especially focusing on stylistic questions.] la fotografía de Hans Burmann parece empeñada en conseguir todo lo contrario.] El resultado es una película muy. with a massive ninety million peseta budget and a cast including almost every Spanish star of the day. Where Camus could have emphasized their hardship and thus the irony of their performance. for instance. Cela 1998. Take. desarrollando una estética que podría denominarse como de ‘endulzamiento de la frustración’. convirtiendo en un bello espectáculo los ambientes más deprimentes y claustrofóbicos. As mentioned above. In contrast to contemporary commendation. subsequent Fidelity Criticism of the adaptation has listed its shortcomings. . Burmann’s soft-focus images of voluptuous female nudity displayed in the brothel sabotage the novel’s portrayal of their misfortunes (see for instance. (quoted in Mínguez Arranz 1998. En cambio [. I will secondly address the discourse of authenticity which. 139–40) Despite the director’s insistence that ‘no he caído en ninguna concesión para suavizar los hechos [. muy. whom we repeatedly see wrapped up against the cold in tattered blankets. is crucial to the film. while Cela was lauded for achieving a perfect ‘encaje’ between form and content. details of production and the administrative problems over payment of the state subsidies. examples of what Alberich calls ‘endulzamiento’ are not difficult to find. 309–16). For a later summary of the scandal surrounding the film’s financial support see Guillot 1995.11 But the film played to commercial and critical acclaim: La colmena was the highest-grossing Spanish film of 1982 (Gómez Bermúdez de Castro 1989. Contemporary press reviews scrutinized the project closely – especially Cela’s views (which were positive). the depiction of Jesusa’s prostitutes.

arguing that ‘la realidad primaria [. .] que el discurso novelístico no puede igualar’ (1990. a novel which exploits such characteristics does not necessarily adapt easily to the screen. . Indeed Dru Dougherty is flabbergasted at a film which should even attempt the adaptation of ‘una novela que insiste en negarnos su fábula’: ¿Qué pensar de una película que pretende adaptar una novela cuyos sucesos. which cross-cut from one to another achronologically over three days in the wintry Madrid of December 1943. . 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. Dougherty pertinently observes (1990.] irrumpe en la película de una manera directa y desnuda [. 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 [. debunking official rhetoric – despite Cela’s links to the regime – through the ironic perspective of the narrator. . all written in the present tense. sin ningún protagonista señalado? (1990. Mínguez Arranz 1998). In the majority of Camus’s adaptation of La colmena. using in most cases continuity rather than parallel editing and following a comparatively linear – if meandering – plot. It is a stylistically contrived exposé of Francoist Spain during its años triunfales. . This is because classical narrative film labours to secrete these mechanisms of its language. personajes y ambientes se multiplican hasta formar un enjambre de vidas sin ninguna unidad aparente y. Cela was clearly influenced by the descriptive practices of naturalism.POST-FRANCO FILMS OF THE POST-WAR NOVEL 27 language. lo más problemático para una industria de estrellas.]: echarme a la plazuela con mi maquinilla de fotógrafo y revelar después mi cuidadoso y modesto trabajito ambulante’ (Cela quoted in Urrutia 1998. the director adopts this conventional cinematic idiom. Cela’s La colmena consists of a fragmented series of urban vignettes. Camus therefore paradoxically erases the filmic nature of the original text by adapting it to film. Thus the cinematic cut is hidden by suture. Camus and producer/scriptwriter José Luis Dibildos adapt Cela’s novel as though it were a transparent realist document of post-war Madrid. . 20). a car-chase) and film conceals its limitation to the present tense by recounting linear narratives. 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. 21) that Camus is more faithful to Cela’s primary material than the novelist himself. parallel montage is rare and must be justified by plot (e. Nonetheless the resulting novel is of course anything but a disingenuous photographic snapshot. 19) Some critics have thought to read the film against the supposedly cinematographic elements of the novel (Deveny 1988. 13).g.

12 the introduction of a protagonist in the film adaptation of a novel which does not have one (Dougherty 1990. Dibildos’s script in fact imposes chronology on an original novel which refuses linearity. The two hundred and thirteen fragments of Cela’s ‘beehive’ portray an overwhelming two hundred and ninety-six characters (Urrutia 1998. 13 As no casting director is listed in the film’s credits. 29). The film makes clear the link between Martín and Margot’s death – he is accused then exonerated of murder – but the novel is stubbornly ambiguous. and the reader is left with the equivocal and disturbing juxtaposition of Martín’s ‘mal asunto’ with the image of a dying dog (Cela 1998. . in the café La Delicia. the choice of this actor must be attributable to Camus. who oscillates between the conversational subjectivity of the picaresque and the quasi-objectivity of naturalism. Cela’s Martín fails to read about an unnamed crime for which the authorities wish to question him in his newspaper. 325–6). Camus’s version ends. she develops from her early simpering demands of ‘¿me querrás siempre?’ to her final resigned exclamation (not included in the novel): ‘esto ni es amor. Gradually disabused regarding her boyfriend Ventura’s intentions towards her. with a voice-over from the novel. en la película resulta aún más complicado’ (1998. a proliferation of tracking and depth of field shots and a 12 The video jacket of the video distributed by Suevia Films claims there are sixty characters in the production. Symbol of little more than furtive extra-marital relations within the strict moral codes of Francoism. If this number had to be reduced to twenty-three in the film for practical reasons (Deveny 1988. with an ‘objective’ camera. A telling example of this imposition of dramatic structure is the treatment of Victoria Abril’s Julita.28 SALLY FAULKNER Camus replaces this unreliable narrator. 19) reveals Camus’s unwillingness to replicate Cela’s formal challenges.13 Although Mínguez Arranz has claimed that ‘si ya resulta difícil en la novela establecer con precisión el desarrollo temporal de la historia. Furthermore this ‘dramatic structure’ imposes closure on a novel which so disorientatingly lacks one. While the scenes in the café are among the best in the film – with an absence of establishing shots. The viewer does not experience the unsettling void at the heart of Cela’s novel when scriptwriter Dibildos emphasizes Martín Marco’s role as protagonist. ni es nada’. however. As the scriptwriter stated. making the film far more accessible. 124). ‘era preciso dotar a la novela de una estructura dramática de la que carecía’ (Dibildos quoted in Mínguez Arranz 1998. Dibildos’s development of Julita follows a conventional character arc. feigning ignorance then exhibiting omniscience. and provider of viewer titillation in the contrived scene of destape at the casa de citas. 131). 277). and Camus casts the familiar disaffected hero of transition films José Sacristán to portray him. thus the satire effected by repetition and juxtaposition is largely lost.

‘Authenticity’ as a concept may have been buried long ago by postmodern and post-structuralist theories as a disingenuous fallacy in historical representation. This is not to argue that 1970s and 1980s Spain was characterized by historical naïvety. ‘es el ambiente [. . In an interview with Ya published on the day of the film’s premiere. although his equation of authenticity with the NO-DO – the notorious propaganda machine of the regime – is slightly alarming: Me faltaba Madrid. In the context of postmodern accounts of historiographic metafiction this chapter examines the tension between a novel which eschews history in order to challenge the doxa.] de la miseria que recorre las páginas del libro y que impregna “con bastante exactitud”. 320) – the constant return to this space transforms it into a central pivot of community in the film. the other celebrates the fact that it has not. la versión cinematográfica del mismo’ (Santa Eulalia 1982.POST-FRANCO FILMS OF THE POST-WAR NOVEL 29 mise en scène of mirrors and a revolving door all efficaciously exploited to connote the repetition and monotony expressed in the voice-over (Cela 1998. but rather. Cela defused the rhetoric of the regime which sought to justify the present through reference to the past by setting his novel in a stagnant. but in the context of transitional Spain it was still a vital concern. Conversely. While the one laments that history is destined to repeat itself. Accounts of the production of La colmena and contemporary press reviews on the film’s release reveal a striking convergence over this question of authenticity. según Camus. Busqué unos planos en el NO-DO de . However. we may more profitably explore the fascinating points of convergence and divergence between the original text and its cinematic adaptation through consideration of the question of history. to recognize the specifically Spanish ‘modernity’ of that period and not let our analysis of it merge into a general thesis of global ‘postmodernity’. and a film which seeks to represent history in order to create the doxa. for instance. el exterior. democratic Spain’s cultural policy during the 1980s sought to recuperate the past to interpret the present as part of a process of progress. Me armé de valor y me atreví a hacer algo que quizá rechace algún espectador. his interviewer explains. emphasis added). . Camus’s explanation for the interpolation of actual film footage from the period is particularly interesting with respect to this quest for ‘exact’ or ‘authentic’ period recreation. ‘Lo que predomina’. following Paul Julian Smith (2000b). whereas the novel uncompromisingly portrays atomized alienation. cyclical present. History and Authenticity The above interpretation of Camus’s adaptation in fact tells us little more than that the novel is worth reading and the film not worth watching. Camus emphasizes the attention he paid to authentic recreation in mise en scène.

Nonetheless. matches and cigarettes) dated from the period (Deveny 1999. Mi caravana. the reviewer’s insistence that in 1980s Spain progress was such that previously compromised artistic realism could now be ‘authentic’ is fascinating. ration coupons. At the time he explained that ‘yo. Of the three hundred bottles behind the bar of the La Delicia café. and in any case the novelist made no concessions to censorship. The soundtrack consists of dialogue from the novel. The film adaptation can be understood as organized around the quest for authenticity. In the above quotation Camus expresses his concern that these interpolations jar with the tone of the rest of the film. Todos los detalles están cuidados con mimo de entomólogo’ (Dibildos quoted in Mínguez Arranz 1998. Su función es testimonial. like Camus. emphasis added) Producer and scriptwriter Dibildos echoes this faith that the film was an authentic representation of the period. (quoted in Santa Eulalia 1982. 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. contrasts the compromised portrayal of reality in Cela’s novel due to censorship with the authentic portrayal of reality in Camus’s film – ‘sólo muchos años después se ha podido relatar [la auténtica realidad española] con libertad’. Así la ciudad es la auténtica y no creo que se despegue del resto más que por la diferencia de la técnica fotográfica y las deficiencias del blanco y negro en que esas secuencias estaban filmadas. first publishing La colmena in Argentina. aún no he visto ninguna película que refleje aquellos años tal y como fueron realmente. 71). surpasses Cela’s work in its documentary realism – was achieved through a minutely detailed recreation of 1940s Madrid.30 SALLY FAULKNER aquellos días y los he incluido. emphasis added). Small wonder that contemporary commentators wrote of Camus’s ‘auténtica realidad española’. por encima de todo. For example. Almost everything within the frame (for example magazines. Even . That transparent mimesis was Cela’s aim is of course highly debatable. Diego Galán’s review in El País (1982). 71) and only twelve of the costumes had to be made: all the other clothes were antiques from the period (Mínguez Arranz 1998. for instance. but – such was the energy devoted to mise en scène – the point is that they do not. como niño de la época. Me parece que debía contarse con ellas. ‘posiblemente sea uno de los grandes logros de la película. as Dougherty observes. This entomological fidelity to the period – which. a todo creador le apetece. 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. The imagetrack incorporates both original footage of street scenes from 1940s Madrid and a NO-DO sequence on Holy Week in Spain. 139). archive recordings from Radio Nacional de España and contemporary music (Ojos verdes. Y. highlights mise en scène. hacer lo que nadie ha hecho. 138–9. half were authentic (Deveny 1999. desde luego.’ He.

we may explore the possibility that this merging of immiscible documentary and fictional genres is a conscious problematizing of the representation of history in any aesthetic form. gives the impression too of a transparent relationship between film. we may understand this early 1980s literary adaptation as set squarely within the context of the transition. As such. 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. Indeed the novel itself. The foundations of the two genres are mutually undermining. and hence La colmena as a historical representation of 1940s Madrid is a contradictory amalgam of authenticity and aesthetics. or an unmediated representation of the past. rather than an example of the new cinema of democratic Spain. But in its merging of both documentary and fictional dramatic forms. novel and the historical period represented. 20).POST-FRANCO FILMS OF THE POST-WAR NOVEL 31 though the film is in colour and the original footage in monotone. 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. And finally. and even its author. The documentary presupposes the possibility of authenticity. Alternatively. The film thus displays what Juan Miguel Company Ramón has pertinently described (1989) as a will for ‘la conquista del tiempo’. 123]) and places a kind of seal of authorial authenticity on the work. which also splices original footage along with interviews of key figures of Civil War. 320). whereas 1970s documentaries had largely been box office failures. There are obvious parallels between the desire to film an ‘auténtica realidad española’ and the documentary genre characterized by ‘its reintroduction of previously excluded points of view and its appeal to authenticity’ (Jordan and Morgan-Tamosunas 1998. . With its interpolation of contemporary archive film footage. La colmena found commercial success. La colmena is a late manifestation of the documentary film which flourished during the 1970s. the browns and greys selected for mise en scène smooth over the differences. 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. as the final images of the film roll. seem to be subsumed in the general drive for authenticity in the adaptation. the voice-over quotation of a passage from the end of chapter six of the novel (Cela 1998. the film bears clear resemblance to a documentary like Jaime Camino’s La vieja memoria (1977). 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. employing a discourse of authenticity to counter the stubborn presentness of all cinematic language. However the fictional referent of La colmena marks a crucial departure from previous documentary forms. perhaps suggesting that the representation of the past is necessarily mediated.

Camus’s ludic parallel montage reveals the disparity between the orthodox ritual described by the NO-DO commentator and the illicit behaviour of the fictional narrative.] through its discourses.32 SALLY FAULKNER It could be argued that this combination of documentary authenticity and fictional aestheticization in La colmena betrays a self-consciousness about the representation of history. 87). implying that the two forms are so many ‘discourses’ in the ‘narrative representation’ of history.] Postmodern fiction merely makes overt the processes of narrative representation. Such an exposure of the constructedness of representation has particular resonance in the context of the discourses of Francoist ideology. Camus’s interpolation of the footage from the NO-DO could be read as a deconstruction of these discourses. the narratives of witnesses . and historians. 36) Camus’s interpolation of contemporary film footage and NO-DO material is particularly interesting in this respect. [. .14 Hence a reading of the film as a historiographic metafiction (Hutcheon 1989) would suggest that the cross-cutting between the sober account of Catholic ritual of the NO-DO and Julita and Ventura’s love-making in the cinema is not just played for laughs. 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. as such revealing an awareness that we know the past today [. we may read La colmena as an example of what Linda Hutcheon calls postmodern ‘historiographic metafiction’. suggests a parallel between the two. Thus this interweaving of various discourses. an official archival document (NO-DO) and a dissident fictional account (Cela’s novel). through the traces of historical events: the archival materials. . reveals an awareness of the mediation of reality through narrative representations. 15]. This splicing of archival and fictional documents would therefore exemplify Hutcheon’s observation that ‘postmodern texts consistently use and abuse actual historical documents and documentation in such a way as to stress both the discursive nature of those representations of the past and the narrativized form in which we read them’ (1989. through its texts – that is. In other words. but deflates – deconstructs – the official rhetoric. (From 22 August 1975 it was no longer obligatory to screen the newsreels before all films [Tranche and Sánchez-Biosca 2002. .) . (1989. . the documents. . which is achieved using graphic matches and similar colour palettes as mentioned above. . The seamless merging of the archive footage of 1940s street scenes and Camus’s 1980s reconstruction of the post-war city. Like the earlier sequence in which triumphal military music is played against the pitiful images of the soup line.

both were based on major post-war novels and both were adapted by directors associated with the literary adaptation genre in Spain.POST-FRANCO FILMS OF THE POST-WAR NOVEL 33 Since these discourses ostensibly give access to the historical period of the film’s setting. Both were subsidized by the state. El amante bilingüe 1993). The difficulty with this interpretation is the question of self-consciousness. 11). the film simultaneously imitates and criticizes the doxa and is a typically postmodern combination of ‘complicity and critique’ (1989. TIME OF PROTEST: TIEMPO DE SILENCIO (ARANDA 1986) On first examination. with a special interest in adapting the work of Juan Marsé (La muchacha de las bragas de oro 1980. His filmography likewise includes early experimental work – such as Fata Morgana (1966) which founded the Barcelona School – and he too has subsequently found a niche in the literary adaptation. with the emphasis on the former. it is at best extremely subtle. demonstrates Hutcheon’s assertion that historiographic metafiction reveals that ‘the representation of history becomes the history of representations’ (1989. If in La colmena there is a problematization of the question of authenticity in line with that of the historiographic metafiction studied by Hutcheon. Or. TIME OF SILENCE. 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. and their suggestion of an equivalence between this fictional text and the archival texts of original footage and the NO-DO. Mario Camus’s La colmena and Vicente Aranda’s Tiempo de silencio seem strikingly similar. Aranda is to a certain extent like Camus. +Vicente and Colmena 1996. Camus and Dibildos’s recourse to a famous fictional referent in their representation of history. Such an ambivalence regarding the question of historical representation 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). Si te dicen que caí 1989. by extension we may argue that Camus’s La colmena demonstrates the limits of the thesis of authenticity which underpins the documentary genre. the kind of director suited to literary adaptation discussed above. 75).15 Like Camus. in the terms of Hutcheon’s account of the politics of postmodernism. and thus symptomatic of the insidious uniformity of 1980s Spanish cinema lamented by critics. .com/Name?Aranda. Aranda embodies that equivocal mix of 15 Half of Aranda’s feature films to date are literary adaptations (see http://us.imdb. in keeping with the understated tone of Camus’s filmography described by Sánchez Noriega and Smith. 58).

es en Vicente Aranda prosecución y lógica’ (Gil de Muro 1986). Tiempo de silencio was criticized according to a discourse of fidelity for failing to match the literary masterpiece on which it was based. but conversely charts a chronological series of events through a polyphony of textual voices. as a contemporary review puts it. Aranda’s is ‘un cine personal [pero] paradójicamente fiel a los textos’ (Guarner 1986). Whereas La colmena can be regarded as much producer/scriptwriter Dibildos’s project as Camus’s. 55). which had received thirty-four million pesetas of taxpayers’ money (summarized in Losilla 1989.34 SALLY FAULKNER auteurist individuality and artisanal accommodation which is supposedly ideal for literary adaptation. and the three most costly films included Tiempo de silencio. and his left-wing politics were shared by the director (Colmena 1996. and he tends to work with the same group of professionals. Small wonder that some contemporary reviewers used Aranda’s adaptation as a target for their criticism of government policy (see note 4 of this chapter). Martín-Santos’s Tiempo de silencio shares the labyrinthine fragmented structure and ironic narrator of La colmena. in interview Aranda has remarked on his aim to control every aspect of film production (Vera 1989. One critic has described it as ‘a novel written by an intellectual. ‘[en Tiempo de silencio] se tiene la sensación de que todo está montado para responder a las bases inéditas por las que el Ministerio de Cultura debe guiarse para conceder las subvenciones anticipadas’ (Marinero 1988). 54). Aranda’s Tiempo de silencio has also been censured as a recipient of state subsidy through the mechanism of the Miró decrees. about intellectuals and intended to be read by intellectuals’ (Jordan 1990. But this was almost the case with Tiempo de silencio: Luis Martín-Santos was a key figure in the banned PSOE from 1957 till his death in 1964 (Labanyi 1989. Director Fernando Trueba was later to quip that the PP’s criticism of the Miró films ‘parece llevar implícito que las películas de esos años las ha hecho el PSOE’ (quoted in Prout 1999. which Enrique Colmena calls the ‘cuadra de Aranda’ (1996. 165). However. 179). An El País report of 1985 had revealed details of the subsidy policy to some outrage: twenty-three of the thirty-three requested film projects had been passed. the period setting of Tiempo de silencio may be interpreted . Finally. 148) Aranda’s film coincided with the moment the policy of state subsidy began to be seriously questioned (it was finally dismantled in 1994). Unsurprisingly critics have compared such a challenging reading experience to that of watching the film unfavourably: ‘lo que en Martín-Santos era adivinación e instinto. 83–92). 14–15). To return to the three problematic areas of the standard critical interpretation of 1980s literary adaptations identified above. as Diario 16 reports. Premiering in March 1986 after Miró’s fall from grace (Brooksbank Jones 1997. Again like Camus’s film. the fact he owns his own production company Morgana Films – which co-produced Tiempo de silencio – should not be underestimated. Furthermore. Aranda lays far more authorial claim to Tiempo de silencio. 33).

This is explained by the fact that the film stands up comparatively well to an analysis according to the dictates of Fidelity Criticism. 234). possibly suggesting a reading of the film as a nostalgic. a una tensión y un esfuerzo que conllevan a un producto final superior’ (quoted in Palacio 2002.16 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. 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. 172). 112]). defeat and annihilation. Nonetheless. 521). both novel and film demolish the characters’ nostalgic urges to return to the womb. Such. in fact. . 82–5) has formed the basis of its subsequent scholarly reception (cited in Mínguez Arranz 1998. pero olvidándose de las trascendencias y considerándolo como algo simplemente utilizable’ (quoted in Costa Ferrandis 1991. 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. Indeed at the level of plot.POST-FRANCO FILMS OF THE POST-WAR NOVEL 35 according to hostile theoretical accounts of postmodernism. me parece que esto obliga a una condensación. and Carmona 1991. 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. Aranda’s film may not immediately lend itself to the interpretation of postmodern nostalgia. Creative Recreation Notwithstanding this possible hostile interpretation. As a crushing narrative of lost illusions. Aranda also excessively romanticizes the relationship between Pedro and Dorita in his adaptation of Tiempo de silencio (in the novel we learn Pedro is rather indifferent. by which the original novel ‘es un material bruto que hay que transformar en película. Recreation for Aranda is creation itself. which is shown to be violently evacuated through abortion. 258]). While Aranda would later declare a cavalier approach to adaptation. Guarner 1986. his comments regarding the cinematic version of Tiempo de silencio reveal a desire for reverent fidelity. 174 and 176–7. pseudo-historical treatment of the post-war period. Monterde 1989). like Camus’s exaggeration of a love affair between Martín and Purita in his La colmena (which is only suggested in the novel [Cela 1998. The portrayal of these characters by handsome stars Imanol Arias and Victoria Abril to some extent detracts from the narrative of bitter failure. 213–17). 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. Company Ramón 1989. wanting ‘otra clase de mujer’ [Martín-Santos 1995.

But as Fidelity Criticism cannot account for the different ideological contexts in which text and film were conceived. are key motifs in the whole film. 157–8). the Fidelity Criticism approach affords a sophisticated formal analysis of the film under discussion. Company Ramón’s excellent close readings of these two sequences of the film serve as a point of departure for the interpretation proposed here.36 SALLY FAULKNER sections of the novel. however. aims to interpret both similarities and differences from the point of view of the representation of history. This chapter seeks rather to interpret the distinct roles played by the parodies of the 1898 Generation philosophy in both the novel and the film in the context of historical representation. The sequence furthermore introduces a menacing and ubiquitous off-screen presence (the dictatorship) through the repressive authority figure of the night watchman. like the novel. 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. and then showed how the film could also be read as a . thus efficaciously replicating the narrative distance of the novel. But while Fidelity Criticism can account for similarities between literary text and filmic adaptation. Pedro and Matías’s visit to a bar during their drinking binge (Martín-Santos 1995. In the first instance. and offers shot-by-shot analyses of their filmic translations. Whereas my analysis of La colmena began with a consideration of ‘authenticity’. as is the case here. 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 evidence that film cannot do what literature can). Company Ramón concludes therefore that Aranda carries out an ‘operativa lectura’ of the novel (1989. In his second analysis. At its best. In fact this experience. it is unable to negotiate changes (which in unrefined criticism tend to be dispatched as ‘betrayals’ of the original. This chapter. In his second close reading Company Ramón demonstrates Aranda’s ability to replicate formally the parody found in the novel. and shows that each ironic parenthetical insertion in the novel is matched by a cinematic cut in the film. In his first close reading he observes that the film. 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. conveys the entrapment and claustrophobia experienced by the characters. 91–2) and Ortega y Gasset’s speech (Martín-Santos 1995. But Company Ramón’s analyses using this critical method reveal its limitations. and the complementary notion of circularity. and Aranda departs from the novel and transforms its ending to emphasize these elements. 83). By finding such inventive formal filmic equivalents. Aranda shoots the entire bar scene from outside and behind the windows. 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.

Aranda is equally preoccupied with the representation of history. For her. 55). and just as authoritative narration might replicate the authority of the regime for Martín-Santos in 1961. As Labanyi summarizes ‘it is by ironically exposing the ways in which language allows man to mythify the world that Martín-Santos destroys the realist notion that words reflect reality’ (1989. similarly the characters’ self-deception could not be exposed through an omniscient third-person narration as only by adopting the characters’ point of view through inner monologue can we see the way they ‘use language as a tool of mythification to give their lives a false appearance of solidity’ (Labanyi 1989. and that. ‘postmodernism works to “de-doxify” our cultural representations and their undeniable political import’ (1989. 3). By the time Aranda adapted the novel in 1986. Hutcheon suggests they may be mutually reinforcing. but also to expose the resignation and culpability of Spaniards living under it. Thus for Labanyi (1989) the novel is a double-deconstruction both of the myths erected by the dictatorship and those erected by its citizens. that ‘reality’ had become ‘history’. I will firstly suggest that Aranda similarly questions the representation of history. The remarkable achievement of Martín-Santos’s Tiempo de silencio is the way the author uses formal strategies not only to satirize Franco’s regime. Both types of demythification are dependent on the novel’s form. between novel and film. While hostile Marxist accounts of postmodernism would argue these two concerns are mutually exclusive. However I will secondly argue that the film conveys a faith in authentic historical representation owing to Aranda’s unambiguous critique of Francoism. as Hutcheon has argued. The Representation of History: From Interrogation to Affirmation Company Ramón’s reading of the formal creativity of Tiempo de silencio reveals Aranda’s concern with aesthetics. postmodern historiographic metafiction focuses on the textuality of history and deconstructs (as we saw with the respect to the NO-DO in La colmena) the discourses of which history is composed. Just as Jo Labanyi has shown (1989) that Martín-Santos interrogates discourse to reveal the impossibility of the representation of reality. As the film foregrounds its setting in the post-war dictatorship period.POST-FRANCO FILMS OF THE POST-WAR NOVEL 37 postmodern reflection on historical discourses. and Camus achieves this by splicing references to Cela’s . mythifying version of Francoist history might replicate the way Francoist films themselves mythified history. 55). 55). Firstly Aranda’s adaptation will be analysed as postmodern historiographic metafiction. we move from silence to protest. If. The regime could not be satirized using a standard realist mode as ‘an authoritative narrator only served to reproduce the authoritarianism [one] wished to denounce’ (Labanyi 1989. a formally naturalistic. in this reading of Tiempo de silencio the reverse approach is adopted.

Besides the standard cinematic portrayal of subjectivity 17 In his earlier La muchacha de las bragas de oro. the passages in which Martín-Santos’s narrator reveals the duplicity of language are transposed. Aranda also questioned this link between image and ‘truth’ by staging the clearly fraudulent memories of ex-Falangist Forest in flash-back sequences. Just as Martín-Santos shows that language hides the truth. In this way the film seems to question whether the image is a reliable source of ‘truth’. If Martín-Santos’s novel innovatively explored the ways language could be used as a tool to trick and distort. While most of the inner monologues contained in the novel are incorporated into dialogue in the film. On each occasion.17 This argument that the film self-consciously problematizes access to ‘reality’ also extends to the treatment of its protagonist. for example through the treatment of low-life tough guy Cartucho. Since. Pedro first goes to Madrid’s shanty-town to enquire about the cancerous mice not. Aranda shows that images can hide the truth. but is engineered by Muecas to implicate Pedro in the crime. Aranda thus echoes some of Martín-Santos’s formal strategies in the cinematic idiom. He spies on Pedro and Amador on their first visit to Muecas’s chabola. Aranda conveys scepticism over representational authenticity in his film. The portrayal of Pedro’s subjectivity challenges the convention of ‘objectivity’ upon which access to ‘reality’ depends. the primary means to access ‘reality’ in film. in both novel and film. Aranda seems to accomplish a similar end by de-naturalizing film form to a certain degree in Tiempo de silencio.38 SALLY FAULKNER fictional novel with ‘authentic’ film footage and the NO-DO. Boyfriend of the butchered Florita. as Cartucho concludes. his words unwittingly implicate him in Florita’s death. Cartucho’s interpretation of events is erroneous. For example. to deflower Florita who has in fact already been incestuously impregnated by her father. Aranda retains the subjective perspective of Pedro. But as cinema is composed of images and sounds not just language. the script aimed to follow the novel as closely as possible. during Pedro’s interrogation by the police officer. the scene in the film adaptation does not achieve the same self-reflexivity as in the original passage in the novel. 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. 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. as Aranda himself declared. A more accurate recreation of Martín-Santos’s self-conscious reflection on language would involve images. . Pedro’s second visit is not to perform the abortion as Cartucho supposes. exposing – as Company Ramón has demonstrated – the film’s mode of enunciation and drawing attention to the disjuncture between representation and (historical) reality.

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). 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. Pedro’s subjective impression of an Oedipal relationship between Matías and his mother seems accurate. . Pedro’s subjective impressions demonstrably correlate with narrative ‘reality’. 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. Aranda also experiments with multiple casting to convey Pedro’s perspective (a technique he would repeat in Si te dicen que caí). the narrative bears out that Dorita’s mother and grandmother to all intents and purposes prostitute her. 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’. However. 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). See chapters four and five of this book. In other words. Again. Similarly.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). then the film narrative actually confirms his attraction towards her. Finally the grotesque sight of Florita’s lifeless. his version of Tiempo de silencio paradoxically reveals a faith in ‘authentic’ representation which postmodernism questions. Thus Victoria Abril (who is only listed in the credits as Dorita) not only plays the precocious ‘Carmencita’ of the guest-house. 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. If the multiple casting of the actress Abril suggests Pedro’s fascination for Dorita. It would therefore seem that despite the fact that Aranda cinematically replicates some of the postmodern deconstructive strategies of MartínSantos’s novel.18 This distortion of objectivity 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. 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. 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.

154–8) is only one of many manifestations of his satire on the philosophy of the 1898 Generation. Salvador Company Gimeno laments that in the adaptation references to this thinking are ‘pocas y desvaídas’ (n. Aranda admits bowing to commercial pressure in casting the good-looking Abril and Arias as his leads (Vera 1989. It is thus quite clear that – given the context of censorship in which he was writing – Martín-Santos parodied the ideology of the 1898 Generation as an indirect critique of fascism. Aranda’s film constitutes a direct. but his criticism of Francoism presupposes an accurate historical representation of the post-war period. But this Fidelity Criticism does not account for the changed circumstances in which Aranda filmed Tiempo de silencio. The reconstruction of Madrid’s shanty-town in the film adaptation is a case in point. The criticism that the 1980s literary adaptation genre indulges in pictorial aesthetics is thus mistaken in this case. Aranda’s directness in portraying the period recalls Dougherty’s analysis of Camus’s La colmena as ‘directa y desnuda’ compared to Cela’s (1990.40 SALLY FAULKNER faith in ‘authenticity’ we may return to the differing effects of the parody of Ortega y Gasset’s speech in the novel and the film. and thus the 1898 Generation parody is simply less important. 7). the presence of the writers of the 1898 Generation in Tiempo de silencio ‘is due to the fact that their ideas were taken up by the founders of the Falange in the 1930s and came to constitute the backbone of Nationalist ideology’ (1989. The camera focuses in cruel close-up on Ricarda’s hands ruined by toil. Martín-Santos’s narrator describes Pedro’s first visit to this area with an ironic.d. 20). Comparing the treatment of the 1898 Generation philosophy in Martín-Santos’s novel and Aranda’s film. 55). obfuscatory description phrased in exaggerated baroque language (1995.. reconstructed in all their stark poverty. Aranda lays no claim to ‘authenticity’ in Tiempo de silencio. 47–51). the parodied speech in fragment thirty-three (Martín-Santos 1995. Whereas Martín-Santos carried out an indirect critique of the regime. Unlike Camus and Dibildos’s conception of La colmena. the sweaty bosom of Enriqueta Claver’s grotesque brothel madame and the gold teeth of López’s ragged prostitute. As Labanyi points out. Far from the visual pleasures associated with the conventions of period drama. together in his later El Lute (1988) – but almost every other element in the film adheres to an unforgiving neorealist aesthetic. In Martín-Santos’s work. Aranda’s immediate filmic influence in this piece appears to be the Italian neorealism . In the film adaptation Aranda removes this camouflaging filter and through a point of view shot we share Pedro’s shock as he looks down on the chabolas. 168) – ‘la pareja salvapelículas del cine español’ (review of Tiempo de silencio by V Aranda 1988) who were also to star . As a protest against the ‘reality’ of Franco’s Spain from which Aranda himself emigrated in 1952 – the same period in which the film is set – it therefore manifests a faith in accurately portraying that historical period. While it would be naïve to equate historical accuracy with neorealist conventions. unequivocal denunciation.

19 Moreover the nightmarish scene of the abortion Pedro performs on the dying Florita. 20 On the illness metaphor in the novel.20 However. Company Ramón has noted that the image of the caged dogs is echoed in the scene when Pedro and Matías are framed through the window panes of the bar. when Pedro is shot from outside the glass doors. bandaged from injuries sustained during experiments in the laboratory. 37–40. finales de los cuarenta. particularly chapter one. Unfortunately the novel’s important illness metaphor fails in the adaptation: the intertext with Camus’s La Peste in which illness is equated with fascism is a literary not a filmic reference. The insistent recurrence of the entrapment imagery is not therefore just a playful prefiguration of Pedro’s literal imprisonment. are efficacious. whose wife has a healthy baby (perhaps to contrast the fertile working classes with the sterile bourgeoisie?) sabotaging the novel’s suggestive description of her ‘vientre sin hijos. 169). 166]) and the intrusive shots at the autopsy are extremely harsh. and Aranda disastrously portrays Amador as a family man. todavía concupiscente’ (Martín-Santos 1995. 18–53. Aranda similarly begins with trapped animals. In a visual echo of the opening images of caged ferrets of Carlos Saura’s dissident masterpiece La caza (1965). including the chilling sound of the scalpel scraping her womb (apparently taken from a recording of an actual abortion [Jaime 2000. Tiempo de silencio’s opening images of caged dogs. but a sober portrayal of Francoist Spain as a figurative (though for some literal) society of imprisonment. as mentioned above. 185). in keeping with the explicit portrayal of sex and violence that characterizes Aranda’s filmography. the flatulent police officer in the film seems more an esperpento parody than a reference to the all-pervading sickness of Spanish society. on its influence on literature see Jordan 1990. see Fiddian and Evans 1988. In the light of this desire to denounce Francoism through an accurate historical representation of the period. . over which we read the intertitle ‘Madrid. The image also recurs in a subtle way at the end of the scene of Matías’s mother’s reception. we might explain Aranda’s significant departures from the novel in his adaptation. whose framework recalls the bars of the cage. is a synopsis of Aranda’s film. principios de los cincuenta’. furthermore the almost complete absence of music on the soundtrack has been more literally related to the novel’s title (Vera 1989. In a sense Aranda shrewdly transforms Martín-Santos’s linguistically suggestive time of ‘silence’ into a visually expressive time of ‘entrapment’. Crucially. Aranda’s transposition and elaboration of the metaphor of entrapment in the novel. on Pedro’s ‘release’ Aranda elaborates a telling visual echo 19 On the influence of Italian neorealism on film see Kinder 1993. and the development of the motif of circularity. 101–15.POST-FRANCO FILMS OF THE POST-WAR NOVEL 41 which had similarly inspired oppositional artists during the dictatorship. and again in an obvious way when Pedro is framed through the bars of his cell.

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. when the couple dance together they whirl round in circles and Dorita demands Pedro spin her round more and more. 69). Florita’s funeral party walks behind her coffin carried by a hearse from the left-hand side of the screen to the right. When Dorita requests a song the street organist winds up the instrument in a circular motion. These references to cyclical repetition in the film culminate in the final sequence. then the pair go round in circles together on the merry-go-round. On the stairs outside the guest-house he and Dorita are framed through the bars of the railing. He firstly recalls the murder sequence of Hitchcock’s Strangers on a Train (1951) as Cartucho stalks his victim. but the insistent recurrence of circular imagery – alongside Cartucho’s brooding presence – introduce a menacing tone. An image taken from the novel of Pedro’s meal of a whiting eating its own tail (Martín-Santos 1995. Dora and Dorita go to a fair. In the first. points to the incongruity between the jaunty fairground music and the brutal murder. 69). then tilting the camera upwards to take in an image of the ever-revolving big wheel and . This culminates in the murder: as Cartucho stabs the girl and she bleeds to death.42 SALLY FAULKNER of the image of Pedro behind bars in his cell. Aranda’s camera circles around them. Circularity is also emphasized in the depiction of Florita’s burial. Likewise. after she avows ‘no consentiré que te me escapes’. identical hearse from the right-hand side to the left. while yet another party approaches with their coffin on yet another identical hearse from left to right. This is inspired by the novel’s emphasis on the ‘ever-repeating vicious circle’ of incest and abortion pointed out by Labanyi (1989. when Pedro. which occurs early in the film. The formal symmetry of the two matching shots conveys a wearisome sense of circularity and repetition. Aranda’s interpretation of Franco’s Spain as a society of entrapment is complemented by the leitmotif of claustrophobic stasis and circularity. like Hitchcock. The revolving big wheel and merry-go-rounds in the background at the start of the sequence may initially appear innocuous. The sequence is framed by two matching long shots of the façade of a church. another prisoner is detained in the foreground. at which Cartucho murders the girl. The second long shot ends the scene of the funeral. framing a ridiculous Pedro clutching a string of circular churros (recalling his whiting meal) as he peers at his fiancée’s lifeless body. but Aranda filmically exploits that setting to the full. Martín-Santos also sets this scene at a fairground. Aranda is furthermore able to insist on the motif of circularity in this setting. and. as a second party leaves with their empty. serves – like the image of the caged dogs – as a synopsis. The recurring images of circularity in the imagetrack of the film are matched by the tracing of circularity in its structure. and Florita’s party bears the now empty hearse from right to left as they leave. Circularity is key to both the formal composition and figurative content of Aranda’s Tiempo de silencio.

. However the adaptation’s Pedro remains in the laboratory. Aranda echoes this formal imagery in the film’s structure. Whereas Martín-Santos’s Cartucho stabs Dorita in the side. 182). now symbolic manifestations of Pedro’s entrapment. 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). atrapado en el encuadre. whose death also results from the thrusting of a metal instrument into the uterus. igual que la noria o el tiovivo a los que icónicamente ha sido encadenado. Dorita eats a raw apple (‘nature’) on the evening prior to her deflowering by Pedro. and in part to add reasonably explicit sex scenes. 279–87).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). which allows Martín-Santos to elaborate a magisterial parody of the 1898 Generation eulogy of Castile in the protagonist’s final monologue (1995. Aranda alters the final sequence of the novel in his adaptation to reinforce this structural circularity. . As Mínguez Arranz comments: el rostro de Pedro. 264–5). 22 Dorita’s transformation into Pedro’s betrothed is conveyed by the symbol of the apple. está encerrado. thus emphasizing the symmetry between her murder and Florita’s. Aranda’s Cartucho thrusts his knife lower down into her womb (Deveny 1999. but at the end he vacantly gazes into the distance. but a manufactured toffee apple (‘culture’) on her outing with Pedro as his formal fiancée. Further. and Aranda draws the film full circle as the final image of Pedro matches the first one of him.] Su final es una clausura. [. en primer plano. Aranda significantly expands the role of Victoria Abril’s Dorita in the film. .POST-FRANCO FILMS OF THE POST-WAR NOVEL 43 merry-go-round. When Pedro deludes himself with the dream of winning the Nobel prize. One last alteration that Aranda makes to the novel which is pertinent to the present discussion is his transformation of the character of Dorita. y la vida de Pedro parece condenada a girar sin avanzar repitiendo siempre el mismo ciclo. 181–2) 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. The only difference is that at the start Pedro industriously peers through his microscope. 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. The novel’s Pedro is sacked from his laboratory and leaves Madrid to become a provincial doctor. Little more than eye-candy that her Celestina grandmother offers to Pedro in the novel.21 But Aranda also develops Dorita’s character so she is everything that Pedro is not. who becomes the hero to Pedro’s antihero. pues el final es el principio. and of repetition (Mínguez Arranz 1998. (1998.

One has the impression that this is the film Aranda would have liked to have made in 1961. as later proves to be the case (none of these instances are to be found in the novel).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 accompanies 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. who. a desire also revealed by the way the filmmaker has taken the unusual step of making second. but the title would suggest that the focus is on romantic. moral extremes. concerns. . repression. When Pedro’s response to his implication in the abortion befits the spinelessness and ineffectuality of the classic existential hero. The novella was also adapted to television by Fernando Méndez Leite in the same year. Miguel de Unamuno’s masterpiece Niebla has been adapted. is the only character who represents a glimmer of hope in dark times (Fiddian and Evans 1988. despite its bitter indictment of Franco’s Spain. however. in the film it is Dorita. was a diseased adulterer. 23 It is questionable if existential concerns – dependent as they are on the construction of the self through language – can be translated to film. versions of those of his films which were edited under censorship after its abolition in 1977 (Vera 1989. Aranda has claimed he wanted to adapt Martín-Santos’s novel ever since he first read it on its publication (Fernández-Rubio 1986). sterile after contracting syphilis from a Philippine prostitute (in the novel we learn this from the grandmother’s monologues [Martín-Santos 1995. 95). However. Dorita matter-of-factly informs Pedro. unabridged. as Las cuatro novias de Augusto Pérez (Jara 1975). his adaptation of Tiempo de silencio betrays a faith in authentic historical representation as a means to effect a critique of Francoism. Aranda in 1926). Despite his cinematic replication of some of the novel’s deconstructive aesthetics. If. Indeed this film and his subsequent Si te dicen que caí have been interpreted as manifestations of the director’s ‘deseo de ajustar cuentas con el pasado’ (Guarner 1989). Martín-Santos’s Tiempo de silencio harbours some optimistic belief in change (Labanyi 1989. As a member of the same generation (Martín-Santos was born in 1924. 18) dead husband. by investing Dorita with such positive qualities only to sacrifice her at the end. While in the novel Ricarda. the wife who finally rebels against her abusive husband to save Pedro. Aranda’s adaptation of the novel is thus wholly pessimistic. rather than ontological. and so on present a critical view of the values and effects of Francoism. 26). 18]). religious obsession. 43–6). with respect to period dramas of the Franco period Barry Jordan and Rikki Morgan-Tamosunas have warned that whilst images of hunger.44 SALLY FAULKNER eulogy of her ‘muy hombre’ (Martín-Santos 1995.

his desire to be faithful to the bitter satire of the original novel in his film adaptation of Tiempo de silencio leads to an unequivocal denunciation of Francoism which is dependent on authentic historical representation.) 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. fascism – we will effectively eradicate historical film altogether. Linda Hutcheon challenges Marxist views of postmodern ‘dehistoricization’. democratic Spain from the repressive backwardness of the past. . not denigrated as liberalist back-patting. which. Conversely. such as those of Fredric Jameson who laments the ‘loss of history’ in nostalgic postmodern films. Cela’s La colmena portrays the circularity and stasis of life under Franco. an aestheticized splicing of various historical discourses. In another curious parallel. which is clearly absurd. Despite Camus and Dibildos’s frequently voiced desire for ‘authenticity’ and their adoption of a largely naturalistic cinematic idiom so different from the form of the novel. lends itself to interpretation as a postmodern reflection on historical textuality. and Martín-Santos’s Tiempo de silencio points to an optimistic future. as does Camus’s La colmena. For Hutcheon. Conclusion: History and Postmodernism If we consider them as a pair. (1998. 55–6) 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 directors turned to the exploration of subjectivity and fantasy in their historical films. and that history may be practised from within historicity. perhaps malgré soi. although Aranda’s creative recreation of Martín-Santos’s deconstructive form suggests a will to effect a postmodern contestation of the writing of history. A discourse of self-congratulatory democratic liberalism is thus inscribed within their critique of the past. 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.POST-FRANCO FILMS OF THE POST-WAR NOVEL 45 they also function as a measure of the distance which separates contemporary. their La colmena is. This chapter shows that history and aesthetics are not immiscible. as does Aranda’s film of Tiempo de silencio. In her work on postmodern historiographic metafiction. slavery. It should be celebrated as a historical achievement. each film adaptation seems to accomplish what the other aimed to achieve. perhaps surprisingly. we might well swap over the original novels on which Camus and Aranda’s film adaptations are based in the name of fidelity.

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such fiction is not nostalgic and is historical, not in a Marxist sense of ‘History’, but in its portrayal of the discourses of histories, and its recognition that in a postmodern context ‘we can only know – and construct – the past through its traces, its representations’ (1989, 113). For her then, the postmodern preoccupation with aesthetics is paradoxically precisely what makes it, in her sense of the word, historical. Whereas a 1990s period drama such as Fernando Trueba’s Belle Époque (1992) clearly fits with hostile accounts of postmodern nostalgia (Jordan 1999), the 1980s adaptations examined in this chapter explore the tensions between Jameson and Hutcheon’s thinking. In the name of recovering an ‘authentic’ Marxist History, Camus’s La colmena in fact reveals the ‘textuality’ of history; and despite its ostensibly deconstructive form, Aranda’s Tiempo de silencio demonstrates that Marxist History is still retrievable in a postmodern context.

RURAL AND URBAN SPACES

3 RURAL AND URBAN SPACES: VIOLENCE AND NOSTALGIA IN THE COUNTRY AND THE CITY
The Country and the City in Twentieth-Century Spain
In his classic 1973 study of rural and urban spaces in English literature, The Country and the City, Raymond Williams asserts that ‘the English experience is especially significant, in that one of the decisive transformations in the relations between city and country occurred there very early and with a thoroughness which is still in some ways unapproached’ (1985, 2). If the significance of English experience of rural and urban spaces lies in its early industrial revolution, the concepts of the country and the city in Spanish culture are important precisely for Spain’s tardy industrialization. Williams continues: ‘even after the society was predominantly urban its literature, for a generation, was still predominantly rural; and even in the twentieth century, in an urban and industrial land, forms of the older ideas and experiences still remarkably persist’ (1985, 2). When critics emphasize the urban nature of modernism and postmodernism, Williams’s work is a welcome reminder of the cultural significance of the rural.1 If his final assertion that ‘there is almost an inverse proportion, in the twentieth century, between the relative importance of the rural economy and the cultural importance of rural ideas’ (R. Williams 1985, 248) is still pertinent to English culture, its relevance to Spanish is clear. Indeed, the work of Federico García Lorca, Spain’s most influential and marketable twentieth-century writer both inside and outside that country, is imbued with rural culture. While the nineteenth century is the key period of English industrialization and urbanization, in Spain (notwithstanding pockets of accelerated development like nineteenth-century Madrid, discussed below in chapter four) it is the twentieth century which has seen an analogous transformation of country and city. While in 1900 two-thirds of the Spanish working population were employed in agriculture, this figure had dropped to just under half in 1940 (Álvarez Junco 1995, 82), dwindling to a mere fifth by 1976 (Riquer i Permanyer 1995, 262) – the decade in which the rural exodus began to cease (Hooper 1995, 23). A curiously similar tendency may therefore be seen
1

See Bradbury 1976; Timms 1985; R. Williams 1992; Harvey 1990; Clarke 1997a.

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between late nineteenth-century English culture, when authors like Thomas Hardy retrospectively set their ruralist dramas in a period roughly fifty years previous,2 and late twentieth-century Spanish culture. It seems that the more agricultural work declines in a country’s economic life, the greater currency rural themes acquire in its cultural life. In Spain, film in particular has tapped into the nostalgic desire of first- and second-generation urban immigrants to revisit a rural space left behind. These depictions of rural spaces, located in period settings, and projected through the lens of contemporary concerns would be further examples of what José Enrique Monterde terms the ‘presentización’ (1989, 48) of history discussed in chapter two. Fernando Trueba’s Oscar-winning Belle Époque of 1992, which is set in a fantastical 1930s pastoral idyll, is a representative, if exceptionally successful, example. As the division between the rural and the urban has existed since urbanization began, sweeping generalizations regarding the country and the city are attractive. But as Williams persuasively argues, for this very reason we must stress the historicity of our experience of both. ‘The temptation’, he notes,
is to reduce the historical variety of the forms of interpretation to what are loosely called symbols or archetypes: to abstract even those most evidently social forms and to give them a primarily psychological or metaphysical status. The reduction often happens when we find certain major forms and images persisting through periods of great change. (R. Williams 1985, 289)

The historical facts of Spain’s industrialization and concomitant urban immigration outlined above are thus crucial to a reading of country and city in Spanish cinema. Moreover, the ideological co-option of rural and urban spaces under the dictatorship was equally influential in subsequent cultural responses. The eulogy of peasant life which characterized twentieth-century fascist thought is prevalent in Francoist rhetoric. As Mike Richards has pointed out, ‘Spanish nationalism, as an expression of the ideology of the Spanish political right, was deeply rooted in a specifically agrarian notion of Spain’ (1995, 175). Furthermore, Francoist ideology appropriated the myth of nationality created by the writers of the 1898 Generation. The rural landscape, most notably that of Castile, was posited as the site for the construction of national identity – which, as we have seen in chapter two, would be parodied by later subversive writers like Martín-Santos. In the early years of the regime in particular, Francoist propaganda promoted the image of Spain to its people as a rural idyll, ‘un bosque en paz’. In contrast, the city was disparaged as a place of perdition.3
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

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49

As the century of the existence of film parallels the ideological manipulation, and economic transformation, of rural and urban spaces in Spain, Belle Époque’s nostalgic representation of the country for an audience of city dwellers is only one of many possible cultural responses. During the regime, for instance, a powerful tradition of dissent was articulated through ruralist film. This oppositional current, which includes Ricardo Franco’s Pascual Duarte discussed in this chapter, portrayed the hostility of rural space in order to debunk the Francoist myth of nature and, by implication, attack the entire ideology of the regime. Post-Franco, postmodern celebrations of the freedoms and pleasures afforded by the city therefore seem radically disconnected from this earlier tradition. But while manifestly divergent in terms of form, ruralist and urbanist film may be said to converge at the level of ideology. The cinematic homage to urban life deliberately demolishes the dictatorship’s vilification of the city, and therefore similarly deconstructs Francoist ideology. The four films to be discussed in this chapter will therefore be examined against these evolving ideological and historical contexts.

Violence and Nostalgia
In addition, two apparently opposing questions which recur in the representation of rural and urban spaces in Spanish cinema will be discussed: violence and nostalgia. Following Raymond Williams, the historicist approach adopted will enable us to subject the apparently binary oppositions of country and city, and violence and nostalgia, to empirical critique, rather than abstract reconfirmation. A particular concern here is to question an apparent affinity between rural space and nostalgia, and urban space and violence, which seems to have emerged in post-Franco Spanish film, because such a pattern would paradoxically corroborate the Francoist opposition of the rural idyll and the urban nightmare. In the four film adaptations to be discussed, an equivocal overlap between questions of violence and nostalgia in both the country and the city may in fact be perceived, which I will show is thrown into relief by a comparison of the films with the literary texts on which they are based. The violence portrayed in Ricardo Franco’s Pascual Duarte (1975, released 1976), the first ruralist film to be examined, is consonant with the traditions of dissident, ruralist cinema discussed above, although the question of nostalgia is raised by a 1976 film which is based on a 1942 literary masterpiece. Mario Camus’s ruralist Los santos inocentes (1984) inherits the tradition of politically symbolic violence, but also ambiguously looks

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.

has tended to emphasize the ‘visuality’ of the medium. though this city chronicle culminates in a fascinating articulation of nostalgia for what may be termed the ‘humanist’ city. . 97 and 101. as Emma Widdis has argued in ‘Projecting a Soviet space’ (1998). ‘is able to represent embodied perception. original emphasis).] The process of cinematic perception is situated between cognitive and physical experience’ (Widdis 1998. Film theory. Widdis. however. and literally enacted by. ‘hapticality’ indicates the possibility of film to portray space as tactile and proximate. dimension of the medium. and focus on the gaze and its relation to narrative (see chapter four of this book for a discussion of these from the perspective of gender). for whom the noise and movement of the city is a corporeal experience. The contrast between what David Clarke has called the ‘visuality’ and ‘hapticality’ of the filmic medium (1997a. ‘Cinema’ she affirms. portrays the violence figuratively enacted upon. physical experience. would seem to be implicit in these images. [. in his analysis of city ‘spatial practices’ in The Practice of Everyday Life. turns to the non-narrative film of the Soviet avant-garde and contemporary Formalist theory to demonstrate that the representation of space reveals the ‘haptical’ (though she does not use this word). Berlin. The theme of urban violence is apparently continued in Ventura Pons’s Carícies (1998). gazing down on the city from a position of detachment on high. as well as ‘visual’. inhabitants of the city. While ‘visuality’ implies a relationship to space governed by distance and power. The first urbanist film to be discussed. the city-protagonist of Wenders’s film. voyeuristic eye – and ‘hapticality’ – or space as perceived by the mobile. as in much critical discussion of the question of space. framed elsewhere in Armendáriz’s filmography. 8–9) is particularly pertinent to this discussion. In the first instance it is more rewarding to turn to film practice rather than film theory to trace this distinction. In Wings of Desire. is now shot from the perspective of the angels. vision as a mobile. Montxo Armendáriz’s Historias del Kronen (1995). Nostalgia for a politicized rural space. it is the representational ‘problem’ posed by the city which triggers the dual exploration of the ‘visual’ and ‘haptical’ possibilities of the medium. now from the point of view of Berlin’s mortal inhabitants. Michel de Certeau.50 SALLY FAULKNER forward to a nostalgic treatment of rural space discussed with respect to Belle Époque. 216]) sketches the opposition between ‘visuality’ – or space as perceived by the detached. Wim Wenders’s Wings of Desire (1987) (based on Elvira Notari’s 1928 film Two Heavens [Bruno 1993. Visuality and Hapticality This historicized interpretation of the ideological concepts of violence and nostalgia will be framed by a discussion of the formal cinematic portrayal of rural and urban spaces. elaborates a theoretical model strikingly similar to spatial . . sentient body.

. or Michel Foucault’s Discipline and Punish (1991) and ‘The Eye of Power’ (1980). They walk – an elementary form of this experience of the city.RURAL AND URBAN SPACES 51 representation in Wings of Desire and the ‘visuality’/‘hapticality’ paradigm discussed above. In a well-known passage. they are walkers. Wandersmänner. looking down like a god’. which has itself never been clearly defined (Lefebvre 1999. 3–7). Lefebvre argues. Jeremy Bentham: The Panopticon Writings (Bentham 1995). His twin concepts of ‘absolute’ and ‘abstract’ realms is a duality which may be used to explore social space.4 However. is able to adopt the position of both the ‘voyeur’ and the ‘walkers’. first published in 1974). In Derek Gregory’s words. in which space as ‘lived’ is eclipsed by space as ‘conceived’ (what he terms ‘representations of space’). whose bodies follow the thicks and thins of an urban ‘text’ they will write without being able to read. He argues that this area has previously been neglected in favour of ‘mental space’. (Certeau 1988. 92–3) Cinematic art. man populates nature. and immobilizes its opaque mobility in a transparent text’. In ‘absolute’ space. 33 and 46–53). retaining a bond with his environment which is severed in the ‘abstract’ realm. Absolute and Abstract Spaces These questions of history and form can usefully be explored with reference to Henri Lefebvre’s account of space. which is both visual and mobile. ‘Absolute’ space privileges space as ‘lived’ (what Lefebvre calls ‘representational space’). Lefebvre differentiates between the ‘ “abstract space” of capitalism’s economic and 4 There is a long tradition which traces the significance of this position of visual control. and suggestive to the present discussion. This panopticon perspective ‘makes the complexity of the city readable. as Wings of Desire demonstrates. below the thresholds at which visibility begins. in particular the distinction between ‘absolute’ and ‘abstract’ spaces investigated in The Production of Space (1999. the ordinary practitioners of the city live ‘down below’. as opposed to ‘abstract’ space. Certeau describes the city as experienced by either ‘voyeurs or walkers’. In this chapter I propose reading both urban and rural spaces with these conceptual tools of ‘visuality’ and ‘hapticality’. Lefebvre’s simultaneous examination of not only the history of spaces (from early feudal structures to the contemporary metropolis) and the cultural negotiation of those spaces (from art to architecture) makes his project both original to philosophy. Lefebvre seeks to account for the specific nature of ‘social space’. The ‘voyeur’ gazing at the city from on high (his example is the city of New York. which is governed by the logic of capitalism (1999. See for instance. as viewed from the World Trade Center) is transformed into a ‘solar Eye.

With respect to Spain’s industrialization in the second half of the twentieth century. along with the way it was measured and spoken of. The violence staged in the ruralist and urbanist films to be discussed will be examined in the context of ‘absolute’ and ‘abstract’ spaces. observing that the body’s relationship to space. with absolute political or religious spaces [. . kaleidoscopic “lived space” of everyday life’ (Gregory 1994. sentient body – Certeau’s ‘walkers’ – which is captured by the ‘hapticality’ of film suggestively matches the proximity between the body and space which characterizes Lefebvre’s ‘absolute’ space. To demonstrate this proximity. the former characterized by symbolic rituals which tie man to the land. 275). The proximity between the experience of space of the mobile. ‘the “economic miracle” changed almost everything about Spain – from how and where people lived to the way in . rationalized. space could be measured by the human body itself (feet. 140). we witness ‘the elimination of the body’ (1999. yet the ‘hapticality’ of film can respond to the ‘fascination’ – or nostalgia – for the latter. intelligible and abstract space’. still retained in those early days [‘absolute’ space] an immediacy which would subsequently degenerate and be lost: space. on the other there is a ‘fascination’ with ‘a natural space which has been lost and/or rediscovered. The question of nostalgia in these four films may also usefully be considered in the light of Lefebvre’s spatial theory. palms and so forth). 110–11) Conversely. the displacement of the body by the eye in a ‘visual’ representation of space in film – Certeau’s ‘voyeur’ at the top of the World Trade Center – parallels the estrangement of the body in space which characterizes Lefebvre’s ‘abstract’ space. It should be noted that these realms are not necessarily discrete and may co-exist. still held up to all the members of a society an image and a living reflection of their own bodies.52 SALLY FAULKNER political systems – externalized. a social relationship of an importance quite misapprehended in later times.]’ (1999. the latter by processes of abstraction which alienate man from his environment. John Hooper has observed. There is a particularly interesting parallel between Lefebvre’s discussion of the place of the body in his meditations on ‘absolute’ and ‘abstract’ spaces and these questions of ‘hapticality’ and ‘visuality’ in film. We may contend that the ‘visuality’ of film is able to satisfy the ‘fetishism’ for the former. Thus the shift between ‘absolute’ and ‘abstract’ spaces corresponds to the transition between the pre-Modern (the countryside or the ancient city) and the Modern (the urban metropolis). 111). In a realm in which representations of space displace representational spaces (space as ‘conceived’ displaces space as ‘lived’). (1999. . sanitized – and the swirling. Lefebvre suggestively observes that if on the one hand there is an epistemological ‘fetishism’ of ‘a visual. Lefebvre notes for instance that in the ‘absolute’ realm.

a perception radically more rapid and less continuous than that encouraged by the traditional forms of literature. Such an assumption is at variance with Spanish cinematic practice. 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. 3). RURAL SPACE Cinema’s much-commented role as a vehicle for urban expression cannot only be explained by the temporal parallel between cinematic and urban development in the twentieth century. At the same time as Soviet filmmakers and theorists were exploring questions of movement and montage. (1996. and want to see (rather than read and hear) things. Michael Minden.] it is the visual element in the arts which best appeases these compulsions. overcross. or the shift from what Lefebvre terms ‘absolute’ space to ‘abstract’ space. [. montage can approximate to the visual experience of being in a city [. (1985. but.RURAL AND URBAN SPACES 53 which they thought and spoke’ (1995. Daniel Bell links the urban and the cinematic thus: Life in the great city and the way stimuli and sociability are defined provide a preponderance of occasions for people to see. it is not only this shared ‘visuality’ that accounts for the affinity. . they are cinematographic’ (quoted in Timms 1985. . 25). 203) The theoretical attention paid to urban space in film contrasts with a critical neglect of rural space. sculpture and painting’. 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 painting. The cultural response to this transformation of country and city in Spain. Ezra Pound noted in relation to Eliot’s The Waste Land (1922) that ‘in a city the visual impressions succeed each other. taken as a whole. similarly underscores the ‘cinematographic’ nature of the city: Used in a certain way. 266). overlap.] 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. 106. In the post-Franco period the Spanish film industry may have spawned a generation of internationally visible urbanist filmmakers. has been powerfully articulated in the ruralist and urbanist films to be discussed below by means of violence and nostalgia. . in his reading of cinematic explorations of the city from 1926–28. original emphasis) As discussed above. rural settings and ruralist themes have been fundamental to the national . .

. Pascual Duarte is a key film of the early transition. which I take as dating from the assassination of Carrero Blanco in 1973 (Grugel and Rees 1997. Pascual Duarte is profoundly rooted in the contemporary experience of political change. graphically depicts rural deprivation in bitter contrast to the Franco government’s rhetoric that the Spanish peasant was ‘probably the noblest [. As is typical of a transition film. 91–2). yet also urgently concerned to reflect on the experience of dictatorship. . it makes an important contribution to the auteurist ruralist genre inaugurated by Saura’s La caza (1965). has more than background significance’ (2000. their La familia de Pascual Duarte (1942) and Los santos inocentes (1981) variously debunk the Francoist mythification of rural space. La prima Angélica (1973). see also Ian Christie on a ‘recognizable genre of film in which landscape. on the other it also 5 In particular. 200). 6 Publication was eventually reauthorized (Vernon 1989. Cela’s work. 182). 3 and 4). . which was influential throughout the 1940s. ‘Landscape and setting occupy a central position in Spanish film’ (1991. or setting. 17). owing to the instrumental role played by geography and terrain in shaping Spain’s history and sense of identity. and demonstrate that the filmic portrayal of what Lefebvre terms ‘absolute’ space is particularly revealing in terms of violence and nostalgia. In general. The film was produced by veteran dissident Elías Querejeta.54 SALLY FAULKNER cinema. 42). though not released until 1976 after the dictator’s death. n. 166. Pascual Duarte was made in 1975.s 2. the first important novel to be written since the Civil War (Ward 1978. a brutal literary realism. these are key to genres like the folkloric musical and the rural drama (on the latter see González Requena 1988. Withdrawn from circulation by Franco’s censors in 1943 owing to the shock generated by its direct portrayal of violence. who also backed such influential contemporary pieces as El espíritu de la colmena (1973).] of all creatures populating the globe’ (Hopewell 1986. Yet as the literary adaptation of a novel published in 1942. 14–26). Although he does not mention Spanish film. Like these later works. also 173. PASCUAL DUARTE (FRANCO 1976): VIOLENCE IN ABSOLUTE SPACE Despite the fact that both Cela and Delibes displayed Nationalist sympathies in their youth (Labanyi 1989.6 La familia de Pascual Duarte inaugurated tremendismo. 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. set in the first decades of the twentieth century. 128). In addition.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. along with Borau’s Furtivos (also 1975). Katherine Kovács has argued that. Cría cuervos (1975) and El desencanto (1976). Only the second feature of the young director Ricardo Franco.

Pascual Duarte is in fact doubly retrospective in this sense. 128). 26). Finally. such a symbolization of power through the organization of space is typical of a hierarchical feudal system (1999. Named by John Hopewell in 1986 as the most shocking Spanish film ever made (1986. both the subject matter. pleasurable relation to the past. however. Through this image Cela suggestively conveys the stasis of this rural backwater. church and the mansion of local landowner. 95). revealing a will both to recuperate a dissident post-war novel. A comparison of the novel and the film in terms of ‘absolute’ space is revealing with respect to the role played by violence in each. the tie between power and land remains. and also highlights the irrelevance of time to a pre-capitalist system.RURAL AND URBAN SPACES 55 contributed to the cultural project of recuperating the past which was to extend well into the 1980s. This is firstly achieved through the narrator Pascual’s description of location in chapter one of the narrative proper. Like the medieval city which Lefebvre also locates in the ‘absolute’ realm. Pascual recalls. was ‘parado siempre en las nueve como si el pueblo no necesitase de su servicio’ (Cela 1971. space is measured by the body. as was the case in both Camus’s La colmena and Aranda’s Tiempo de silencio. the town hall clock. Further. as previously discussed in chapter two. As Lefebvre observes. Whether the recuperative project of Pascual Duarte may be termed nostalgic. The absence of this element of abstraction in the relationship between man and land again characterizes ‘absolute’ space (Lefebvre 1999. and to replay a period of Spanish history previously co-opted by Francoist propaganda. the theme of violence lies at the heart of Pascual Duarte. In other words. in the ‘absolute’ realm. 229–30). While the film revisits a rural past from an urban present in the manner described by Williams above. The role of the body in the narrative form of Cela’s La familia de Pascual Duarte is particularly interesting in the context of Lefebvre’s ‘absolute’ space. As a rural community. 26–7). 27). As noted above. Cela’s La familia de Pascual Duarte portrays an ‘absolute’ space independently of its depiction of violence. Pascual writes that his village is organized around a central square containing town hall. bar the viewer from such an unproblematic. 48 and 236). is questionable. The tie between man and environment enunciated in this chapter is . again removing any element of abstraction between man’s relation to his environment. Jesús González de la Riva (Cela 1971. and Franco’s manipulation of film form. Pascual measures the distance between the village and his own house as ‘unos doscientos pasos largos’ (Cela 1971. rural space is ordered around this trilogy of symbolic power. thus space is ‘lived’ (a ‘representational space’) rather than ‘conceived’ (a ‘representation of space’). The role of rural space as a setting for the violence in this film will be discussed with reference to Henri Lefebvre’s work. the setting of Cela’s novel is a ‘natural space populated by political forces’ in which space is ‘“lived” rather than conceived’ (Lefebvre 1999.

70). In the first paragraph the condemned Pascual laments the unfair hand dealt to him by fate by means of an eloquent corporeal image. Playfully framed by notes from the text’s transcriber. as Norberto Mínguez Arranz notes. the following simile. lisa y larga como los días – de una lisura y largura como usted para su bien. Pascual recalls the village’s whitewashed houses. and this is dependent on literary form. Cela thus establishes that space is indelibly printed on the body of man. through the representation of violence in Pascual Duarte. but rather. Although Pascual’s life in the film adaptation is notionally conveyed from his point of view through a flash-back structure. y hacerlo con tatuajes que después nadie ha de borrar’ (Cela 1971. explain the many hostile responses to Pascual Duarte on its release. ‘eliminar el componente retórico o literario para ceñirse a los componentes de la fábula’ (1998. que aún me duele la vista al recordarlas’ (Cela 1971. thus all textual information regarding environment is relayed through the subjective filter of his memoirs. its translation to the screen – in which environment may be objectively viewed – is problematic. 235). His autobiography reveals how. 25). he notes: ‘hay mucha diferencia entre adornarse las carnes con arrebol y colonia. and in subsequent paragraphs the body becomes the conduit for the experience of the environment. However. This personification of space through the specifically literary means of metaphor and simile poses a problem to the cinematic adaptor. 25–6). the depiction of ‘absolute’ space in the novel is emphasized by presenting space as ‘lived’ (a ‘representational space’). . though similarly ‘absolute’. space. In Lefebvre’s terms. Franco’s intention is not faithfully to repeat the subjectivity of the original novel. Take. 26). for instance. I will firstly examine how the apparently unmotivated violence in the film is anything but gratuitous. in Lefebvre’s terms. as it allows Franco to replicate the ‘absolute’ space of the novel and effect a powerful critique of the rural idyll. and secondly discuss the way the formal strategies adopted annul a nostalgic response to the film. ‘absolute space assumes meanings addressed not to the intellect but to the body’ (1999. Ricardo Franco constructs a very different. which ranged from the aesthetically disconcerted to the morally outraged. Pascual the condemned man describes his Badajoz village as ‘agachado sobre una carretera lisa y larga como un día sin pan.56 SALLY FAULKNER underwritten by the mode of enunciation. The preservation of the shocking murders in the adaptation (six. as ‘tan blancas. 96). no puede ni figurarse – de un condenado a muerte’ (Cela 1971. including Pascual’s own execution). Born on an arid plain under a punishing sun. Pascual’s tale is recounted in the first person. letters and testimonial extracts. for instance. yet abandonment of any sense of subjectivity or possibility for spectatorial identification. and later he describes the plain he can see from his cell as ‘castaña como la piel de los hombres’ (Cela 1971. When the narrative point of view is emphasized to the extent that the reader ‘cannot even imagine’ what is described.

8 On the hostile response of Spanish audiences to the violence of the film see Quesada 1986. Prior to both murders. the French press was particularly critical of the violence (see Baroncelli 1977. in the novel. two incidents which clearly indicate the Civil War and neither of which are contained in Cela’s text. ‘were among the first Spanish film-makers to adapt material to accentuate its political relevance rather than diminish it out of fear of censorial reprobation’ (1986.8 Pascual’s attacks on his dog and mule. That is not to say that environmental determinism is unimportant with respect to the violence of La familia de Pascual Duarte – rural space is carefully constructed through the description of setting. the forbidden love object (quoted in Kinder 1993. by foreign film-goers. and . the instrumental role played by the environment. going far beyond the simple. suggesting all Pascual’s murder victims are substitutes for his sister Rosario. (1989. 128). scriptwriters Emilio Martínez-Lázaro. the novel is also a psychological study of criminality. results from a failure to recognize the role played by location in Franco’s depiction of violence. follows a series of clues regarding Pascual’s murder of Jesús. the more contextual. psychological motivation or justification of Pascual’s actions.7 The politicization of the film may be understood in the context of the new freedoms experienced during the transition. in motivating Pascual’s crimes is understated in Cela’s novel. therefore. and the reader. Thus the symbolic matricide and patricide towards the end of the film can be readily interpreted as acts motivated by the Civil War. the historical references are secondary. most notably. either that of rural poverty or political unrest. As Kathleen Vernon observes: with the elimination of any introspective. Ricardo Franco simultaneously increases motivation in terms of environment and decreases motivation in terms of psychology in his adaptation. 359. However. While the contextual significance of the war is emphasized. 93–4). Despite José Luis Gómez’s award for best actor at Cannes. For if. 192). in the film the correspondences between the life of the individual Pascual and the collective reality of Spain in the nineteen twenties and thirties are made explicit. historical explanation comes to the foreground. which are real. Querejeta and Franco. like a detective. which point to the Civil War. rural space is also foregrounded through Franco’s elimination of narrative motivation in his adaptation. 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. subordinate relation of background to foreground. muted in their effect. and most virulently expressed. starting with the ambiguous allusion of the epigraph. As John Hopewell notes. Grant 1977). the director 7 It is strange.RURAL AND URBAN SPACES 57 Whether it be a deliberate literary strategy or a compromise enforced owing to censorship. The outrage felt by many viewers on the film’s release. that in interview Franco points to psychoanalytical dimensions of the film.

that sequence is preceded by a long shot of Pascual running across the plain. omitting a sequence which would explain the causal link. is imbued with motivational significance. because only landscape or location explains violence in Pascual Duarte. . which he repeatedly hacks with a knife. Hopewell offers a convincing rejection of the response that such violence borders on crude gratuity: Actions in many Spanish films seem undermotivated [. . Stylistically the long shot may appear to sever the link between man and environment. It is thus note- North-American reviews of the film expressed unadulterated outrage (see Barrett 1979. and thus constructs in Lefebvre’s terms an ‘absolute’ space. Saenz 1979). compared to its description in ‘six quite casual lines’ in the novel (Hopewell 1986.) However. along with its acoustic accompaniment of the whistling wind sweeping across the plain. 129).] the driving force of conduct lying outside the film in Spanish history itself. this shot is the distinctive cinematographic feature of the piece. Recalling the camera-work of Saura’s La caza. (1986. it points to rural space as the only motivation behind these actions. the opening shot. the sequence ‘prescind[e] del plano de apoyo que en una narración clásica aportaría la clave al espectador – la caída de Lola desde el animal’ (1990. are particularly interesting in this respect. the killing of the dog and the farewell between Pascual and his sister when she leaves for Trujillo. emphasis added) To return to the killing of the mule. However. physically reducing him to a speck on the landscape. Franco relates this attack to Pascual’s wife’s death only by casual juxtaposition. recurring at key narrative points such as this one. as they are not related to the Civil War context. 28. Preceding both the killing of the dog and the mule. seemingly unprovoked. the viewer suffers the harrowingly lengthy scene of Pascual’s apparently unmotivated murder of his mule. Hence the extreme importance of background detail and secondary characters in Spanish films. 62]. this long shot. likewise uncompromisingly shot in one take with a static camera. in terms of narrative content. José Luis Gómez’s Pascual shoots Chispa at point-blank range after an unbearably tense pause accentuated by a static camera. 70). . Subsequently. As Rafael Utrera notes. The murder of these animals is apparently entirely unmotivated in the film. The question of motivation reinforces the tie between man and the land. whereas in the novel Cela explains the murder of Chispa (albeit retrospectively) and the mule by association with his wife’s miscarriage (1971. (The novel’s monstrous characterization of Pascual’s mother and his growing resentment towards her also give forewarning of the matricide [see for example Cela 1971. 33 and 96–7).58 SALLY FAULKNER admitted in interview (Puig 1976).

. underscore rural space as. The stylistic blueprint of the piece is rather. traces a bond between body and space through the questions of violence and motivation. 90). negating any possibility of identification. All of these erect a Brechtian distance between spectator and film. Mohrt 1977). long shots. and experience space uniquely through the eye rather than through the body. the depiction of rural space in Pascual Duarte depends on the ‘visuality’ rather than the ‘hapticality’ of the medium. The film contains scarcely any dialogue. the latter. however terribly. Thus through film form. 131). a static camera and a chiaroscuro composition for which cinematographer Cuadrado is well-known (Kinder 1993. . in stylistic terms the film systematically denies the viewer any visual pleasure.] 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). Franco. ‘lived’.9 It is furthermore relentless in the demands it makes on the intellectual contribution of the viewer. While the narrative function of this shot may be to link the character to space. . stand out as particularly rare. The former means that the depiction of violence is instrumental in denouncing the deprivation of rural space. and is characterized 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). like the novel. This renders it a ‘representational space’ in Lefebvre’s terms. The few point of view shots from Pascual’s perspective and the four extreme close-ups of his face. It is also by formal means that Pascual Duarte eradicates any possibility of a nostalgic response to the piece.RURAL AND URBAN SPACES 59 worthy that in the film’s press file Franco states: ‘hay [. Quite apart from the violence. yet on the other the spectator’s relationship to the image negates the experience of space as ‘embodied perception’. Thus on the one hand the film narrative. the only such shots in the whole film (Vernon 1989. the long shot. In other words. as we have seen. it also paradoxically estranges the viewer from that space as we adopt the dehumanized position of a distant voyeuristic eye. that the viewer’s relationship to that depiction can never be one of nostalgia. and Querejeta’s veteran cinematographer Luis Cuadrado. 9 Strangely some contemporary reviewers commented on the beauty of the landscape shots (Fernández Santos 1976. The spectator must adopt the position of the detached observer.

21). 2000. The acerbic criticism of a work which was the most commercially successful Spanish film to date in 1984. and rumours of his candidature for the 2001 Nobel prize for literature were even circulated (Forjas 2001). which echo the myths of the 1898 Generation and Nationalist ideology.60 SALLY FAULKNER LOS SANTOS INOCENTES (CAMUS 1984): NOSTALGIA FOR ABSOLUTE SPACE Novelist Miguel Delibes is in a sense the contemporary poet laureate of Castilian Spain. also received Miró subsidies. The most commercially successful and critically acclaimed of the nine adaptations of Delibes’s work produced in the democratic period (Utrera 2002. enjoyed official support during the regime and were frequently fêted with literary awards (García Domínguez 1993b. notwithstanding changing 10 At the time of writing. 85–6. and still figured among the four most profitable Spanish films ever made in 1991 (Evans 1999a. José Luis Cuerda’s version of El hereje is still in production (Intxausti 2002). His Castilla. which was published in 1979 following Spain’s industrialization and urbanization. 130–1). Los santos inocentes. confirming the predilection of Spanish cinema for rural nostalgia noted above. Delibes’s novels have continued to delight Spanish readers (Perriam et al. 138) and critics. 163–4). He is the contemporary Spanish novelist most frequently adapted to film (García Domínguez 1993a. Losilla 2002. 226–8. Company Ramón 1989. a conceptual shift written into the geographical transposition of the novel’s setting from Delibes’s native Castile to Extremadura (García Domínguez 1993a. The novel is simultaneously nostalgic and critical in its evocation of rural life. If he began the process of questioning the rural idyll in ruralist novels like El camino (1950) and Las ratas (1962). Ricardo Franco’s Pascual and Camus’s Azarías are both impoverished peasants whose narratives culminate in politically symbolic patricide: Pascual shoots the condescending landowner Jesús. His eulogies of rural life and the Castilian peasant. lo castellano y los castellanos. However. may be addressed with reference to the transformation of the Spanish film industry discussed in chapter two. 319–20). 29–51). like La colmena. As in Pascual Duarte. . peasant life and hunting. Los santos inocentes of 1981 contains all the familiar Delibes themes of a bucolic setting. Los santos inocentes culminates in an act of symbolic violence.10 Mario Camus’s 1984 adaptation of Los santos inocentes has also attracted bitter rebuke from Spanish film scholars (Hopewell 1986. 3). and Azarías hangs the malevolent marquis Iván. might be termed nostalgic in the manner described by Williams above. these works simultaneously and thus contradictorily celebrated country life.

its limits. he removed the scene in which Iván takes communion. In Lefebvre’s terms. 71). Delibes himself is also an enthusiastic huntsman. is clearly speaking in the vocabulary and tone of a “pobre” ’ (1992. the novel portrays nostalgia for that space. 166) gives the lie to Paun de García’s notion of the ‘tale told by a peasant’ (1992. see also 11. Consideration will also be given to the construction of an ‘absolute’ space in novel and film. n. Manuel Matjí and Camus’s script of Los santos inocentes prior to production. and his enjoyment of the sport and adoration of the natural environment in which it takes place. 122–3). 16.RURAL AND URBAN SPACES 61 industrial circumstances. For while his characterization is manichean and his plot symbolic. Rather than the novel as a representation of ‘absolute’ 11 Delibes’s willingness to criticize Francoism has. the piece conveys the orality of ‘a tale told by a peasant [who] while omniscient. accounts in part for the ambiguity of Los santos inocentes. with its single-sentence chapters. the differences between these two films. unlike the film adaptation. in his 1965 La caza. rather than a portrayal of ‘absolute’ space. and Lefebvre’s argument that such nostalgia for rural space is typical in ‘abstract’ space (Lefebvre 1999. 71). Patricia Santoro has pertinently described the ideology underwriting Delibes’s Los santos inocentes as paradoxical (1996. como cinco puntos negros sobre el azul pálido del firmamento’ (1994. it is quite clear that in the novel the vilified landowner Iván stands for the dictator Franco and the social hierarchy maintained by his regime. separated by only eight years though the original texts are distanced by forty. Saura had also exploited the metaphor of the hunt to criticize the dictatorship. The varying significance of the acts of violence in Los santos inocentes compared to Pascual Duarte will be briefly considered. this claim of rural authenticity is debatable. 167. 18. is astounding and lays testimony to the social and political transformation of Spain in the intervening consolidation of the transition. 161).51).11 As it was common knowledge that the caudillo was a keen hunter. 857). however. The narrative may have an oral quality owing to its lack of punctuation. Asked to edit Antonio Larreta. does not contain its pastoral eulogy within a non-pastoral frame. rather the rural nature of its themes seems to be reflected in the rural nature of its form. . but Delibes’s inclusion of incongruous lyrical passages such as ‘surgieron cinco zuritas. Set in 1962 (Torres Nebrera 1992. However. 59. Susan Paun de García has argued that. The novel’s innovative form may initially appear suggestive of an ‘absolute’ space. However. Delibes’s Los santos inocentes. but this section will be largely devoted to a reading of Los santos inocentes as a work of nostalgia. which would have emphasized the complicity of the Catholic church in the social inequalities promoted by the regime (Utrera 1997. Delibes’s critique is undermined by an undisguised celebration of hunting and the countryside.

62 SALLY FAULKNER space. 35). 25. in many senses the protagonist of Delibes’s tale. unlike La familia de Pascual Duarte in which narrative events are subjectively filtered through Pascual’s memoirs. Los santos inocentes is not. nor is it. 27). conversely. govern its form. and. this is. 104–6). but the episodes devoted to exposing their limited literacy reveals the gulf which separates these characters from written language. The nostalgia of Delibes’s novel was repeated in its cinematic adaptation . but sharply observant Azarías in a carefully-constructed phonetic. . a ‘first-person narrative [. nor any of the peasant characters. such passages reveal. a nostalgic evocation of that space. which is exemplified in Los santos inocentes. by including grammatical mistakes in the former (e. in Lefebvre’s terms. This is especially significant with respect to ‘absolute’ space.g. 82) but not the latter. The novel may appear to give a voice to its peasant characters. Paco’s spelling classes result in his bewildered frustration (Delibes 1994. 63. 34–8). Delibes 1994. It is highly significant that in Los santos inocentes the quintessential man-of-the-land has been transformed into a simpleton. in Torres Nebrera’s words. de compenetración íntima y total’ (quoted in García Domínguez 1993b. Our response to him as readers. therefore. Delibes may remove the punctuation which distinguishes the labourers’ dialogue from the narrator’s account but. In sum Delibes’s Los santos inocentes simultaneously effects a critique of a symbolic representative of Francoism.] delivered through the words of the mentally deficient. como utópica la equilibrada comunicación del individuo con su semejante.] que la vitalidad del valle le penetraba desordenada e íntegra y que él entregaba la suya al valle en un vehemente deseo de fusión. Crucially. Thus. a celebration of the ‘España eterna’ of the rural idyll. the difference between the two is evident. 60). when Iván requests Paco and others write their names. The 1981 novel is. therefore. más que nunca. lexical and syntactical recreation of his language and thought processes’ (1998. they do so with excruciating difficulty (Delibes 1994. is therefore one of an adult to a child – inevitably governed by superiority and distance. del hombre con su medio’ (1992. The following description of Daniel in El camino is pertinent to the kind of symbiosis between man and land that Delibes later reflects through Azarías: ‘sintió [. . yet paradoxically also echoes a fundamental tenet of its ideology. however benevolent and kindly we find him. Paun de García’s authentic peasant’s tale. as Barry Jordan and Rikki Morgan-Tamosunas suggest. the way Delibes encourages us to respond to the rural environment which Azarías represents: it is an object of nostalgia as is the lost innocence of childhood. in Los santos inocentes neither Azarías. ‘la amorosa elegía de un espacio vital – y social – en el que empieza a sentirse. the quintessential occupant of ‘absolute’ space: an agricultural labourer for whom the rural environment is ‘lived’ space. Gregorio Torres Nebrera expresses this idea by what he calls the ‘Arcadia amenazada’ leitmotif (1992) of Delibes’s work. . . Azarías would be.

is not constructed in the film adaptation as a motivation for violence as in Pascual Duarte. inocente. ‘Absolute’ space. Firstly. However. causing him to fracture his leg twice. mise en scène draws a parallel between man and land. This complex response is partly attributable to Rabal’s convincing portrayal of the character. by the addition of a temporal frame. rather than one of the exploited peasants. there is an acoustic match between his cries and the owl’s hoots. Santoro suggests they also correspond to the running man’s heart-beats (1996. but Camus cinematically highlights the affinity between this character and his rural environment by means of the ‘hapticality’ of the medium. our identification with the character is one of sympathy yet distance. actorazo’ (Bonet Mojica 12 For the laudatory response of the contemporary press. The prologue to Los santos inocentes. Furthermore. Matjí and Camus 1984.RURAL AND URBAN SPACES 63 with great popular success. 20). like the novel. A typical contemporary review paid homage to his contribution in an article entitled ‘Paco Rabal: santo. earth-coloured clothes. 1). we do not adopt Azarías’s point of view in the adaptation. it is far more tangential here than in Pascual Duarte. The pre-credit sequence opens with Francisco Rabal’s Azarías in the act of what Delibes calls ‘correr el cárabo’ (1994. is an excellent illustration of cinema as ‘embodied perception’. Mario Camus reveals a self-awareness regarding the question of nostalgia not to be found in the novel. Thus Camus utilizes the way the filmic medium may approximate the body’s experience of space to elaborate a hymn to ‘absolute’ space in his prologue. see for instance Egido 1984. Finally. which would correspond to the novel’s description of the activity in which Azarías ‘oía claramente los rudos golpes de su corazón’ (Delibes 1994. This affinity between Azarías and rural space is also indicated by camera-work: as he runs along the crest of a hill. Iván’s dehumanizing attitude towards the peasants explains his disregard for Paco. as the uncomprehending Azarías carries out the act. as in the novel. which conditions our response to the whole film. Although rural poverty may be understood as a contributive factor to the murder. The drumbeats and percussion of the soundtrack match the sound of Azarías’s footsteps.12 However. Again. . 20). 171). the fact that the retarded Azarías is the conduit for our experience of such space is highly problematic. and Azarías’s motive for murdering the señorito is fittingly simple. Like the novel. narrative and characterization amply account for the violent acts in Los santos inocentes. Unlike the earlier film. the object of nostalgia. San José 1984. an act of revenge for the shooting of his pet kite. and the published script indicates moreover that ‘las manos y la cara tienen el color de la tierra’ (Larreta. As in the novel. the camera follows him in a tracking shot which matches his speed and allows us to glimpse him through the foliage. the film indicates ‘absolute’ space through the character of Azarías. as Rabal wears ragged. the subjectivity depicted here continues as the theme music of the film gradually begins.

el bajo’ and ‘Azarías’. The relationship between past and present is the issue addressed here. who wishes to record. urban visitor to the cortijo. 227).64 SALLY FAULKNER 1984). at times similarly indulges in an excessive pictorialization of the image. we later discover. like the owl in the prologue. introduced in intertitles by the names of ‘Quirce’. 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. as the credits roll to a photograph of the family fading in and out of view. and his performance earned him a best actor award at Cannes in 1984. Thus if Camus’s portrayal of the countryside is occasionally punctuated by picturesque camera-work. we 13 Rabal went on to portray an ageing. 227) is echoed by Jordan and Morgan-Tamosunas.13 In both novel and film. also responsible for the picturesque nostalgia of La colmena. 258). not varying cinematic representations of four different subjective perspectives. 208]) wilfully ignores several more troubling aspects of the narrative. ‘The film portrays a family living in squalor. in an echo of his role in Los santos inocentes. shared with co-star Alfredo Landa for his Paco (Sánchez Noriega 1998. 35). Memory and nostalgia are also introduced as themes immediately after the prologue. but its polished camera-work creates an effect of picturesque poverty’ (1986. complicit in Iván’s dehumanizing treatment of him as a dog. is one taken by a comparatively rich. The animalization of man culminates in the notorious scene in which Landa’s Paco. This photograph. ‘Paco. Such an interpretation of Los santos inocentes as a pleasurably nostalgic collection of ‘moving postcards’ (the phrase is Giuliana Bruno’s [1993. But such bestial sounds are extremely disturbing when emitted by the niña chica. The themes of memory and nostalgia are foregrounded in an obvious way by the structure of the film. It is organized around four flashbacks. If Delibes’s text occasionally lapses into an incongruous lyrical style. While the bond between man and nature may be enjoyably revisited in the manner intended by Delibes. This criticism of ‘the tendency to be visually pleasing at any cost’ (Hopewell 1986. who also observe a disjuncture between ‘rough’ narrative content and ‘smooth’ narrative form in the film (1998. out of touch country-man in another Delibes adaptation. occasionally this bond is transformed in the film narrative into a far more disturbing link between man and animal. ‘Nieves’. Antonio Giménez Rico’s 1986 El disputado voto del señor Cayo. the family’s disabled daughter. taken as a whole Los santos inocentes seems to address the contradictions of nostalgia. . Hopewell is scathing of its formal treatment. our relationship to the rural space depicted is one of nostalgia. rather gratifying. Camus’s cinematographer Hans Burmann. We may find the way Azarías cries out to communicate with his beloved ‘milanas bonitas’. drops onto all fours to sniff out the whereabouts of a missing partridge.

How. While the camera matches Azarías’s movement in the earlier sequence. if the cortijo and surrounding countryside are places of leisure and diversion for the demonized Iván. but explores the contradictions that give rise to these questions. The final images of the film serve as a summary of this equivocal experience of nostalgia. 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.RURAL AND URBAN SPACES 65 assume. The emphasis on Quirce and Nieves’s literacy. 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. especially as Camus sets up a contrast between this vital experience of space and that of Quirce and Nieves in the city. their location in an urban environment. all serve to make the contrast Camus is drawing between this environment and the rural space recalled in flashback obvious. just as the sound of the factory machines drowns out the human voices. and we similarly enjoy the pictorialized landscapes of the film. and in this way Camus’s Los santos inocentes gives cinematic expression to the experience of the city and the country in 1980s Spain. . he may even be asking us how our position relates to Iván’s. Quirce moves towards us in the train. 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. feudal hierarchies have been largely dismantled. Camus seems to be asking us. the curious and alarming spectacle of the family’s poverty. Similarly. 176). the urban immigrant. This exemplifies the elimination of the body in ‘abstract’ space. In the film adaptation. signalling space as ‘lived’ in Lefebvre’s ‘absolute’ realm. does our position as spectators differ from that of this photographer? And further. Camus’s Los santos inocentes does not provide the answers. Nonetheless the somewhat contradictory experience of nostalgia for the countryside persists. in the later one the relationship between man and space is rather characteristic of the ‘abstract’ realm. Nieves’s employment in a factory and even the inclusion of a train and a coach as modern forms of transport. which the viewer momentarily experiences through an inability to see or hear. The novel ends with a similar description of birds. but the camera is still and thus registers a disjuncture between man and space. Initially we may enjoy the ‘haptical’ experience of space provided by the film’s prologue. stands in a city street and looks up to a flock of birds in the sky. Nieves is located in a factory in which our view of her is initially obscured. In 1980s Spain such exploitative. 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. Quirce. this image eloquently symbolizes a hesitant rapprochment between the rural and the urban. and Camus has found the means to convey this conflicting memory of suffering tinged with regret.

269). Montxo Armendáriz’s Historias del Kronen and Ventura Pons’s Carícies explore the Spanish city as an ‘abstract’ space. (Lefebvre 1999. whose representation apparently eluded the traditional arts. . Paul Julian Smith notes that Lefebvre’s image of the city as an ‘abstract’ space seems ill fitted to the modern Spanish city. Thomas Hardy wrote of late nineteenth-century London that ‘[the city] appears not to see itself. With reference to Lefebvre’s insights into the production of space. 109). labour fell prey to abstraction. 49) In his recent study of urbanism in contemporary Spain. this evacuation of ‘lived’ experience in ‘abstract’ space is intimately linked to urbanization. Each individual is conscious of himself but nobody of themselves collectively’ (quoted in R.] not immune to the global “flows” which have dislocated and evacuated urban life’ (Smith 2000b. and how its ‘hapticality’ might alternatively point to ‘absolute’ space. With reference to the literary texts these films adapt. a process he describes as ‘abstraction in action’ (1999.66 SALLY FAULKNER URBAN SPACE If the representation of the city has been posed as an aesthetic problem. violence and privatization have meant even ‘the Spanish city is [. but. Through the questions of violence and nostalgia. whence abstract social labour – and abstract space. I will discuss the extent to which the ‘visuality’ of film is complicit in the creation of such ‘abstract’ space. For Lefebvre. Nonetheless. This ‘abstract’ space of the modern city is further linked to the development of the bourgeoisie and capitalism: Productive activity (labour) became no longer one with the process of reproduction which perpetuated social life. . As discussed above. in becoming independent of that process. in this section I will explore the parallel between the ‘visuality’ of film and the experience of the modern city as an ‘abstract’ space. 215). and its ‘hapticality’ apparently approximates to the experience of its inhabitants (Certeau’s ‘walkers’). the representational capacity of cinema has equally been proposed as a solution. . Williams 1985. which is apparently characterized by its communality. issues like unemployment. However the ‘visuality’ of film seems to permit the representation of the city as a whole (Certeau’s ‘voyeur’). it was the new medium of film which seemed to respond to the new experience of the city.

248–58). Like Coupland’s account of a generation with ‘nowhere to direct their anger.. . Silencio roto (2001). ‘is textually inscribed in the penultimate section he narrates in which his friends’ voices are deleted and replaced by empty parentheses’ (2000. a bored niño de papá and member of a peña of youths killing time over the summer of 1992 in Madrid. os odio a todos’ (Mañas 1999. 83–4). drugs and sex in Historias del Kronen draws a circle around a disturbing emptiness. affirm Chris Perriam et al. in fact bears out the centrality of ruralist themes and settings in Spanish cinema discussed above. with his exploration of the ‘silenced’ history of the maquis. The quest for increasingly unattainable satisfaction culminates in the innovatively narrated sequence of Fierro’s accidental murder (Mañas 1999. but shifted to San Sebastián with his 1990 Las cartas de Alou. youth film. then Madrid with Historias del Kronen. Hugely popular (reprinted several times since its original publication in 1994) and critically acclaimed for its formal virtuosity (short-listed for the premio Nadal in 1994).3). Adapted to film in the year following the novel’s publication. the apparently vacuous content of Historias del Kronen is significant. This urban. Carlos’s ‘solipsistic introversion’. which has been likened to Kids (Clark). Tales for an Accelerated Culture (Fouz-Hernández 2000. who also produced this film. a process of alienation concluded by his final words. García 1995. and no culture to replace their anomie’ (quoted in Fouz-Hernández 2000. no one to assuage their fears. protégé of fellow Basque and seasoned transition producer Elías Querejeta. 258).RURAL AND URBAN SPACES 67 HISTORIAS DEL KRONEN (ARMENDÁRIZ 1995): VIOLENCE IN ABSTRACT SPACE Labelled the Spanish version of Douglas Coupland’s landmark novel Generation X. José Ángel Mañas’s 1994 Historias del Kronen is an essay on the pasotismo of contemporary urban youth. Armendáriz’s early features continued with ruralist themes. Following two shorts entitled Navarrese Riverside and Navarrese Charcoal Burners (Hopewell 1986. Significantly he has returned to his native Navarre with the nostalgic rites-of-passage movie Secretos del corazón (1997). But the filmography of this Navarrese director. Following a discussion of the depiction of the city in Mañas’s novel and in Armendáriz’s film adaptation with reference to Lefebvre’s 14 See Fouz-Hernández 2000 for an account of the similarities and differences between Coupland and Mañas’s works. 96 n. is Armendáriz’s fourth feature and his only Madrid film. 271). ‘sois todos unos débiles. and.14 Mañas adopts the point of view of Carlos. Montxo Armendáriz’s Historias del Kronen enjoyed similar commercial success (see for example. which were all released in 1995. the repetitive cycle of violence. more recently. 217–18). La Haine (Kassovitz) and Trainspotting (Boyle). ( ) En el fondo. 38).

emphasis added).] lo tienen todo: la guita y el poder. sites of rebellion for the youths. Carlos’s response to his older relatives is stereotypically offensive. 52. as Fouz-Hernández indicates. territories become a major ground for youth resistance’ (2000. On the other hand. with his own occupation of the city. nocturnal glimpses beheld from a car seat. Francisco Silvela’. Yo todavía me acuerdo cuando era joven y vivía cerca de la puerta de Toledo en una finca’ (Mañas 1999. In fact throughout the novel Mañas stresses that the leisure pursuits of Carlos’s generation are never enough. 92). therefore. His disgust at their ‘lack-of-fit’ contrasts implicitly. and his grandfather similarly laments: ‘no hay más que ver en qué se ha convertido Madrid.]. 90). Night-time Madrid. This listing technique. Hay una inadecuación entre ellos y el tiempo que les rodea’ (Mañas 1999. fósiles. Carlos’s arrival at the Kronen bar is signalled thus: ‘Santa Bárbara. muchos drogadictos que roban a los viejos para drogarse’ (Mañas 1999. which omits verb or pronoun. for instance. racism. however. 74). casual sex. dangerous driving) also constructs an alternative communality is questionable. . .68 SALLY FAULKNER ‘abstract’ space. ‘los viejos son personajes del pasado. or rather. In his censure of his father’s ‘rollo sesentaiochista pseudoprogre de siempre’. Santiago Fouz-Hernández has suggested that ‘space. On the one hand the characters obtain pleasure from the urban environment (its bars. La ciudad moderna es monstruosa [. Carlos also points to his own generation’s dislocation. 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. as fleeting. Emetrienta’ conveys his return home (Mañas 1999. In chapter six. the argument that their deeply anti-social behaviour (sexism. he argues. Avenida de América. Ni siquiera nos han dejado la rebeldía: ya la agotaron toda los putos marxistas y los putos jipis de su época’ (Mañas 1999. is appropriated by the fictional characters ‘by transgressing all the boundaries and rules imposed by daytime society’ (Fouz-Hernández 2000. The youths’ night-time forays only ever skirt around a space which is not theirs. Mañas conveys their experience of the city streets. and their occupation of the urban environment is only ever transitory. drugs. This ephemerality is presented in the novel by means of minimalist strings of names of highways and barrios which link up the various ‘historias’. The pleasure they derive from the city is unsatisfactory. which is character- . In his reading of the novel and film versions of Historias del Kronen. he grumbles ‘los viejos [. but nonetheless interesting in spatial terms. 93). 99 and 110). theft. clubs. in the second part of this section I will consider the implicit question of nostalgia in the film. and ‘Avenida de América. . in contrast to the older generations for whom it is a place of fear and regret. 93). parks and roads afford them the thrills of alcohol. Carlos’s aunt naïvely warns him that ‘hay gente muy mala por la calle. for instance. Colón. . formally conveys the evacuation of the characters from the urban environment. While such spaces may be. sex and danger).

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. [. 113). 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. que es como la voz en off que ilustra mi toma de la Gran Vía’ (Mañas 1999. If Carlos conceives of urban life in terms of ‘visuality’. Mañas’s narrative of the violence enacted by Madrid’s discontented youth thus traces an ‘abstract’ space which is both urban and cinematic. and prioritization of ‘conceived’ space. in Lefebvre’s ‘abstract’ field. he cannot therefore participate in it – he is never part of his own film. (Mañas 1999. 272–3). As discussed above.RURAL AND URBAN SPACES 69 istic of Lefebvre’s ‘abstract’ space. It is significant that Mañas also uses this technique. this experience of the city in terms of ‘visuality’ rather than ‘hapticality’ is characteristic of the evacuation of ‘lived’ space. fictional representations of the city have been hostile. 84). Instead of idealising the city the predominant strategy has been to conjure into existence an elsewhere free of lack and ruinance. . which Fouz-Hernández likens to scanning newspaper headlines (2000. this is underscored by the ‘visuality’ of his narrative. The adaptation of such an ‘abstract’ space to film is therefore in a sense effortless. cinematic cities have tended to be negative. Rather surprisingly. de su película. . 80). especially though its ‘hapticality’. . like Certeau’s ‘voyeur’. 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. 45) His comments are born out by his narrative. which includes descriptions such as ‘el monólogo de Amalia.’ (Mañas 1999. . . Mañas’s protagonist states that his generation conceives of experience through the visual media: La cultura de nuestra época es audiovisual. which thus far we have discussed exclusively with reference to film. given the obvious affinity between the cinema and ‘visuality’ previously discussed. If a parallel is drawn between urban life and ‘abstract’ space in Mañas’s novel. como dice Mat Dilon. As Rob Lapsley points out: The city [on film] is rarely the object of idealisation. No le gustaba vincularse afectivamente . Pero él era como si no estuviera ahí. 195) After firstly examining the ways Armendáriz cinematically constructs an .] overwhelmingly. (1997. It is worth noting that while film is equally capable of portraying the city as an ‘absolute’ space. excitements and energies of urban existence [. Mañas 1999. given the preference of many people for the freedoms. . Cuando vemos algo que nos impresiona siempre tenemos la sensación de estar viendo una película. La única realidad de nuestra época es la de la televisión.] Somos los hijos de la televisión.

The Madrid skyline in these shots initially recalls Woody Allen’s fond portrayal of New York at the beginning of Manhattan (1979). Armendáriz’s Madrid is linked to the discordant notes of traffic. Madrid’s streets are perceived as so many blurred glimpses from a car seat during the adolescents’ nocturnal city tours of alcohol. This abstraction also points to the ‘phallic-visual-geometric’. nocturnal wasteland of low-life Madrid’. 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 repetition of the cityscape shot throughout the narrative alerts us to its significance in the film. However. urban. I will examine whether the film ‘conjures into existence’ an idealized ‘elsewhere’. indicating that. Furthermore. could be seen as motivated by the ‘alienating. The violent act with which the film culminates. urban life is viewed from on high. These give visual expression to the incoherence of their perception of the city and their spatial dislocation. Thus the human voice may only figure in this acoustic metropolis if relayed by machine. 289). While the cityscape of Madrid framed at the start of Historias del Kronen adheres to the classical cinematic convention of the establishing shot. spaces of Lefebvre’s ‘abstract’ space (1999. As the soundtrack changes from the cacophony mentioned above to the rhythmic beats of pop music. to a medium shot of the Kronen bar. like the long shot examined in Pascual Duarte. . the city is portrayed as an ‘abstract’ space by the way it is described. church bells and voices on telephones and loudspeakers. as in Mañas’s novel. For instance the credit sequence of the film shifts from the long shots discussed above. who is thus established as our object of identification and takes us into the Kronen bar and into the Historias del Kronen narrative.70 SALLY FAULKNER ‘abstract’ space as a context for the violence of Historias del Kronen. in the cityscape shot. marking the beginning of each of the eight days narrated. emphasizing space as perceived by the eye and indicating an ‘abstract’ space. If such cityscape shots make use of the ‘visuality’ of the film medium. to rest finally on a close-up of Carlos. unlike Allen’s images of New York. or ‘conceived’. other aspects of the narrative of Historias del Kronen seem to question such abstraction. Apart from the cityscape shots. which he couples with the celebratory tones of George Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue. as by Certeau’s ‘voyeur’. it goes beyond its conventional subordinate role as mere background.and drug-abuse. recorded on a camcorder which is the cinematic equivalent of Carlos’s monologue in the novel. A close reading of the cityscape shots of the prologue points to what Lefebvre terms ‘abstract’ space. we may interpret this sequence as a movement away from the ‘abstract’ space of the metropolis to an ‘absolute’ space constructed by the youths. the ‘snuff-movie’ murder of Fierro. This shot punctuates the film narrative. which may be understood as a symptom of nostalgia. which suggests the evacuation of the body from the ‘abstract’ space previously discussed. However.

as Ricardo Franco’s landscape shots do in Pascual Duarte. not least the exaggerated offensiveness of his character. It is the critic. con cierto disimulo y seriedad. a point echoed in Jesús Palacios’s review for Fotogramas. from a non-communicative family (the television is the most vocal interlocutor at the dinner table). who defines ‘seriousness’.] nos sitúa’. Despite the popular success of the film. ‘La película [. The director himself hinted at his paternalist attitude towards the material in interview. 38). this manichean depiction of the hostility of the urban environment.19). It is rather these very questions that the film deals with in a clichéd manner. The difference is the ample alternative motivation for Carlos’s delinquency given in the film narrative. 87. exhorting ‘muchas veces. . and the one-dimensionality of its depiction of the city possibly also implies a . which is for him the rather nebulous metaphor of the ‘cuestiones permanentes de la vida en cualquier lugar y tiempo: la rutina y el tedio que envuelven los estados de indefinición del carácter’ (Fernández-Santos 1995). estigmatizar la juventud y sus valores’ (quoted in Fouz-Hernández 2000. 97. reinforced by the antipathy of its occupants. a textbook adolescent and to boot sexist. Not surprisingly. Carlos is selfish. los adultos tratamos de obviar las partes menos agradables de la realidad’ (Armendáriz quoted in García 1995. The offensiveness of his character is in fact emphasized in the film by the episode. Indeed. El País film critic Ángel Fernández-Santos seems to be alone in his interpretation of Historias del Kronen as ‘ejemplar’. was the source of much critical censure of the film aired in the press on its release. which he describes as ‘tópico’ (1995). sino de lo que tiene de igual (cosa seria)’. writes for instance that Historias del Kronen is ‘un film pretendidamente subversivo que en realidad resulta moralista y vacío’ (1995). n. see also Norberto Alcober in Fouz-Hernández 2000. who describes the film as ‘una simple muestra más de la ola de moralidad reaccionaria que pretende. and vastly superior to the novel it adapts. ‘a la inversa que [su pretexto literario]. Armendáriz was criticized for this moralizing stance. of El Norte de Castilla. in which he steals from his mother and lets the maid be blamed and sacked. he argues. 198 and 99). Fernando Herrero. Indeed Armendáriz’s aforementioned repetition of the cityscape shot would seem to point to its role in motivating the crime. racist.RURAL AND URBAN SPACES 71 which this ‘lost generation of middle-class youngsters’ inhabit (Jordan and Morgan-Tamosunas 1998. the film does at times regretfully lapse into a kind of treatise for good parenting and a platitudinous description of pasotismo. of course. without goals. absent from the novel. But while in Pascual Duarte the link between motivation and environment was interpreted as indicating the tie between Man and nature – ‘absolute’ space – in Historias del Kronen it is rather evidence of the violence visited upon the occupant of ‘abstract space’. . no ante lo que un grupo de niños pijos madrileños tiene de diferente (cosa irrelevante). irresponsible and sadistic in his treatment of others (as illustrated by his response to Roberto’s homosexuality). light-fingered.

urban sequel to the earlier. a l’acostar-nos a la fi del millenni. That idealized other place would seem to be the countryside framed in Armendáriz’s earlier and subsequent filmography. Pons spent much of his early career making crude comedia catalana films which were never exported outside Catalonia. Ventura Pons’s adaptation of the play was the third film of what has been termed his Catalan literary trilogy (El perquè de tot plegat 1994. Originally a stage director. cada vegada ens costa més expressar l’amor’. The austerity of . Sergi Belbel’s Carícies expresses the alienation and solitude of contemporary urban life. yet has conversely also affirmed ‘muchos dicen que es una obra negra y dura. 11). based on Quim Monzó’s sketches. based on Josep María Benet i Jornet’s play. . However Pons’s 1990s urban cinema is a far cry from the celebration of Barcelona which he framed in his cult transition documentary of Catalonia’s best-known transvestite.72 SALLY FAULKNER nostalgia for what Lapsley calls an ‘elsewhere’. Belbel explores in this play archetypal human relations through the interaction of nameless characters in a nameless city. 58). review of Carícies. who. . CARÍCIES (PONS 1998): BEYOND ABSTRACT SPACE First published and performed as a play in 1992. for instance. The creation of his own auteurist brand of urban. Armendáriz stresses ‘the centrality of the rural environment to [a] sense of identity’ (Jordan and Morgan-Tamosunas 1998.] en un món en el qual. Rubio 1997. In 1999 he adapted another Belbel play Morir (o no) which similarly exploits fluid temporality. Actrius 1996. In Tasio. and that film ends with the protagonist’s refusal to move to the city. who in press interviews has underlined the pessimistic nature of his portrait of ‘[gent que en el fons] busca carícies. Carícies 1998) (see review of Carícies 1997. As such the play is a suggestive template for the cinematic adaptor. This refused transferral to what is understood to be a hostile urban space indicates the association of the city with the nefarious characteristics of ‘abstract’ space. This association is confirmed in Historias del Kronen which is a kind of hostile. His return to literature in these 1990s films however has enabled him even to make inroads into the international market (Jordan and Morgan-Tamosunas 1998. encara que no ho aconsegueixi [. The openness of Carícies has been indicated by the playwright himself. may ‘perform’ a text in such a way as to suggest its interpretation. Lauded in the press as Catalonia’s most ‘international theatre director’ (Costa 1998. 41. Ocaña. retrat intermitent (1978). 1998). 48). 171–2). T. a Barcelona setting and a structure of interlocking vignettes. literary cinema has proved enduringly successful both inside and outside Catalonia. rural film. like the theatre director. pero yo la veo positiva y optimista’ (Cabeza 1998.

As Núria Bou and Xavier Pérez note in a contemporary press review. at no point do we see its most idiosyncratic monuments. which is characteristic of art cinema generally. this is far more difficult in cinema as the filmed image. unlike Almodóvar’s love affair with Madrid. Despite the geographical shift from Madrid to Barcelona. in this section I will read the violence that unfolds in Pons’s modern metropolis in the context of ‘abstract’ space. in a non-specific ‘estació central’ (1998. While in a literary text a space may remain unnamed. the film is located in ‘una gran ciutat contemporània que es deixa reconèixer fàcilment.15 In terms of the representation of space. 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. has led some critics to lament its excessive literariness (Herrero 1998. Thus while Belbel may set scene seven of the play. Despite his replication of every sequence. However it is significant that. for instance. unlike the written word. Notwithstanding its use of the Catalan language. and in Todo sobre mi madre (1999) Barcelona. the corresponding sequence in the film adaptation takes place in the actual geographic location of Barcelona Sants station. 49). and the industrial differences between mainstream and art house cinema. his representation of urban space in Carícies is entirely cinematic. retaining almost every word of its dialogue and thus its La Ronde-inspired carousel structure. While Pons is extremely faithful in his adaptation of Belbel’s play. 24). while Barcelona as a city is recognizable in the film (Pons even holds the shot which focuses on the name ‘Barcelona Sants’). Carícies exemplifies the difference between the media of literature and film. Whereas nostalgia for an ‘absolute’ space appeared to be implicit in Armendáriz’s film. bears the mechanical imprint of place in the very essence of its form. Belbel’s play eschews all references to location.RURAL AND URBAN SPACES 73 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. . 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. the grave questions of violence and alienation in the modern metropolis therefore concern Carícies as much as they did Historias del Kronen. I will consider here the remarkable ending of Pons’s Carícies as explicitly nostalgic. In other words. 57). 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. Pons’s Carícies is not a cinematic ‘caress’ of the Catalan capital. The way Pons shoots Barcelona in fact recalls Lefebvre’s ‘abstract’ space 15 The prominence of dialogue in this film. As in the above study of Historias del Kronen. Marinero 1998.

and recall Mañas’s sparse listing descriptions in Historias del Kronen discussed above. Volume leaves the field to surface’ (1999. original emphasis). The estrangement of the body from ‘abstract’ space which is implied by the fast-forward shots is echoed in many of the narrative vignettes themselves. The alienation and solitude of the characters which surface in literal and figurative violence are accounted for by their occupation of a hostile urban environment. who conceives of life as a film in which he does not feature.74 SALLY FAULKNER in a manner similar to Armendáriz’s cityscapes. Bodily experience. and thus ‘appears solely in its reduced forms. the middle-aged man erases his own participation in the event. such as the urban alienation of Lefebvre’s ‘abstract’ space. Thus the denial of the body in the fast-forward sequences frames the abuse of the body in the narrative vignettes. . This process of estrangement from space. The link-up sequences thus emphasize the ‘visuality’ of film. therefore. which adopt the perspective of both cars above the ground and the metro beneath. The disorientating fastforward shots of traffic speeding through a night-time city inserted between each of the eleven vignettes of the diegesis do more than just link the sequences. and are the antithesis of ‘hapticality’. the film seems to stress. els únics que m’estimeu’ – the missing fourth participant being himself (Belbel 1998. like the perspective of Certeau’s ‘voyeur’. the body is subjected to confusingly unmotivated violence as a young couple engage in a banal conversation about what to have for dinner. . 64). which takes place between a middle-aged man and a rent-boy. for instance. In a later sequence. he comments ‘vosaltres tres . since the man is as concerned to watch the sexual act in a mirror as he is to engage in it. In The Production of Space. and its reduction from volume to surface. The romantic connotations of the title therefore seem ironically negated by the film. for whom space is only experienced through ‘the eye’. This is a doomed attempt on the client’s part to achieve existential affirmation through corporeal stimulation. On contemplating firstly his mirror image. These traffic shots. we witness the only explicit sexual encounter of the film. This seems to demonstrate Lefebvre’s observation that ‘over . Lefebvre in fact described the driver of a car as an ‘abstract subject’. or the way film may depict space uniquely through the eye. In the first sequence. but also indicate conceptual preoccupations. These fast-forward linking shots are the filmic representation of Lefebvre’s ‘abstraction in action’. These images evidently lie outside natural human perception because they depict space in a manner the body may never know. or film as ‘embodied perception’. secondly his lover’s mirror image and thirdly his lover. ‘Visuality’. also seem to offer an explanation for the antagonistic human relationships contained within the vignettes. They thus signal the evacuation of the body in ‘abstract’ space. 313. Like Mañas’s Carlos. may not only convey actual phenomena. is accelerated in the fast-forward images. is a simulacrum.

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. 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 melancholy tones of María del Mar Bonet’s Jo em donaría a qui em volgués increase in volume. These markedly different framing shots underscore the narrative difference of this single scene in which a caress does not result in rejection (scene three). While the portrayals of alienation in the narrative sequences of the rest of the film have been preceded and succeeded by fast-forward images. signalling its thematic contrast. And just as the view of the street concurs with the body’s experience of space. indicates a transition to Lefebvre’s ‘absolute’ space. or between man and his environment. At last the city is represented as a space known by the body. incest (six) or payment (nine). The link-up sequences which frame this final vignette are of particular interest with respect to the depiction of urban space. However. or the occupant of Lefebvre’s ‘absolute’ realm (1999. 92–3).RURAL AND URBAN SPACES 75 abstract space reigns phallic solitude and the self-destruction of desire. street of the first sequence) and is followed by slow motion images of traffic moving in that same street. The representation of sex thus takes the place of sex itself ’ (1999. 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. 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 . Using a tactic he would repeat extensively in Morir (o no). 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. In another contrast. The important final sequences of the film also indicate ‘absolute’ space. 309). As the speed of the images slows down. the body is nourished in the final narrative vignette by the only genuine caress of the film. this construction of ‘abstract’ space in Pons’s Carícies is countered by the question of motivation. as it is for Certeau’s ‘walkers’ (1988. the final encounter between the mother and the beaten-up man is different. but empty. 110–11). The beleaguered body is also reintroduced in these final sequences. Pons reverses time in this final vignette. and the next link-up in slow motion follows the sequence of the caress in slow motion. Just as Ricardo Franco linked man to environment in this way in Pascual Duarte. This alignment between the representation of space in the link-up sequences and in the narrative vignettes. the fact that our only explanation for the violence in Carícies is the hostility of the city indicates that Pons likewise points to ‘absolute’ space. in these final sequences Pons introduces the human voice on the soundtrack of the film which up to this point has been uniquely instrumental. Pons revises and points beyond that wholly pessimistic vision of the urban which precedes it.

Belbel and Pons problematize the tempting interpretation of nostalgia as a return to the nourishing plenitude of the maternal womb with the following line. Pons’s depiction of a mother’s caress also demolishes the hitherto alienating city. . thus the space of Certeau’s ‘walkers’ or Lefebvre’s ‘absolute’). This resolution at the end of Carícies recalls that of Wender’s Wings of Desire. represented by ‘hapticality’. is replaced by an ‘absolute’ space. which might be termed nostalgic. a realm in which there is a harmony between man and his environment. Unlike Los santos inocentes and Historias del Kronen. industrialized in the nineteenth century (Mackay 1985. Pons does not portray nostalgia for a lost rural space which might be explained in terms of Spain’s recent urbanization. In Emma Dent Coad’s account of the continuing centrality of modernista architecture to notions of Catalan identity. If those ‘political forces’ have ossified urban Catalan identity by associating it with a certain architectural period. Neither is Carícies nostalgic for a lost urban space. However. The ‘abstract’ space of the city. Millor i tot’ (Belbel 1998. The object of this nostalgia seems to be ‘absolute’ space. What emerges in Pons’s film is a more complex examination of the relationship of city and citizen. In comparison to the preceding episodes. the ending of Carícies depicts an idyll. significantly. and nostalgia for urban space which is aligned with a static definition of Catalan identity. is brought about by his love for a mortal named. In the film Pons similarly checks the critical response which might interpret these final scenes as nostalgic. thus ‘voyeuristic’ in Certeau’s terms or in Lefebvre’s. 57) is especially significant. The mother-figure soothingly assures the young man: ‘No pateixi. the same political forces that precipitated modernisme have ensured the survival of historical examples’ (1995. and in both this is triggered by romantic love. Barcelona is described as ‘pre-eminent in the number of buildings commissioned and in the number which still exist. In Wenders’s film Damiel’s renunciation of space as known by the angels (defined by its ‘visuality’. Marion. which might be particularly tempting in the specific context of Catalonia. ‘abstract’). emphasis added). 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. for space as known by humans (‘haptical’. 58). v). with Northern Europe. In both play and film. conveyed cinematically by ‘visuality’. Pons’s 1998 portrait of Barcelona demonstrates that rural nostalgia is less relevant to a city which. standard interpretations of nostalgia are insufficient here.76 SALLY FAULKNER kind of ‘humanist’ city. The idyll Pons evokes at the end of his narrative of urban alienation – what Lapsley calls the ‘elsewhere’ – is not a rural one. Similarly. Carícies rejects both nostalgia for rural space which is evident elsewhere in Spanish film. 72. El tractaré com si fos una mare. immaculately restored. Pons’s studied avoidance of its most famous manifestations (Bou and Pérez 1998. In both there is a transition from ‘abstract’ to ‘absolute’ space.

representational space [‘lived’] and the representation of space [‘conceived’]. With enormous popular success. though they did not coincide. the questions of violence and nostalgia have proved particularly suggestive to directors depicting the rural and urban spaces of late twentieth-century Spain. As Palacios quips in his review for Fotogramas: al eliminar la carga de violencia psicológica y pornográfica [de la novela] que podía convertir la película en repulsiva y original dentro del cine español. Ricardo Franco repeats Cela’s shocking depiction of violence to demolish Franco’s mythification of the Spanish countryside as a peaceful idyll. In the early transition film Pascual Duarte. . or Almodóvar’s ludic disclaimers of Franco’s urban nightmare. (quoted in Fouz-Hernández 2000. sólo queda el superficial y vacío moralismo de la víctima designada. nor simplistically idealized. Conversely. rodadas igual que uno de esos anuncios-amenaza de la Dirección General de Tráfico. Whereas José Ángel Mañas’s novel Historias del Kronen shocks through its graphic portrayal of violence in a manner which perhaps recalls both Cela’s novel and Franco’s film. such as Berlanga’s irreverent parodies of Franco’s rural idyll. But the exploration of violence and nostalgia in rural and urban spaces has been more enduringly expressive. rejecting the city wholesale as hostile. Conclusion: Continuity and Change In post-Franco cinema.RURAL AND URBAN SPACES 77 This idyll is thus neither nostalgically rural. 247). Lefebvre calls such a city one in which. Montxo Armendáriz’s depiction of violence in the city in his film version of the text unwittingly echoes the regime’s vilification of urban life. Mario Camus’s Los santos inocentes has been criticized as ‘una imagen de la campiña que se da a sí misma algo exótico para el espectador urbano [. a criticism which might be better levelled at Delibes’s original novel. The ending of Carícies rather recalls Lefebvre’s description of the city prior to its abstraction. were harmonious and congruent’ (1999. . 89–90) . A comic approach to the portrayal of the country and the city. appealing to images of Barcelona’s celebrated architecture. Armendáriz’s moralizing approach towards the material makes his picture insipid whereas Ricardo Franco’s had been so potent. and recursively explores the contradictory experience of nostalgia for a rural space. Camus’s film in fact both echoes the violence of Franco’s 1976 film.] un “enlatado” de la vida rural para los espectadores de las grandes ciudades’ (Losilla 1989. 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. 41). a space which is both urban and ‘absolute’. ‘for the citizen and city-dweller. has also been adopted with success to lampoon the dictatorship.

However the former film satirizes the Francoist sound bite of the rural idyll. effects a ‘despatialization of subjectivity’ (1991. the discourse of violence common to both Franco’s politicized Pascual Duarte and Armendáriz’s commercialized Historias del Kronen shows how environment. yet without adopting a moralizing stance which echoes Francoist ideology. Cinema is thus a unique instrument to explore aesthetically both the country and the city. and space as experienced by the body. yet also our contradictory ‘fascination’ for ‘absolute’ space (1999. whereas the latter implicitly reconfirms it.78 SALLY FAULKNER Finally Pons’s Carícies eschews a comic interpretation of Sergi Belbel’s play to show that the violence of the city can be portrayed with austerity. whether rural and urban. The seemingly nostalgic end of this film points beyond the polarity of violence in urban space and nostalgia for rural space to an alternative kind of ‘humanist’ city. Similarly the apparently opposing populist Los santos inocentes and auteurist Carícies share a discourse of nostalgia in their depictions of space. This comparison between literary texts and cinematic adaptations reveals that both literature and cinema may construct what Lefebvre calls ‘absolute’ and ‘abstract’ spaces. the later piece reveals a longing for urban communality not necessarily found in the past. Questions of violence and nostalgia in rural and urban spaces thus channel both continuity and change in the country and the city of modern Spain. may repress the individual. The ‘visuality’ of film sates our desire for the former and its ‘hapticality’ responds to the appeal of the latter. Vastly different in every other sense. Film may thus aesthetically satisfy both what Lefebvre calls our ‘fetishism’ of ‘abstract’ space. Mary Ann Doane. . much theoretical discussion of film implies that the medium lends itself to the portrayal of ‘abstract’ space in particular. A consideration of these four films thematically rather than chronologically throws this into relief. This contradiction might be hesitantly resolved if we consider film’s unique potential to represent space both as it is perceived by the eye. But while the earlier film explores the contradictions of a nostalgic portrayal of the impoverished countryside. 140). Yet film also enjoys an especially proximate relation to space as in its form it bears the imprint of place – a fact Italian neorealists were first to emphasize by on location shooting. argues that modern technology. for instance. However. including cinema. which Lefebvre would describe as a severing of the bond between man and environment which is typical of ‘abstract’ space. 190).

It is interesting to speculate that had Galdós’s career shifted forward a decade.RE-VISING THE NINETEENTH-CENTURY NOVEL 4 RE-VISING THE NINETEENTH-CENTURY NOVEL: GENDER AND THE ADAPTATIONS OF FORTUNATA Y JACINTA AND LA REGENTA The evidence of an affinity between the nineteenth-century novel and screen narrative. note 1. discussed in chapter two. The supposed parallel between the mimetic capacity of nineteenth-century literary realism and classic narrative film apparently explains adaptors’ attraction to novels of that particular period.4 However. 4. Mínguez Arranz 1998. is considered a manifestation of the nostalgia of the ‘heritage film’ genre as a whole. rather than making a somewhat unsuccessful conversion to the novela dialogada and then to drama. the less easily it translated to the screen. for an account of this process. such as the Merchant/Ivory productions of the 1980s and the staple of Victorian novel adaptations in British television. Film theorists have persuasively argued that film is more suited to adapting novels than plays using the Dickens/Griffith model. 81–3. the further the novel moved away from the conventions of nineteenth-century realism in the twentieth century. is both theoretical and actual. as we have seen with respect to Carícies. For this reason. also Bazin 1977. on British television. Critical responses to such adaptations of English literature emphasize ideological explanations.3 However. The popularity of the ‘bust and bustles’ period drama formula. 4 On Merchant/Ivory productions see Craig 1991. we may alternatively account for the affinity by the two media’s chronological contemporaneity and contiguity. 14. just as in the preceding chapters I have shown that the relationship between the historical context of a film adaptation and that of its literary source raises issues more complicated than See chapter one.2 Approaching the question from a historical rather than theoretical standpoint. 54–7. neither of these positions sufficiently accounts for the continued preference for adaptations of novels from this period. See Gimferrer 1999. 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). the novelist might have turned his hand to screen-writing.1 although drama offers equal potential for cinematic creativity. and hence the particular felicity of adapting that source. 1 2 . see Reynolds 1993.

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. 1–2).5 The novels of Benito Pérez Galdós. relatively few of these have been adapted. say. considering his œuvre comprises seventy-seven texts. 7 Contributive industrial factors must be taken into account here. one of Spain’s most renowned and prolific nineteenth-century authors. 1884–85). see Gómez Bermúdez de Castro 1989. especially recent studies of questions of gender. but playwrights Serafín and Joaquín Álvarez Quintero and Carlos Arniches have lent more work to the screen (Utrera 1989. in the post-Franco period. a consideration of gender also points beyond the impasse of interpreting the heritage phenomenon exclusively in terms of postmodern superficiality. This is symptomatic of the neglect of an author such as Galdós. 4). 8). 6 Galdós is the most frequently adapted novelist.6 Nonetheless. His Fortunata y Jacinta and Leopoldo Alas’s La Regenta. in post-Franco film and television the nineteenth-century novel has been largely the preserve of the latter. . While other Western countries allowed their national televisions and cinemas to develop in harmony. Spanish filmmakers have rather turned to the texts of. on the situation in the Spanish industry. see Monk 1995 and 1996–97. This is astonishing compared to the fate of. It will attempt to balance the immense critical interest in these important novels. have been the most frequently adapted in the history of Spanish cinema and television. As detailed in chapter two. as Spanish screen culture does not seem to share the AngloAmerican fixation with the nineteenth-century novel. considered to be Spain’s finest nineteenth-century novels. On such collaboration in the US see Gomery 1983. though the dates of production of the television series (Fortunata y Jacinta 1980. the civil. chapter five.80 SALLY FAULKNER mere nostalgia. La Regenta 1995. films made at the end of the regime (by Fons in 1970 and Gonzalo Suárez in 1974 respectively) and television series produced under democracy (by Camus in 1980 and Méndez Leite in 1995 respectively).and post-war periods as source material for adaptation. Dickens or Austen. These facts of production history mean that this chapter will address an intriguing three-way dialogue between novels written at the end of the 1800s (Pérez Galdós’s Fortunata y Jacinta of 1886–87 and Alas’s La Regenta. in 1970 and 1974 respectively. or about. as in British television. with the scant attention which has thus 5 On the question of gender and the heritage film genre in British cinema. marginalized by political circumstance both in and outside Spain (Jagoe 1994. have only been adapted to film once.7 In fact. collaboration between the two in Spain only occurred as late as 1979. part one. consider also Juanita la larga 1982 and Los Pazos de Ulloa 1985) reveal that such adaptations – however popular – were not part of a sustained policy. Hollywood’s insatiable appetite for ‘British’ costume drama is also of significance here (see Hipsky 1989).

El ángel del hogar Literary critics have shown that the imagery relating to the ángel del hogar is highly revealing in Galdós’s novels and this importance is echoed in their screen adaptations. discrete theoretical concerns. may call on us in his introduction to appreciate that this period is a ‘hueco maldito’ or ‘especie de agujero negro para el cine de nuestro país.) . such as images of women in the contemporary press (Charnon-Deutsch 2000). the director’s concerns in these films are not ones of gender.RE-VISING THE NINETEENTH-CENTURY NOVEL 81 far been paid to Spanish films of the late dictatorship period. 9 This gender focus explains the absence of Buñuel’s Galdós adaptations in this chapter. 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’. Lou Charnon-Deutsch has studied the ways a ‘traditional male observer’ is constructed in the novel La Regenta (1990. (Peter Evans’s monograph [1995] on gender and sexuality in Buñuel’s œuvre focuses on neither of these films. Jagoe 1994). and suggest the pertinence of that ideology to the study of the adaptations. but surely his collection offered an ideal opportunity to fill this gap? How can a volume devoted to literary adaptations miss out one of the periods when it was precisely these films which were of key importance? It is also surprising to discover that Santos Zunzunegui’s article on the Nuevo Cine Español in this collection (2002) focuses not on the important literary adaptations of that movement. like Miguel Picazo’s La tía Tula (1964) and Angelino Fons’s La busca (1966). o más representativamente caracterizadores’ (Heredero 2002a. thus both areas will overlap in both sections. The imagery of woman as angel. however. relates to the question of blurring between nature and culture. I will draw on the established importance of the ángel del hogar within Galdosian scholarship (Aldaraca 1991. The editor of the collection. Feminist criticism of the nineteenth-century Spanish novel has flourished over the last decade. Nineteenth-century discourses concerning gender difference proposed that femininity entailed a complex composite of these two. As I will argue in chapter five. 189). The ideology of the domestic angel and the question of gendered spectatorship are not. which suggestively overlaps with that of woman as bird in novels like Fortunata y Jacinta.9 In the section devoted to Fortunata y Jacinta entitled ‘Clipped Wings’. Carlos Heredero. but on a nebulous series of literary ‘roots’.8 and to Spanish television in general (Smith 2000a. as this necessary division might suggest. This growing body of work – which has yet to include screen adaptations – will inform the theoretical framework adduced here. and more recently this area has expanded to include other media. The belief that woman was ‘naturally’ 8 It seems incomprehensible that a recent publication devoted to literary adaptations in Spanish cinema which aims to offer a ‘recorrido historiográfico’ of such films and ‘estudiar los perfiles dominantes. 13) should leave out the period 1967–75. huérfano de catálogos oficiales y poco estudiado hasta el momento’ (2002a. mal documentado. 14). 105).

Rose 1993). divide coexisted. which underwent a division into two distinct. ‘for the first time in Western history. both possible locations of woman on the nature/culture. inherited from classical texts. Nonetheless. or domestic and urban spheres. ‘the frontier of her existence as a virtuous woman begins and ends at her doorstep. engendered. Quoting Fray Luis de León’s La perfecta casada – written in 1583. gave way in bourgeois patriarchal ideology to the angelic ideal. dictates their social status. II. but also denied sexuality. 15). This gendering of domestic space promoted by the nineteenth-century ideology of the ángel del hogar interacted with and reinforced other contemporary discourses. ‘one of the most pervasive changes in nineteenth-century cultural and psychic life occurred in Western perceptions of social space. 409. XXII. 8). tanto para fuera dellas se ha de tener por coxa y torpe” ’ (Aldaraca 1991. 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. in either the home or the street. in their study of nineteenth-century woman writers. 27). 780). or bird/angel. but the last example of its use given by the OED was in 1892 (The Oxford English Dictionary 1989. The sensitivity of male writers and directors to this question will be examined here.82 SALLY FAULKNER unruly and lustful and was ‘civilized’ by man through marriage. 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’). I. but an especially influential text in the discourse of domesticity – she continues. and sharply differentiated spheres. assert that images of spatial confinement and entrapment proliferate in such writers’ work. . 12) Another key aspect of the ideology of the ángel del hogar concerns space. woman as sex was constructed as morally superior to man. but on the other hand they contrast woman as an image of society’s natural (and unchanging) foundations. by the space which she occupies’ (1991. “assí la buena mujer quanto.g. public and private’ (1994. however. As Catherine Jagoe puts it. The price. especially those concerning the opposition between the home and the street. was the renunciation of female desire’ (1994. the location of the characters discussed. in which woman was considered ‘cultured’. para sus puertas adentro ha de ser presta y ligera. 1497). 10 ‘Public woman’ carries this meaning in the English language also. noting ‘[she] is ultimately defined not ontologically. not functionally but territorially. Drawing in part on the recent and growing intellectual field of feminist geography (e. As Jagoe points out. The Madwoman in the Attic (1980). 27). (1993b.10 Sandra Gilbert and Susan Gubar. Aldaraca draws particular attention to the spatial definition of the bourgeois angel.

169 by the end of the century (Díez de Baldeón 1986a. On the interaction between architecture and social class in nineteenthcentury Madrid. 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. see Díez de Baldeón 1986a. and encourage working-class ownership of single-family houses. a period which saw the emergence of the capital’s working class. fostered revolutionary unrest. the most illustrious chronicler of nineteenth-century Madrid. . to 487. to Haussmann’s project of ‘enclosure’ in the third Republic. but ideologues were only too aware that working-class barrios. A similar debate regarding the merits of the apartment house raged in nineteenth-century Madrid. The merits of the ‘casa mixta’ or ‘inmueble cuartelaria’ (an apartment building which constituted the major form of habitation under Isabel II in which bourgeois and proletarian families lived separately but under the same roof) were contrasted with the (largely utopian) proposals which flourished during the sexenio and the Restoration to impose ‘zonificación’ on Madrid. (S.435 in 1845. as the experience of nineteenth-century Paris made clear. Thus. Firstly.] By dissolving the boundary between residential and collective spaces. I. and the gendering of each. unlike the single-family house and the barely livable tenement. allowing us to see. which opposed the city to the home. she demonstrates that the spatial specificities of the apartment building made it a unique site for the interweaving of domestic and urban spheres. for example. and nineteenth-century discourses about apartment buildings registered the connections and coincidences between urban and domestic spaces. [. Marcus’s identification of an overlap between public and private spaces in the apart11 On the nineteenth-century debate regarding working-class housing. 2–3) While her source material is nineteenth-century Paris and London. see Díez de Baldeón 1986b. whose population expanded from 206.RE-VISING THE NINETEENTH-CENTURY NOVEL 83 Sharon Marcus’s impressively documented Apartment Stories (1999) questions both the division between these two. unlike the apparently class-levelling mixed houses. she questions the received wisdom that in the nineteenth century woman was located in the private realm and man in the public. that the home was often a masculine domain. apartment buildings linked the city and its residences in real and imagined ways. 139). Both humanitarian and politically expedient motives are discernible in these projects. Secondly. Marcus 1999. She charts a shift in spatial policy between the ‘open house’ Parisian apartment buildings of the July monarchy. and that heterosexual imperatives demanded the presence of women in streets as well as homes. values and activities. Marcus’s study is also pertinent to Madrid. Hygiene was a very real problem in the over-crowded capital. .11 Galdós. engages with this contemporary architectural polemic in his novels. .

what in Madrid would be the ‘inmueble cuartelaria’. and her comments on the fluidity of gendered spaces could have been written after reading Galdós’s satire on Isabelline society and the September revolution.84 SALLY FAULKNER ment house. The novelist raises the questions of working-class housing (Cava de San Miguel street and the slums). yet to date no criticism of the adaptations combines both literary and cinematic gender theory. but full discussion of these falls outside the scope of this book. first published 1975). 164). Literary critics have thus far shown themselves to be more responsive to this conspicuous parallel than film critics. . bourgeois counterpart Jacinta – will be considered. zonificación (the Santa Cruz family embodies the bourgeois ideal of spatial separation but Galdós reveals its flaws) and charitable ‘miracle’ solutions to the urban problem (Guillermina). the question I hope to answer here is to what extent film and television directors also explore those contradictions. If scholars have demonstrated that this bourgeois ideal of femininity was ‘thoroughly and fundamentally contradictory’ (Jagoe 1994. For both these critics. Charnon-Deutsch herself has argued that ‘cinematic theories of the subject [have] direct bearing on the subjects of classical narrative fiction’ (1994. 139). Gender and Spectatorship These adaptations of Fortunata y Jacinta and La Regenta must be considered on their own terms as visual narratives and it is revealing to compare them in the light of feminist theories of identification in the cinema and the possible visual pleasures such texts offer to spectators. and Lou Charnon-Deutsch’s formulation of the implied male reader of the Spanish feminocentric realist novel (1990). The refraction of these preoccupations through gender – the characterizations of the street-roaming. his masterpiece of Madrid life published towards the end of the twenty-eight year period in which Madrid’s population doubled (1860–88) (Díez de Baldeón 1986a. or ‘against the grain’. Literary critics have read the construction of imagery and space in these novels deconstructively. as they provide a space for the male subject to ‘rework unresolved fantasies and fears that survived from infancy’ (Charnon-Deutsch 1990. Hence ‘clipped’ wings or a ‘caged’ bird/angel may be read as metaphors of female oppression – culminating in Galdós’s work with the amputated leg of the eponymous heroine of Tristana (1892). The starting point in this discussion is the overlap between Laura Mulvey’s influential examination of the implied male spectator of mainstream narrative cinema (1999. immediately brings to mind the prologue to his Nazarín (1895). working-class Fortunata and her housebound. 65) and interpreted La Regenta using cinematic theories of suture (1994). cultural representations of womanhood are to be understood according to psychoanalytic theory. 41). The debate is a particular concern in Fortunata y Jacinta. La de Bringas (1884).

RE-VISING THE NINETEENTH-CENTURY NOVEL 85 In Gender and Representation. especially as many excellent published summaries do just that (Gledhill 1991a. the psychoanalytically-informed examination of identity formation in the essay is universal. and cinematic ‘reception’. 837). The role of the Spanish star Emma Penella in both Angelino Fons’s Fortunata y Jacinta and Gonzalo Suárez’s La Regenta problematizes the interpretation of these films as patriarchal illustrations of the male gaze. 20) and note that the contemporary press referred to her as such (e.] assigned to major roles and likely to attract audiences’ (Bordwell and Thompson 2001. Stacey 1998. Charnon-Deutsch argues that nineteenthcentury Spanish novels like Fortunata y Jacinta and La Regenta ‘prescribe [. and hence pronounces that the gaze is male. who must adopt a masculinized viewing position by identifying with male characters on the screen. Alternatively again it has been termed the ‘dichotomy of the “textual” versus the “empirical” spectator.12 This is not the place to rehearse the numerous responses to and developments of Mulvey’s argument. especially chapter two. .13 Countering the failure to account fully for the role played by certain actors in 12 In a rather unhelpful proliteration of terminology. or the “diegetic” versus the “cinematic” spectator’ (Stacey 1998. In the following chapter I will therefore examine the thesis that the screen adaptations of these texts similarly encourage the viewer to adopt ‘male seeing’. or implied male spectator. xii. but it is problematic that the essay brackets the real ‘flesh and blood’ film-goer. this opposition has also been called that between cinematic ‘address’. 19–48). Mulvey’s theory that female characters on screen tend to be objectified and ‘connote to-be-looked-at-ness’ (1999. compared to male characters who are active subjects and control narrative agency and point of view.g. L. 13 I call Penella a ‘star’ in the broadest sense of that term as a ‘well-known player [. 80). thus it may be transferred to a European context.] a male reading of texts’ (1990. original emphasis). there are all sorts of problems with this argument. As Mulvey herself has subsequently pointed out (1989. xi) and that ‘[it is] the task of the feminist critic [to] expose the way structures of male power and male seeing are divinized in our literature’ (1990. Although developed in response to classic Hollywood film. Martialay 1970). . Mulvey’s original insights into the way a film might ‘position’ a spectator are important. Mulvey argues that audiences experience visual pleasure by identifying with male characters. 29–38). in favour of the hypothetical masculinized subject. not least the question of the female spectator. seems ready-made for this task. . but work carried out on the analysis of responses of actual female audiences to female film stars is especially relevant to the following discussion. xiii–xx. Williams 1994a. by which a film ‘positions’ the spectator in an Althusserian sense. My reading of her performance in Fortunata y Jacinta and La Regenta is not intended as a full star study and empirical evidence regarding actual film-goers’ responses to her is as yet . or the empirical study of the practices of actual audiences influenced by cultural studies (Mayne 1998. and thus the cultural specificity of the context of viewing. ‘From the Male Gaze to the Female Spectator’. . Mayne 1998. 23).

86). will contribute considerably to the study of Spanish stars of this period. who is simply inadequate. forceful ‘mujer de rompe y rasga’ (Belategui 1999. Peter Evans (1997. who is passable in his role as Juanito. Feminist critics have contributed to this scholarship by examining the possible identifications which may occur between female stars and female spectators. 836) unleashed in the darkened auditorium of the film theatre. in Fortunata y Jacinta Penella is cast alongside the unknown Italian actors Máximo Valverde. Labanyi has studied the ways 1940s Spanish folklóricas encouraged audience identifications with strong female leads such as Imperio Argentina. and in Fortunata y Jacinta. which is thrown into relief by her insipid male co-stars. 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.14 In the context of Spanish cinema. In the following I will suggest that Penella’s star image as a dynamic. In his comparative work on these two media. 1). 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. even before the title. . as in some of the films Labanyi studies (1997. Similarly. An Oral History of Cinema-Going in 1940s and 1950s Spain. and in La Regenta her co-stars are the mediocre British actors Keith Baxter and Nigel Davenport. normally consumed in a domestic. star studies have proved a popular field of film criticism since the publication of Richard Dyer’s Stars in 1979. 15 The forthcoming publication of Labanyi et al. is entirely different. 14 For instance Jackie Stacey’s Star Gazing: Hollywood Cinema and Female Spectatorship (1998).’s empirical research on the practice of cinema-going in the early Franco period. Television. 225). and Bruno Corazzari. some initial work has taken place on female stars of the Francoist era. An application of either the theory of the male gaze or the insights of star studies to television drama is problematic. 4) has indicated the symbolic resistance to dominant ideology performed by Amparo Rivelles in Fuenteovejuna (1945). offers the possibility of positive identifications for female spectators. who were often cast alongside male characters played by unknown actors (Labanyi 1997. however.86 SALLY FAULKNER the construction of a film’s meaning. family context. Owing to a lack of empirical research on contemporary audiences this point can only. In both films Penella is clearly the star. unavailable. 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. her name appears first in the credits. In her work on Ana Mariscal. Further work on audience reception and the relevance of her off-screen persona would be immensely valuable.15 Similarly. especially 224–5). be speculative.

In the discussions of Mario Camus and Fernando Méndez Leite’s television adaptations of Fortunata y Jacinta and La Regenta I therefore suggest an alternative model for audience identification. however. but his or her glance. 528). there is ‘a lack of a truly voyeuristic position for the TV viewer. 528). one hundred supporting players and three thousand five hundred extras (quoted in Palacio 2002. as they are high-profile productions. ‘The spectator is given a position of spectatorship. 147) might have more purchase. the selection of Carmelo Gómez as the Magistral in Méndez Leite’s La Regenta is significant. ‘fosters “personalities” ’ (Ellis 2000. 54).RE-VISING THE NINETEENTH-CENTURY NOVEL 87 John Ellis contrasts cinema’s ‘regime of looking’ (2000. that television does not produce ‘stars’ in the same way as film.16 Television adaptations such as this potentially attract the attentive concentration of the viewer.17 Moreover. whose attention is distracted in the domestic context and whose viewing is thus intermittent (2000. 17 Furthermore. 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. they are especially rare in Spanish television. although neither Ana Belén. We must accept the proviso. perhaps looser definitions of identification offered by star studies like ‘sympathising or engaging with a character’ (Stacey 1991. Camus’s Fortunata y Jacinta is a case in point. 1. . 91). as Ellis notes. In what follows. nor Aitana Sánchez-Gijón. 16). contribute to the series in such radical ways as Penella does in the two films. 89) with the ‘glance’ elicited from the television viewer. I suggest therefore that television viewers may be active and observant. who portrays Ana in La Regenta. It is not the viewer’s gaze that is engaged. 81). 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. 37–9). who plays Fortunata in Camus’s Fortunata y Jacinta. 163). thirty-one main actors. 1991. This is an interesting echo of the way an intelligentsia suspicious of the mass readership commanded by newspapers in the early twentieth century also coded such readers as feminine (Carey 1992. while I 16 Tele Radio reported details of its twenty thousand square metres set. Whereas in the cinema. 163). But in the context of these two works. against the received wisdom that television watching is passive (Morley 1991. 8). If the avenue for exploring identification in television as a psychic process is closed. society has coded this passive television viewer as feminine (Seiter et al. as noted above. for a summary of feminist responses to this assumption. of voyeurism [and] the possiblity of seeing events and comprehending them from a position of separation and of mastery’ (Ellis 2000. the ‘reaction shot’ (Caughie 1990. As it would be in a film. a look without power’ (Ellis 2000. see Stacey 1998. cinema stars play key roles in such literary adaptations. but rather.

this chapter will show that the film and television adaptations of Galdós and Alas’s canonical texts may also perform Rich’s act of re-vision. enjoyed a ‘popularidad insospechada’ as both television programme and video (López-Baralt 1992–93. It has been largely ignored by later critics. when national television was subjected to political pressure during the turbulence of the transition (Barroso and Tranche 1996). 19 For contemporary reception see Martialay 1970. has been previously investigated (Bly 1986). whose Fortunata y Jacinta (released 1970) became the most commercially successful film of the Nuevo Cine Español. The suggestion of the title of this chapter that adapting a novel to the screen is akin to ‘re-vising’ that novel is an allusion to Adrienne Rich’s well-known affirmation that ‘Re-vision – the act of looking back. 364. The parallels between the prose of this novelist – who sketched cartoons of his characters before writing about them – and contemporary visual arts. 235–6). . later critics use precisely the issue of infidelity to lambast it. broadcast in 1980. 35).19 Camus’s television version of the novel. it has also been suggested that Galdós’s prose prefigured cinematic technique (Madariaga de la Campa 18 Rich’s quotation inspired the title of a collection of essays on feminist film criticism. Torreiro 1995a. Cebollada 1970. his earlier Cine en Cantabria: las películas de Mario Camus y los rodajes en Comillas does include it in its list of items shot in Comillas). 1). 94. For later hostile criticism. and is indeed omitted from José Luis Sánchez Noriega’s 1998 monograph on the director (1998. While contemporary reviews responded positively to the piece. of entering an old text from a new critical direction – is for women more than a chapter in cultural history: it is an act of survival’ (1980. grossing over twenty-one million pesetas (Caparrós Lera 1983. Mellencamp and Williams. see López-Baralt 1992–93. 1984a. who portrays Fortunata (J.20 and is said to have made the career of Ana Belén. and the extent to which they reproduce or resist dominant viewing practices. 95). CLIPPED WINGS: FILM AND TELEVISION ADAPTATIONS OF FORTUNATA Y JACINTA The challenge of adapting Galdós’s masterpiece was first undertaken by Fons in 1969. 20 That success was indeed surprising given the industrial context of production. López 1993. whose introduction uses the sentence cited here as its epigraph (Doane. some of the insights of film scholarship regarding gender and spectatorship are applied.18 By exploring the extent to which these screen versions repeat or rework the discourse of the ángel del hogar through their depiction of imagery and space. TVE had no fewer than eight directors in the period 1975–82. 35). of seeing with fresh eyes. and offered benign praise of its fidelity to the source.88 SALLY FAULKNER attend to the specificities of television as a distinct medium. heralding it as ‘quality’ cinema.

an ultraconservative head of Cinematography (Enrique Thomas de Carranza. along with Buñuel’s Tristana. It is not even listed in Román Gubern et al. had also produced Welles’s Campanadas a medianoche [1965] which was based on a number of Shakespearean plays. 346–8). Such was the experience of Fons. and the 1992 television adaptation of Cervantes’s classic). Faced with North-American industrial hegemony. Mercedes LópezBaralt’s article (1992–93) remains the only consideration of the relations between Fortunata y Jacinta and the moving picture. . Galdós’s Madrid masterpiece must have been especially attractive to a man the Espasa dictionary of Spanish cinema describes as ‘madrileño por los cuatro costados’ (Torres 1994. discussed below. seen to be compromising principle in order to survive in the competitive film industry of democratic Spain. and Luis Quesada affirms that Fortunata y Jacinta might be termed ‘una película de productor más que de autor’ (1986. In these films the role of the producer is paramount. but was not successful. also launched the 1970s sub-genre of cinematic adaptations of nineteenth-century texts. 87). Locating these adaptations in the framework of feminist theory allows us to add to López-Baralt’s introduction. 376)! Besides changes in the film industry. but. but the literary adaptation film was the hallmark of Piedra’s cinema (he had worked on Orson Welles’s unfinished version of Don Quijote.21 These literary adaptations constituted one of many attempts to form a commercial Spanish cinema in the period. and would go on to produce La Regenta. these film adaptations of progressive 21 Pedro Mario Herrero’s ¡Adiós. Not only was Piedra’s wife Emma Penella cast in the star role. Further. contracted by producer Emiliano Piedra who astutely predicted the commercial potential of a Fortunata y Jacinta film after the success of a recent play version by Ricardo López Aranda. FORTUNATA Y JACINTA (FONS 1970) Fons’s adaptation of 1970 must first be considered in relation to its industrial and socio-political contexts. competition from television. Cordera! (1966) predated it. His film was not only commercially profitable. 1969–74) and a series of debilitating political measures between 1970 and 1971 – all catalysed by the state’s unpaid debt of two hundred and thirty million pesetas to Spanish producers – the industry underwent one of its most severe crises from 1969–77 (Torreiro 1995a.RE-VISING THE NINETEENTH-CENTURY NOVEL 89 1989). though the flimsy argument that detailed description is equivalent to a panning shot could be applied to any realist novelist. Commissioning the direction of commercially orientated films to filmmakers of the avant-garde Nuevo Cine Español in this period can now be seen as typical of the future fate of the dissident director.’s Historia del cine español (1995).

59). 57). Following three adaptations of his work prior to the Civil War. La duda (based on El abuelo. pure. Doña Perfecta (Pérez Galdós 1876. desde 1939. As Carmen Martín Gaite notes in her survey of gender roles under the regime. Cordera! (Alas 1893. Moreover. The fate of Galdós’s œuvre on screen is exemplary. Galdós’s revelation in Fortunata y Jacinta that the ideological reverence of the sexless bourgeois angel was co-dependent on her lustful proletarian sister.22 As Francisco Aranda notes. which therefore exposed the contradictions of the cult of the former. only one novel was adapted during the dictatorship (Marianela. the rash of adaptations of the novelas contemporáneas which followed Fortunata y Jacinta in the 1970s may be interpreted as an expression of the gradual liberalization of the regime. but rejected his early and later work for its anticlericalism (Labanyi 1993a. Fons 1972). Tormento (Pérez Galdós 1884. The parallels between the nineteenth-century ángel del hogar and the regime’s promotion of an “ideal” image of womanhood as “eternal”.] de las burguesitas casaderas del siglo XIX retratadas por Galdós o Pérez Lugín’ (1998. Gil 1972). Benito Perojo 1940. Buñuel 1970). Pérez Galdós 1897. 82). the reinstatement of the Civil Code of 1889 (by which women were considered minors in the law) constituted a legal return to the period when the angel ideology was in its heyday (Graham 1995. a Galdós’ (1986. Additionally. Olea 1974). the ambivalent attitude to womanhood revealed in those works hardly married with the ideal of femininity advocated by such bodies as the Sección Femenina. indicate the same liberalizing impulses. and Valera’s Pepita Jiménez (Valera 1874. Gonzalo Suárez 1974). for instance. .90 SALLY FAULKNER nineteenth-century novelists also reveal the cultural politics of Franco’s regime. His work. passive. Nazarín was produced in Mexico [1958]) owing to what Quesada terms the ‘recelo con que se consideró por parte de la España oficial. 6). seems particularly poignant in a society in which brothels were legal until 1956. These film adaptations might be considered alongside information on publications of those novels. Note also: Alas’s ¡Adiós. Alongside commercial concerns. Marianela (Pérez Galdós 1878. . Previously. pious. Moreno Alba 1975). 198 and 199). 184). by 1970 ‘[Galdós] was beginning to be officially praised. till recently considered dangerous. and the fact that 1970 was the fifty-year anniversary of Galdós’s death. submissive womanas-mother for whom self-denial was the only road to real fulfilment’ (Graham 1995. 184) are unsurprising given the anachronism of Francoism as a whole. and 22 Consider: Tristana (Pérez Galdós 1892. 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. was now acceptable with the “new look” the Government wanted to give to their future activities’ (1971. Herrero 1966) and La Regenta (Alas 1884–85. Fernández Ardavín 1977). . the women’s education programme advocated by the Sección Femenina ‘no distaba sustancialmente del baño de “cultura general” [. the regime had promoted Galdós’s historical novels for patriotic reasons.

Mellencamp and Williams 1984a. We might consider Galdós’s text therefore in the light of Helen Graham’s observation that in authoritarian Spain ‘the highest price [. and evolving sexual mores of late Francoism. Feminist film critics have expressed concern that ‘In film even the most blatant stereotype is naturalized by a medium that presents a convincing illusion of a flesh and blood woman. 94). . 6).] 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. An interpretation of these symbolic codes is essential in order to appreciate Fons’s representation of femininity. while the literary sign is primarily symbolic’ (Doane. . to be discussed in further detail below. I. [. hizo ese característico arqueo de brazos y alzamiento de hombros con que las madrileñas del pueblo se agasajan dentro del mantón. by introducing her in a room above a poultry shop. This portrayal of Fortunata as a bird/prostitute is even more entrenched in . movimiento que les da cierta semejanza con una gallina que esponja su plumaje y se ahueca para volver luego a su volumen natural. Neither is Fons hesitant in reinforcing Galdós’s exploitation of the polysemy of pájara as both bird and ‘mujer de malas costumbres’ (as defined in Moliner 1998. in particular the imagery of birds and meat. The potential for Fons to relate Fortunata y Jacinta to the eroding ideology of femininity. The scene. 166). 537). . a dead bird hanging beside them.RE-VISING THE NINETEENTH-CENTURY NOVEL 91 their prohibition was never enforced (Hooper 1995. II. was great. 189). se infló con él. . While the novelist has Estupiñá describe Fortunata and her friend as ‘un par de reses muy bravas’ (Pérez Galdós 1994–95. 182) The analogy is reiterated by Fons’s addition of a sequence in which Fortunata sleeps with Juanito on the feathers of her aunt’s poultry stall. the director echoes Galdós’s ornithological characterization of Fortunata. . Close reading of the iconography of animality and spirituality in the adaptation of Fortunata y Jacinta allows us to dispel the mimetic illusion of cinema and reveal Fons’s construction of character.] is primarily iconic and indexical.] For the cinematic sign [. I. 191). (Pérez Galdós 1994–95. quiero decir. With what López-Baralt finds to be surprising astuteness. magnificently conveys the novelist’s description of the prójima’s reaction to Juanito: En el momento de ver al Delfín. . Animality and Spirituality: Iconographical Resources Mercedes López-Baralt asserts that the symbolic register of Fons’s adaptation. is the film’s most successful element (1992–93. Fons adds a scene in which Barbarita and her servant spy on Fortunata working at a meat stall in the market in order to extend the word play on the purchase of ‘carnes’.

bringing with it inappropriate connotations. a useless philanderer. when Jacinta confronts her husband regarding his relations with Fortunata. 58–9). alongside the ave/carne symbolism discussed. In another oversight. 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. Fons’s addition of Fortunata’s further association with doves is a romantic gesture. I. a point which is reinforced by a subsequent pan from Juanito as a child to a model of the child Christ. to God’s only son. For example. . The parallel alluded to between these two nativity scenes thus clearly associates the Santa Cruzs with the Holy Family and Juanito with the Messiah. While her links with the poultry shop are diegetic ones. which Estupiñá caresses shortly before he is apprised of the birth of the Santa Cruz heir. His passage to adulthood is then conveyed by a fade from the child to an adult Jesus. II. Fons also manipulates Christian and classical iconography. For example. This detail is not present in the novel – although Galdós’s Jacinta does hoard incriminating hairs and buttons later (Pérez Galdós 1994–95. in continued extreme close-up. 182) – a clichéd locus amoenus which unfortunately recalls the romantic literature that Galdós was in fact parodying (Rodgers 1987. the film proper opens with an extreme close-up of a model of the baby Jesus. the emphasis on this imagery and its counterpoising with pagan models are original to Fons. I. Aside from the ludic blasphemy of comparing Juanito. While Galdós highlights the parallel between Juanito and Christ.23 This iconographical code is of such importance in the film that while we see the biblical family in extreme close-up in this sequence. The introduction of this visual vocabulary is furthermore entirely appropriate to the medium of film. of the type Almodóvar would famously parody a decade later. 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. The absence of Jacinta’s characterization as an angel is particularly conspicuous as. she does so by showing him a box of feathers she has picked off his clothes. then pans over other icons of the nativity scene.92 SALLY FAULKNER the film’s symbolic code than López-Baralt suggests. then a corresponding pan to an adult Juanito. Following a credit sequence consisting of various shots of a faded cover of the novel. figuratively reducing Fortunata to the metonym of a feather. Fons misses the opportunity of contrasting Fortunata’s birdlike wings with Jacinta’s angelic ones. Although Galdós describes the Santa Cruzs’ anticipation of their son’s arrival as ‘deseándole como los judíos a Mesías’. this symbolic 23 This is an addition to the novel. he is born in September not at Christmas (1994–95. In a carefully composed shot. The camera finally rests on another model of the infant Christ. attributable to both Galdós and Fons. the real family is virtually absent. 136). 142).

This is first introduced when Emma Penella’s Fortunata is juxtaposed with a glimpsed statue of a female nude in Villalonga’s art studio. After the extreme close-ups of the nativity models. and becomes particularly clear when Fons’s camera pans from a painting of a classical nude (which bears a resemblance to Bacchus. Importantly. meat. this opening sequence is shot in two long takes. The symbolic resources of the film portray Fortunata as a wild. which is original to Fons. it could be said that a respectful distance is main- . Unlike her bourgeois sisters. As these are unusual in mainstream cinema. On the other. 12). slaughter and fertility (eggs and a baby’s cries) exactly matches her death in that same place after giving birth to the Santa Cruz heir. by a post-natal haemorrhage – for their transgression. but the establishment of perspective is equivocal. through symbolism Fons points out – as feminist critics would subsequently (Charnon-Deutsch 1990. juxtaposing love scenes with classical images was one way of conveying physical congress while getting round the censor. they draw our attention to the perspective of the camera. Tony Tanner writes. in which Fortunata joins the ranks of the literary women whose beauty in death is presented for the admiration of a male onlooker (Bronfen 1993). we might argue that childbirth is presented from a male point of view.RE-VISING THE NINETEENTH-CENTURY NOVEL 93 code is particularly significant when considered alongside the classical iconography associated with Fortunata. thus the introduction of Fortunata in a poultry shop replete with images of birds. But when even the impotent Maximiliano’s first meeting with Fortunata is preceded by a point of view shot in which he gazes at a painting of another classical goddess hanging from the ceiling of his pharmacy. The Male Gaze and the Female Star While the significance of the iconographical resources of the film therefore seems clear. Her relationship with Juanito falls outside holy matrimony and her characterization as a whole is conveyed as irreligious. it would seem. for whom. adultery governs her entire existence. the Roman god associated with sensual indulgence) to Juanito and Fortunata in bed. Fortunata y Jacinta is perhaps more ambiguous with respect to audience identification. and the nineteenth-century heroines who are symbolically punished – by arsenic. In the opening sequence of the twin nativity scenes already discussed the symbolic register of the film inscribed is evident. as the camera waits outside the delivery room with Estupiñá. Fortunata’s consistent association with pagan art is rather more symbolic. Galdós’s novel becomes a didactic tale. 159) – that for this proletarian heroine. impassioned and godless creature. On the one hand. In the filmmaker’s hands. this iconographical code remains unchanged. The subtext of a feminist bildungsroman which critics such as Jagoe have perceived in this and other Galdosian texts is therefore apparently erased (1994. Of course. chapter four). adultery was ‘an activity not an identity’ (1979. by the wheels of a train. then a painting of one.

I. thus ‘the gaze of the spectator and that of the male characters in the film are neatly combined without breaking narrative verisimilitude’ (1999. we might call this a critical distance. which recalls Galdós’s allusion to the dress circle but makes it clear that the male character is off-stage looking and the female on-stage being looked at. whereas Fortunata is bathed in a shaft of light. is left open. which invite the viewer to share the character’s ‘eyes’. and thus follows Galdós’s references to Juanito spying on Fortunata. which Laura Mulvey describes as tending ‘to work against the development of a story line. As such she takes on the role of woman as spectacle. While Kawin’s main interest is the radical subjectivity of avant-garde cinema. This interpretation of the introduction of Fortunata as a male fantasy of scopophilic mastery is reinforced if we consider the sequence in the light of Bruce Kawin’s analysis of cinematic subjectivity in Mindscreen (1978). 838). which will be discussed with respect to Buñuel’s work in the following chapter. Alternatively again. movida de una curiosidad semejante a la de Santa Cruz. the male viewing subject. In the quotation cited above. But here. this instance of narrative arrest is sewn into the text by our identification with Juanito. Fons’s Juanito gazes from the shadows of the doorway. Fons does not replicate this ambiguity. she spies on him too: ‘Parecía estar en acecho. It is thus unclear who is spying on whom. However the narrator points out that while Juanito spies on Fortunata (‘miró hacia dentro’). but figuratively interpret as dress circle. 837). In the adaptation Juanito is active: he controls narrative movement by approaching Fortunata as he climbs the stairs. Further. his concept of the ‘mindscreen’ might be profitably applied here. and implicit subjective shots. is passive. 182). the novel’s narrator describes Fortunata puffing herself up like a bird when the couple first see each other (Pérez Galdós 1994–95. rendering us unable to identify with any character. or point of view shots. I. The scene of Juanito’s introduction to Fortunata seems less ambiguous however and apparently illustrates the thesis of a masculinized spectator of the film. Fortunata. however. both physically stationary in the dovecot and at first oblivious to Juanito’s prying gaze: she is presented as the object who is looked at. deseando saber quién demonios subía a tales horas por aquella endiablada escalera’ (Pérez Galdós 1994–95. 182). The comparison between the novel and the film’s introduction of Fortunata is revealing. [. which we might literally understand as a flat between the ground and first floors. The ambiguity is reinforced by the setting of this sequence in an ‘entresuelo’ (Pérez Galdós 1994–95. I. He draws a useful distinction between explicit subjective shots.94 SALLY FAULKNER tained. The question of who is in the dress circle looking.] emphases’ . conversely. . and ignores those to Fortunata spying back at Juanito. and is presented as the subject who looks. which invite us to adopt their ‘perspective. 182). . as in the classic Hollywood films Mulvey analyses. and who is on-stage being looked at. to freeze the flow of action in moments of erotic contemplation’ (1999.

After Fortunata leaves him to answer a call from her aunt. whereas working-class Fortunata. but she seems visually to perform her entrapment in a female body. Juanito returns to the room in which he has just met her. Bourgeois Jacinta. The scene is bathed in white light. The door swings open on its own accord. This drama of the barren woman is not only portrayed without any visual communication of Jacinta’s point of view through cinematography. the door swings shut. which is recounted in voice-over in its entirety. As Mary Ann Doane (1980) and Kaja Silverman (1988) have shown. closing this fantasy world. Fons’s introduction of Fortunata begins with the adoption of Juanito’s point of view. 331). ‘disembodied voice-overs are usually exclusively male. Then. reports that Piedra. What might be termed the patriarchal nature of the film also extends to most of the aural field. Juanito and Jacinto significantly gaze down on her in the music hall when she has returned from Paris (in the same way as Ana Ozores is also depicted in La Regenta. In other words Jacinta.RE-VISING THE NINETEENTH-CENTURY NOVEL 95 or ‘mindscreen’ (Kawin 1978. as in the novel. who challenges that ideology. and the female voice is usually synchronized with the image so that it can remain closely identified with (and thereby subordinate to) the spectacle of the female body’ (summarized in Kinder 1993. Of particular interest here is the sequence concerning Jacinta’s ‘Pitusín affair’. like a magic box. spellbound. portrayed the Spanish star and Madrid-born Penella. this scene might be interpreted as Juanito’s mindscreen. Fortunata is symbolically objectified by the camera on further occasions in the narrative. is strong. both verbally and visually) and Maximiliano’s first sighting of her is analogous to Juanito’s introduction discussed. Given the sexual associations of the pájara and the dovecot discussed above. and throws into question the contention that the film is a patriarchal reading of the novel. the doves coo and a snow-white bird hovers flapping its wings in precisely the spot he first saw Fortunata. the conduit for the ideology of the ángel del hogar – and by extension that of the Francoist Sección Femenina – is insipid. Penella’s performance in this role reinforces the strength and resilience of her fictional character. director Fons and scriptwriter Alfredo Mañas were united in their determination that Penella should play . but the speaking narrative voice is male. Diego Galán. played by mediocre Italian actress Liana Orfei since the film is a Spanish-Italian co-production. in his monograph on her husband. the producer Emiliano Piedra. is. 190). which is paternally explained by the male voice-over narrator. Fons not only makes excessive recourse to voice-over – a noncinematic mode of narration – presumably in a doomed attempt to condense this vast novel. unaffected and plucky. and a fantastical space unfolds before him. However the difference between Fons’s portrayals of Jacinta and Fortunata is telling. again magically. which is not the case in the novel. is characterized as smug and sanctimonious. reinforcing our identification with him which has already been established by the point of view shots. whereas Fortunata.

physical gestures and bearing seem to allow her to break free of the controlling cinematic frame. This was to be the role of her career. The argument that Fons’s adaptation pulls against itself in contradictory directions is again suggested by the ending of the film. like the one examined in detail of Juanito’s first sighting of her. apparently control and objectify her character. . Even when point of view shots. she accepted ‘seguramente [.] Para mi sólo hay una ley: querer a quien se quiere no puede ser cosa mala’. and without doubt she carries the picture. One such tension is the opposition between cinematography and her star presence. but has rather been described in a chapter called ‘Emma’ in a book on her husband (Galán 1990). como es santa . . at times 24 It is noteworthy that Penella has thus far not received attention as an individual artist. throaty voice was often dubbed (1990. 56). is a rousing repudiation of the kind of comportment advocated by the Sección Femenina. This creates a number of tensions in the film. indicating the heroine’s own parentlessness and the possible future fate of her bastard child. [. Guillermina. not least due to Penella’s forceful performance. . There are two notable juxtapositions which augment our sympathy for Penella’s Fortunata. . no hay duda: Fortunata’ (Penella quoted in Galán 1990. . Galán reports. . Galán recounts that the actress’s stoutness and propensity to gain weight were a source of anguish to her (1990. and Galán quotes her comment (which is unfortunately undated) that ‘Si Dios me dijera qué película querría hacer otra vez. Secondly.24 It is telling that Penella conflates the title of the film with the name of her own character here. Fortunata. This rejection of bourgeois hypocrisy is particularly convincing. as does her voice which was not dubbed in this film. Fons slyly cuts to an image of the philanderer’s wedding to Jacinta. . . pero yo soy de este mundo.96 SALLY FAULKNER the part. is ‘para usted es fácil pensar así . But in this film Penella’s figure reinforces the robustness of her character. and that her deep. when Juanito promises Fortunata they will live together. 51). an image of the then abandoned pregnant Fortunata is juxtaposed with that of Guillermina’s orphans. Penella enthusiastically took on the part.] con alegría’ [1990. the father of her children. and despite an interval of four years from acting owing to marriage and childbirth (a break. Firstly. Penella’s own defiant look. Fortunata’s forceful attack on the restrictive ideology which bars her contact with Juanito. Her blunt response to Guillermina’s accusation that she is breaking ‘todas las leyes divinas y humanas’. Another tension in the film is that between the supposedly male gaze encouraged by cinematography and the plot. of the type that have been analysed so fruitfully in ‘against the grain’ feminist criticism. 53]). . The resistance to gender ideology embodied by Penella’s Fortunata culminates towards the end of the film in Fons’s depiction of her visit to the bourgeois busybody. 55).

Galdós’s protagonist dies declaring ‘soy ángel . . problematize this interpretation. At times a disturbing misogynous undercurrent even surfaces in the film. Alfredo Mañas’s script25 replaces these words. 528). compared to ‘art’ which could uniquely convey such nebulous qualities as negation and transcendence (David Morley quoted in Kaplan 1983a. and occasionally plot. The contradiction is ultimately embodied by Penella herself as a female star. and Fons for the script also. These sustained images of a man’s physical violence to a woman in a mainstream. For instance Fons includes a minute-long sequence in which one of Fortunata’s lovers brutally castigates her for her infidelity with Juanito.26 FORTUNATA Y JACINTA (CAMUS 1980) It has been some seventy years since Marxists of the Frankfurt school condemned mass culture as conservative and reconciliatory. 53). but Penella’s performance. . Galdós’s novel Fortunata y Jacinta may initially support a patriarchal reading. is strangely tamed by the end of the picture. . along with the construction of a male gaze and the film’s static symbolic code. I take Mañas to be the principal writer. which Catherine Jagoe argues is a ‘radical redefinition’ of the ideology of the ángel del hogar which has been challenged throughout the novel (1994. Nonetheless it seems plausible to speculate that Penella’s Fortunata offered the possibility of positive identification to contemporary female audiences.RE-VISING THE NINETEENTH-CENTURY NOVEL 97 almost a proto-feminist heroine. pero muerta yo. however. patriarchal order) to rights. 26 This concept of contradiction follows that outlined by Christine Gledhill in her introduction (1991a. . who is simultaneously a postitive figure of identification as a strong independent character and a focus of visual pleasure to the male gaze. Similarly Fons’s adaptation could be interpreted as reconfirming patriarchal ideology and titillating a masculinized voyeuristic gaze. author of the play version of Fortunata y Jacinta discussed above. yo también’ (1994–95. commercial movie might now be uncomfortable for audiences. with an incongruous reconfirmation of the dominant gender ideology from the lips of Fortunata. Penella’s moribund Fortunata whispers to her newborn child. ultimately temper the challenge Penella’s Fortunata poses to dominant gender ideology. but finally resists it through its deconstruction of the ángel del hogar and pájara imagery and the irony surrounding its bourgeois narrator. . xii). A comparison with the novel is particularly revealing in this respect. 119). Yet theorists as 25 The film credits Ricardo López Aranda. xv) to Stardom: Industry of Desire. but following Galán (1990. Perhaps this defeatist ending. Jacinta será su mujer y tú su hijo’. ‘Yo soy la verdadera mujer del Delfín . in resigned recognition that her death will put the world (read: bourgeois. II.

Stone 2002. television is ‘orientated towards the repetition of a basic dilemma’ unlike film which aims for ‘the resolution of an onward narrative movement’ (2000. The student riots with which the director commences the first chapter of his ten-part series would have been particularly relevant to the television audiences of a country only recently emerging from dictatorship. Only eight years previously similar scenes were cut from Fons’s adaptation. Such criticism has been subsequently challenged for relating exclusively to North-American practice (John Caughie quoted in Giles 1993. hour-length chapters of Camus’s series) indicates that television is far more suited to convey the Balzacian broad sweep of these novels. as Paul Giles has argued with respect to British television. suggests that television might better communicate the lengthy intricacies of the nineteenthcentury novel. or the viewing experience as what Fernando Lara calls ‘emoción interrumpida’ (1995). David Sánchez Salas has speculated that they were censored because of current legal proceedings against Emilio Castelar (2002. culminating in the abolition of the student union in 1965 and reaching an ‘unprecendented level of activity’ in 1968 (Grugel and Rees 1997. However. A matter as simple as length (Fons’s one and a half-hour film compared to the ten. 92). as discussed in chapter one. Produced and broadcast during the upheaval of the transition. but continues to colour views of the medium.27 More disturbing perhaps would have been Camus’s 27 Such scenes also document the abolition of censorship in 1977. 200). The fact that from the 1960s until Franco’s death the major Spanish cities frequently witnessed often violently-repressed student rioting. 72). . 170). 49). though they were greatly reduced in number by the censors (R. or a medium ‘delivering its images indifferently. 79). 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. 70). as John Ellis has pointed out in his comparison of the aesthetics of cinema and television fiction. was surely also relevant. indifferent to its own message’ (Baudrillard quoted in Giles 1993. 70). describing it as non-discriminatory ‘flow’ which unifies discrete items (R. Furthermore.98 SALLY FAULKNER different as Raymond Williams and Jean Baudrillard echo this criticism with respect to television. critics have begun to address the academic neglect of a medium which is today. 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. ‘the focal point of social narratives and popular memory’ (1993. Williams 1990). Juan Antonio Bardem did manage to include images of student riots in his Muerte de un ciclista (1955). ‘journalism’ to its ‘literature’ (Mamoun Hassan quoted in Giles 1993. Television is still considered ‘the movies’ poor relation’ (‘A very British stew’ 2000). This constantly arrested nature of television narrative. the historical parallels between the political uncertainties of Galdós’s 1870s and Camus’s 1970s are clear.

are best seen as a narrative enactment 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. Camus’s Fortunata y Jacinta not only takes the question of inheritance as one of its themes. Hugh O’Donnell has observed that ‘a striking feature of the Spanish telenovelas and soaps taken as a whole is the frequency with which the theme of inheritance appears’ (2000. Although he does not mention Fortunata y Jacinta. as it ends with working-class Fortunata’s relinquishment of her bastard child (symbol of a new Spain?) to bourgeois Jacinta. the adaptation also seems to be a kind of template for Spanish television series in general. Broadcast at a time when Spain hovered between its authoritarian past and democratic future (to use the well-worn trope of the ‘two Spains’) it furthermore dramatizes the question of historical legacy by turning back to Galdós’s nineteenth-century classic. and. (2000. the telenovela generally. rub shoulders with artists who were to become symbols of a modern Spain like Ana Belén and Charo López. 302). 390) with respect to femininity and the family. and the competing sets of values which swirl around them. and was threatened in a very real way by the Tejerazo of 1981. is channelled through the portrayal of femininity in Fortunata y Jacinta. and which Camus successfully echoes in his television series in the context of the transition. Tremendously successful with audiences.RE-VISING THE NINETEENTH-CENTURY NOVEL 99 portrayal of the precarious politics of Galdós’s Spain – shifting from monarchy to republic with the flippancy with which Juanito flits between wife and mistress – at a time when the country’s inchoate democracy seemed constantly threatened. according to O’Donnell. which efficaciously complements Galdós’s original text. It is this type of disorientation that Galdós had already explored in Fortunata y Jacinta in the context of the nineteenth-century ‘woman question’. 302–3) This clash between ‘past and present’. emblematic of the left-wing dissident tradition. which characterizes both the transition period. O’Donnell’s more detailed description of Spanish telenovelas is therefore particularly pertinent to Camus’s 1980 series: Constant clashes over the link between past and present. Belén in particular. who portrays the lusty prole- . That the series was produced when Spain was poised between past and future is conveyed by Camus’s casting. Much of the background to Fons’s film elucidated above is equally relevant here. Veteran figures such as Fernando Fernán Gómez and Francisco Rabal. although we might note also that the rapid and surprisingly smooth shift from patriarchal 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.

In the light of the above sequence alone. the camera cuts to images of caged birds. Barbieri’s zarzuela is charged with symbolic meaning. to be discussed below. For Fortunata. Finally. with the ‘civilization’ of her husband. for example the link between the introduction to Juanito frying eggs in the back of the hall during a lecture. also alongside Rabal. But unlike Gades’s Caracoles. Jacinta’s ‘clipped’ wings – especially considered in the light of recent feminist scholarship – are an evocative metaphor for the curtailment of her freedom as a bourgeois ángel del hogar. Birds and Angels With respect to the winged imagery associated with the ángel del hogar. After our introduction to Jacinta. the song featured. the rebellious heroine in Pedro Olea’s 1974 adaptation of Galdós’s Tormento. Furthermore the song is actually sung to a caged bird on-stage: the synonymity of angelicness and entrapment could not be clearer. It is sometimes difficult for the viewer to make certain connections. for example. see Labanyi 1988. This may be immediately understood as distinct from Fons’s use of bird imagery merely to emphasize Fortunata’s characterization as a pájara. after which Fortunata enters the narrative sucking eggs in the poultry shop. was to become the archetypal progre of a new Spain. In fact this early image signals Camus’s interest in Jacinta as well as Fortunata’s plight which is lacking in Fons’s version. is particularly pertinent. . in part to offer some musical interlude. and in part in a costumbrista gesture to recreate nineteenth-century Madrid. The feminist association of the caged bird and the wifely angel recurs after Fortunata’s reconciliation with her husband in Camus’s chapter eight. and the introduction to Fortunata sucking a raw one in Camus’s chapter one. Camus adds a sequence of Francisco Asenjo Barbieri’s El barberillo de Lavapiés. ‘Coser y Cantar’. Fortunata as a pájara compares favourably with Jacinta as an ángel. Fortunata and Jacinta’s association through this bird symbolism prefigures the bond which develops between the two women. 94). who was charged. it is equally revealing. recently resolved to become her husband’s domestic angel. 28 On the significance of this imagery in the novel. first performed in 1874 and not present in Galdós’s text. as does Fons with the inclusion of Antonio Gades’s flamenco sequence.100 SALLY FAULKNER tarian Fortunata in a felicitous echo of her role as Amparo. and simultaneously denied desire. as a superior moral being. Mercedes López-Baralt contrasts Fons’s reiteration of Galdós’s ave/carne imagery with Camus’s neglect of it (1992–93.28 But although the director’s exploitation of this imagery is more sparing.

Camus also interrogates the ideology of the ángel del hogar through the symbolization of space. this may be understood as a reference to the convention that figures rising or descending staircases were often used to represent the approach of adulthood or descent to senility in eighteenth.and nineteenth-century iconography (Charnon-Deutsch 1994. a departure from the text. which I transcribe below: . here Camus follows Galdós’s text. symbolizing innocence. 75). Camus’s visualization of Fortunata’s first adulterous temptation deserves particular examination in this regard. Fortunata resists the sharp division of space associated with nineteenth-century bourgeois patriarchy. 480). On the one hand. Consider the following description of the five-minute sequence. Rather than a romanticized dovecot. On the other. resists such angelic confinement. just that it was ‘un cuarto que estaba desalquilado en la misma casa’ (1994–95. Fortunata’s residence in an attic flat both reinforces her status as a liminal creature and shows Camus’s sensitivity to the traditional association of the attic and transgressive literary women (Gilbert and Gubar 1980). which found its supreme symbol in the housebound domestic angel. but this becomes a leitmotif in Camus’s television series. in her hair. While Fortunata is introduced in the stairwell. or an ‘entresuelo’. Camus introduces his Fortunata in a stairwell. not to be found in the text. just as she later resists confinement by the marriage bond. Barbarita closes the doors of the laundry room. After their first meeting in the doorway of Feliciana’s flat which is situated halfway up a staircase. is of her safely inside the doors (closed by Barbarita) of her family home and laundry room. In Galdós’s novel the whereabouts of the room is not given. like Juanito he propositions her in a stairwell. I. Fortunata. this first meeting halfway up the stairway introduces a symbolic register which is significant throughout the series. Although Maximiliano meets Fortunata in a doorway. in contrast. and ultimately resists any simplistic categorization. it is significant that Camus chooses a flat at the top of that staircase for Maximiliano to install Fortunata as his kept woman. cheerfully attending to domestic labour with a green ribbon. thus playfully undermining Maximiliano’s Pygmalion project to mould Fortunata into a ‘decent’ bourgeois wife. Jacinta’s fate is conveyed by this thoughtful way in which Camus introduces her to the viewer. but figuratively she both categorizes Jacinta as an ángel del hogar and entraps her as a caged bird. Literally.RE-VISING THE NINETEENTH-CENTURY NOVEL 101 The Doorway and the Stairwell: Fortunata and Liminality Unlike Fons. the viewer’s first image of Jacinta. Thus Barbarita finds her: the ideal domestic angel to civilize her son. The association of Fortunata with liminal spaces is present in the novel. Although this may slyly indicate a culmination of his manhood according to the stairway/adulthood metaphor outlined above. Thus Juanito’s experience with Fortunata is presented as one stage in his personal trajectory towards maturity.

has in fact been prefigured by a spatial metaphor: his growing impatience to discover whether Fortunata is either inside. Cut to the bedroom.102 SALLY FAULKNER 1. Fortunata hears unintelligible. A long take of the newlyweds walking home. Cut to the hall. She hears footsteps and returns to the bedroom. Juanito’s increasing excitement as Fortunata prolongs her hesitation on the threshold of her bedroom and house. moments later. increasing in volume as Fortunata’s agitation grows. The camera pivots to follow Fortunata to the window. Cut to the hall. Fortunata opens the bedroom door and stands in the doorway. Fortunata leaves the bedroom. The above reading may be considered alongside the corre- . Fortunata’s point of view shot as she sees Juanito walking away down the street. Las Micaelas. She opens then closes the peephole. The theme music starts and continues to the end of the sequence. who also conveys Fortunata’s adulterous temptation through her dream of spatial transgression. The camera and Fortunata remain in the room. The series theme music begins. Fortunata leaves the room. Fortunata gives him his medicine. the maid tells her about the conversation. The marital home. Maximiliano is in bed with a migraine. This time the maid does not answer. Fortunata lengthily hesitates at the doorway of the bedroom and the house. Cut to the bedroom. then hears a knock at the front door. and actually goes in and out of the room three times in the sequence. Fortunata locks the front door and returns to the bedroom. whom she realizes is Juanito. then footsteps. then she returns to the bedroom. Cut to the bedroom. City street. night-time. or outside. Here Camus spatially conveys Fortunata’s adulterous temptation. which her maid answers. whispering voices. and recalling the territorial confinement of the ángel del hogar. Fortunata’s point of view shot of the man. while Maximiliano lies alone in the marital bed. Fortunata hears a horse gallop. As we see. The theme music stops. This is both visually creative and inspired by Galdós’s text. Fortunata puts her ear to the peephole of the front door and hears Juanito call her. Fortunata removes her jewellery. Cut back to the couple. Fortunata unpins her hair. and the limits of her marriage contract. The bedroom. Cut to the hall. Cut to the bedroom. Cut to another point of view shot of Juanito. Another knock at the front door (the camera cuts briefly to the door then back to the bedroom in which Fortunata remains). 2. Fortunata pauses at the window. exploiting the metonym of marital bedroom for marriage. Fortunata turns to look at a man in the shadows on the other side of the street. Cut back to the couple entering the house. then goes over to the sleeping Maximiliano and finally sits in a chair beside him. Fortunata leaves the room.

it is Juanito who must adopt the liminal position at the doorway when he feels he is losing control over his wife.RE-VISING THE NINETEENTH-CENTURY NOVEL 103 sponding passage of Galdós’s text. domestic one in nineteenth-century cultural and psychic life is summarized in the Baudelarian notion of the f lâneur. and Galdós. de puertas que se franqueaban. then Camus’s. yet remains within the limits of the comportment of the ángel del hogar. 681) The growing solidarity between Fortunata and Jacinta and its final crystallization 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. This may be understood in the context of contemporary discourses regarding the ideological division of space. as heroic womanhood who triumphs over temptation and tribulation’ (1991. ‘woman is present in cities as temptress. 347–8) and fictionally for Juanito and Jacinto. Interestingly. Streetwalkers and Housewives: Reconsidering Gender and Space Thus space understood on a micro-level seems to indicate a feminist reading. de tabiques transparentes y de hombres que se colaban en su casa filtrándose por las paredes. which describes the nightmare Fortunata has on her wedding night: Se le armó en el cerebro un penoso tumulto de cerrojos que se descorrían. Sharon Marcus’s work revises some of the basic assumptions about those discourses and points towards a more sophisticated understanding of the novelist and director’s strategies. This conveys the concept of the street as an arena of male adventure and observation. I. . As noted above. Hence a series of stereotypes were developed to bolster this constructed gendered divide. there is an apparently similar suggestion of empowerment through the association between femininity and urban space. The opposition of a male-gendered public. just as Madrid was both historically for Galdós as a young student (Brenan 1963. On a macro-level. at this point Jacinta asserts herself. but also as virtuous womanhood in danger. As Elizabeth Wilson summarizes. Admittedly a standard manifestation of anger. urban space and a female-gendered private. this becomes significant through repetition. 5–6). (1994–95. as fallen woman. Woman was simultaneously absent from this male space. but was logically also present if the peripatetic voyeur was to have anything to spy on. as whore. resistance of them. However the f lâneur trope barely veils the incongruities of this gendered division. She stays in the house yet exerts her power from within it. And indeed Jacinta subjects him to exactly the same treatment as Fortunata by rejecting him and slamming the door on him. After Jacinta’s acquisition of the baby. as lesbian.

urban and domestic. López-Baralt is critical of Camus’s failure to convey Galdós’s linguistic association of Fortunata and the street (1992–93. thus the private. I. This intermixing is revealed in the text through the description of its entrance. metonyms of the street and the public sphere. and Ana Belén is renowned equally as a singer and an actress. Like the doorway. The division of private and public spaces. ‘portal y tienda eran una misma cosa en aquel edificio característico del Madrid primitivo’ (Pérez Galdós 1994–95. 30 López-Baralt (1992–93. 180). Galdós emphasizes the apartment nature of the building which houses his heroine. However. describing it as one of the tallest in Madrid (1994–95. these representations of an apparently ‘feminist city’ in fact reinforce the platitudes of the street-woman as a prostitute. 101). The symbol of the stairwell discussed above may be reconsidered in the light of Marcus’s description (1999. thus commerce and exchange. This is most evidently the case when such an interlude follows our introduction to the egg-sucking protagonist and follows the scene of her death. or of the domestic and the urban.104 SALLY FAULKNER In the novel and television adaptation of Fortunata y Jacinta. However. and Pedro Ortiz Armengol.30 This musical motif is particularly emphasized in Fortunata’s relation to Feijoo. Again the association is reinforced in the death scene: Fortunata breaths her last and the street organ ceases. Given the emphasis on Fortunata’s proletarian roots – her ‘earthy’ background is cited as a major reason for all her suitors’ interest throughout the novel – we may explain the spatial fluidity associated with her in terms of class. I. its literary consultant. eliding any division between public and private. Galdós conveys Fortunata’s association with the street in part by her use of street-language. domestic sphere. the scriptwriters of the series. 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). the intermediary space of the stairwell is an eloquent metaphor for this fluidity. Fortunata is associated with urban space. was a bour29 This criticism also ought to be levelled at both Camus and Ricardo López Aranda. Sharon Marcus’s work on this area points beyond this critical impasse regarding representations of gender and space. and at least two different family homes – Fortunata’s and Estupiñá’s. Camus’s soundtrack also underscores the relation of Fortunata to the street as she is associated with the melody of the street organ.29 but Camus conveys this link visually (and thus appropriately in this medium) by the insertion of non-narrative pastiches of street scenes. which often frame sequences focusing on Fortunata. and we recall that this character actually picks Fortunata up on the street. rather than a symbol of female empowerment this may be considered as one of the above stereotypes. 181). . and Fortunata whom we meet there is henceforth characterized as intermediary too. part one) of the apartment building as an ‘open house’. The Cava de San Miguel street building contains both the poultry shop.

Thus Camus would again appear to reinforce stereotype: the proletarian Fortunata resists spatial prescription and the bourgeois Jacinta complies with it. citing the director’s exploration of Jacinta’s sexuality (the angel is. Through her marriage to Maximiliano and quest for decencia. it is henceforth Fortunata who is seen engaged in domestic tasks: washing. officially sexless) and noting the addition of a sequence to Galdós’s text in which Jacinta visits Estupiñá (1992–93. Although Camus removes this statement of self-affirmation from his television version. (Of course the bourgeois ángel del hogar would oversee the servants’ completion of many of these labours. Camus develops this maternal quest. In contrast to Fons’s clumsy treatment of the Pitusín affair. Fortunata upsets this divide between bourgeois ángel and proletarian pájara. Breaking down the boundary between interior and exterior.RE-VISING THE NINETEENTH-CENTURY NOVEL 105 geois phenomenon which Galdós and Camus show was irrelevant to the working classes. visits the slums to look for the child. charity – and of Wilson’s ‘heroic womanhood’. the complexity of Jacinta’s character is developed spatially. orphanages and is a landlady. cooking. as in Galdós. and. following Galdós. Camus’s treatment of Jacinta likewise eschews a one-dimensional portrayal of an ángel del hogar. selflessness. as at the end of Fons’s film. and his future spouse passes the notorious poultry shop and hears birds squawking and an anonymous woman singing (Fortunata?). 99–100). private influence is suggestively similar to . thus challenges the spatial prescription of the bourgeois angel as ‘quick and lively’ in the home. caring for invalids (Maximiliano and Mauricia). lies in the deconstruction of this opposition between the two female characters.) As discussed above. the strength of Galdós’s text. and the strict gendering of those spaces. public power and domestic. and subsequently Camus’s adaptation. while cinematography – point of view shots and a hand-held camera – fosters our identification with her. Supreme embodiment of certain aspects of the angel ideology – religiosity. 27). This visit follows Juanito’s encounter with Fortunata. However. yet herself organizes the construction of buildings. As in Galdós’s original. child-minding (Juanín). no reconfirmation of patriarchy takes its place. of course. asexuality. the character Guillermina also troubles spatial divisions. sewing. López-Baralt notes that Camus’s sensitive study of Maribel Martín’s Jacinta is a forerunner for critical re-evaluation of this character. as his characterization of Fortunata does a pájara. Her simultaneous urban. a sequence which looks forward to the future rivalry between these women and their final solidarity. Jacinta is shot on the street in her search. Guillermina as street-wise businesswoman conversely suggests ‘masculine’ qualities. Camus. Thus despite her introduction within the home. yet ‘lame and dull-witted’ in the street (Aldaraca 1991. in the novel this culminates in Fortunata’s declaration of her angelicness on her deathbed. Apart from the first view of Jacinta in the laundry room. Guillermina is both arch-supporter of female permanence inside buildings.

The spatial tropes associated with the f lâneur are repeated in Fons’s adaptation. Fortunata is initially reduced by metonymy. but Camus perceives the areas of resistance to them in Galdós’s novel and develops these. Marcus 1999).] is under pressure to jettison linearity and the desire for panoptic vision. . operates ‘between space and place’ (1999. In the novel. yet it curiously echoes Marcus’s challenge to nineteenth-century spatial stereotypes and Camus’s creative response to Fortunata y Jacinta. Writing on the gender politics of urban space. as our awareness of her existence is first filtered through Barbarita’s concerns about her son. S. Elisabeth Mahoney follows Gillian Rose (1993) in arguing that ‘the traditional coding of public space as masculine (which implies and encodes the invisibility of women in the urban. like Guillermina. paradoxically undermine the ideology they seek to promote. Camus’s television adaptation begins by inscribing this mainstream gendered gaze. . and Galdós’s Guillermina. In the context of gender.] was remarkable’ (Graham 1995. .] calls for a different theoretical paradigm [.106 SALLY FAULKNER that of the female porter of the Parisian apartment building analysed by Sharon Marcus (1999. At the beginning of the series she is nothing more than a giggle escaping from a carriage which arrives at the Santa Cruz house late at night. these areas of resistance lend support to a feminist reading in their refusal to confine their female characters to stereotype and their exposure of the constructedness of those stereotypes.]. Theoretical space [. 193). to bring otherness. Point of View in Television If this study of symbolic and spatial registers points to a feminist interpretation. While the ideology of the Sección Femenina was ‘deeply conservative’. we must next consider whether there is a complementary transcendence of the traditional cinematic objectification of woman in the series. Mahoney’s work is based on a reading of the postmodern cinematic city. their presence always problematic and transgressive)’ is obsolete. who. . It is also revealing to compare Guillermina to Graham’s discussion of Franco’s Sección Femenina cadres. difference and the eclectic into view’ (1997. economically independent women with an unusually self-sufficient lifestyle. Both these cadres. Such resistance also looks forward to critical re-evaluation of these discourses undertaken in the field of feminist geography (e. 63–80). figures who would still be in the minds of the older members of the television audiences. Like Fons’s film. 171 and 169).g. its cadres ‘were single. . scriptwriters Camus and López Aranda are not sensitive to . like the box of feathers in the earlier film. As we have noted. . and in insisting that a ‘different lived experience of the urban [. . 71). The discrepancy between this and the message they disseminated [. . her influence on Juanito is then perceived by Barbarita through her son’s changes in speech.

who have affirmed their own subjecthood and feminine solidarity despite the class gulf that separates them: ‘bien podría ser que se miraran de orilla a orilla. as in Fons’s introduction of Fortunata. This focus on the female characters erodes the male perspective originally encouraged by the narrative. With respect to the aural field we have already noted Fortunata’s domination of the soundtrack.RE-VISING THE NINETEENTH-CENTURY NOVEL 107 the linguistic richness of Galdós’s work. Camus uses a hand-held camera which encourages our identification with her perspective and conveys Jacinta’s unease in such a place. (1994. 187–9). I. 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). active/passive paradigm.31 Finally. This male perspective is reinforced when Maximiliano’s introduction to Fortunata is also framed from his point of view. 182). Further. but Camus is unable to convey what critics have called the narrator’s Cervantine irony. 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. Fortunata and Jacinta. On the question of the cinematic narrator. see chapter five below. Finally we only learn of the first period of Juanito and Fortunata’s relationship from Juanito’s perspective. . In her visits with Guillermina to Madrid’s slums. con intención y deseos de darse un abrazo. and inscribes the male/female. emphasis added) 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. the most powerful image at the end is that of the imaginary mutual gaze connecting the two women. unlike Fons’s portrayal of the Pitusín affair. which is fitting for the visual medium. However the director does repeat Galdós’s depiction of Juanito’s changes in dress due to his contact with Fortunata (1994–95. Again. 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. it is also appropriate here in its use of the vocabulary of the gaze: Whereas Juanito’s objectifying gaze as he looked at Fortunata dominated the beginning of the story. Camus relates this episode entirely from Jacinta’s point of view. This conveys the novelistic narrator’s distance from the proletariat. 118. not only are the patriarchal connotations of the male narrator in voice-over absent in this piece. in flashback when he reminisces about the affair during his honeymoon. Jagoe’s feminist reading of Fortunata y Jacinta is not only relevant to Camus’s emphasis on female solidarity. In relation to other areas of narrative communication we might perceive a challenge to this gendered gaze. I. Again.

. THE GOVERNMENT OF THE GAZE: FILM AND TELEVISION ADAPTATIONS OF LA REGENTA Given the historical parallels in production history between Fortunata y Jacinta and La Regenta mentioned at the start of this chapter. As John Caughie points out. . Contemporary reviews range from benign praise (‘una gran película española’. 149). 246). but are aware that the perspective is their own point of view. quoted in Martín Gaite 1998. This is demonstrated for example by the way the two dream sequences do not posit Fortunata or Jacinta’s visual point of view.] the reaction shot forms an equivalent figure for the ironic suspensiveness of television’ (1990. We simultaneously watch the characters. producer Emiliano Piedra was keen to repeat the popular success of Angelino Fons’s Fortunata y Jacinta. much of the historical and theoretical material already discussed is relevant here. The formal characteristics outlined by scholars of television and heritage film convey how Camus evokes.108 SALLY FAULKNER Camus conveys this sisterly ‘mutual gaze’ without charting a female appropriation of the patriarchal film vocabulary of the male gaze. and with Gonzalo Suárez’s La Regenta (1974) he reproduced the literary-adaptation-starring-Penella formula and made his most commercially successful film ever (Hernández Ruiz 1991. the male point of view in Fortunata y Jacinta. 54). suggests that such a lack of conventional point of view shots is not unique to television.32 With respect to the film industry. allowing us to take up a position of identification with the female protagonists by sharing their reaction to the events of their lives. . in terms of ideology. which is thus appropriate for this medium. The communication of both Jacinta and Fortunata’s perspective in this series is rather conveyed through what media scholars term television’s ‘reaction shot’. the film adaptation of a novel officially considered suspect could be interpreted as progressive. part two. then rejects. Thus. both in terms of clipping and spreading their wings. Her reading of these films (her examples are taken form Merchant/Ivory’s work) as a kind of ‘woman’s genre’ is also pertinent to the feminist nature of Camus’s work. but a formal characteristic of the heritage genre generally (1996–97. Claire Monk. . See note 22 of this chapter on the novel’s republication in 1966. 4). . writing on gender and the heritage film. but feature the two characters reacting to events. pero no apta para señoritas’ (article in El Español published in 1945. ‘una referencia inesquivable en cualquier estudio del cine español’) to scepticism regarding Gonzalo Suárez’s simplification of Alas’s 32 The regime thought La Regenta an ‘admirable novela. ‘if the point-of-view shot [.] is a fundamental figure for cinematic identification [.

Ana’s one foray into domesticity in the novel is short-lived (Alas 1995.RE-VISING THE NINETEENTH-CENTURY NOVEL 109 text. If a feminist understanding of the power relations which govern the look is therefore pertinent to the novel alone. in which six Oviedo university lecturers (and a priest) expressed their doubts about the project. Fátima Rodríguez of Cambio 16. Review of La Regenta 1975. showing and looking are all important too. . .]. Martialay 1975. In fact the case could be made that the drama of the novel is the dialectic of innocently showing (Ana’s bare feet) versus knowingly revealing (Obdulia’s plunging necklines). claiming the adaptation of such a text was deserving of a foreign director!33 Fernando Méndez Leite repeated the film’s success with an astoundingly popular television version (1995) which attracted over six million spectators (Lara 1995. Visitación is forever paying visits and never at home. For the other characters of the novel. Aptly named. the iconographical and spatial registers discussed remain applicable as they belong to the contemporary ideology of womanhood to which Alas also responded. for example. 183). 19). La Regenta consiguió atraer casi tantos espectadores como el intocable fútbol’ (quoted in Jaime 2000. The ideology of the ángel del hogar is less pertinent to La Regenta than to Galdós’s work. The principal actors in the drama are aristocratic. [El] éxito [de las series] resucita la “tele” de calidad [. in which they were predictably critical of the film. The same interviewees consulted in the 1972 survey contributed to a later ‘Polémica asturiana en torno a la película La Regenta’ (Álvarez 1975). Alison Sinclair’s comments on the text’s visual dimensions are also revealing in the present discussion: 33 Press articles referred to in order: M. 318–19). however. los pies descalzos de la Regenta’ (Alas 1995. has received critical attention. One obvious example of this is Ana’s refusal to express her adulterous temptation in language. Neither the film nor the series. to outright polemic when Asturias Semanal published ‘No a La Regenta cinematográfica’. or playing the game of keeping up appearances (the ten con ten). Laura Rivkin has remarked that the plot of La Regenta turns on the ‘surface combat of eye battles and figurative blindness’ (1987. Nonetheless. leaving childcare and housekeeping to a textually absent husband. especialmente el pueblo bajo. Contemporary reviews were buoyant. 574). as she prefers to engage in complex visual intercourse with her suitor. as the sequence of Ana’s barefoot penitence makes clear: ‘Vinagre admiró como todo el pueblo. 549) and neither film nor television director include it. Rubio 1974. in other words. enthused that ‘La televisión consigue a veces rebelarse contra su sambenito de “caja tonta”. either exposing oneself for scrutiny. A possible advantage that the adaptor of Alas’s novel might enjoy over Galdós’s is the primacy of vision in the text. and the bourgeois ones – notably Visitación – are remarkable for their outright transcendence of the domestic angelic role. . it is especially so in our reading of its screen adaptations. ‘No a La Regenta cinemátografica’ 1972.

experimental and influenced by European models. is associated with the Barcelona School. . (1998. ‘digressiveness’ (Gold 1995) and ‘entropy’ (Sieburth 1987) is less relevant here as both film and television versions lend a comparative coherence to the novel. as discussed in chapter one – La Regenta was a project reluctantly undertaken by Gonzalo Suárez. The recent critical tendency to consider La Regenta as a text of ‘dissolution’ (Labanyi 1986). As in the discussion of Fortunata y Jacinta. Beginning his film career in the late 1960s. 364). like that of Vicente Aranda. On the Barcelona School and Nuevo Cine Español see Torreiro 1995b and Caparrós Lera 1983. will also be considered.] whether that of adulteress or that of religious daughter. Gonzalo Suárez’s early work. who was later to confess it was his ‘única película absolutamente mercenaria’ (quoted in Hernández Ruiz 1991.34 Given that the aesthetic politics of the School were largely derived from the French New Wave – a movement defined in opposition to the ‘quality’ tradition of respectable literary adaptations. regarded as more intellectual. and the different processes of identification which operate in television. only Javier Hernández Ruiz’s monograph (1991) on both Gonzalo Suárez’s considerable literary and cinematic output offers a sustained examination of his La Regenta. LA REGENTA (GONZALO SUÁREZ 1974) Histories of Spanish cinema are dismissive of Gonzalo Suárez’s piece – ‘olvidable’ gibes Casimiro Torreiro (1995a. and later produced his own El extraño caso del Dr Fausto (1969). Commissioned as director by Piedra. follow in the best nineteenth-century traditions of the ‘showing’ of the hysterics at La Salpêtrière. Gonzalo Suárez had no intervention on Juan Antonio Porto’s script or on casting. age and star image made her an entirely inappropriate Ana Ozores. 29) Mindful of the connotations of ‘showing the hysteric’ we may approach Gonzalo Suárez and Méndez Leite’s ‘showings’ of Ana Ozores. the novel. possible identifications of female spectators with Penella’s Ana. chapters four and five. 241). and its hysterical protagonist. . a later corollary of the Nuevo Cine Español. In this section I will follow Charnon-Deutsch in her work on the construction of a paradigm of a male viewing subject to the female viewed object in Alas’s text. Despite the felicitous link to her role as Fons’s transgressive Fortunata. on Gonzalo Suárez’s involvement.110 SALLY FAULKNER it is on the public ‘showing’ of Ana [. Penella’s weight. In this very ‘hysterical’ theatricality. . that the main drama of the narrative hangs. but this choice was forced on the director because. Hernández Ruiz 1991. as in 34 Gonzalo Suárez collaborated with Aranda on his Fata Morgana (1966). after Pedro Olea had refused the job.

The patriarchal power allied with this gaze is summarized by James Mandrell thus. 23). spyglass has not gone unheeded by literary critics. 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. 192–3). The use of space in the film also inscribes the gendered conventions outlined above. but Alas also makes the Magistral’s sexual enjoyment of this position of mastery explicit: ‘llegar a lo más alto era un triunfo voluptuoso para de Pas’ (1995. . Despite the attention he pays to imagery in his later television adaptations of Los Pazos de Ulloa and La madre naturaleza (1985). 14–15). be it the law of the Father or the spyglass of the Magistral’ (1990. 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. did however enjoy the collaboration of seasoned cinematographer Luis Cuadrado. with his. and the film in fact served to consolidate his position as a director. 242–6). and is unable to rectify Porto’s omission of the notorious and eloquent scene of Ana’s entrapment in Víctor’s fox snare (Alas 1995. himself from Oviedo where novel and film are set. 36 This is not the case in the novel. it is in fact female characters such as Visitación and Obdulia whom he describes flitting about Vetusta’s muddy streets. equally phallic. in this 1974 film Gonzalo Suárez does not echo the pervasive imagery of the novel which symbolically blurs the categories of animal and human.35 Gonzalo Suárez. and surveys the city of Vetusta. Secondly.RE-VISING THE NINETEENTH-CENTURY NOVEL 111 Fortunata y Jacinta. increase his fee and boost his career (Hernández Ruiz 1991. as the sequence of Fermín’s city-gazing to be discussed below patently reveals. 59). A City of Voyeurs The scene in which Alas’s Fermín de Pas climbs to the top of the cathedral tower. 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.36 In the film adaptation it is Gonzalo Suárez’s exploration of the question of voyeurism – pertinent to both the novel and the filmic medium – which is most revealing. Gonzalo Suárez’s translation of this sequence to film is firstly significant in spatial terms. Fermín’s perspective from on high is significant as we have already noted with reference to Fortunata y Jacinta. unambiguously aligning the phallus with power in the symbolic register of the novel. ‘to exist in this world is to exist within the purview of the phallus. In the novel. Olea would not accept the delay caused by the pregnancy and thus the film passed to Gonzalo Suárez (Galán 1990. 14). Piedra wanted his wife to star. ‘su pasión y su presa’ (Alas 1995. While Alas also commences with this archetypal instance of male urban panopticism and omnipotence. 14).

Critics have been quick to comment snidely that a film such as this. Gonzalo Suárez’s communication of Ana’s self-torment through dreams. Gonzalo Suárez’s camera tilts up the cathedral tower and the film’s credits are rolled against a static shot of this symbol of power. swirling skirts of a priest also making his ascent. This sequence thus exactly fulfils the requirements for mainstream film to play on the spectators’ ‘voyeuristic phantasy’ (Mulvey 1999. conversely. and . Although we are privy to the content of her first dream.112 SALLY FAULKNER Fermín’s gaze by slyly juxtaposing him with a phallic bell-clapper in the belfry. like the dead one as Bronfen has shown. Further. as we are those of Fortunata and Jacinta in Camus’s television series. Ana is then also peeped at from the windows of the casino. The film thus conveys Charnon-Deutsch’s assertion that in the novel ‘the space in which Ana Ozores is the moving figure is criss-crossed by probing gazes’ (1994. leaving only the image of a sighing dishevelled woman who ‘performs’ for the viewer – recalling both the hysteric’s ‘performance’ outlined by Sinclair. is almost always the object. The sleeping woman. Next the camera again pans up the tower then cuts to the dark. the way Gonzalo Suárez shoots this sequence invites us to recall Laura Mulvey’s theory of visual pleasure. Fermín’s suspicion of Ana’s adulterous temptation is again conveyed by his spying on the Vegallana mansion. At the top of the tower. and by having the priest then immediately train his lens on La Regenta. Only after this portrayal of furtive spying is the identity of the dark figure revealed by a close-up of his face. 68). to the sound of peeling bells and majestic music. The above sequence is followed by another of Fermín spying on Ana from his confessional. and cinematic voyeurism by Mulvey. The sequence of a half-dressed Ana whipping herself also recalls the sadistic male spectator versus masochistic female spectacle described by Mulvey. patently plays to the voyeur’s need for the exhibitionist to be unaware of their position as such. 836). After a short sequence which sketches Fermín’s financial corruption. anonymous figure. However the content of later dreams – and thus Ana’s subjective perspective – is removed. ‘ataques’ and self-flagellation. lends weight to his inscription of the text in the register of patriarchy. never the spying subject. In contrast to the voyeur. but his face is not shown: he remains a dark. she is fully visible in broad daylight – her silhouette/outline clear compared to his indeterminate shape – and unaware of her exhibition. a close-up reveals the priest extending and raising his spyglass. examined above with respect to Fons’s introduction to the egg-sucking Fortunata. which she continues to do throughout. it is preceded by suggestive images of a voluptuous Penella writhing on her bed. This prologue indicates Gonzalo Suárez’s transformation of the novel La Regenta into a film of illicit scopophilia. This position therefore replicates our own in the darkened auditorium as we share his gaze on Ana. Of course Ana.

Those eyes are then the ones which confront Álvaro’s now cowardly gaze. My thanks to D. Gonzalo Suárez. She is conspicuously absent from the narration of the events which will transform her life: namely the duel in which her husband Víctor is killed and from which her lover Álvaro flees. suggesting the country was not quite ready for a naughty Spanish clergyman. After her adulterous fall (which occurs in the gap between chapters twenty-eight and twenty-nine of the novel) Alas famously banishes Ana from the text. then Gonzalo Suárez cross-cuts between the duel in slow motion and long takes in close-up of a praying Ana. 50). by the British actor Keith Baxter. hence I attribute it to the director rather than the scriptwriter.37 Certain elements of the film may be regrettable. and.g. and this casting of non-native actors perhaps diminished the subversiveness of these characters. however. Gareth Walters for drawing my attention to casting in this film. Nonetheless the exploration of voyeurism in Gonzalo Suárez’s adaptation not only reveals a willingness to explore a key area of cinematic expression. This may be demonstrated by close examination of the changes Gonzalo Suárez makes to the ending of Alas’s original. but problematizes this reading of the film as an illustration of the male gaze. Gonzalo Suárez’s Fermín is portrayed. suggesting her responsibility and guilt for the events we see unfold. ending with an extreme close-up of the heroine’s eyes. This could explain the selection of Nickolas Grace to play Lorca in Lorca. . plays Álvaro. did nothing but satisfy the appetite of an audience starved of titillating references to randy priests and lusty bourgeois housewives (e. although the appeal to Anglo-American audiences of this British star was surely an important factor. Vetusta’s Don Juan. as in Fons’s Fortunata y Jacinta. The armed confrontation between wronged husband and treacherous lover is preceded by a shot of a pensive Ana. chooses to render this event from the heroine’s specific perspective. Monterde 1989. The Democracy of the Gaze The ending of Gonzalo Suárez’s La Regenta is not only an important departure from the novel. but also pertinently highlights this aspect of the original text. This change is brought about through cinematography and performance style rather than script. muerte de un poeta (Bardem 1987). notably the casting of Penella. the uneven script and generally low production values – the period costumes and settings of Wolfman Burman’s mise en scène are particularly gaudy. Nigel Davenport. the alteration of the ending of the novel means that the foundations of the edifice of male subjectivity constructed in the film adaptation begin to crumble in the final scenes. however. shortly before she rushes to her 37 Another British actor. consideration of Penella’s contribution to the picture.RE-VISING THE NINETEENTH-CENTURY NOVEL 113 other nineteenth-century novel adaptations in the period. Firstly then.

It seems plausible to conclude that Penella ‘hated’ the character and was ‘bored’ earlier in the film. If in Alas’s novel social critique is achieved 38 The seven interviewees of the afore-mentioned ‘Polémica asturiana en torno a la película La Regenta’ share the ‘opinión unánime: Emma Penella nunca debió ser elegida para interpretar a Ana Ozores’ (Álvarez 1975). Gonzalo Suárez also draws a circle in this ending from the opening shot of Fermín’s voyeurism. but ‘loved’ her and felt ‘enthused’ towards the end. 59). as it encourages us to identify with her desperate plight. begging for his forgiveness. As a cultural artefact. swooning flesh awaiting the frog’s kiss’ (1994.38 Probably owing to the fact that Penella was not his own choice for the role. but the suggestion that Penella offers a positive model for female identification at the end of the film seems credible. a aburrirme. 59). Penella has later admitted of the character that: ‘Llegué a odiarla. like Angelino Fons’s Fortunata y Jacinta. Penella is imposing and convincing and a portrait emerges of Ana as a thinking. Penella’s commanding screen presence is of relevance here. the delay occasioned by childbirth mentioned above and the necessity of losing weight. 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. in contrast to Alas’s protagonist. we share a total of four point of view shots with Ana as she spies on the Vetustans gossiping about the duel. we can only speculate about contemporary responses. 70). especially as up to this point her performance as the feeble Ana has been unconvincing. yet also apparently questions that gender ideology. if not on occasions as a film. sentient being. As in Fons’s Fortunata y Jacinta. A number of factors contrived to make it especially difficult for the actress. 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. It simultaneously reconfirms the patriarchal tenets of both the nineteenth century and Francoism.114 SALLY FAULKNER husband’s side. it explores the tension surrounding gender roles which characterize the dying days of the dictatorship. Gonzalo Suárez’s La Regenta is therefore interesting because. Without empirical evidence regarding audience identification. whom Charnon-Deutsch describes as nothing more than ‘a lump of silent. which contrasts with her experience as Fortunata. then the death of her mother on the day before shooting began (Galán 1990. In the final sequences of Ana’s desperation. In the penultimate sequence. . a amarla. a entusiasmarme y así sucesivamente’ (quoted in Galán 1990. Penella herself has subsequently spoken of the difficulties she encountered interpreting this character. Gonzalo Suárez fails to render this an instance of casting against type.

cinematic gaze. this 1995 adaptation was not subsidized and. Alas writes that Vetustans ‘querían verla. Alternatively we may interpret both female and male protagonists. tended to favour cinematic adaptations of the Spanish literary canon. In Gonzalo Suárez’s Vetusta. it would seem that all characters are framed by the prying. contradictions Penella herself perhaps alludes to in the declaration examined above of her simultaneously loving and hating Ana Ozores. the collective desire for Ana to commit adultery is expressed by Visitación thus: ‘quería ver aquel armiño en el lodo’ (1995. After the Germán episode of her childhood. Consideration of the casting of Penella reveals an actress struggling to embody the contradictions of her role. although the Magistral is replaced by his surrogate. The suggestion here is that the desire to see infamy transcends gender. he kept in place the system of subsidies she introduced. Gonzalo Suárez includes an interesting shot of the members of the adulterous triangle at the Vegallanas’s lunch. Ana is conveyed as Vetusta’s desire to see. uno frente de otro’ (Alas 1995.39 in Gonzalo Suárez’s film it is rather less complex. Our adoption of her perspective on the duel could be read as a means of reinforcing the guilt of the adulteress. and also extends to male characters. This shot also exactly corresponds to one conjured up in Visitación’s mind’s eye. in the actual duel) who face each other in precise symmetry on either side of her. Taking over after Pilar Miró’s resignation. which. as controlled by the malignant social force embodied by Visitación in the novel. Álvaro and Fermín. 71).RE-VISING THE NINETEENTH-CENTURY NOVEL 115 through a stinging satire of Vetustan society. Víctor. sus movimientos para ver si se le conocía en algo’ (1995. as discussed in chapter two. However the suggestion that Gonzalo Suárez ultimately invests Penella’s Ana with a sense of self that she is denied in the novel may be over-generous. We note that the scandal surrounding. 161). Close reading of cinematography reveals that the ‘dictatorial’ male perspective at the beginning of the film simply contrasts with Ana’s perspective at the end. or potentially surrounding. Ironically. when he was writing the novel. in order for 39 Alas was a university law professor in Oviedo. however. These two rivals thus battle for domination of Vetusta through the body and mind of La Regenta. desmenuzar sus gestos. or again. which thus indicates a more ‘democratic’ distribution of the narrative point of view. ‘quería ver al confesor y al diablo. Ana (the battle-ground) is flanked by Álvaro and Fermín (the combatants. namely Ana. LA REGENTA (MÉNDEZ LEITE 1995) Fernando Méndez Leite’s decision to direct an adaptation of this literary classic for television is typical of his policy as Director-General of Film from 1985–88. . 268). for which Vetusta is the fictional surrogate. al tentador.

651) and during the duel (1995. then finally to four-and-a-half – much to the director’s chagrin. 608). space and narrative point of view. In Alas’s text. 192–3). After Ana’s first hysterical attack. It is also conveyed in ornithological terms. 60). Méndez Leite seems to suggest. He has just arrived from the casino. Seducing his friend’s wife will be. just as the bird is displayed in the study as a symbol of Víctor’s hunting success. Separated by over a century which took Spain from the Bourbon restoration to fully fledged democracy. which regrettably eradicates its function of prefiguring her entrapment in the fox snare.116 SALLY FAULKNER TVE to accept the work. Imagery: Trapped Animals Owing perhaps in part to its longer running time. who is a keen hunter. Described as the ‘primer ornitólogo y [el] cazador sin rival de Vetusta’ (1995. As in the preceding discussions. the confusion between Ana and the animal world is evident from her association with the tiger skin (1995. take leave of his wife thus: ‘¡Buenas noches. an analogous trophy for Álvaro to display in the casino. The director has Álvaro absently stroke such a peacock as he waits for the arrival of Ana in the study. where we have witnessed him recount his conquests as a Don Juan. Méndez Leite only indicates the bird-like associations of Ana in a late sequence at the end of his part two. featured in his part one. in his adaptation of La Regenta Méndez Leite includes a range of imagery derived from the novel. 686) – nor keep his bird caged. Víctor can neither perform as a hunter – Fermín mocks him as such during their rainy outing from El Vivero (1995. the question of gender and representation will be considered with respect to imagery. we might expect Méndez Leite’s television adaptation to register the transformation of gender roles between the publication of the novel (1884–85) and the broadcasting of the series (1995). Alas has Víctor. 414). The homology between Ana and the caged bird is further reinforced by the juxtaposition of her husband’s visit to see her with a visit to that ‘pajarera’. 111). Álvaro takes leave of the Quintanars as he departs from Vetusta for the summer and Méndez Leite builds on the novel’s reference to Álvaro’s habit of stroking a stuffed peacock in Víctor’s study (Alas 1995. The consequently identical status between Ana and the bird is conveyed by the formal arrangement within the frame when she arrives: the . 61). 51) and her accidental entrapment in her husband Víctor’s fox snare (1995. his main aim (1995. which is absent from the film. as maximum fidelity to the text was. tórtola mía! Y se acordó de las que tenía en la pajarera’ (1995. and he is unable to shoot his adulterous rival both when he sees him climb from Ana’s window (1995. Víctor’s blurring of the two does not escape the mordant irony of Alas’s narrator. in turn inherited from the ángel del hogar and other contemporary stereotypes of femininity. he claims. Méndez Leite was forced to cut it from the ten-and-a-half hours filmed to six.

the contrast between the ángel del hogar and the pájara de la calle is not relevant to La Regenta. unfortunately not included by Méndez Leite. the overlap between human and animal extends to other characters as well. Space: A Trapped Wife? However. cruzando el ambiente puro. 175). The fact that this bird is so obviously inanimate is also significant. 196–8) in which. Secondly. but it also points to a feminist interpretation of clipped wings. Alas also describes Fermín as ‘una fiera en su jaula’ (1995. Like Camus in Fortunata y Jacinta. is thus suggested. this is far less effective here than in Camus’s adaptation of Fortunata y Jacinta. in which Ana collects her thoughts during a country walk and compares herself to the bird she has been watching: ‘Ese pajarillo no tiene alma y vuela con alas de pluma. This is made clear in a sequence which derives from the novel (Alas 1995.RE-VISING THE NINETEENTH-CENTURY NOVEL 117 two occupy symmetrical locations indicating their equivalence. While Ana’s ‘liminality’ is not as entrenched in the symbolic vocabulary of this series as it was with respect to Fortunata in Camus’s. through adulterous temptation. even though Víctor does interchange the words ‘bird’ and ‘angel’ in his references to Ana. the actress who plays La Regenta. While this depiction of the interchangeabilty of the human and the bestial in the television series possibly suggests a feminist reading of the novel. radiante de la virtud’ (Alas 1995. The link between Ana physically migrating to the edges and mentally positioning herself on the ‘edge’ of her marriage contract. Like Ana in the fox trap. but her invisible wings are symbolically clipped. he juxtaposes an image of Fermín impatiently staring from his study window with a point of view shot in which the priest gazes at a dog trapped on a balcony in the opposite house. Ana clings to the gate of the . Firstly. Not only does it echo critical readings of Alas’s Ana as a ‘lump of flesh’. Méndez Leite draws attention to the boundaries of enclosed spaces. Méndez Leite includes the fox trap sequence in his part one then conveys Fermín’s analogous entrapment at the end of his part two. racked by her frustrating entrapment in an empty marriage. Méndez Leite’s emphasis on the theme of entrapment in the television adaptation seems to indicate that his visual reading of the novel is sensitive to the question of gender. Mise en scène reinforces this equivalence as the bird’s black feathers match the colour of Aitana Sánchez-Gijón’s hair. Visually representing the above quotation. Not only is the play-off that Ana envisages of freedom versus soul unrealized. 254). like the inanimate ones glued to the side of the bird hunted down by Víctor. This complements a sequence from chapter nine of the novel. the heroine’s location on the boundary is nonetheless conveyed through the repeated shots of her at the windows and gates of the Ozores mansion and through the trellis of the confessional. yo tengo espíritu y volaré con las alas invisibles del corazón.

the manifestation of her adulterous desire. Even Ana’s bare feet incongruously enter the public sphere on the occasion of her notorious public penitence (Alas 1995. Fortunata and Jacinta transgressively resist contemporary spatial ideology. through Ana. is free of such illicit mixing: from the animate – Obdulia’s body bulges out of the tight dresses which ought to contain it (Alas 1995. most notably her adultery. or mindscreen. While Galdós explores and explodes the contemporary ideology of the ángel del hogar through the female characters of Fortunata y Jacinta. Ana’s corresponding visualization of her confessor’s face takes place in the countryside. in crucially different ways in the original novels. On the one hand. Ana rebels against Vetustan society by her very attempt to adhere to spatial ideology. ironically. like the intermixing of ‘human’ and ‘animal’ in the fox trap sequence. Visitación. for example. Similarly. Thus a number of shots representing Fermín’s point of view of his confessee appear to trap and contain her behind the confessional mesh. Alas stages the elaborate power games of a society of simulacrum.118 SALLY FAULKNER mansion’s park and there confronts Álvaro. Little. 30) – to the inanimate – the stuffing is said to burst out of the ripped lining of the de Pas’s chairs which ought to seal it (Alas 1995. such as her hysterical attacks. like Vetusta’s streets and Ana’s bedroom. 204). Ana’s response to this intermixing is to withdraw into an illusory private . however. 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. from a page on which he has just sketched a cage. reaches the public forum. This therefore problematizes a feminist reading of symbolic spaces in Méndez Leite’s adaptation. it seems. On the other. The Illusion of Interiorization: A Note on Space in Alas’s Novel This apparently similar manifestation of gender trouble through the use of space in both Fortunata y Jacinta and La Regenta works. and so conversely connotes freedom. therefore. Sinclair 1998. 2–3) is all pervasive in Alas’s Vetusta. 577). The fluidity between public and private spaces discussed by Sharon Marcus (1999.or confessional-like grid. weaves her way in and out of public and private spaces. reach her confessor. are echoed spatially. This point is reinforced when he summons up her face in his mind’s eye. The novel’s images of blurred categories. The yoking of woman to domestic and private space is socially-imposed in Galdós’s novel but self-imposed in Alas’s work. 35–58) might therefore be read as metaphors for the criss-crossing of public and private spaces. the Quintanars’ servant Petra is the channel by which details of Ana’s private life. if thinly veiled by ‘keeping up the appearances’ of social order. Images of boundary-blurring which critics have previously perceived in the novel (Labanyi 1986. and is the principle conduit by which private information regarding Ana.

] y don Juan . and the prospect of infidelity is conveyed through images of the penetrability of this building. aparecía por milagro y llenaba el aire con su presencia!’ (Alas 1995. Méndez Leite’s depiction of Ana’s ‘liminality’ should not be read as resistant to patriarchal ideology. unlike Camus’s Fortunata y Jacinta. 434). Lou Charnon-Deutsch has provocatively suggested that this genre was ‘written by men from a male perspective’ (1990. Alas’s metaphor of Ana’s marriage as a building is significant in this respect. This ironically subverts the feminist drive to escape spatial entrapment apparent in Fortunata y Jacinta. 127). In this spatial reading of the novel. and to his seduction of her as a siege (Alas 1995. . This statement seems contradictory when the novels examined place female protagonists centre stage and thus take female subjectivity as their main concern. 108). 357. ¡Don Juan aquel Mesía que también se filtraba por las paredes. The conjugal building is constructed on her union with Víctor. which paradoxically becomes more public the greater her attempts to make it private. But just as the opacity behind which Ana tries to hide is illusory.RE-VISING THE NINETEENTH-CENTURY NOVEL 119 space. But in describing the relationship between narrator and protagonist in La . el caserón de los Ozores era su convento [. 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. Ana’s thoughts and motives are dissected in detail unmatched by the author’s contemporaries. 681). the walls of her marital home are transparent. now her religious mysticism. during the play of Don Juan Tenorio Ana also writes herself into an adultery narrative in symbolically spatial terms: Ana se comparaba con la hija del Comendador [de Zorrilla]. emphasis added) It would therefore seem that. . I will discuss whether the manipulation of narrative point of view in his television adaptation resists or reinforces that ideology. In the following final section. Álvaro’s friendship with Víctor allows him access to her home and. The Dictatorship of the Gaze As mentioned above. . just as Fortunata dreams of permeable boundaries in a manifestation of her adulterous desire (Pérez Galdós 1994–95. Álvaro thus initially refers to Ana as ‘una fortaleza inexpugnable’ (Alas 1995. xii). I. whom she later reflects was ‘la muralla de la China de sus ensueños’ (Alas 1995. With respect to La Regenta Charnon-Deutsch explains this paradox thus: As Alas’s most psychologically developed character. . Gender and Representation. in her work on Spanish realist fiction. adultery may be understood as the inevitable consequence of the contradictions of Ana’s project of interiorization.

in which the maid tells her master that ‘¡el señorito se parece a la torre de la catedral!’ Fermín’s point of view is then conveyed by a lengthy subjective tracking shot in the cathedral – he is staring at women. (1990. one is constantly measuring a distance instead of a proximity. This is illustrated by our introduction to Fermín. Rather than furtively spying from the belfry with his spyglass. Broadcast in 1995. and her performance style. I have shown that the casting of Emma Penella. of course – and his more specific control of the narrative is conveyed by a point of view shot from his perspective of Ana and Visitación inside the cathedral. which in Gonzalo Suárez’s adaptation aligned power with both the voyeuristic eye and the phallus. we might expect Méndez Leite to adopt some of these strategies in his television adaptation of La Regenta. the narrative informs us that Fermín will inherit La Regenta as confessee from the archpriest. but also of her masochistic surrenders to the men who wish to dominate her. when gender equality had at least been notionally accepted as integral to Spanish life. Ripamilán. it might therefore seem significant that Méndez Leite removes the scene of Fermín’s voyeuristic use of the spyglass in chapter one of the novel. then voice their admiration of his rhetorical virtuosity. In Fons’s film adaptation of Fortunata y Jacinta and Gonzalo Suárez’s version of La Regenta discussed above. such a patriarchal power structure in fact informs every shot of Méndez Leite’s television series. who remain silent. and there is occasional pleasure-seeking in the form of voyeurism. 105) Laura Mulvey similarly argues that mainstream narrative cinema displays a tendency to depict the female as object. Lest the viewer miss it. beatas. Fermín will now take up the task of controlling the narrative of Ana’s life from here on. linguistic and phallic nature of Fermín’s power. and offer alternative possibilities of identification for female audiences. we first see the priest rehearsing a speech on the infallibility of the clergy to his mother and maid. However. Such a focus on the Magistral may be explained by . the ‘reaction shot’ similarly offers an alternative to Mulvey’s paradigm. not to be found in the novel. Fermín is aligned with the cathedral tower – supreme symbol of power as we have already discussed – by a shot which matches his figure in the foreground to the silhouette of the tower in the background. It is surely significant that just as the archpriest recounts Ana’s biography to his successor. as discussed above. Gonzalo Suárez in fact uses the point of view shot towards the end of his film tentatively to transform Ana’s objectification into subjectivity.120 SALLY FAULKNER Regenta. this affinity is made explicit in a later sequence. Méndez Leite in this way establishes the visual. In Camus’s television adaptation of Fortunata y Jacinta. may resist what has been termed the ‘male gaze’. Next. After this character sketch. not only in the scenes of Ana rubbing against her sheets or her tiger skin. in contrast to the male as subject. In this context. There is sympathy without bond.

RE-VISING THE NINETEENTH-CENTURY NOVEL 121 his portrayal by acclaimed Spanish star Carmelo Gómez. algo inclinada. hundiendo los pies desnudos. who ‘robs [Ana] of her subjectivity’ (1990. 51) Charnon-Deutsch has interpreted this scene as ‘pornographic’ in the sense that a desiring male spectator is posited. or spectacle. Consider Alas’s original description of this sequence: Después de abandonar todas las prendas que no habían de acompañarla en el lecho. pequeños y rollizos. In the aforementioned sermon sequence. we might expect the scene of Ana on her tiger skin to be the culmination of the male subject/spectator versus female object/spectacle division. [Ana] quedó sobre la piel de tigre. (1995. Fermín is nonetheless dominated by his tyrannical mother Paula. as Alison Sinclair has demonstrated (1995). the moderation of this sequence probably derives from the fact that Méndez Leite . Nonetheless. may be challenged. But whereas in the novel. Parecía una impúdica modelo olvidada de sí misma en una postura académica impuesta por el artista. in the adaptation this aspect of their relationship seems to be included for mere comic relief. 112). en la espesura de las manchas pardas. He thus apparently replaces Ana as sexual object with Ana as reminiscing subject. While in his visualization of this scene Méndez Leite does voyeuristically focus on Ana undressing. in Méndez Leite’s own reflections on his adaptation. who conveys Fermín’s corrupt megalomania throughout the series particularly well. This statement reveals that the director overlooks Alas’s exploration of his female protagonist’s subjectivity in favour of a focus on a male hero. but significantly cites the complexity of Fermín. For all his phallic power. Furthermore. and female spectacle or object. Un brazo desnudo se apoyaba en la cabeza. this relationship between mother and son dramatizes the terrifying conflicts of the pre-Oedipal mother-child dyad. for instance. siguiendo la curva graciosa de la robusta cadera. This shift of emphasis is highly significant in terms of gender and representation: by removing the psychological exploration of Ana’s character. as his example: ‘el Magistral [es] el gran protagonista de la novela y a mi juicio el personaje más rico y más apasionante que tiene La Regenta’ (1995. rather than Ana. Fermín’s pomposity is humorously deflated when his mother warns her ‘Fermo’ not to be late home for his dinner. Furthermore. and leaves out the smutty business of the tiger skin altogether. 109). by the logic of our argument. Méndez Leite reduces Alas’s heroine to a mere object. he refers to the primacy he gave to characterization. This argument that Méndez Leite’s adaptation traces a facile opposition between male spectator or subject. and also incorporates full length nude shots of Aitana Sánchez-Gijón. he briskly cuts to a flashback concerning Ana’s memory of her adventure with Germán. y el otro pendía a lo largo del cuerpo.

The very first scenes are significant in this respect. As previously mentioned. This voyeuristic perspective recalls Gonzalo Suárez’s focus on the voluptuous Penella. The argument that Méndez Leite stages a patriarchal reading of the novel is in fact reconfirmed throughout the series. our response to Ana is aligned with that of the lecherous male characters. In Ana’s further dreams and hysterical attacks. in her study of the voice in mainstream Hollywood film. Despite Méndez Leite’s strange claim that in the last section of the adaptation he transforms the novel (1995. With respect to the ending of Méndez Leite’s adaptation. This reading of the gaze as authoritative and male is underscored by an analysis of the role of the voice in the series. but only see her dishevelled – yet beautiful – dreaming. hysterical or swooning body. a comparison with Gonzalo Suárez’s film is revealing. 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. as they portray Ana in her garden as she is addressed by her husband and her friend. to inscribe a potentially feminist ‘reaction shot’. we are not privy to her thoughts through ‘reaction shots’. Fermín and Álvaro. as it features both at the adaptation’s opening and its close. Thus. Just as a ‘dictatorial’ male gaze visually objectifies Ana. In blatant contrast to the previously discussed introduction to the pontificating Fermín. exploited by Camus. 118). Ana largely disappears from the narrative. Kaja Silverman lays bare the empirical fact that. and contrasts with Camus’s subjective treatment of Jacinta and Fortunata’s dreams. With reference to psychoanalytic theory. while in his 1974 film adaptation Gonzalo Suárez mounts a challenge to the preceding phallic/visual hegemony by changing the end of the novel. a similarly authoritative voice linguistically objectifies her. the disembodied voice-over is exclusively male (1988. 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. Ana is symbolically silent in our first images of her – both Víctor and Visitación simply speak for her. with one exception. As previously mentioned. 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.122 SALLY FAULKNER wanted the series to be screened at prime time. in the television series Méndez Leite simply reconfirms patriarchal dominance. she furthermore makes the case that such voice-overs . Méndez Leite’s use of the voice-over is of particular interest in this respect. the director in fact faithfully adheres to the word of Alas’s text: after succumbing to Álvaro. As such. and the events of the duel are filtered through the gossip of the cabildo and casino. 48–9). Alas expels his heroine from the text after her adulterous fall.

and thus reinforces our identification with him rather than her. the use of the disembodied male voice-over brings with it these gender connotations. is excluded from positions of discursive power both outside and inside the classic film diegesis. authoritative knowledge. 682). lying prostrate on the cathedral floor. reducing her to object or spectacle. but to safe places within the story (to positions. or a dishevelled yet beautiful hysteric in a worrying echo of the ‘showing’ of the hysterics at La Salpêtrière. (The bathetic irony of the words quoted – ‘la heroica ciudad dormía la siesta’ and ‘la muy noble y leal ciudad [. which come within the eventual range of male vision or audition). and objectify the female as spectacle. These lines conclude a male description of the female adulteress: they simultaneously bolster patriarchal ideology by aligning the male voice with narrative authority. and establishes the male voice as all-powerful. with the symbolic father. that is.) By the end of the adaptation. the case with Méndez Leite’s La Regenta. Había creído sentir sobre la boca el vientre viscoso y frío de un sapo’ (Alas 1995. It symbolically recoils from her in repulsion in exactly the same way as Fermín has just done. 7) against the backdrop of an image of the cathedral tower which is being described. Benign in itself. and the law – in short. 700).] The female subject.] hacía la digestión’ – is not. on the other hand. this introduction forms the impression in the viewers’ minds that the entire narrative is to be a tale told by a man about a woman. This is a fitting ending to a series in which Méndez Leite exploits the authoritative. or to include favourite passages. She is an object or a thing for inquisitive examination. In the final images of the series the camera gradually pulls back from Ana. but never a thinking subject. and when an adult at the end. a trapped animal. explored. as she was when a child at the start of the novel. . to a triumphal score of drum music. At the start of Méndez Leite’s series. . ‘en todo Vetusta no se hablaba de otra cosa’ (Alas 1995. . ‘Ana fue objeto de curiosidad general’ (Alas 1995. a swooning body in Álvaro’s arms. La Regenta is thus displayed as a stuffed bird. The director’s reading of the novel eschews Alas’s psychological development of Ana’s character. with the toad-belly kiss on her lips. Like the locket containing a picture of a woman featured on the cover of the 1995 Alianza edition of the . 163–4) Whether it be to condense lengthy novels. . dictatorial potential of film to reconfirm patriarchy through both its image. the case with Fons’s Fortunata y Jacinta. the return of this authoritative voice quoting the notorious last lines of the novel is menacing: ‘Ana volvió a la vida rasgando las nieblas de un delirio que le causaba náuseas. she is confined not only to the safe place of the story.and sound-tracks. however. (Silverman 1988. a visually absent male narrator reads famous extracts from the first two paragraphs of Alas’s novel (1995.RE-VISING THE NINETEENTH-CENTURY NOVEL 123 align [the] male subject with potency. [. 71).

and was thus curiously parallel to the evolving society of the late twentieth century. Although these are debatable generalizations. .124 SALLY FAULKNER novel. 109). lack of resolution and ‘digression’ (Gold 1995) of this ‘text of flight’ (Sinclair 1998. . 14). but misses the opportunity to match the intertwining plots. Méndez Leite’s series reveals how the masculinized gaze of mainstream narrative cinema may be translated to television with ease. 32) to the way television narration works as interrupted. retreat to a past era of stable sexual difference to escape the gender turbulence of the present. to be examined or hidden away at the will of its owner. It is significant in this respect that the director has glibly asserted that for him film and television are indistinguishable (Méndez Leite 1995. John Irving and Harold Bloom. fragmented and distracted. He therefore fails to keep his vows of fidelity to the novel. Conclusion: Nostalgia for Sexual Difference? In Nostalgia and Sexual Difference. or producers. Consequently he not only fails to explore the gender ambiguities of Alas’s novel. and even work towards the corrosion of bourgeois patriarchy. Ana is a trinket. In Doane and Hodges’s terms this would make the film ‘nostalgic’ in . They propose that nostalgic writers. 390) regarding gender in late twentieth-century Spain led male filmmakers. ‘Nostalgic writers’. like Christopher Lasch. if Doane and Hodges’s ideas are applied to the texts under discussion here. the return home’ (Doane and Hodges 1987. they suggest that ‘disorientation’ (Brooksbank Jones 1995. and cinematography seems to masculinize the viewer. While Camus exploits the particularities of the televisual medium to establish a female point of view. the novels of Galdós and Alas – as feminist re-readings have shown – explore these gender tensions. to retreat to a time of gender security in the literature of the previous century. Janice Doane and Devon Hodges argue that recent American nostalgia literature contains anti-feminist impulses. Of course the Doane and Hodges counter-argument might then be that adaptors may choose to ignore such tensions and ambiguities in the originals if they are determined to portray gender stability. In Angelino Fons’s 1970 adaptation of Galdós’s novel the symbolic codes of mise en scène portray Fortunata as a pájara de la calle and Jacinta as an ángel del hogar. television directors. ‘locate [woman’s] place in a past in which women “naturally” function in the home to provide a haven of stability [. The first irony which undermines this temptingly simplistic argument is that the late nineteenth century was itself a period of tension regarding gender. they observe. The screen adaptations of Galdós’s Fortunata y Jacinta and Alas’s La Regenta discussed here may be measured against both Doane and Hodges’s arguments.] nostos. Secondly.

and thus cautiously looks forward to imminent social change. But considering all these elements together. omniscient/omnipotent male cinematic subject in its prologue. there is a telling parallel between nineteenth-century and Francoist gender ideology. Owing to the anachronism of Franco’s regime. Méndez Leite instead portrays Ana Ozores as an object in both visual and auditory terms. Mario Camus’s television series responds to the radical alteration of women’s roles in the transition and may be described as feminist.RE-VISING THE NINETEENTH-CENTURY NOVEL 125 its portrayal of gender stability. and thus initially appears to be a phallogocentric paean which simultaneously offers both mainstream visual pleasures and a reinforcement of patriarchal gender ideology. Any one of these elements in isolation might not correspond to feminist emancipation. Fons’s Fortunata y Jacinta is important as it challenges actual – rather than historical – gender relations. despite its period setting. just as Sharon Marcus warns that the fluidity between gendered spaces in early nineteenth-century Paris did not create a ‘feminist city’ as there was no corresponding political feminist project (1999. However. such as imagery. From the perspective of the apparently ‘feminist’ Spain of the nineties. Camus’s series may be seen as a feminist celebration of increasing emancipation and an attempt to re-appropriate a previously colonized past. so. it conservatively frames a world of unquestioned patriarchal hegemony. but it is in fact the most reactionary in terms of gender. We may expect to observe an analogous current of change between Gonzalo Suárez and Fernando Méndez Leite’s adaptations of Alas’s La Regenta. Gonzalo Suárez’s 1974 film sketches the archetypal. 8). space and the implied narrative perspective. in its final images it tentatively traces the transformation of its heroine from viewed object to viewing subject. It troubles some of the patriarchal aspects which Fons’s film puts in place. literature and urban space. . Erasing Alas’s psychological development of his heroine. Méndez Leite’s 1995 television adaptation of La Regenta might be the most recent text discussed here. Fortunata’s characterization and her portrayal by Emma Penella offer a significant resistance to patriarchal ideology however. This adaptation alone may be interpreted as what Doane and Hodges call ‘nostalgic’.

.1 Unlike some of the adaptations considered in previous chapters. not least because Buñuel and Galdós are among Spain’s most influential artists. 287). Such an account of Buñuel as an adaptor therefore confirms his creative integrity. Buñuel works relatively rarely from original scripts’. How can this reputedly irreverent subversive be associated with what has traditionally been considered. his exile status helps to demonstrate that nationality is an ideological construct’ (1993. within the context of three topics – history. a reactionary area of film art? Michael Wood highlights this discrepancy. 15). especially her assertion that ‘since the nationality of virtually all of Buñuel’s films is hybridized. both in terms of form and content. Some twenty-one of Buñuel’s thirty-two films were adaptations. has been included. in many respects a Mexican film. 331). no es cuestión de “cine puro”. and the remaining were ‘full of allusions and borrowed themes’ (Wood 1981. chapter six. It is also noteworthy that in his investigation of the literary influences on Buñuel’s early development Antonio Monegal concludes ‘la poética que vertebra la obra de Buñuel no se agota en el ámbito del lenguaje cinematográfico. like Jean-Claude Carrière. space and gender. In this final chapter I will take Buñuel’s adaptations of Galdós as a case study. in the national cinema and modern literature respectively. 1 For a consideration of Buñuel’s status as a Spanish director see Kinder 1993.ARTFUL RELATION: BUÑUEL’S DEBT TO GALDÓS 5 ARTFUL RELATION: BUÑUEL DEBT TO GALDÓS ’S In the preceding chapters I have compared the work of a number of directors. sino del más impuro de los cines. Consideration of Luis Buñuel as literary adaptor may initially appear a contradiction. who would later work on literary adaptations such as Un amour de Swann (Schlöndorff 1983) and The Unbearable Lightness of Being (Kaufman 1984). 2 Consider also Buñuel’s use of ‘literary’ scriptwriters. For this reason Buñuel’s Nazarín of 1958. noting that ‘for a powerfully original moviemaker. there is a wealth of criticism on Buñuel’s work – especially on Tristana. although the Mexican films are attracting increasing attention – thus I engage with these previous approaches accordingly. contaminado de literatura’ (1993. whose adaptations have been inspired by a number of writers.2 The obvious riposte to this apparent questioning of the director’s originality is to emphasize the superiority of a Buñuelian adaptation compared to its literary source.

Él 1952. Mercedes Pinto. In the former case. it is significant that. There may be some potential in comparing Buñuel’s Nazarín (1958) and Tristana (1970) according to this division. he makes far fewer changes. Le Journal d’une femme de chambre 1964. While it is possibly ill-advised to disregard such indications of authorial intent. during which Buñuel had to conform to the commercial dictates of the industry. the director may be commissioned. Tristana 1970. Belle de jour. there is a clear distinction between ‘commercial’ and ‘auteurist’ adaptations. unambiguous characterization and filmic realism. close examination of the adaptations reveals a surprising debt to the texts.3 On the other hand. A late film in his ‘Mexican period’. As Antonio Monegal has noted (1993. ‘not one of [Galdós’s] best’ he said of Tristana (1994. 246). 206). the latter will conversely be an expression of the director’s creative vision. The director also leaves behind him a host of interviews and statements in which he frequently defines his source texts as poor. As I briefly discussed in chapter one. Nazarín adhered to generic prescriptions of a linear plot. 234). Kessel and Louÿs among others in his film versions of their work (Robinson Crusoe 1952. but it was directed by Alejandro Galindro. while Buñuel transforms the work of Daniel Defoe. but Cabrera did produce Doña Perfecta in 1950 (released 1951). Rofoldo Usigli. Octave Mirbeau. the production history of Tristana was one of 3 Manuel Barbachano Ponce in fact produced Nazarín. 64) Belle de jour (1929) into his potent attack on the bourgeoisie (Belle de jour 1966). The debate regarding the superiority of literary text or filmic adaptation hinges here on the question of auteurism. 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. Cet obscur objet du désir). and the literary original is usually considered superior to the film. in his adaptations of Galdós and Charlotte Brontë (Nazarín 1958.ARTFUL RELATION: BUÑUEL DEBT TO GALDÓS ’S 127 It would be folly to discard this view outright. 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. 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. . or his knowing reconstruction of the exoticized Spain of Pierre Louÿs’s La Femme et le pantin (1895) (Kovács 1979–80) in his cerebral. as if to discourage the would-be student of adaptation. On this film see Gramley 1995. and the literary text will often be regarded as the mere pretext for a superior film. from the novelist’s daughter (Baxter 1995. Abismos de pasión 1953). surrealist Cet obscur objet du désir (1977). and also Doña Perfecta 1876. Ensayo de un crimen 1955. one need only consider Buñuel’s transformation of Joseph Kessel’s ‘trite’ (Buñuel quoted in Havard 1982. Notwithstanding Buñuel’s red herring declarations that the novels Nazarín (1895) and Tristana (1892) were inferior.

who had farcically blocked Tristana in 1962 on the grounds that it encouraged duelling (Eidsvick 1981. she argues. when Peter Evans initially differentiates between the ‘commercial’ and ‘Surrealist auteur’ films during Buñuel’s Mexican period. Accepting the director’s own suggestions that the novels were mere 4 Buñuel contradicts this in his autobiography. excessively static and ahistorical in their readings of recurring symbols and themes. 327). still reeling from the well-documented Viridiana (1961) debacle. Linda Williams argues in her overview of critical approaches to Buñuel’s work that auteurism is ‘the critical method that most mystifies and mythifies the Buñuelian œuvre’ (1996. for Buñuel. Firstly it is clear that Buñuel was remarkable in his control of every aspect of film production. physically. Further. he places Nazarín in the latter category (1995. although Buñuel originally wanted Silvia Pinal as Tristana (Sánchez Vidal 1984. which was. which included the casting of Franco Nero as Horacio and Catherine Deneuve. 10). Williams 1996. Equally. Indeed. belonging as it does to Buñuel’s final period of relative independence. Closer scrutiny reveals such a division between these films is untenable. . Deneuve exactly replicates the Tristana described in Galdós’s novel (1982. although three weeks was the standard allocation for filming in the Mexican industry. It is thus self-evident to state that Buñuel was an auteur. 5 Although some critics describe her as unsuitable for the part (Evans 1991.4 Indeed. 173)! This brief discussion reveals the reductiveness of a fabricated opposition of ‘commercial’/‘auteurist’. even capable of transforming the apparent straitjacket of censorship into a means for self-expression – as Charles Eidsvick puts it ‘a muzzle into an eloquent mask’ (1981. a constant influence (L. 190). Buñuel was exceptionally allowed six for Nazarín (Sánchez Vidal 1984. 36). Many critical readings of his Nazarín and Tristana fall into the ‘auteurist trap’. Such interpretations of Buñuel tend to be. it has been suggested that the director’s work also reveals the limitations of auteurism as a theoretical approach in film studies. Figueroa’s hallmark was the aestheticism of his work. 202–3). with respect to Tristana the director had to acquiesce to the demands of his French. 219).128 SALLY FAULKNER greater autonomy. the notion of individualism on which the theory is predicated is somewhat at odds with the collective nature of the surrealist movement. 203). There is compelling evidence that Nazarín was in every sense auteurist.5 He also had to deal with Franco’s censors. further. 187) – of which the final scene of Viridiana is the most notorious example. 221). reporting that only for Robinson Crusoe was he permitted a shoot of more than twenty-four days (Buñuel 1994. 96. Sánchez Vidal 1984. yet he was forced to comply with Buñuel’s requirements for unadorned cinematography. Gabriel Figueroa’s accounts of working with the demanding Buñuel on set are highly revealing: an acclaimed Mexican director of photography. Italian and Spanish producers.

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. 225). 330–1. and the assumed superiority of the literary author effortlessly shifts to an assumed superiority of the film auteur. 160–3). Buñuel’s plot development and characters become imbued with symbolic meaning. This is an inverted form of Fidelity Criticism as previously discussed with respect to Andrew Horton and Joan Magretta’s anthology in chapter one. and the Republic’s bloody repression of proletarian rebellion from 1933 coincides 6 Buñuel was living in Madrid towards the end of this period. Edwards 1982. as he recounts in My Last Breath (1994.6 Tristana. 63). is the symbol of Spain. political/historicizing or psychoanalytic readings. Dominic Keown (1996) elaborates a Marxist/Althusserian reading of Buñuel’s œuvre according to which his protagonists rebel against then acquiesce to ideological dictates. or fundamental to it. Any demonstration of an assumed hierarchy between novel and adaptation is autotelic.ARTFUL RELATION: BUÑUEL DEBT TO GALDÓS ’S 129 springboards for his creative project. and affirm the obvious link between the director’s much commented foot fetishism and the severed leg in Tristana (e. caught between the despotic liberalism of Lope and the ineffectual intellectualism of Horacio. and restating it. a curious dichotomy has emerged between critical approaches which hold the novels to be incidental to the films’ meaning.g. critics cite the surrealist flourishes added to Galdós’s Nazarín. alternative critical approaches to Buñuel’s work have been adopted. Historicizing accounts similarly bypass novelistic origins. With respect to work on Buñuel’s films of Galdós’s novels. in this case the film. 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 uncharacteristic) who does not understand Buñuel’ (1982. relying on a previous understanding of the superior text. which is independent of the original novels. As this setting shifts from the twilight of Primo de Rivera’s dictatorship (1929). . Thus the eponymous priest of Nazarín fails in his emulation of a Christian life in the context of ‘a patently hypocritical and capitalistic society’. chapter twelve). Illustrative of the first tendency. 240). to the declaration of the second Republic (1931) and the bienio negro (1933–35). Marcel Oms for instance interprets Tristana as an ‘allégorie politique’ of the specific historical events of its setting. especially as auteurism has lost its theoretical appeal in film studies. Once again adaptation between the media is the battleground. and the amputation of Tristana’s leg is a metaphor for the constriction imposed on the individual in a patriarchal system (Keown 1996. for Oms. articulated by Althusser as ‘ideological state apparatuses’. A case in point. She elopes with the artist. Sánchez Vidal 1984. More recently. which ‘dépassait largement l’anecdote romanesque de l’origine’ (1985.

the CEDA. 92). For him. for example by Francisco Aranda (1971. That specific context of the 1930s was also linked to 1970s Spain. adaptation is always an act . reads the aforementioned sequence of Tristana’s exposure to Saturno not as a reference to historical events (of the 1930s or otherwise) but as a cinematic metanarrative of exhibitionism and voyeurism. in the first scene following the operation. desgarrada – ante Saturno (sordomuda representación del pueblo) para alimentar solamente un intangible imaginario masturbatorio. after the elections of 1933 (1983a.130 SALLY FAULKNER with the amputation of her leg. 346–7). therefore. Among critical works which posit the literary antecedent as fundamental to the films. who describes the latter as a ‘symbole d’une classe ouvrière encore muette et refermée sur elle-même’ (1985. interprets the film according to Freud’s writings on femininity and sexuality. trasciende ampliamente las coordenadas históricas en las que se desarrolla la ficción para inscribirla. (1997. 161). Tristana and Saturno are both symbols of Spain for Oms. oppressed) prior to the Civil War (Oms 1985. and a Freudian negotiation of phallic empowerment and lack (1993. 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. 318). Evans’s psychoanalytic interpretation of sexual desire in Tristana (1991). Marsha Kinder. Tristana turns on ‘male strategies of coping with the perceived threat of the female’ (Evans 1991. intellectual. In a similar historicizing account. Similarly. 676) Psychoanalytic readings of Buñuel’s work proliferate alongside historicizing criticism. Two such readings of Galdós’s work have been published recently by Spanish critics. ejemplarmente. which anticipates his exploration of subjectivity and desire in his monograph on the director (1995). 11). en el aquí y ahora del tardofranquismo de los años setenta. 676) or ‘una parábola sobre España’ (‘Tristana de Luis Buñuel’ 1979). Tristana plays Chopin’s Revolutionary Study on the piano. 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. both similarly omitting the importance of Galdós’s novels. for example. 163). liberal. Likewise Juan Miguel Company observes: La exhibición de la mutilada desnudez de Tristana – una libertad amputada. Part two of Antonio Monegal’s previously mentioned Luis Buñuel de la literatura al cine (1993) follows a linguistic model – ‘entre lenguajes’ – to compare the ‘composición del signo’ and ‘montaje del discurso’ of nine Buñuelian adaptations. He demonstrates that since literary and filmic languages are different. including Nazarín and Tristana. structuralist comparisons are of course prominent. quoted in Company 1997. Oms cites Miguel Bibatua’s 1970 review of the film as a representation of the failure of a number of different ‘Spains’ (bourgeois.

6). (Eidsvick 1981.] [Tristana made] a social. ofrecen operaciones semejantes’ (Bikandi-Mejias 1997. and thus its alleged ‘theory of adaptability’. Charles Eidsvick for instance argues that. the film was mild in its critique of social reality. but.] predicate their power’ (1981.ARTFUL RELATION: BUÑUEL DEBT TO GALDÓS ’S 131 of transgression. Bikandi-Mejias describes this field of study as a ‘galaxia textual’. particularly in formulating a reading of Buñuel’s Tristana. Ideological comparisons with the novel have also led some critics to interpret Buñuel’s film as cautiously feminist. Even if this antipathy attenuated during the regime’s twilight (Aranda 1971. . Aitor Bikandi-Mejias’s monograph on Tristana (1997) is similarly based on a linguistic model of comparison between literature and film. Rather than carrying out a comparison of the novels and their adaptations as formal constructs. Anglo-American critics have focused on the ideological significance of the Galdós novels. the very act of adapting one of his novelas contemporáneas – as I argue in chapter four – could be interpreted as subversive. Monegal himself includes a contradictory caveat to that stated aim in the same paragraph as the above assertion. psychological. and in this respect Tristana. he argues that ‘ambos son lenguajes y. is no exception. . the limitations of whose work in the field of literary adaptation has been discussed in chapter one. Monegal’s stated aim to ‘aportar algún dato sobre el funcionamiento comparado de los lenguajes’ (1993. narrative and semiotic theory adduced leads to a neglect of the specific question of adaptation. confessing his narrow focus means ‘las implicaciones teóricas que se extraen no son necesariamente aplicables a otros posibles modelos’ (1993. 177–8) is extraordinary. considered independently from the novel. . 174–7) Eidsvick’s proposal that ‘the theory of human adaptability presented in Galdós’s novel is almost exactly the psychological basis on which repressive regimes [. partly in order to slip by the Spanish censors. though a statement decipherable only to those who take the trouble to compare Galdós’s original with Buñuel’s adaptation. the anticlerical and liberal Galdós was considered dangerous by the dictatorship. Its subversive critique was to be appreciated only on comparison with Galdós’s novel: Buñuel quietly reversed the thesis of the novel – that people will adjust happily to just about anything – and thus indirectly attacked the most fundamental assumption of repressive regimes such as Franco’s. . 178). por consiguiente. 12) therefore echoes the approach of a long line of Spanish semioticians. literary studies of Galdós’s œuvre reveal the all-pervasive irony of the novelist. Robert Havard (1982) and Beth Miller (1983a) read such a message in the adaptation. and political statement. far from being Francoism’s unwitting proponent. [. rejecting Monegal’s assertion that the two media are irremediably different. but both betray a misunderstanding of the ambivalence at the heart of Galdós’s Tristana. Havard for instance implies that a comparison between the film and the . 12). Firstly. Secondly. and the consequently broad range of aesthetic.

or. Firstly the duplicitous irony of Galdós’s narrator and presentation of the novel’s dénouement is overlooked here. 76) independently from the novel. for Tristana will certainly fight on. pace Havard. and secondly. consideration of their status as adaptations can reveal further layers of interpretation. Equivocal Narrators Scholarly reception of Buñuel’s work is especially remarkable as his films seem to support absolutely opposing critical approaches. Author of Figures of Desire (1992). the omission of the proto-feminism that contemporary feminist authors and late twentieth-century critics have perceived in the text (see for instance. This is firstly. 87). Buñuel’s Tristana stands the pierna quebrada theme on its head’ (1982. Pardo Bazán 1993). this chapter will consider the significance of the similarities. what he removes or represses. although Buñuel’s Galdós adaptations of course stand alone as texts. 205). This point has been most persuasively argued by Jo Labanyi. In her revisionist . Buñuel’s ending is more open. Galdós’s novel. Labanyi’s interpretation draws in part on a comparison between the novel and film. As Kinder and Evans have argued. Thus while demonstrating that Buñuel’s Tristana ‘masks full acknowledgement of the gender ambiguity which the novel shows to be present in both men and women’ (1999. 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. and secondly. an important Lacanian reading of the surrealist films. the study of fetishism demonstrates her thesis of ‘the collusion between desire and repression’ (Labanyi 1999. Rather than focusing on what Buñuel adds to Galdós.132 SALLY FAULKNER author’s work reveals an adoption of feminism on the part of Buñuel: ‘While Galdós leaves Tristana defeated. some of which have been summarized above as ‘historicizing’ and ‘psychoanalytic’. Labanyi is implicitly asserting the importance of the fact that the film is an adaptation. or ‘represses’ in. Renowned Galdós scholar as well as film critic. in her study of fetishism and sexual difference in Buñuel’s film (1999). The development of this into the argument that Buñuel’s Tristana is itself a ‘fetishistic text’ relies on an account of what Buñuel removes from. while the reading of Tristana’s final transformation in the film is correct. and with freedom now a better prospect. This overview of previous criticism demonstrates that. Initially. 67). an exploration of monstrous femininity seems to lie behind Buñuel’s portrayal of Tristana’s empowerment towards the end of the film – rather than the director’s benevolent sympathy for liberal politics. the removal of the ‘extraordinary homoerotic relationship’ that Labanyi shows develops between Lope and Horacio in the novel (1999. 86–7). to attribute such changes to Buñuel’s feminism is problematic. more interestingly.

In 1966. unreliable nature of the author’s narration. and Wood describes a Buñuel who teaches us ‘to suspect all explanations’ (1981. ‘all this compulsion to “understand” everything fills me with horror’ (Buñuel 1994. any political or even aesthetic ideology’ (Buñuel 1994. In an unusually disparate body of critical work. while Buñuel’s debt to Brontë can be explained by his surrealist fascination with amour fou in Wuthering Heights. Ambiguous narration 7 With respect to the disparate interpretations of La Voie lactée (1969). . finally. thanks to a masterly exercise of an ambiguous style of narrative presentation’ (1994. 181). It is the contention of this chapter that the plurality of critical response to Buñuel is encoded in the formal nature of his filmic narration. .7 Wood explains this resistance to interpretation as Buñuel’s surrealist legacy. Catherine Jagoe. revealing that neither perspective is sufficient by itself ’ (1993. argues that ‘Buñuel’s career of exile dialogizes the auteurist and national contexts. the Galdosian method of narration comprises several points of view. [. 205 and 199). a description which surely also fits Buñuel’s films. writes that in Galdós’s work. 340). since in my opinion The Milky Way is neither for nor against anything at all. Thus. This approach thus accounts for the multiplicity of critical responses to Buñuel. a movement at whose ‘heart [. these affirmations of ambiguity are in fact strikingly reminiscent of critical response to the novels of Galdós.] is a flight from meaning’ (1981. While critics have attributed such a perpetual evasion of meaning to Buñuel’s surrealism. Kinder. while Julio Cortázar went so far as to suggest the Vatican must have put up the money for it. in keeping with his Cervantine heritage’ (1993. which Buñuel creatively imitates and develops in the filmic medium. 291). 97). 175).ARTFUL RELATION: BUÑUEL DEBT TO GALDÓS ’S 133 review of the centrifugal tendencies of Buñuelian criticism. 337). the author’s “reality” is multi-dimensional. The formal analysis offered here will neither overlook the psychological aspects of Buñuel and Galdós’s work as these are dependent on narrative form. Williams 1996. nor be divorced from specific socio-political contexts as these equally influence formal strategies. . the influence of Galdós can be attributed to the ironic. it is its contention furthermore that this formal ambiguity and unreliability are to be found in the pages of Galdós and that the director’s adaptations of Nazarín and Tristana foreground this overlap. for example. 245). Gerald Gillepsie argued for instance that ‘basically. . such assertions of ambiguity in fact provide some continuity. ‘no single discourse ever succeeds in subjugating the others. . for example. he summarizes: ‘Carlos Fuentes saw it as an antireligious war movie. and more recently critics have stated the logical consequence of this as a resistance to interpretation. In his autobiography the director himself reflects on critical analysis with wry detachment.] It can represent. she concludes that ‘undecidability’ is the hallmark of a cinematic œuvre which ‘refuses to commit itself to a univocal meaning’ (L. for instance. The arguments over intention leave me finally indifferent.

from whose differing claims the viewer must construct [. Thus influential accounts of filmic narration such as David Bordwell’s Narration in the Fiction Film (1985). I use theoretical discussions of the specificity of the cinematic narrator and ask to what extent Galdós’s infamously equivocal narrators are replicated in the adaptations. It enables critics keen to demonstrate coherence in a national cinema compromised by twentieth-century historical experience to lay claim to the director as Spanish ‘cultural property’. while in chapter four I examined the filmic reproduction of Galdós and Alas’s masculinized readers. The argument that this author was for Buñuel a conduit of national cultural tradition is both vague and politically expedient. more recent narrative theorists have revised Bordwell and Branigan’s affirmation of impersonal narration in film to show ‘the usefulness to cinematic theory of a figure akin to the implied author’. In this examination of the adaptations of Nazarín and Tristana. . Buñuel was no stranger to the translation of these into film (Buñuel 1994. as his influences are clearly myriad. and Edward Branigan’s Point of View in the Cinema (1984).8 This focus on stylistic aspects enables us to bypass the kind of critical bias that characterizes previous responses to the question of why Buñuel adapted Galdós. which both writer and filmmaker encountered through their respective historical experiences. While this contrasts with the earlier tendency to omit Buñuel from anthologies of Spanish cinema written during the regime. 398). Thus.134 SALLY FAULKNER reveals Galdós and Buñuel’s shared resistance to monolithic discourse and ideology. See Gubern et al. When addressing the particular qualities of cinematic narration. While acknowledging the perils of directly transposing the literary notion of the implied author. . Historia del cine español by Fernando Méndez Leite (senior) (1965) omitted Buñuel.] the whole story’ (Braudy and Cohen 1999. it is my intention neither to re-state those autochthonous references nor to defend a ‘Spanish Buñuel’. film theorists have been prudently sceptical about directly transposing literary models. Tom Gunning. as we have seen before. the desire to demonstrate the specificity of cinema has led to a neglect of many useful points of comparison with literature. its ideological bias is not dissimilar. 1995.9 While necessarily foregrounding Buñuel’s Spanish artistic heritage by focusing on the Galdós films. 62. argues that even though film is predisposed to ‘showing’ rather than ‘telling’ – there is. as he puts it. Gunning 1999. 10. and – significantly for Buñuel’s work – ‘especially to discuss those films in which there are clearly several competing versions. or narrator. . 464) – this does not preclude the 8 Given the job of editing Nazi propaganda movies during his stay in America in 1938. 470). the focus here is shifted to the related question of the narrator. 9 For example. both reject the notion of the cinematic narrator as an ‘anthropomorphic fiction’ (Bordwell 1985. for instance. ‘an excess of mimesis over meaning’ (1999. However. 179–80).

The film. my emphases’) and a character’s thoughts (‘share my mind’s eye’) – the latter being the ‘mindscreen’ (1978. with disruptive narrative effect. (1992. . While Buñuel adopts a Brechtian aesthetics. 224]) is exemplary of such self-conscious first-person narration. Similarly Seymour Chatman rejects Bordwell’s notion of impersonal narration. 102) 10 For Kawin.] the prologue triggers the mindscreen of the rest of the film. 479). may be understood as an example of Kawin’s firstperson cinema: If [. As we have seen in chapter four. proposing that a governing narrative agency. or ‘cinematic narrator’. . but is the mindscreen of an off-screen narrator. is a means by which the viewer can ‘rationalize the presentation of shots’ in all film (Nick Browne quoted in Chatman 1999. as we shall see in Tristana. eschewing conventional establishment of identification between spectator and character. often. Chatman argues that when narration in film is unreliable – his main example is Hitchcock’s Stage Fright (1950) – such a narrative agency is exposed. he argues. Un chien andalou (1928). a theoretical entity. differentiating between what a character sees (‘share my eyes’). a character’s perspective (‘share my perspective.10 This chapter will explore the hypothesis that Buñuel’s cinematic solution to Galdós’s knowing first-person literary narrators is the mindscreen. since the ‘off-screen narrator’. 190). who is not to be simply equated with the director. Kawin initially provides a taxonomy for the study of the subjectivity of fictional characters in cinema. for instance in the case of a ‘discrepancy between what the cinematic narrator presents and what the film as a whole implies’ (Chatman 1999. 190]) also provides a theoretical tool to examine Buñuel’s narrative practice.ARTFUL RELATION: BUÑUEL DEBT TO GALDÓS ’S 135 existence of an organizing function. 476). . he selectively uses the mindscreen. Linda Williams has already suggested that the director’s first short. ‘authorial persona’ or ‘fictitious author’. That specific question of narrative ambiguity can be explored using Bruce Kawin’s previously mentioned examination of subjectivity in cinema. Bringing to mind Buñuel’s narrative strategies. Kawin argues that such films may therefore be understood as ‘first-person cinema’. which we could call ‘the filmic narrator’ (Gunning 1999. Mindscreen (1978). is the subjective source of enunciation. Kawin’s more complex category of self-conscious mindscreen cinema (‘share my reflexive perspective’ [1978. 472). Ingar Bergman’s Persona (1966) (mentioned by Buñuel as a favourite [Buñuel 1994. subsequent moments of violence trigger localized progressions to mindscreen that can be read as the subjective fantasies and unconscious projections of individuals within the initial mindscreen: mindscreens within mindscreens. 11–12). In this category are films which present a visual field which can be understood as the product of a mind which is not that of any fictional character. ‘continually appeals outside itself to a dreaming mind that it would be simplistic to identify as either Bergman’s or the [character’s]’ (Kawin 1978.

generated more interest than any other film in the history of Mexican cinema (1984. that Buñuel does not exploit certain ‘realist’ elements of the novels.to third-person narration in Galdós’s novels.136 SALLY FAULKNER One corollary of such a labyrinthine formal layout is that a ‘mindscreen within a mindscreen’. it also has a native cast (except Francisco Rabal). or first-person narration within an overall first-person narration. and. such as linear narrative progression. He 11 All but written out of Spanish cultural life in Franco’s Spain (for further details see chapter four of this book). would transform that overall first-person frame into a third-person frame. Such a point of slippage echoes the unsettling shifts from first. like Buñuel. Manuel Barbáchano Ponce. Yet it is short-sighted to look no further than this superficial fidelity to the novels Tristana and Nazarín. . 220). and some coherence at the level of plot and characterization.11 It is perhaps to be expected therefore that Buñuel holds an equivocal position in the Mexican film industry. 248). It is also noteworthy that following the award of the critics’ prize at Cannes in 1959. and historical and geographical setting. production team. Nazarín was ‘the film that decisively relaunched Buñuel on the international scene and became the foundation for the second and richest part of his career’ (Baxter 1995. who enthuses over a work which. but ignored in Spain (Fuentes 2000. This is not to say. for example by Agustín Sánchez Vidal. had rejected Galdós’s work in their youth (Harold Bloom’s thesis of the ‘anxiety of influence’ [1973] seems readily applicable here). one employed by Galdós. Yet Nazarín is also Buñuel’s first adaptation of Spain’s great nineteenth-century novelist. Benito Pérez Galdós. Just as surface conventionality often acted as smoke screen for Buñuel to develop other concerns. Galdós was the darling of the Spanish exile community. 141). This despite the fact that some. or formal strategies for subverting realist convention. he reports. Hence Galdós’s artful relation. as these aspects are marked in the Galdós adaptations compared to his earlier and later French work. Simultaneously a Mexican and a Spanish film. however. Nazarín exemplifies the contradictions of exile. NAZARÍN (BUÑUEL 1958): FROM UNCERTAINTY TO CENSURE The production history of Nazarín discussed above demonstrates Buñuel’s ability to work as an auteur even in the context of a heavily commercialized industry.and third-person in indirect free style. constitutes Buñuel’s debt to the novelist. The centenary of his birth in 1943 was therefore celebrated by Spanish exiles. we must not let it obscure our analysis of his reproduction of Galdós’s challenges to realism. The success of this film has been amply documented elsewhere. It furthermore recalls the permeability of the boundary between first. Funded by a Mexican producer. just as he does in the Spanish. we note. a device common in late realist fiction.

unscripted and apparently added spontaneously by Buñuel on set (Julio Alejandro quoted in Sánchez Vidal 1984. The final sequence. yet ‘the effect of [his] work on the Mexican film industry was neglible’ (1982. however. banned until 1968 (Quesada 1986. Just as the director’s œuvre as a whole has inspired an unusually disparate body of criticism. the Communist newspaper. . . Buñuel of course disarmingly responds: ‘whatever you want there to be’ (1994. ranging from those who read the priest as an 12 This Catholic praise perhaps partly explains why Buñuel was allowed back to Franco’s Spain to shoot Viridiana. 218).ARTFUL RELATION: BUÑUEL DEBT TO GALDÓS ’S 137 is simultaneously visible yet invisible in accounts of Mexican cinema. 109). especially those living in the United States [. The masterful final image reiterates the standard icon. Buñuel critics gleefully recount that the contemporary Catholic newspaper. apparently more convinced than ever about his identity with the king of kings. 243). 59). The pineapple’s similarity to a hand grenade confirms her argument that Buñuel’s film traces the evolution of Nazarín from Christian pacifist to armed revolutionary anarchist (Boixadós 1989. is a case in point. Eamonn Rodgers gives a detailed summary of the schism he perceives in critical approaches to this work. which is mordantly parodied by the director: Nazarín strides out.12 But equally. a pineapple! (1996. acclaimed the film as expounding Marxist doctrine (Rodgers 1995. which is magnificently subverted as we become aware that the orb of majesty he proudly holds in his left hand is. contemporary reception of Nazarín was remarkably heterogeneous. an incidence that occasioned Buñuel’s now infamous ‘Gracias a Dios todavía soy ateo’ (Sánchez Vidal 1984. When asked what was in it. Following the film’s diegesis of Nazarín’s brutal disabusal of his Christian values. 102). however. 64) Another alternative is offered by María Dolores Boixadós. For Dominic Keown. L’Humanité.] the only name that comes to mind when Mexican filmmaking is mentioned’. thought Nazarín ‘profunda y auténticamente cristiana’ and that the ‘Oficina Católica Internacional del Cine’ nearly awarded the film a prize for its exaltation of Christian values. 82). Buñuel is at once ‘to many Mexicans. As Carl Mora pointed out in 1982. it is in fact Nazarín’s original refusal of the fruit which would indicate such a rejection of religion. the contents of which the spectator never sees in Belle de jour. 91). His acceptance of it signals a return to his Messianic delusion. 218 and 228). Nazarín was. La Croix. It is therefore not surprising that Buñuel’s critics also reach remarkably diverse conclusions. the standard interpretation of his acceptance of a pineapple by a fruit vendor is as ‘a symbolic gesture of humanity which transcends the question of whether or not he is Christian’ (Higginbotham 1979. 13 These multiple interpretations of the pineapple recall the debate over the enigmatic box.13 This diversity of response matches literary criticism of Galdós’s original. in fact. .

que se le trabucaron los sesos’ (Pérez Galdós 1999. It may be related to the interview between Don Quijote and the Duke and Duchess in Part II (e. Belmonte himself may be seen as a Quixotic figure: ‘está más loco que una cabra [. Galdós’s plural perspectives 14 Galdós’s sequence of Nazarín’s interview with Don Pedro de Belmonte (1999. 27) into a self-conscious cinematic mindscreen. This duality curiously reflects the Christian/Communist excitement over the film mentioned above. 15 The influence of the Quijote is also crucial in Tristana.g. William Shoemaker affirms that Cervantes’s text is ‘the most enduring and persistent of Galdós’ literary recreations which appears in reminiscent linguistic quotations and adaptations. or the Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ according to Galdós’ (1967). Parker. . ‘Sagaz cronista’: Galdós’s Prologue and Buñuel’s Mindscreen The irony which underscores Galdós’s Nazarín partly derives from its dual intertextual references. or Don Quijote’s taming of the lion (Part II. and Gwynne Edwards (1982. 25). and in deep reincarnations’ (quoted in Condé 2000. as Jo Labanyi (1993c. 67). chapter thirty-one).138 SALLY FAULKNER unequivocal Christ figure.g.14 This Cervantine inspiration at the levels of characterization and plot is repeated in the formal structure of Galdós’s novel. . Not only does Buñuel heed such instruction – ‘apurando la lección’ as Rodgers puts it (1995) – but he reworks the ‘multiple perspectivism encouraged by the methodological lesson of Part I’ (Bly 1991. and the link is of course the ambiguous narration of both. in similar. parallel episodes and situations. Furthermore the relationship between Galdós’s Nazarín and the novel’s sequel Halma (1895) is akin to that between Parts I and II of Don Quijote (Urey 1982. as suggested by Peter Goldman (1974. to more enlightened appreciations of the novel’s ironies and complexities (Rodgers 1995.] se metió en tales estudios de religión y de tiología. Alternatively.15 For Peter Bly. in his ‘Nazarín. 117). Cervantes’s self-conscious use of what Diane Urey calls the ‘chronicle device [which] reveals fictionality by claiming history’ (1982. this prologue constitutes a ‘lesson in reading strategies’ (1991. 236) and Galdós’s novel like Cervantes’s commences by foregrounding the narrator’s perspective in the prologue. 121–44) is specifically indebted to Cervantes’s novel. in which the chivalry novels are replaced by the Gospels. 51–3). which is similarly metafictional. 66) is reproduced through references to the unreliable ‘crónicas nazaristas’ in Nazarín (e. chapter seventeen). 105). in a substratum of jocoserio humor and irony. 53). As Rodgers summarizes: ‘Buñuel is not so much subverting or contradicting the novel as focusing on certain ironic implications which are already present in Galdós’s text and developing them in a more radical direction’ (1995. The novel sketches a version of Don Quijote. xix) and others have pointed out. Pérez Galdós 1999. . 107). Thus the latter-day Christ Nazarín undertakes an episodic journey south of Madrid. applying a literal reading of the New Testament to nineteenth-century society as his fellow Manchegan did the chivalry romance to sixteenth-century Spain. chapter one). such as Alexander A. 144–5) (see Goldman 1974.

Like the (same?) narrator of the sequel novel Halma (1895). [. o el gitano viejo? . . o la tía Chanfaina. . shifting narrator. 39 and 16).] nuestro Madrid’ can barely contain the disgust they feel towards the occupants of the working-class boarding house: ‘lo más abyecto y zarrapastroso de la especie humana’ (Pérez Galdós 1999. indeed in the first sentence of Nazarín he points out the gulf between signifier and referent in the following: ‘una calle cuya mezquindad y pobreza contrastan del modo más irónico con su altísono y coruscante nombre’ (Pérez Galdós 1999. the narrator infinitely defers the source of narration and thereby effects a startling and unconvincing self-effacement from the text: ‘¿Quién demonios ha escrito lo que sigue? ¿Ha sido usted.ARTFUL RELATION: BUÑUEL DEBT TO GALDÓS ’S 139 stem from his elaboration of a slippery. Pérez Galdós 1913. as a scandal-hungry hack. o el reportero. Initially suggesting the story may be the work of the aforementioned journalist – characterized. . yet his knowledge is revealed to be shaky – either conjectured (Nazarín. . 9). 9–10) or ‘erudito investigador’ (Halma. Self-consciously responding to hypothetical questions regarding his own role in the creation of the character Nazarín. but also by the attention drawn to the class divide between the subject and object of narration. Recalling Cervantes’s Cide Hamete Benengeli. ‘what is ironic is the contrast between the narrator’s inability to perceive the significance of some of his own remarks and his extreme sensitivity to the deceit of language at other times’ (1991. the middle-class observer who filters our view of tía Chanfaina’s boarding house displays his pompous erudition with bombastic descriptions of himself as ‘sagaz cronista’ (Nazarín. Pérez Galdós 1999. 5). characterization. The subjectivity of that narrator’s perspective is indicated not only by the grammatical first person. This emphasis on narrative partiality opens up the possibility for what Bly would call multiple perspectives (1991. As Bly explains. The reader’s encouragement to recognize the ‘deceit of language’ and extend this to a distrust of the narrator culminates in Galdós’s treatment of the source of narration. Pérez Galdós 1999. 40) Buñuel’s filmic response to this prologue works on a number of levels. (Pérez Galdós 1999. 10). . unlike our ‘sage chronicler’ – the prologue ends with an extraordinary elusion of narrative origin. 27) and the invitation to identify different points of view is reinforced by Galdós’s sly revelation of his narrator’s questionable epistemological credentials. 5–7). Pérez Galdós 1913. This is not to say that his commentary is not occasionally insightful. porque yo mismo me vería muy confuso si tratara de determinar quién ha escrito lo que escribo. There is of course a superficial similarity between plot. the narrator of Nazarín defers the origin of his tale in a flagrant parody of the empiricist tenets of earlier realism and contemporary naturalism. The bourgeois narrator and his journalist friend from ‘Madrid alto. 10) or absurdly exaggerated (Halma.’ Nada puedo contestar. we note.

Edwards fails to appreciate that the irony is Galdosian. as does Galdós’s prologue. 118).] que todos hemos conocido en edad estudiantil [. the camera tilts to take in the name of the guest-house. 51). 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 [. and the humbleness of the nature of the inn. Before he begins the camera deliber- 16 In Kawin’s terms this would be a ‘mindscreen [. The film credits roll over a series of engravings of street scenes. secular off-screen narrator. ending in a cut between an engraving and a matching shot in which the actors initially strike the same poses. whose fellow occupants are prostitutes and the generally destitute or disreputable. ironic perspective which gives the impression of what Kawin terms the ‘mindedness’ of the camera eye (1978. Thanks to his misreading of the novel (Rodgers 1995. . .] no hay más semejanza que la del nombre’ (Pérez Galdós 1999. such a beginning self-consciously foregrounds the constructedness of representation. 114). Buñuel’s camera. An overview of the editing of Buñuel’s Nazarín reveals a consistently wry. points to the contrast between the heroism of the name. . and that the Cervantine references he attributes to Buñuel are also Galdós’s. . . or the fictitious narrator. to the sound of street music. Like the ironic contrasts of the prologue. ‘Mesón de Héroes’ – as the street organ continues and a donkey brays – then fades to a group of gossiping prostitutes. Ironic juxtapositions such as this are named by Gwynne Edwards as a principal stylistic feature of this film (1982. Further.16 Next. .] in which the film itself. Recalling the opening lines of La Regenta. like Alas’s narrator.] al pie de la letra lo de casa de huéspedes [. . Similarly used by Saura who opens his Carmen (1983) with Gustave Doré’s engravings. . 18–19).] pues entre las varias industrias de alojamiento que la tía Chanfaina ejercía [. the irony of which was overlooked by Fernando Méndez Leite. .140 SALLY FAULKNER dialogue and setting: both Galdós and Buñuel’s priests are introduced in poor. 136). . cattle and vendors’ cries. the juxtapositions might more fruitfully be understood as evidence of an off-screen controlling presence: the cinematic narrator or the mindscreen. a particularly eloquent opposition is set up when Nazarín begins to explain major theological questions and the fundamental tenets of Christianity to Ándara. . is aware of the act of presentation’ (1978. run-down boarding houses. horses. The bathos created by the repeated opposition contrived between the worldly and the otherworldly leads the spectator to surmise a satirical. 10–11). Edwards argues that these juxtapositions point to the gulf between the protagonist and the environment he fails to understand. More revealing is Buñuel’s scrutiny of the stylistic ambiguity of this episode and its replication in the cinematic mindscreen. but this is wrongly summarized as ‘characteristic Buñuelian irony’ (1982.

38. 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. the action has jumped forwards and Ándara comes into view adding meat to the stew. . there is a conspicuous graphic contrast between an unusual high-angle shot of Nazarín’s snack of chocolate and cakes. like Galdós’s narrator and his journalist friend in the novel. is akin to Galdós’s bourgeois visitor to the calle de las Amazonas. whose presence is felt through these ironic juxtapositions. as Rodgers notes (1995. and one of them a pimp to boot. who then observes the prostitutes. and an eye-level horizontal shot of the railway labourers at work. Following the sequence of the priests drinking hot chocolate (a favourite Buñuelian object of satire.ARTFUL RELATION: BUÑUEL DEBT TO GALDÓS ’S 141 ately cuts to an image of a pot on the stove. Moreover. 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. 54). Browne 1999). His concept develops Nick Browne’s ‘spectators-in-the-text’ (D’Lugo 1991b. accent and activity of electrical installation (this detail is original to Buñuel) serve to counterpoise those of the inhabitants of the inn. which subordinates Mary and the Messiah to the background and focuses on Martha cooking in the foregound. These two men. it seems possible to make the case that the first-person mindscreen. and in turn is one of the two who interviews Nazarín. The presence of these men in the squalid boarding house is in fact another juxtaposition characteristic of the mindscreen. who are revealed to be the proprietors of the house. I am indebted to Xon de Ros for pointing out the relevance of this painting to me.17 A graphic match between the fire at the inn and the stove on which chocolate is prepared for Nazarín and Don Ángel (the name is not accidental) not only highlights the difference between basic and luxury foods. seems to have influenced this sequence. 7. 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. While his voice trails away addressing the first question ‘¿por qué nacemos?’. but also similarly reveals Nazarín’s detachment from all practical concerns. and as mouthpieces for the narrator in the interview with Nazarín. They act as ‘on-screen observers’ (to borrow Marvin D’Lugo’s phrase)18 for the initial descriptive shots of the inn. 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. 18 D’Lugo 1991b. seem to fulfil the role of narrator. to be repeated in Tristana). Buñuel’s 17 Velázquez’s Christ in the House of Mary and Martha (bearing the date 1618). Their clothing. If we return to the novel’s prologue.

rather than those bourgeois observers. During the 1950s Hollywood spawned a number of frequently turgid. both of which form part of the mindscreen. After an extremely long shot of the crowds of spellbound listeners. con nubes magníficas. the presence of this off-screen consciousness is also betrayed through cinematography and mise en scène. widescreen formats with brilliant colors. . The opening pastiche of costumbrista street scenes and accompanying soundtrack. 216). these features are also characterized by grandiose cinematography of breathtaking sweeps of the firmament and low-angle shots of Christ-like figures gazing up to the heavens.142 SALLY FAULKNER transformation of Galdós’s narrator and journalist into a house-owner and pimp renders Nazarín’s sermon to them on Christian poverty and humility even more ironic. . which culminates with Christ’s Sermon on the Mount. The ending of William Dieterle’s Salomé. 53). pounding musical scores. and . If Rodgers shows that the soundtrack serves ironically to contrast with Nazarín’s philosophy. The stylistic resources of such films are those of ‘elaborate and expensive sets. Just as Buñuel’s ironic narrator is revealed through editing. large-scale biblical epics. flores maravillosas. The comments of Gabriel Figueroa regarding his experience as director of cinematography for Nazarín are particularly revealing in this respect: He encontrado el truco para trabajar con Luis [. Buñuel appeals to minimal aesthetics. . the virtuoso camera tilts upwards to reveal a vast sky filled with celestial light emanating from the speaking man. is one of many possible examples. indicates the narrative perspective of the rest of the film. such as David and Bathsheba (King 1951). 69). In diametric opposition to such features. despite his perverse observation that he shot the film in ‘varios bellísimos pueblos de [. The Robe (Koster 1953). A comparison of Buñuel’s biopic of a latter-day Christ and contemporary cinematic treatments of biblical subjects is revealing here.] Cuautla’ (quoted in Sánchez Vidal 1984. The sounds of the street throw into relief Nazarín’s ‘naïve asceticism’ and ‘detachment from reality’ and are echoed throughout the film to the same effect (Rodgers 1995. (quoted in Sánchez Vidal 1984. the same is also true of the imagetrack. Rodgers notes that this soundtrack sets up the first ironic contrast of the film.] No hay más que plantar la cámara frente a un paisaje soberbio. Stone 2000. In order to portray the messianic nature of their subject matter. 219) This comment often serves as an epigraph to Buñuel’s work as an auteur. Christ’s life in particular was the subject of King of Kings (Ray 1961) and The Greatest Story Ever Told (Stevens 1965). y cuando estás listo le vuelves la espalda a todas esas bellezas y filmas un camino lleno de pedruscos o una roca pelada. and a cast of thousands’ (B. . Salomé (Dieterle 1953) and The Ten Commandments (Mille 1956).

there is an unrelenting denial of visual pleasure to the viewer in terms of mise en scène and cinematography. 57) this refers. transcending identification with any fictional character. 325). who co-wrote the scripts for both this film and Tristana with Buñuel. that it may effect an ironic treatment of both Nazarín who is detached 19 Jean Luc Godard’s development of a ‘Non-Bourgeois Camera Style’ (Henderson. 14). but also describes the narrative mindscreen which governs the imagetrack of this film. Godard’s cinematography and mise en scène create a ‘flatness’ which demystifies the bourgeois world. 1970–71) in his political work from the late 1960s is an interesting point of comparison. 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. has reflected: ‘Galdós es enormamente fílmico: el problema está en que hay que envolverle en un ambiente que necesita. 227). absolutely flat bourgeois substance that cannot be elaborated but only surveyed’ (Henderson 1970–71. 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. As Figueroa laments. and for Rodgers (1995. ‘The tracking shot and single-plane construction suggest an infinitely thin. the film which launched this second period of his work. Again.ARTFUL RELATION: BUÑUEL DEBT TO GALDÓS ’S 143 has now become a famous anecdote (for example see Carlos Saura quoted in Hopewell 1986. when the prisoners march through the countryside. 20 Gilles Deleuze has related the role of milieu in the work of Buñuel and Von Stroheim to the French Naturalist tradition of Zola: ‘Stroheim and Buñuel are realists: never has the milieu been described with so much violence or cruelty’ (1996. 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. mise en scène similarly provides an ironic commentary on the film’s protagonist.19 Just as cinematography reveals the work of a cinematic narrator. 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. by implication. the late nineteenth-century Madrid of Galdós’s novel becomes military dictator Porfirio Díaz’s Mexico. Julio Alejandro. 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. . 125). que le urge’ (quoted in Sánchez Vidal 1984. to Franco’s Spain. Brian Henderson shows that in Weekend (1967).20 A final aspect of the mindscreen in Nazarín concerns recontextualization. Barely one long shot of the Cuautla landscape intrudes. just as Tristana is transposed to 1929. Just as the soundtrack contrasts with Nazarín’s delusion as Rodgers has shown. The Galdós adaptations could be the link between Buñuel’s work and this Naturalist literary tradition. It is owing to the way the mindscreen is aligned with an off-screen narrator. Thus.

but perhaps also due to the inclusion of plural discourses. experience subjective fantasies. the Sancho Panzas to Nazarín’s Don Quijote. Ándara’s hallucinatory vision . Williams 1992. Nazarín’s naïvety is parodied in his unbrotherly act. Buñuel is able to indicate the logical political conclusions of Nazarín’s experience. only to deny the political implications of that message. but. but it contrasts with the overall mindscreen discussed above as it is not self-conscious (Kawin 1978. in the second. in her reading of Un chien andalou Linda Williams shows that instances of violence in the film ‘trigger localized progressions to mindscreen’ (1992. xii) Unencumbered by such equivocal ideological views. Both Beatriz and Ándara. This is clearly an instance where we are invited to share the character’s thoughts. Buñuel’s Nazarín is censorious. 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. which would only serve to replicate the monolithic ideological discourses of regimes like Díaz’s or Franco’s. Two additions relocate the novel in Díaz’s dictatorship. the writhing bodies of the two prostitutes trigger Beatriz’s sexual fantasy about Pinto. and secondly Nazarín’s rebuke of the stock figures of a colonel. Beatriz’s mindscreen is prompted. or her mind’s eye/mindscreen. as the differing interpretations of the film attest.144 SALLY FAULKNER from his environment. our protagonist shows solidarity with the working man so the narrator can critique a military. as it embraces then recoils from the class implications of its message. To have a bourgeois narrator of such a novel is highly problematic. (1993c. 102). at no point does the film adopt a partisan perspective. bourgeois society. There are two clear examples of these in Nazarín. 190). 102). Galdós is able to tackle the urgent contemporary issue of social injustice while avoiding conclusions that justify revolutionary violence against his own class. as in Un chien andalou. the lover who has rejected her. During Ándara’s fight with Camella. Buñuel’s manipulation of narration in this way also highlights one of the unintended contradictions of Galdós’s novel. This is thanks in part to the ironic overall mindscreen discussed here. but. Firstly the railway workers’ dispute which is triggered by the penitent’s offer to undertake unsalaried work. As Jo Labanyi explains: By making Nazarín read a political message into Christ’s teachings. and that very environment itself. they are thus ‘mindscreens within mindscreens’ (L. by a moment of violence. Since these mindscreens correspond to the subjective psychic experiences of characters within the overall framework of the governing self-conscious mindscreen. a priest and a bourgeois woman for mistreating a peasant. Multiple Perspectivism and Mindscreens within Mindscreens As mentioned above. Catholic. In the first instance.

Ándara admits she had hitherto set store by the ideas of an atheist (again self-consciously named) ‘Señor Tripas’ rather than by the tenets of Christian faith. una puesta en escena notablemente sensible a las necesidades más naturales: el sexo. Powers of Horror. 11–12). or the lowly over the lofty. 54). to the formal nature of the film which I have called the narrator’s mindscreen: [Para Buñuel] la noción humano se precisa al situarse por principio y constantemente al nivel de la carne . like the point of view shot and mindscreen of Juanito in Fons’s Fortunata y Jacinta discussed in chapter four. 22 See Julia Kristeva. During her period of refuge with the priest. . which stands in diametric opposition to the priest’s perspective. 230. When the unworldly priest uncovers the woman’s shoulder to expose her knife wound. both the beautiful Beatriz – the lover of Pinto and in love with Nazarín. (quoted in Sánchez Vidal 1984. As both fantasies emphasize the flesh over the spirit.ARTFUL RELATION: BUÑUEL DEBT TO GALDÓS ’S 145 of a laughing Christ. on the permeable interface between the sublime and the abject (1982. 225). original emphasis) Whereas the women’s fantasies are explicit shifts to first-person cinema. is similarly knowing (Pérez Galdós 1999.21 The cinematic narrator also constructs a moment of knowing contrast between spirit and body during Ándara’s retreat to Nazarín’s rooms following her brawl. suffering sexualized hysterical fits and suicidal tendencies – and the ugly Ándara – a violent. It furthermore recalls the wounded body of the crucified Christ in standard Christian representations of the subject. they may rather be read as functions of the overall mindscreen. Ándara’s wound serves as a reminder that at the heart of his religion’s iconography lies a fascination with the body. though in this case it is not directly prefaced by an act of violence. is a similar moment of subjectivity. Unlike conventional cinematic representations of subjectivity. el frío. Thus.22 Gérard Gozlan also relates this emphasis on the body. which. which transforms the conventional icon of the humble martyr seen by Nazarín into a grotesque. sneering figure. En lugar de una puesta en escena majestuosa en que lo corporal y lo físico son enviados a dimensiones convenientes. while Nazarín embodies the repression of the flesh. there initially seems to be an implicit treatment of the priest’s subjectivity. Bálsamo. 21 Buñuel alters Galdós’s name for the same character. Just like their corpulent literary predecessor Sancho Panza. with its connotations of the provision of comfort. . critics have commented on its ironic similarity to the vagina (Sánchez Vidal 1984. these instances of subjective cinema do not foster spectator identification with the characters. el hambre. 136). hence the situation comedy of the sequence which ends with Nazarín carrying the unconscious prostitute to a bed (Edwards 1982. aggressive prostitute – stand for the body to Nazarín’s spirit. .

while Ándara admits her jealousy of his preferential treatment of Beatriz. the conduit of that ideology. A formal analysis of the treatment of this character according to Kawin’s taxonomy of subjectivity in cinema is revealing. This is particularly noticeable when he looks at a view. But whether this is subjective sound. or from the hilltop.23 As noted above. especially through editing. Despite contemporary misreadings of the film which praise its portrayal of Christian morality. we are never privy to Nazarín’s mindscreen and his implicit point of view is always ironically counterpoised with the framing mindscreen. However. any subjectivity. . Nazarín leaves as a brawl begins between employees and employer: we hear the gunshot as the oblivious priest picks an olive branch from a tree. A particularly eloquent portrayal of the clash between these two follows the disturbance created by the peripatetic penitent among the railway workers. unlike Beatriz and Ándara. Nazarín is remarkable as it avoids portraying the protagonist’s subjectivity. there is a stubborn refusal to afford Nazarín. On the one hand this allows Buñuel to develop a sophisticated equivalent of a self-conscious Galdosian narrator. although the priest may name the film which traces an apparently conventional character arc from his madness to sanity. charting Nazarín’s apparent progress from delusion to disabusal. is left open to question. he appears to be staring blankly. but cannot sustain the uncompromising undecidability at the heart of Galdós’s novel. but. Nazarín again turns to nature in order to transcend the human condition that surrounds him when he absently picks up a snail and watches it crawl along his hand.146 SALLY FAULKNER The opposition between Nazarín’s religiosity and the secular mindscreen structures the film. Reverse angles are used when Nazarín is in conversation. as he does from the inn. reduces the tension 23 Labanyi notes (1999. Possibly the only moment of subjectivity is afforded by the inclusion of the Calanda drums on the soundtrack at the very end of the film as Nazarín carries the pineapple. Since we do not share this view by means of a point of view shot. on the other. 88) that it is a Buñuelian convention to frame characters who stare at something off-screen. Here again the clash between the earthly emotions of the women and the priest’s abstraction is conveyed through the contrast between the protagonist’s perspective and the framing. but there is no subjective camera-work which affords us Nazarín’s ocular perspective. or an ironic addition by the framing mindscreen. ironic mindscreen. in a state of abstraction the viewer cannot share. cinematography and mise en scène. The elaboration of an ironic narrator in Buñuel’s film version of Nazarín replicates Galdosian irony in part. The biblical symbol of the olive branch is thus exposed by the mindscreen as utterly irrelevant to the present situation – actually caused by the clergyman’s blunders – but all the while we are aware of our protagonist’s very different point of view. hence the continued debate over the meaning of that ending discussed above.

188). La segunda es el resultado de un fracaso [. por el contrario. . como prueba de su fecundidad creadora. ni cómo se había de discernir la certeza o falsedad? (1999.]. Resulta evidente que “su reino no es de este mundo”’ (Monegal 1993. the inclusion of a similar phrase in the film. 129). Apart from the instance of solidarity between the priest and the mistreated peasant which Buñuel added to Galdós’s text. however. on the arrival of medical help to one plague-ridden village Nazarín affirms. The sequence concerning the smallpox plague illustrates these different treatments. Monegal may summarize ‘de la película se borran las acciones eficaces del personaje galdosiano para subrayar. . la vertiente destructora de su pasividad: su pulsión irrumpe en el mundo como una amenaza a la razón’ (1993. . In the novel. both inside and outside of Hollywood. and Nazarín’s masochism is hinted at.]. While the Galdosian approach is characteristically ironic in its exaggerated use of language. a confounded mayor concludes: o era don Nazario el pillo más ingenioso y solapado que había echado Dios al mundo. It is this threat to reason which leads Rodgers (1995. 161). Buñuel’s treatment omits Nazarín’s helpfulness. . . such as Pier Paolo Pasolini’s The Gospel According to St Matthew (1966) or Martin Scorsese’s The Last Temptation of Christ (1988). Thus Buñuel’s Nazarín looks forward to later notorious treatments of the messianic subject. it is possible for the reader to perceive the priest’s efforts as positive (Pérez Galdós 1999. Considering. 53) to conclude that Buñuel develops Galdós’s irony in a more radical direction to a censorious treatment of the character. As Antonio Monegal notes. 146–63). transforms the meaning of the original as it comes after Nazarín is rejected by the dying woman. o era . and includes a recreation of Sade’s Dialogue entre un prêtre et un moribond. ‘aquí no hacemos falta ya’ (Pérez Galdós 1999.ARTFUL RELATION: BUÑUEL DEBT TO GALDÓS ’S 147 between the narrator’s and the protagonist’s ideological perspectives which underscores Galdós’s text. ¿Pero quién demonios sabía lo que era. . ‘La primera afirmación está hecha después de un labor eficaz [. ‘aquí ya nada tenemos que hacer’. . in which the protagonist’s efforts to persuade a dying woman to abandon earthly love for the riches of heaven prove utterly ineffectual. 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. 195–6) However this uncertainty is not upheld in Buñuel’s Nazarín. Towards the end of Galdós’s novel.

. as the irony of her marriage to Lope is ‘consciously absurd’ (1982. but when the film was finally released the regime’s ‘Sindicato Nacional del Espectáculo’ acclaimed it as the best Spanish picture of 1970. 49). Condé also concludes that Tristana is ‘a distinctly pro-feminist novel’. in which the author sides with Woman’s rotten lot (summarized in Jagoe 1994.s 27 and 28). running the gamut from political. Kinder 1993. but others take it as a ‘feminist allegory’. She ventures that . The characteristic Galdosian ambiguity which underpins this novel has also led to extraordinary differences in critical opinion. or what would be more properly termed in the nineteenth century. No doubt to Buñuel’s amusement. If initially ‘both the form and the content were widely perceived as fairly conventional. 314). however this narrative ambiguity surely extends to the narrator’s apparently sympathetic treatment of the protagonist’s feminist aspirations at the beginning of the novel too. ‘the woman question’. but this is only ‘notwithstanding all the irony and ambiguity’. feminist and structuralist. scholarly responses discussed above have been uncommonly disparate. Three years prior to Nazarín. 314). subsequent criticism has conversely emphasized the ‘profoundly subversive’ nature of all aspects of Buñuel’s cinematic expression in Tristana (Observer quoted on the jacket of the video distributed by Black Star).148 SALLY FAULKNER TRISTANA (BUÑUEL 1970): FROM AMBIGUITY TO SABOTAGE While Franco’s government stripped Viridiana of its Spanishness and assigned it Mexican nationality. Edward Friedman argues that we cannot read Tristana’s symbolic castration and narrative silencing at the end of the novel ‘straight’. historicizing. The latter conclusion has been reached both because of and in spite of the profound irony of the text. in Tristana these arise from the equivocal treatment of feminism. Tristana was released in Spain in 1970 without event (Eidsvick 1981. The scandal provoked by the previous film that Buñuel made in his home country led to a seven-year ban on the Tristana project. psychoanalytic. Thus some critics read the novel as an attack on feminism. 223). this history of the critical reception of the film conspicuously parallels that of the novel. and a previously unexamined press clipping from the Francoist Solidaridad Nacional held in the library of the Spanish film archives in Madrid reveals that the film was celebrated as ‘entrañablemente [. . 127 and 209–10. the publication of Tristana went virtually unnoticed in 1892 (Pardo Bazán 1993. If in Nazarín these hinged on the question of Christianity.] netamente española’ (Munsó Cabús 1971). Like Galdós and Buñuel’s Nazarín. and realistic’ (Kinder 1993. n. in which the amputation is interpreted as the author’s punishment of his heroine. 174. 12). yet a century later literary criticism of the text has so ‘mushroomed’ that Lisa Condé can claim that ‘Tristana is now recognized as an eminently modern literary production of great narratological complexity’ (2000.

and partly because equivocal narration and ‘the woman question’ are inextricably linked in the original text. 85). It is. incluso el que esto escribe. ‘tuve conocimiento de tal personaje’ (Pérez Galdós 1982. but like Friedman fails to note that it is more often aimed at the novel’s feminist heroine (Condé 2000. etcétera . and an ideologically biased observer. but this is not what interested Buñuel in the text. 330). as Condé proposes. 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 examination of the adaptation. . 80). we would be throwing out the baby with the bathwater. . se nos ponen los pelos de punta sólo de pensar cómo andaría la máquina social si a sus esclarecidas manipulantes les diese la ventolera de apadrinar los disparates de don Lope. or the narrator of La de Bringas reveals he was a former lover of Rosalía (‘[ella] quisó repetir las pruebas de su ruinosa amistad’ [Pérez Galdós 1993. ‘fired by the plight of Galdós’s Tristana’ (2000. The 1640 ‘miracle of Calanda’ (Buñuel’s home town) no doubt also played a part: ‘the Virgin restored the amputated leg of a male peasant who each day had rubbed his stump with holy oil. albeit to develop other interests in narrative content. As was the case in Nazarín.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. He was not. (Pérez Galdós 1982. . 70). however. but rather by the equivocal narrative presentation of the character. 11]). Galdós’s take on feminism is clearly problematic. abominaban y abominaban de tales ideas. 7). as Buñuel never tired of telling’ (Labanyi 1999. the acquaintance who tells the story in Tristana is simultaneously condemning and compromised in the following description of Don Lope’s libertinage: Cuantos conocían a Garrido. 305]). Just as the narrator of the 1895 novel discloses his implication in the illicit trade of tía Chanfaina’s boarding house (‘que todos hemos conocido en edad estudiantil’ [Pérez Galdós 1999.ARTFUL RELATION: BUÑUEL DEBT TO GALDÓS ’S 149 the ambiguity itself may serve to satirize patriarchal convention. the first-person narrator immediately exhibits his subjectivity as both an acquaintance of the characters. 24) 24 Of course Buñuel himself claimed he adapted it because of the severed leg (Sánchez Vidal 1984. The Uses of Uncertainty: Galdós and Buñuel’s Narrators The artifice of Galdós’s narration in Tristana is displayed in the novel’s opening pages. etcétera. In his film version Buñuel draws on Galdós’s formal techniques. deplorando con toda el alma que la conducta del insensato caballero fuese una fiel aplicación de sus perversas doctrinas. Debe añadirse que a cuantos estimamos en lo que valen los grandes principios sobre que se asienta.

this is often revealed in relation. which result in what we might call an aesthetic of interruption. as discussed above. rather. He argues that these are echoed in the formal nature of Buñuel’s adaptation: Tightly dramatized scenes are pared down to their barest essentials. Even if their effect is understatement. and especially in contrast. the mindscreen of Tristana subtly indicates recursive awareness through its first image of a cityscape of Toledo. The long shot chosen to frame the credits both recalls Toledo-resident El Greco’s treatment of the subject and contrasts with it. time changes are 25 For example. leading to the uncertainty over whether the narrator is feminist or misogynist. this opening shot gives forewarning that the film’s narrator is self-conscious. 44). As in Nazarín. and contribute to the impression of an off-screen narrator’s mindscreen. Colin Partridge claims that Buñuel replicates Galdós’s narrative devices of ‘short scenes. thus deflating the trite sentiments expressed. no. Whereas the explicit unreliability of the novelistic narrator is ironic and often humorously jocose to satirical effect. 114) which generates a mindscreen akin to the literary narrator. . 208). . as shall be considered below. the narrator of Tristana oscillates between partial and absolute knowledge. to the subjectivity of the protagonists. yet paradoxically eschews stylistic virtuosity in favour of minimalist aesthetics. Unlike the flamboyance surrounding the novel’s narrator. la segunda’ (Pérez Galdós 1982. ‘ “Te quise desde que nací . dream imagery possesses an actuality more powerful than normal reality. subtlety. questionable conjecture and omniscient authority. the hallmark of Buñuel’s equivalent narrator is. Just as the opening of Nazarín self-consciously highlights its status as mediated representation through the fade from the engraving to the street scene. no. This unpredictability extends to his treatment of the main characters. 226).” Esto decía la primera carta . different protagonists may enter and dominate different consecutive sequences. . If the film gives the overall impression of an off-screen ‘mindedness’ (Kawin 1978. Unsurprisingly.. Nonetheless that mindscreen may also be perceived in isolation. Looking forward to the practices already examined in Nazarín and Halma. the narrator mixes up Tristana and Horacio’s love letters.150 SALLY FAULKNER Jagoe efficaciously interprets this passage as ‘a balloon of hot air which collapses at the pinprick insertion of an “etcétera. . . certain formal techniques are identifiable in the film. sudden leaps in the action and different opinions about a character’ (1995. etcétera” ’ (1994. narrative unreliability goes hand in hand with such conspicuous subjectivity.25 the implicit unreliability of the cinematic narrator discreetly sabotages the viewer’s sense of narrative certainty. as the shabbier side of the city is shown (Edwards 1982. In his comparison of the novel and film of Tristana. then. 128). abrupt shifts between scenes break smooth narration.

The opening sequences which correspond to Tristana’s initial period of innocence illustrate these salient features of form outlined by Partridge. 90) – the narrative flow is. 90).26 Thus the ambiguous mindscreen. such as the cut from Lope’s round brazier to the barquillero’s wheel (Labanyi 1999. and [. Thus beneath the banal surface realism perceived on the film’s first release in Spain. little more than a series of eloquent ‘vignettes’ serve to establish characterization. 28 The published script of the French version of Tristana mentions an establishing shot . Deprived of almost all establishing shots. For Wood (2000). disrupting continuity in space and time. 10) that this cutting of ‘frames at the beginning and end of almost every shot’ was inherited by filmmakers of the French New Wave from Buñuel. . With such omissions. appealing to interruption as a force of discursive sabotage and eroding the boundary between waking and dreamed reality. almost non-existent. Each sequence is cut to its ‘barest essentials’. 27 Francisco Aranda notes (1971. and also hint at an unreliable cinematic narrator’s mindscreen. 241). It is interesting to compare this to Michael Wood’s recent observation of the importance of interruption in the Buñuel œuvre.28 An early cut from the deaf boys’ football match to the period immediately following Tristana’s 26 For Partridge. the narrative devices Partridge lists here as those of a ‘watchful analytical presence’ indicate the mindscreen. 208) Although my point is precisely that Galdós’s narrator is frequently far from hidden. and without stylistic adornments like graphic matches – save when they serve no discernible purpose. which promotes what Jo Labanyi calls a ‘resistance to intelligibility’. (Partridge 1995. abrupt or interrupted rather than smooth. which is misleading as this will be the setting for the main narrative action. and subtle.ARTFUL RELATION: BUÑUEL DEBT TO GALDÓS ’S 151 inferred more often than indicated. ‘interruption becomes a major narrative force’ in Tristana (1995. interruption is crucial to the question of desire. essentials of the narration are removed: while there is an establishing shot of Tristana’s parental home none is given prior to the first scene inside Lope’s flat. camera movements suggest a watchful analytical presence as the camera takes the place of Galdós’s hidden narrator. In fact. which is never satisfied in Buñuel’s films: ‘desire and insatisfaction form two sides of the same thing’. The mindscreen engenders uncertainty at every level. . lies a subtle essay in narrative disruption. spatial and temporal coherence must be deduced – as the jarring juxtaposition of the scene of Lope rejecting a duel with that of Tristana at the belfry with the deaf boys demonstrates.] the converse strategy of cutting the opening establishment shot and closing frames of almost every sequence’ (Labanyi 1999. as Partridge notes. which led Francisco Aranda to comment that it had ‘not a single scene of brilliance’ (1975.27 In fact the closing frames of the first sequence of the football match are perversely played at the end of the film. 208). is revealed in such formal strategies as the ‘use of deceptive continuity editing.

as the flashback only catches up with the present of the football match (never mentioned again) at least twenty minutes into the film. 29 For a psychoanalytical interpretation of the severed head image. but these have been subsequently removed. see Labanyi 1999. but inexplicably gushing water can also be heard. we see Tristana and Saturna walk towards the football game.31 The sound of a nearby train which accompanies Saturno’s argument during the game is perhaps only retrospectively comprehensible as Saturno’s rebellion on the pitch matches Tristana’s rebellion on leaving Toledo with her lover by train. Note also the significance of the Toledan legend that when the Moors took the city. but the spectator eventually finds explanation as the boys’ deafness is revealed. The action unfolds to an eye-level camera which merely tracks to keep the characters in view. contains only two different camera positions and one cut. as all sequences are shot with as little intrusion by montage or camera movement as possible. The subtle camera-work Partridge mentions recalls the minimalist cinematography discussed above with respect to Nazarín and Godard’s political work (Henderson 1970–71). 15–16). A stylistic element not mentioned by Partridge. 336). a moment when cinema was converting to the sound film (Kinder 1993. not to be found in the novel. As in Nazarín. In his biography of the director Francisco Aranda reports that Tristana’s camera-man José Aguayo took a panoramic shot from the cloisters and Buñuel responded: ‘But it’s nice. Despite the fact that his first two films were silent. Significantly.152 SALLY FAULKNER bereavement is particularly unsettling. for example.30 Following the shot of the Toledo cityscape to the sound of church bells. 36). of the cathedral and of the tower (Buñuel 1971. Some continuity is afforded by the constant chimes of the bells on the soundtrack. 31 Antonio Lara (2001. then cuts to her awakening as from a nightmare. Cut it!’ (quoted in Aranda 1975. . which would have made the deafness immediately clear to the viewer (Buñuel 1971. 30 See Kinder on the importance of sound in Buñuel’s work in general. Narrative uncertainty comes to a head when the seemingly realistic sequence of the belfry ends with Tristana’s surrealist vision of Lope’s severed head in the place of a bell-clapper. The sequence in Tristana’s parental home. they used Christians’ heads as bell-clappers (Sánchez Vidal 1984. Buñuel removed a scene planned out in the script in which a group of pupils is seen using gestures. 66) is wrong to claim that the changes Buñuel made to the script when shooting and editing never deprive the viewer of ‘información esencial’. which lasts over two minutes. whereas the river seen in the cityscape shot is stagnant. the stylistic nature of the film is perversely austere: Tristana goes to the bell-tower for the ‘vue magnifique’. it is the use of sound which is crucial here. 292). she notes he began his career as a director in 1928. yet the spectator can only see Tristana and Saturno staring at it off-screen. The sounds of the voiceless game are at first confusing. 241).29 The malaise created in the spectator from such manipulation of film form by the mindscreen is foreshadowed by the previously mentioned football game.

the persistence of visual focus on legs provides a prophetic context which reduced the arbitrariness of the event [in the novel]. This is not. This position of epistemological disadvantage experienced by the viewer brilliantly parallels. the cinematic narrator engineers a kind of figurative deafness.) 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. In other words. which is so starkly expressed by the coarse saying. or disability. and hence that the operation is far from arbitrary in the novel. yet. may also be significant in this context. 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. I am again grateful to Xon de Ros for drawing my attention to this important biographical detail. at the same time. 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). nevertheless. (1982. 239). In fact such prefigurative images (the presence of the amputee outside Lope’s café in the scene preceding the one when Tristana meets Horacio. however. the disability of the deaf boys. shortly after Lope suspects Tristana’s infidelity and confronts her about it) rather brutally transpose the subtle verbal puns in the text.ARTFUL RELATION: BUÑUEL DEBT TO GALDÓS ’S 153 (This is not a naturalistic detail as the railway station is not nearby in Toledo. The shock effect of deformed beauty is presented with a clinical directness which avoids sentimentality.32 Prefiguration of the amputation through word play originates with Galdós’s playful narrator. but also patently foreshadow Tristana’s operation. in the spectator. Through knowing word play Galdós’s narrator both foreshadows the amputation and indicates the patriarchal power structure behind it. which Buñuel replicates in the mindscreen. or the amputee on crutches who crosses Tristana and Lope’s path as they are walking in the park. but voiced by Lope in Buñuel’s film. . which grew worse in the year 1969 when Tristana was shot (Aranda 1975. Robert Havard argues that: The visual medium has a two-fold advantage over the novel with regard to the vital issue of amputation. an explanation and the spectator can only ever guess at the meaning of the various sounds. 65) With the closer proximity of cinematic signifier to referent (its ‘excess of mimesis’ [Gunning 1999. Galdós’s Tristana is a dramatization of the phrase ‘la mujer en casa con la pierna quebrada’. which is never mentioned in the novel. but he overlooks the fact that the prophetic context of the amputation is derived from Galdós. 464]) Havard is right to note the different effect caused by the film’s directness. As many literary critics have observed. Tristana’s fate is first indicated with 32 Buñuel’s own deafness.

and is historically linked to the siege of its Alcázar. but adopted by the government as a symbol of Spanishness (Monterde 1995b. monarchy/republic metaphor in his television adaptation of Fortunata y Jacinta. 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. I. the suggestive parallels between the diegesis of the film and the contemporary events of 1929–35. Although in a similar vein the cinematic narrator draws attention to the equivalence between the piano bought for Tristana and her removed limb. 209. is a direct consequence of moral waywardness – as Lope makes obvious when he reprimands his ward ‘sé que has claudicado moralmente. This semantic play therefore makes it clear that the removal of the leg. and in particular the forbearance of Colonel Moscardó. the camera cut which links Tristana’s seduction by Lope to the proletariat riot and its 33 The stoicism of the Alcázar’s defenders. both to limp. while the literary narrator may convey double meaning through pun. was subsequently transformed by Francoist propaganda into a legend of Nationalist bravery. and the parallels made through cross-cutting between the narrative and historical events. in general the cinematic mindscreen must rely on a direct transcription. However. 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. n. 148). and figuratively ‘fallar por flaqueza moral en la observancia de los propios principios o normas de conducta’ (Diccionario de la lengua española 2000. 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. as we have seen in chapter four. thus implying that the leg has been removed because of this activity. especially by the film Sin novedad en el alcázar (Genina 1940) – which was actually Italian. the filmic mindscreen can be understood as responsible for the recontextualization of the novel.33 With this in mind. whose son was executed by the Republicans. . antes de cojear con tu piernecita’ (Pérez Galdós 1982. This is firstly indicated by the transposition of the work to Toledo. this is often more difficult on screen. 29): but Tristana does allow her feet to wander. and Mario Camus is only able to hint at the marriage/adultery. which transposes the pun on ‘órgano’ in the novel (Labanyi 1999. defended by Nationalist soldiers during the Civil War (Labanyi 1999. 487). Finally. or permanent limping. This association between feet or legs and moral errantry is further developed by the use of the verb ‘claudicar’. 125). and one is removed. The long take of the cityscape mentioned above enables viewers to reflect that this city is both the seat of the Catholic Church. 76): in other words Toledo is associated with these two cornerstones of Francoist repression.154 SALLY FAULKNER Saturna’s warning not to ‘saca[r] los pies del plato’ (Pérez Galdós 1982.14). 80). noted by Marcel Oms and others.

and Lope’s rakishness. 218). Hence the narrator who paints the picture of Lope’s gentlemanly-yet-libertine character in the first pages of the novel is replaced by a series of eloquent . then rebellion and revenge after her premature deflowering by an abusive guardian. The mindscreen proper of both characters (‘share my mind’s eye’) is traced by the inclusion of dreams: Tristana’s surrealist vision of Lope’s severed head. it emerges that we are privy to many aspects of each character’s first-person perspective. sketch or sainete. fraught with narrative ambiguity: Buñuel constructs a slippery cinematic mindscreen spawning multiple interpretative possibilities thanks to the inheritance of Galdós’s equivocal narrators. derived from the contemporary didacticism of vignette genres such as the fable. 102). 88). but subsequent critics also warn that ‘any political reading of the images of police. on the other. A survey of the formal portrayal of the protagonists’ subjectivities seems to suggest that there is an equality between Tristana and Lope. Yet with Buñuel it is as ever fruitless to ask with whom spectators are encouraged to identify. Using Kawin’s taxonomy of cinematic subjectivity. On the one hand the uncertainty engendered by this overall mindscreen through stylistic minimalism is more disturbing than the literary narrator’s ludic ambiguity. we share the erotic gazes of both Lope and Tristana at different points in the film: Tristana when she first sights Horacio in the courtyard. the establishment of character in Tristana recalls the eighteenth-century exempla. the way it translates the irony and word play of the literary narrator is stark rather than equivocal. Church. evidence of the mindscreen in Tristana is displayed by the interaction between that overall cinematic narrator and the characters’ subjectivity. Through subjective camera-work (‘share my eyes’). then repentance and docility after Tristana’s operation.ARTFUL RELATION: BUÑUEL DEBT TO GALDÓS ’S 155 suppression by the Guardia Civil seems significant in foreshadowing her rebellion and the amputation of her leg. with whom and when is the narrator either involved or detached and why? As Robert Havard has noted (1982. a more profitable question is: given that both characters’ subjectivity is represented. Finally each character’s point of view (‘share my perspective’) is discernible: Tristana’s innocence. and Lope’s nightmare of Tristana and Horacio’s embrace. or their ‘mindscreens within mindscreens’ (L. that deviance and restraint go together’ (Labanyi 1999. and patriarchal repression in Tristana must take into account the film’s demonstration. therefore. The film’s re-historicization of the novel is. which astoundingly omits any portrayal of the hero’s subjectivity. 69). Abusers and Abused: Narrative Detachment and Involvement Unlike Buñuel’s Nazarín. Buñuel himself of course had remarked that ‘like all my films [Tristana] would contain no social criticism or condemnation of this or that’ (quoted by Aranda 1975. Williams 1992. through its treatment of fetishism. and Lope when he ogles a girl in the street and then pursues Tristana herself.

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sketches which deftly reveal his character in the film. Thus after the schoolmaster’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. Significantly, 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 superiority, 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 spectator, 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 character 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 cinematic 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.

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with the deaf-mute Saturno, whose world is also silent and who only communicates 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 description 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 detachment 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
35 Beth Miller argues that Buñuel’s characterization of Tristana depends on familiar ‘stock images’ of femininity (1983a, 340). 36 This disruption is typical of Buñuel. The waking and the dreaming are blurred notably in Belle de jour and Le Charme discret de la bourgeoisie.

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In the novel, the ambiguous or unsettling portrayal of Tristana culminates in the treatment of her affair with Horacio, and this relationship also triggers the transformation of Tristana which occurs in the film. Thus while novel and adaptation are apparently distinct because Buñuel removes the epistolary section,37 and allows Tristana to go to Paris with Horacio, there is similarity at the level of form. In the novel, the hitherto suspicious treatment of Tristana by the enigmatic narrator becomes particularly interesting with respect to her affair with Horacio. Given that the sexual relationship between the ageing Lope and his youthful charge has all the trappings of stereotype, the reader may expect that Tristana’s relationship with the young galán Horacio will put right the wrongs of the earlier relationship. But Galdós frustrates any expectation of such a fairy tale or novela rosa idyll by, literally, subjecting the affair to grotesque parody. Tristana meets both Saturna’s son, a minor character in the novel, and Horacio at the same time in chapter seven, as a group of deaf-mute and blind children pass by. Critics have previously observed that this may lie behind Buñuel’s transformation of Saturno (Labanyi 1999, 90), but the narrative presentation of the meeting of the young couple and the significance of corporeal disablement regarding their relationship are also noteworthy. As Tristana first sees the painter, the narrator slips into indirect free style (‘Who was that man?’), but then immediately recoils from such involvement to report the rest of the sequence in direct speech. He adds, furthermore, a moralizing, prefigurative element by juxtaposing Tristana’s first sight of Horacio with a warning about playing with fire, and also throws in a reference to the protagonist’s ignorance for good measure.
¿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)

As in the case of the previously examined significance of the verb ‘claudicar’, Galdós’s narrator links the young couple’s relationship to imagery of disablement and illness in a clear forewarning of Tristana’s fate for conducting an affair outside the home. The narrator knowingly repeats the significance of the presence of the disabled children on their meeting, citing Tristana’s exclamation ‘necesito que me hable, aunque sea por telégrafo, como los sordomudos’ (Pérez Galdós 1982, 41), and later referring to their meeting as ‘la tarde aquella de los sordomudos’ (Pérez Galdós 1982, 44). It is not accidental that the f lechazo causes aphasia in both characters (Pérez Galdós 1982, 41) and, as Jagoe observes (1994, 131), the narrator obliquely
37

Some critics wrongly call the whole novel epistolary (Sánchez Vidal 1984, 328).

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159

refers to the beginning of their sexual relationship in terms of disablement ‘desde aquel día ya no pasearon más’ (Pérez Galdós 1982, 75). Finally, despite the deforming effect the relationship has on Horacio, the thought of a future with Tristana inspires a ‘terror sordo’ (Pérez Galdós 1982, 95), he may ‘recover’ from it as from a ‘dulce enfermedad’ (Pérez Galdós 1982, 87). However, it obviously leads directly to Tristana’s permanent disablement. Echoed in the scene in which Tristana mimes piano-playing in the film, the novel’s narrator slyly describes Tristana’s piano teacher as someone ‘que habría convertido en organista a un sordomudo’ (Pérez Galdós 1982, 173). In the adaptation, Tristana’s first meeting with Horacio is similarly equivocal in formal terms. Just as the self-conscious presence of the cinematic narrator is clear in the previously discussed scene when the viewer is thrown out of the bedroom with the dog, the narrator’s interruptive participation is similarly explicit when Tristana subsequently meets Horacio. Tristana and Saturna reach a forked path, whereupon the maid goes to see the commotion aroused by a rabid dog, and Tristana wanders into a courtyard whereupon she fixes her gaze on Horacio. The establishment of an expectation of ‘bourgeois romance rather than lowlife picaresque adventure’ (Kinder 1993, 317), reinforced by the portrayal of Horacio by Italian cinema darling Franco Nero, whom the script specifies ‘recuerda por su vestimenta la imagen estereotipada del pintor parisiense’ (quoted in Havard 1982, 64), is subverted by artful camera-work. We follow Tristana as she enters the courtyard and share a point of view shot with her as she first sees Horacio. But our expectation for an insight into Tristana’s subjectivity is ventured then negated, just as Galdós’s narrator adopts then rejects indirect free style. As the couple first look at each other the camera cuts to the dog, then a guardia civil approaches the dog with a gun, and the camera cuts back to the courtyard, this time from a high angle travelling crane shot. This extreme distance from the characters, along with the sound of building work, all but drowns out the couple’s conversation, forcing the spectator to occupy, once again, a position of disablement. The camera then cuts back to the dog-story, but just as we have missed the climax of the ‘bourgeois romance’, we miss the action of the ‘picaresque adventure’ as the dog has already been shot. In terms which suggestively indicate the presence of a cinematic narrator or mindscreen, Marsha Kinder summarizes the sequence thus: ‘we are reminded that an absent enunciator stands outside of Tristana’s narrative, for the film intercuts between the two alternative episodes [and] we miss the dramatic climax of both’ (1993, 317–18). In her interpretation of the shifting narrator of Galdós’s novel, Catherine Jagoe observes that ‘as the novel progresses, a curious network of complicity emerges between the increasingly misogynistic narrator and the two male characters’ (1994, 138). In the film, as Tristana’s character arc transforms her from innocent abused into an ‘archetypal bitch’ (Miller 1983a, 353), it seems

while many readings of Galdós’s Tristana are sustainable. a tamed bird. Also. 182). the mindscreen frames a vampire-like Tristana ominously pacing on her crutches. It therefore cannot be interpreted as a conventional mindscreen representing Lope’s point of view. 65–6). As has been frequently noted. while that of the latter is psychological. whose advancing age and hypocrisy are mercilessly parodied. is one of irreducible enigma. Like Tristana’s bell-clapper dream. Yet the impression left by the film. In other words. far from counterbalancing the portrayal of Tristana’s increasing shrewishness with a sympathetic treatment of Lope. as in the novel. Tal vez’ (Pérez Galdós 1982. to become ‘a creation “penned” by man’ (2000. . which is akin to that which Jagoe observes in the novel. does not hinge. drinking chocolate with the priests. who loses her narrative voice as she ceases to write letters. casting some doubt on the anti-feminist position of the narrator: ‘¿Eran felices uno y otro? . the cinematic narrator betrays a parallel antipathy towards the decrepit libertine. but neither can the viewer fix a stable interpretation . Lope has an analogous nightmare in which he sees the two young lovers embrace. the possible misogyny of the former is social. Conversely Buñuel’s Tristana is horrifically empowered by her disfigurement. The unsettling narrative nature of the film leads Kinder to comment enigmatically that it ‘serves the interests of those patriarchs who designed it’ (1993. . It is important to note that this hypothesis of increasing sympathy with Lope. That the viewer cannot identify with either Tristana or Lope is hardly surprising given the disruptive interventions of the cinematic narrator. in the second half corresponding to Tristana’s increasing rebelliousness and vengefulness. an embodiment of ‘man’s “inevitable” terror of woman’ (Labanyi 1999. In other words. the final words of the novel express the ultimate ambiguity.160 SALLY FAULKNER logical that this might be counterbalanced by an increasingly sympathetic involvement with Lope. in Buñuel’s version none is. and a pathetic old Lope. the removal of continuity editing deprives of any sense Lope’s nightmare of Tristana and Horacio’s embrace. after the final reprise of key images of the narrative in reverse order against a soundtrack of the opening bell rings played backwards. ‘Tristana drops her pen’. Just as Tristana’s nightmare features in the first half of the film. Galdós’s Tristana becomes a shadow of her former self after the amputation. writes Lisa Condé. It is revealing to compare this to the final passages of the novel in which a vapid Tristana bakes cakes and an ageing Lope delights in raising chickens. the proposed analogous complicity between the cinematic narrator and Lope in the film is compromised by the interruptive interventions of that narrator. but is rather a response to Tristana’s transformation into the incarnation of monstrous femininity. 317). In the eloquent penultimate sequence of the film. which also forms part of the preceding perfectly conventional sequence between Tristana and Horacio in the painter’s studio. 90). presumably referring to both Galdós and Buñuel. If it is tenable that the narrator of the novel is a misogynist. on the question of feminism.

208). in the novels of Galdós. 164). it may be possible to find a statement by Buñuel which seemingly supports any critical position. which is independent of biographical evidence regarding the director. but also reveal the often neglected question of the director’s debt to that author. 6). Buñuel critics frequently mention an element variously named as a ‘watchful analytical presence’ (Partridge 1995. Buñuel’s adaptations of Galdós show some of the myriad similarities and differences between filmic and literary enunciation. as Jenaro Talens observes. 165).ARTFUL RELATION: BUÑUEL DEBT TO GALDÓS ’S 161 on a single scene thanks to their position of figurative disablement engineered by the sabotaging role of the narrator’s mindscreen. it is more profitable to conceive of an off-screen ‘mindedness’ (Kawin 1978. en general. ‘more fundamental than [only] two adaptations suggest’ (1995. 317) or an ‘oral ironist’ (Hopewell 1986. which we see repeated most clearly in the treatment of the 38 The ironic voice-over of Las Hurdes (1930) which Buñuel wrote with Pierre Unik is an early example of formal self-consciousness. which Buñuel avidly read since his youth. 134–5 of Tristana) which Galdós developed through his narrators and the subsequent analytical distance these narrators fostered between reader and character. Jagoe 1994. the mimetic fallacy of realism was likewise exposed. To assert that Buñuel therefore learned all his skills of narrative duplicity from the pages of Galdós would be to overstate the case. xvii). sobre mí’ (quoted by Utrera 1989. as Colin Partridge notes. This chapter demonstrates that the ‘aesthetic of ambiguity’ (Goldman 1974 of Nazarín. This frees the scholar from the tyranny of auteurism in film studies. nonetheless. la de Galdós. . but this chapter is the first study to synthesize these using the concept of the mindscreen. In the earlier film. underpin Buñuel’s adaptations of Nazarín and Tristana. Rather than attribute cinematic form to the manipulative intervention of the auteur. and an assumed correlation between realism and stylistic naïvety was similarly questioned. and properly foregrounds the specificity of formal cinematic narration. 114). an ‘absent enunciator’ (Kinder 1993. The reading of the cinematic narrator in Nazarín and Tristana in this chapter offers an analysis of the ways this is achieved. así. 208). Conclusion: Histoire and Discours In John Hopewell’s summary of Buñuel’s work he asserts ‘histoire continually cedes to discours’ (1986. thirty years prior to his first Galdós adaptation. Buñuel explores the potential of utilizing the cinematic narrator for satirical effect. Galdós’s influence was. what we anachronistically term Brechtian. Buñuel ‘systematically denounced and denied realism’s pretence to represent the truth in every single film he made’ (1993.38 however. the director did declare in an interview with Max Aub ‘es la única influencia que yo reconocería. If one searches hard enough. If.

The experimental films of Buñuel’s final creative period following Tristana are properly modernist in Wilson’s sense. despite the significant challenges posed to realist convention. help to explain the genesis of Buñuel’s late French films. though beleaguered. but it is debatable to regard it as another. Narration in Light (1986). 39 Critics have previously noted the ‘Galdosian’ feel of this film (Monterde 1995a. George Wilson notes that while films such as Bergman’s Persona ‘fail to satisfy a wide variety of classical strictures on narrational form’. .10). final period of the director’s work. it is because the premise of realism. 261 n. in the context of modernism. and that the director originally intended to combine both Galdós’s Nazarín and Halma in the 1958 film adaptation. Thus Modernist films are not strictly to be counted as examples of unreliable narration. that it draws on Halma (Hopewell 1986. Tristana and Viridiana. It is nonetheless intriguing that Buñuel used the same scriptwriter for Nazarín. Wilson 1986. The Galdós adaptations. Julio Alejandro. or. Galdós adaptation as Román Gubern has done recently (2000). but later rejected the idea (Sánchez Vidal 1984. As in Galdós’s novels. but nonetheless Galdós remains a tacit influence. In his account of narrative unreliability in film. 292). examples of unreliable narration. as I have argued here. unacknowledged. the genre remains a touchstone. these ‘classical strictures do not have a definite application’.162 SALLY FAULKNER novice of Viridiana. because the concept of ‘unreliability’ presupposes in this context a notion of truth about the fictional world of the film – truth about which the narration may then be unreliable – which the history of events in these films is deliberately too fractured to support. (G. and more specifically the director’s replication of the novelist’s artful formal strategies.39 In Tristana the kind of sabotage visited on narrative reliability was to be highly influential in the subsequent. 42) If Nazarín and Tristana are. 224). remains intact. more specifically.

The motif of entrapment may be employed. Further. transitional and democratic periods. Literary adaptations have too long been the Cinderella of film studies. see Lara 2001. This book also demonstrates that the manipulation of space is particularly expressive in film. as in Mario Camus’s Fortunata y Jacinta. or to perform a deconstruction of patriarchy. For instance. or by juxtaposing violence and pictorialization. because the visible is always potentially reducible to mere surface. 9. If Buñuel has subsequently been recovered by critics. Adaptation studies have consequently languished. for instance in Los santos inocentes.CONCLUSION: CINEMA AND HISTORY 6 CONCLUSION: CINEMA AND HISTORY It is revealing that the topic of an unpublished doctoral thesis on Buñuel written in Franco’s Spain was the apparently ‘safe’ question of literary adaptations in the director’s work (Lara 1973. My investigation of point of view . Close readings of literary texts in comparison with their screen adaptations highlight key formal differences between the media. a lost rural space or a previous period of stability regarding gender and sexual difference. this book has sought to demonstrate that these films highlight important questions about cinema and history. cinema seems predisposed to nostalgia. This comparison between the media also questions the assumption that film is limited to omniscient third-person narration. with its inevitable focus on the visible. a point illustrated by Tiempo de silencio. for a retrospective account of studying Buñuel in this period). whereas literature may manipulate its mode of enunciation at will. in Spain and elsewhere. Drawing examples from Spanish cinema and television of the late dictatorship. for instance. film adaptations of literary texts remain shrouded by a suspicious air of conformity. the unique combination of ‘visuality’ and ‘hapticality’ in the film medium (space as experienced by the eye or body) enables cinema uniquely to portray rural and urban environments as what Lefebvre terms either ‘absolute’ or ‘abstract’ spaces. for example in La colmena. to effect political satire. However. The field has been dominated by structuralist critics who adopt an ahistorical approach and literary scholars keen to dabble in a new medium. as the quintessential cineaste of dissent. I have focused on cinema from the points of view of form. This study analyses film’s tendency to evoke sentimentally a former politicized past. authorship and industry. it also demonstrates that film may problematize nostalgia by appealing to a discourse of authenticity.

may engender narrative ambiguity. The text is. Literary adaptations also highlight issues of authorship in the cinema. forceful actress Emma Penella and commercially orientated producer Emiliano Piedra.164 SALLY FAULKNER considers the overlap between feminist theories of the masculinized viewer of mainstream narrative cinema and assertions regarding the masculinized reader of the realist novel. Baroja and Galdós. The disruptive mindscreen narrator of Nazarín and Tristana demonstrates that film. in film studies. Take Barthes’s much-quoted assertion from his 1968 essay that ‘a text is not a line of words releasing a single “theological” meaning (the “message” of the Author-God) but a multi-dimensional space in which a variety of writings. 146). the different readings of the original novel stage the way multiple texts ‘blend and clash’ as the film pulls in so many different directions. cinematographers and actors in the construction of meaning have also emerged. In Angelino Fons’s Fortunata y Jacinta. in Barthes’s terms. Literary adaptations are furthermore revealing of the way cinema operates as an industry. as it was in re-thinking biographical approaches in literary studies. they promoted a positive image of Spain as a country at the intellectual vanguard. In the post-Franco period. Literary adaptations foregound plural authorship and perform intertextuality in a quite unique way. but also reveals how film and television might portray female subjectivity. the case was more complex. but in the preceding discussions the multiple roles played by producers. conservative scriptwriter Alfredo Mañas. as it combines Galdós’s liberal vision in Fortunata y Jacinta with those of oppositional director Fons. for instance through casting. when the works of literature adapted to the screen illustrated the regime’s view of Spanishness. or auteur. like literature. As many of these films were made by respected directors and were based on the works of acclaimed authors like Unamuno. ‘multi-dimensional’. Adaptations clearly presuppose dual authorship. When Francoist Director-General of Film José María García Escudero subsidized the films known collectively as the Nuevo Cine Español in the 1960s. In Spanish cinema of the early Franco period. These roles are of course not unique to literary adaptations. blend and clash’ (1977. but such films throw the process of intertextuality into relief. which have consequently tended to be associated with paternalistic notions of educating the nation. that of writer and director. for example. the systems of subsidies set up by the UCD and PSOE. But directors also exploited the ways the literary works challenged Francoist ideology. like Fons’s Fortunata y Jacinta. this might be interpreted as straightforward propaganda. thus their adaptations. particularly with regard to the question of state subsidies. equivocally combining both reactionary and progressive elements. may be read as contradictory. which tend to be subsumed under the heading of the Miró . scriptwriters. Post-structuralist theory has proved particularly helpful in correcting an excessive reverence for the film director. It is telling that governments keen to reinforce national identity have enthusiastically funded literary adaptations. none of them original.

the films themselves. and Carícies of 1998 charts urban life in a way that recalls a previously ‘humanist’ city. This indicates that the period in which the modernization of Spain took place. Thirdly. would be the key example here. for instance. questions of history become crucial. show how adapting a text from the past may be a means of examining (and criticizing) the present with respect to gender. Firstly. Nazarín and Tristana offer an important corrective to the tendency of twentieth-century Spanish culture as a whole to denigrate or ignore this important author. The representation of the contemporary city in Historias del Kronen of the same year implicitly evokes a former rural community. these adaptations fall in between the early Francoist co-option of history of the 1940s and 1950s. When a period of time lapses between the publication of a literary text and the production of its film version. Nonetheless. and the nostalgic responses to history of the 1990s.CONCLUSION: CINEMA AND HISTORY 165 decrees. Secondly. Of the twelve adaptations examined here. and it is interesting that they were all produced in the 1990s. and the other adaptations examined here do so in important ways. like the work of Martín-Santos. . the relationship between past and present might be described as one of nostalgia. reflect on their inscription in a process whereby a sense of identity in the present is forged through the relationship with literary works of the past. like Fuenteovejuna (Román 1945). The 1995 television version of La Regenta avoids the gender trouble evident in the original text and projects a reactionary portrait of nineteenth-century provincial Spain. three models for describing this process have emerged.1 was the period in which the representation of the past became a site of struggle which reflected those changes. three might be termed as nostalgic in this sense. broadly speaking the geographical. a historical period may be co-opted in a later one to reflect that later period’s concerns. economic.2 Pascual Duarte and Tiempo de 1 This broadly corresponds to the period between the Francoist modernizers’ Stablization Plan of 1959 and democratic Spain’s entry into the European Community in 1986. The depiction of the turbulent political climates of Díaz’s Mexico and pre-Civil War Spain in Buñuel’s Nazarín and Tristana might similarly be read as critically encoding the present of the Francoist dictatorship. political and social transformations of the late 1950s to the late 1980s. were criticized for reproducing these propaganda practices of the dictatorship. literary adaptations may contest nostalgia. It was pointed out that the texts selected for film adaptations. like Camus’s La colmena. With respect to literary adaptations in Spanish cinema. 2 These adaptations of Galdós’s Fortunata y Jacinta. Chronologically. seemed suspiciously to promote the governments’ liberal image of a ‘New Spain’. The two versions of Fortunata y Jacinta and the film adaptation of La Regenta. The appropriation of Golden Age texts through state-subsidized adaptations in early Francoist Spain. Cela and Lorca.

166 SALLY FAULKNER silencio eschew nostalgia and appropriate the potential directness of the cinematic 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. . it is important to reassess what has previously been understood as a uniquely postmodern tendency in the light of the ways literary adaptations connect cinema and history. This simultaneous adoption and critique of the discourses of nostalgia seems to exemplify the contradictions 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.

FILMOGRAPHY FILMOGRAPHY Carícies (1998) Director: Producer: Production Companies: Scriptwriters: Director of Photography: Editor: Main Actors: Running Time: La colmena (1982) Director: Producer: Production Companies: Scriptwriter: Director of Photography: Editor: Main Actors: Running Time: Fortunata y Jacinta (1970) Director: Producer: Production Companies: Scriptwriters: Director of Photography: Editor: Main Actors: Angelino Fons Emiliano Piedra Emiliano Piedra Producción. del Amo Bruno Corazzari (Maximiliano) Mario Camus José Luis Dibildos Ágata Films. Mercury Produzzione Ricardo López Aranda. Televisión Española. Alfredo Mañas Aldo Tonti Pablo G. Televisión Española José Luis Dibildos Hans Burmann José María Biurrún María Luisa Ponte (Doña Rosa) José Sacristán (Martín Marco) 108 minutes Ventura Pons Ventura Pons Els Films de la Rambla. Televisió de Catalunya Sergi Belbel. José Luis Dibildos. Angelino Fons. Ventura Pons Jesús Escosa Pere Abadal Rosa María Sardà (woman) David Selvas (young man) 90 minutes .

Televetia. Claudie Ossard Productions Montxo Armendáriz. Ricardo López Aranda Juan Martín Benito José María Biurrún Ana Belén (Fortunata) François Eric Gendron (Juanito) Maribel Martín (Jacinta) Mario Pardo (Maximiliano) Ten episodes of approximately 60 minutes Running Time: Historias del Kronen (1995) Director: Producer: Production Companies: Scriptwriters: Director of Photography: Editor: Main Actors: Running Time: Nazarín (1958) Director: Producer: Production Company: Scriptwriters: Director of Photography: Editor: Main Actors: Montxo Armendáriz Elías Querejeta Elías Querejeta. Ten-part television series Director: Executive Producer: Production Companies: Scriptwriters: Director of Photography: Editor: Main Actors: Mario Camus Salvador Augustín Televisión Española. José Ángel Mañas Alfredo Mayo Rosario Saínz de Rozas Juan Diego Botto (Carlos) Jordi Mollá (Roberto) 95 minutes Running Time: Luis Buñuel Manuel Barbáchano Ponce Producciones Barbáchano Ponce Luis Buñuel. Telefrance Mario Camus.168 FILMOGRAPHY Running Time: Liana Orfei (Jacinta) Emma Penella (Fortunata) Máximo Valverde (Juanito) 108 minutes Fortunata y Jacinta (1980). Julio Alejandro Gabriel Figueroa Carlos Savage Marga López (Beatriz) Rita Macedo (Ándara) Francisco Rabal (Nazarín) 97 minutes .

Ricardo Franco Luis Cuadrado Pablo G. Elías Querejeta. del Amo Maribel Ferrero (Lola) José Luis Gómez (Pascual) Diana Pérez de Guzmán (Rosario) 106 minutes Running Time: La Regenta (1974) Director: Producer: Production Company: Scriptwriter: Director of Photography: Editor: main Actors: Running Time: Gonzalo Suárez Emiliano Piedra Emiliano Piedra Producción Juan Antonio Porto Luis Cuadrado José Antonio Rojo Keith Baxter (Fermín) Nigel Davenport (Álvaro) Emma Penella (Ana) 89 minutes La Regenta (1995). Three-part television series Director: Executive Producer: Production Companies: Scriptwriter: Director of Photography: Editor: Main Actors: Fernando Méndez Leite Eduardo Ducay Classic Films Producción.FILMOGRAPHY 169 Pascual Duarte (1976) Director: Producer: Production Company: Scriptwriters: Director of Photography: Editor: Main Actors: Ricardo Franco Elías Querejeta Elías Querejeta Emilio Martínez Lázaro. Televisión Española Fernando Méndez Leite Rafael Casenave Nieves Martín Juan Luis Galiardo (Álvaro) Carmelo Gómez (Fermín) Aitana Sánchez Gijón (Ana) Three episodes of approximately 90 minutes Running Time: .

170 FILMOGRAPHY Los santos inocentes (1984) Director: Producer: Production Companies: Scriptwriters: Director of Photography: Editor: Main Actors: Mario Camus Julián Mateos Ganesh Producciones Cinematográficas. Julio Alejandro José F. Les Films Corona Luis Buñuel. Televisión Española Vicente Aranda. Televisión Española Antonio Larreta. Manuel Matjí. Antonio Rabinad Juan Amarós Teresa Font Victoria Abril (Florita) Imanol Arias (Pedro) 107 minutes Running Time: Luis Buñuel Joaquín Gurruchaga. Eduardo Ducay Época Films. Morgana Films. Mario Camus Hans Burmann José María Biurrún Alfredo Landa (Paco) Terele Pávez (Régula) Francisco Rabal (Azarías) 105 minutes Running Time: Tiempo de silencio (1986) Director: Executive Producer: Production Companies: Scriptwriters: Director of Photography: Editor: Main Actors: Running Time: Tristana (1970) Director: Executive Producers: Production Companies: Scriptwriters: Director of Photography: Editor: Main Actors: Vicente Aranda Carlos Durán Lola Films. Talía Films. Selenia Cinematográfica. Aguayo Pedro del Rey Catherine Deneuve (Tristana) Lola Gaos (Saturna) Franco Nero (Horacio) Fernando Rey (Lope) 95 minutes .

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37–53 Villanueva. pp. L. P. 1–20 —— ed. Introduction. ed. The Oxford Companion to Spanish Literature (Oxford: Clarendon Press) Whelehan. in Woolf 1943b.. Narration in Light: Studies in Cinematic Point of View (Baltimore: John Hopkins University Press) Wood. 1999.. London... Cambridge University) Williams. 2001a. M. in Cartmell and Whelehan 1999. G. 1999. The Death of the Moth and Other Essays (London: Hogarth) —— 1977. 1991. ‘The Corruption of Accidents: Buñuel’s That Obscure Object of Desire (1977) from the Novel The Woman and the Puppet by Pierre Louÿs’.. 199–206 Williams. 103–16 . o la crítica norteamericana ante el cine español (Valencia: Episteme) —— 2002. G. in Harrington 1977. pp. ‘Tormentors and Tormented: Buñuel’s Women’. ‘Introduction’. E. 1986. in Kuenzli 1996. pp. E. S. K. 1981. G... 185–210 Vincendeau. pp. 1978. in Brooker 1992. pp. ‘Adaptations: The Contemporary Dilemmas’. 1992. 3–19 Widdis. The Novel and the Cinema (Cranbury NJ: Associated University Presses) Walsh. 1999. Viewing Positions: Ways of Seeing Film (New Brunswick. T.. ‘De cuerpo presente: en torno a las raíces literarias del “Nuevo Cine Español” ’. in Horton and Magretta 1981b. in Peña Ardid 1999a. D. The Sphinx in the City: Urban Life... ‘The Critical Grasp: Buñuelian Cinema and its Critics’. 2nd edn (London: Routledge) —— 1992. pp. 1992. pp. NJ: Rutgers University Press) —— 1996. 82–94 Wilson. in Gies 2002. pp.. 1994b.. Institute of Romance Studies. ‘Middlebrow’. ‘A Cultural Mapping of Catalonia’. 1943a. in Vincendeau 2001a. 1998. Television: Technology and Cultural Form.. V. 113–19 —— 1943b. I.. in Heredero 2002b.. Film/Literature/Heritage: A Sight and Sound Reader (London: British Film Institute) —— 2001b. The Country and the City (London: Hogarth) —— 1990. ‘The Movies and Reality’. Senate House.. 1998. 1975. Figures of Desire: A Theory and Analysis of Surrealist Film (Berkeley: University of California Press) —— 1994a.. ‘Projecting a Soviet Space: Exploration and Mobility in Soviet Film and Culture 1920–1935’ (Diss. pp. R.188 BIBLIOGRAPHY Vilarós. El extraño viaje: el celuloide atrapado por la cola. 329–40 —— 2000. pp. pp. The Representation of the Past: Museums and Heritage in the Post-Modern World (London: Routledge) Ward.. 1985. xi–xxxi Wagner. 264–8 Zunzunegui. El mono del desencanto: una crítica cultural de la transición española (1973–1993) (Madrid: Siglo Veintiuno de España) —— 2002. the Control of Disorder and Women (London: Virago) Wilson. paper delivered at Buñuel 2000 Centenary Conference. 14 September Woolf. signos de narración’. in Williams 1994b. ‘The Metropolis and the Emergence of Modernism’. M. ‘Novela y cine.

7. 129 Álvarez Quintero. 67 Historias del Kronen (film). 55. 9. 156 Allen. 18–19 female spectatorship. 152 Aranda. 7. 11–12. 34. 72. 11–12. 164 see also Buñuel. 128–9. 163 Barbáchano Ponce. 127. Jane. 2. 129. 72. 80 auteurs/auteurist cinema. Pedro Antonio de. 51–3 Actrius. 44. 33 El lute. 110 El amante bilingüe (film). 152 Alarcón. 43 ‘absolute space’. Enrique. 89. 161 audiences changes in Spanish audiences. 35. 81. 76. Jean. 72 Aub. 54. 55. 143. 66. Ventura Aguayo. 88. 67 Las cartas de Alou. Pedro. 45. Roland. El (zarzuela). 26 alcalde de Zalamea. El (film). 12. 82. 97. 61. 39. 110–24. Joaquín and Serafín. Francisco. 33 Fata Morgana. 103 Baudrillard. 81. 97. 124 Aranda. 40 La muchacha de las bragas de oro (film). 65. 128. 101. 24. Saura. 20. 71. 58. 65. 108–9. 67 Navarrese Riverside. 165 Navarrese Charcoal Burners. 41. 163 defined. 44 Tiempo de silencio (film). 95. 116–17. 33–45. 100 Barcelona. 164 Baudelaire. 10. 25. 78. 13. Vicente. 86 Arias. 74. 90. 69. 33–4. 10 Alejandro. 120 Austen. 77. 163 defined. see Barbieri.INDEX Ábel Sánchez (film). 56. Carlos authenticity. 92. 11. 40. 38. Víctor. 73. El (play). 15. Pío. 67–72. 54. see Pons. 130. 136 barberillo de Lavapiés. 61–3. 73–5. 102. 21. 67 Tasio. 78. Victoria. see Aranda. 84. 75. 66. 100. Leopoldo La Regenta (novel). 118. 114. 110 Baroja. 66. 28. 40 Armendáriz. 95. 17. 76. 19. 103. Erice. 98 see also postmodernism . 85–6. 24. 92 Todo sobre mi madre. 51–3 ‘abstract space’. 29–33. 33. 90. 70 Almodóvar. 24. 76. 46. 151. 73. 105. Montxo. Charles. 33 Si te dicen que caí (film). 10 Barthes. Imperio. Luis Abril. 76. 119 in Benito Pérez Galdós’s work. 78. Francisco Asenjo El barberillo de Lavapiés (zarzuela). 73–4. Woody Manhattan. Dudley. 109. 161. 35. 39–40. 77. 68–71. Manuel. 81–2. 164 La busca (novel). see Buñuel. Francisco Asenjo Barbieri. 165–6 Argentina. 72. 73 Althusser. 77. Julio. Max. 77 see also Catalonia Barcelona School. 109. 33. 80. Luis. Vicente Andrew. 78. José. Imanol. 67 Silencio roto. 36–7. 10 Abismos de pasión (film). 80n amante bilingüe. 10 Alas. Louis. 140 Alberich. 50. 133 auteur studies. 8 ángel del hogar nineteenth-century discourse of.

Pedro. Albert La Peste. 128. 124 Bluestone. 135. 134. 161 Bringas. 134. 165 Viridiana. Joseph Belle Époque. 52. 154. Luis Belle de jour (novel). 24–33. 152. 127 Cet obscur objet du désir (film). 59. 127 Un chien andalou. 19. 55–6. 133. 11. Pancho. 24. 127. 72 Bergman. 10 Los santos inocentes (film). 113 Belbel. 60–5. 130. 24–5 La casa de Bernarda Alba (film). 22 Bibatua. 133 Brooksbank Jones. Keith. 120. 25 Cape Fear. 70. 15. 25 Fortunata y Jacinta (television series). 128. Martin Carey. Aitor. 137 Bonet. Sergi. 55. 78 Boixadós. 148. 163 Belle de jour (film). María del Mar. see Kessel. David. 80. 17. see Camus. Enrique Thomas de. 127 Tristana (film). see Welles. La (film). 36–8. 129. 136. Peter. 65. 126–7. 35. 141. María Dolores. 144–5 and space. Mario. Carrero. 130. 12 Bly. Montxo casa de Bernarda Alba. 113 Burmann. 162 Mexican period. John. 77. 125. 142. 13. Wolfman. 31 Campanadas a medianoche. 104 Bell. Carlos Carranza. 131 Bizet. 136. 45. 19. 72–7. 24. 49. 88. Jacinto. see Pérez Galdós. 127. Sergi Carmen (film). 135. 150. Hans. 12. see Belbel. see Baroja. 119. 99–100. 163. 16. 127 Ensayo de un crimen (film). 34. 127. 64 busca. Giuliana. Jaime La vieja memoria. 13 Carícies (film). 135. Ingmar Persona. Carlos body. 54 Bloom. 15. 148–61. 41 Camus. 126. 9 Benet i Jornet. 23. 11. see Delibes. Pío Cabrera. 129. 22. 136. see Buñuel. see Saura. 26. 164. 90. Ventura Carícies (play). Ana. 4–5. Daniel. 135 Bou. 141. 89 cartas de Alou. 25. 165 Robinson Crusoe (film). 128. 24 La colmena (film). 89. 16. 164. 72 Carícies (play). 64 Buñuel. 87. 78. 153 late French period. 136.190 INDEX Baxter. 15. see Fons. 21 Blanco. El (novel). 134. Orson Camus. 161 Abismos de pasión (film). 127 Le Journal d’une femme de chambre (film). 165. 162 Burman. 144 Él (film). Mario . 3–4. see Trueba. 162. see Scorsese. 21–2. see Saura. 143. 149. Angelino busca. 74–5. Charlotte Wuthering Heights (novel). Fernando Benavente. 78 Belén. 50. Harold. 12. Anny. 126. 130 bicicletas son para el verano. La de (novel). 131–2. see Pons. 87. 11. 128 Nazarín (film). 17. 86. 162 Betriu. 99 Bruno. Núria. 22 Réquiem por un campesino español (film). 40. 88. 161. Luis. 75 Borau. 17. 126. 163. Miguel. 59. 17. 18 Bikandi-Mejias. 134 Brechtian aesthetics. Josep María. 133. 12. 53 Belle de jour (film). 136–47. George. 134. see Armendáriz. 148. Las (film). 122. 10 camino. Edward. 127–8. 46. 127. 73 Branigan. La (novel). 127 as auteur. Georges. 127 Calderón de la Barca. 63. 127–8. La (film). Benito Brontë. 166 Los farsantes. 156. Las. Miguel Camino. 165 La leyenda del alcalde de Zalamea (film). 162. 117. 97–108. 138–9 Bodas de sangre (film). 161. 15. 166 Young Sánchez. 54 Bordwell. Francesc La plaza del diamante (film). José Luis Furtivos.

Daniel. Camilo José Cominges. 142. 45 Dickens. 145. 35. see Camus. 31. 15 D’Lugo. Miguel. 28. 62 Castilla. 111 Davenport. 142 disability/disablement. 125 Doane. 30. 45 La familia de Pascual Duarte. Nigel.). 92–3. Juan Miguel. 37. La (novel). 130 Christianity. 165 Diblidos. 50 Claver. Catholicism CIFESA (Compañía Industrial del Film Español. Mario colmena. 110. 108 caza. 30. S. 158. 16 city. 154 Clarke. 35–6. 40. 143. 31. Marvin. 43. 80 Dieterle. lo castellano y los castellanos. 39 rituals. Antonio. 60 El camino (novel). 27. 142. 34. 54. 24 Catalonia identity. Jorge de. 130 Company Gimeno. Jacques. 31. 124. 139. 57–8. 34. 144. William Salomé. 93. Seymour. 78. see Cela. 131 as creative catalyst. 138. 152–3. Emma. 130. 31. lo castellano y los castellanos. 59. 144. 54. 137. see Buñuel. Enrique. Camilo José. Un. 86 David and Bathsheba. El. Lisa. 40. Tales for an Accelerated Culture. 24–33. see urban space Civil War. 133. 137. 22. 141 Doane. 90. 10. 127 Delibes. 138. 157. 18 Dialogue entre un prêtre et un moribund. 140 Don Quijote (novel). 15. Luis Charnon-Deutsch. 154 anticlericism. 67 Cría cuervos. 17.A. 10 Colmena. Porfirio. Marquis de Díaz. La (film). 77 censorship under Franco. 77. Mary Ann. 79. see Saura. 33. the. Lou. 121 Chatman. 157 Bible Epic films of. 44 avoidance of. 31–2. 52. the. 4n. 145 Cet obscur objet du désir (film). 147. Bruno. 21. 128 see also estética franquista Certeau. 135 chien andalou. Carlos Cela. 30. 19 Company. 86 country. 26. 48. 137. 95 documentary. 81. 165 La colmena (novel). 22. Miguel Castro. see Sade. 22. 33 see also authenticity . 60 Castilla. 158–9. 9–10. Miguel de. 40 clavo. Enriqueta. 30. 153. 146. John. 76 Derrida. representations of. 60–5. 146. 34 colmena. Douglas Generation X. Catherine. 128 abolition of. 84–5. Janice. 60 Las ratas (novel). 41 Condé. 76 Cervantes. 54–9. 148 iconography. Juan Miguel. 62. 157. Luis Chopin. 54. 160 Corazzari. 142. 75. 143. 21. 9n. Frédéric. 21. 74. see rural space Coupland. 144. 60 Los santos inocentes (novel). 148–9. 154. 140. David. see Buñuel. 32 Caughie. 50–1. 57. 8–9n. 23 cinema-TVE deal of 1979. 78 Deneuve. 72 see also Barcelona Catholicism.INDEX 191 Castile. 159 Divinas palabras (film). the. 142 Defoe. José Luis. see Saura. 147 New Testament. 69. 119–20. representations of. 80. Carlos Cuadrado. 76 literature. 38. 128 Dent Coad. 160 iconography. Salvador. 138 see also ángel del hogar. 161 deafness/deaf-muteness. Luis. 54 ‘desencanto’. 16. 54. see Delibes. 27. 40 Company Ramón. 114. 130. 112. El. 7 desencanto. 37–8. 40. 66. 12. La. 60. 141. Charles. 54. 145. Michel de.

Ricardo Fouz-Hernández. 165 post-war period (años de hambre). 22. Mario. 120. 68. 154. 8–9. Francisco. 108. 95–7. 90. 75. 129 Figueroa. Raymond. Gwynne. 140 Eidsvick. 97. 131 1898 Generation. 10. 78. 9 Fernández-Santos. 112. 12 f lâneur. see Aranda. 144. Ricardo Fortunata y Jacinta (television series). 37 women’s roles. 11 El espíritu de la colmena. Robin. 120. S. Gustave. Mario Fata Morgana. 10 España. 22. 113. see Camus. 114. 88. Luis Miguel. 103. Luis Erice. 97 French New Wave. Santiago. 90. 99. 112. 119 Don Quijote (novel). 120 literary criticism. 80. 71. see Buñuel. 10 La verdad sobre el caso Savolta (novel). Miguel de Don Quijote (television series). 107. La. 22. 11. 6. 87. 129. Edward. 13 Fernández Flórez. see Erice. 12. Angelino Fortunata y Jacinta (novel). T. 5. 9. Camilo José farsantes. 40. 24 Evans. Spanishness Francoist cinema (cine oficial). 71 Fiddian. 3. 10 españolada/folklórica. Sigmund. 125. John 5. 128. 148–9. 9 Durgnat. 148–9 ‘the woman question’.192 INDEX Don Juan Tenorio (play). 109–10. 110 Freud. 2. Vicente feminism. representations of the past. 21–2. 109. 54–9. 143. 27. 86. Wenceslao. 133. 148. see Buñuel. 113–15. 21 see also oppositional cinema europeanization of Spanish cinema. 103. 89–97. 107. Rafael de. 165 Fortunata y Jacinta (film). La. Ángel. 34. 94. 36. 43. 39. 124–5. 21. 121. Peter. see Fons. Pierre Fernán Gómez. 69 Franco. see Welles. see Cervantes. 145. 23. 3–4. La (film). El (film). 101. Luis Eliot. 20. 160 female perspective. rural space. 106 Fons. López Aranda. 60–1. El. 26. 125 see also censorship under Franco. 16–17. 18–19. 131. 148–9. see Pérez Galdós. 11. Josefa estética franquista. 21. Ricardo.. 40. Antonio. 54 Pascual Duarte. 21 La leyenda del alcalde de Zalamea (film). 82. 32. see Camus. 106. 86. 114. Dru. Los. 117. 128. Angelino La busca (film). 27. 99 Fernández. 128. 149 . 48. 86 Edwards. 148. 77. 21 duquesa de Benamejí. 108. 9 espíritu de la colmena. 132. 30. 81. 84–5. 93. Richard. 86. 11. 10. 53 Ellis. 119–20. 148–9. Víctor Esquilache. 105. 84–5. Sección Femenina. 44 familia de Pascual Duarte. 130. 12. 88. 85. 78. 111. 107–8. 164 film criticism. 164. Gabriel. 35–6. 105. 157 Femme et le pantin. 130 Friedman. Concha. 143 film noir. 140 Dougherty. 21 Fortunata y Jacinta (film). 98. see Cela. 28. 100. Benito Doré. 63. 11. see López Aranda. see Louÿs. Benito Fortunata y Jacinta (play). 12. 15 Franco. 21 ‘Fidelity Criticism’. 61 death of. 165–6 Francoism. 136–7 existentialism. 124. 37 Frankfurt school. Charles. 49. 54 escándalo. 98 Ensayo de un crimen (film). 86 Espina. see Molina. 132 exile. Víctor as auteur. Orson Doña Perfecta (novel). 89 Don Quijote (unfinished film). 60 Él (film). 13. 40 Drove. 123. 138. 26. see Pérez Galdós. 142. 1 Dyer. 9. Fernando.

1. 50–1. 124 Isabel II. 161 Horton. Montxo Historias del Kronen (novel). 133 Godard. 105. 133. 145 Graham. 108 Hernández Ruiz. 164 García Lorca. 67 Halma (novel). 52. 129. 146. 131–2. 2. 165 gendered spaces. 42 The 39 Steps (film). 147 Hooper. 47. 163 Hardy. see Borau. 121 Gómez.W. 66 Haussmann. 78 Jagoe. 157 feminist theories of. Federico. 165 Furtivos. 82 Gubern. 20. 10 Historias del Kronen (film). 160 Jameson. 152 golfos. 82 Giles. 18. 125 Hollywood. 1. 122. 119–20. 124. 48. 101–6. 84–5. 145. 121. 113–15. 83 Havard. José Ángel historical film. 163. 130. 16. 111–12. 138. 76. 94–5. 142 Greco. 111. Antonio. 156. Marsha. Los. 66. 79–80. 44. Douglas Genette. Javier. 21. 93. Bruce. 95–6 García Abril. Carlos Gómez. 2 Stage Fright. 142 . 64 Juanita la larga (television series). 129 Hutcheon. 22. Helen. 76 inquietudes de Shanti Andia. 125. Gérard. 45–6 see also postmodernism Journal d’une femme de chambre. José Luis. Carmelo. 21. 15 Gospel According to St Matthew. 164 in television. 48. 58 González. Susan. 40–1. 133. Diego. 81. La. 59. 55. see Buñuel. 165. 52–3. 94 in television. 17. 17. 23. 158–9. see Coupland. José Luis Gades. see Pasolini. 140. Sandra. 135. 120–4. Gerald. 84 Italian Neorealism. Tales for an Accelerated Culture. 74. 69. 17. 79 Gubar. Joseph Belle de jour (novel). John. 70. 33. 94. 15. Gérard. see Mañas. 25. 69. 84–5. 122–4 implied male perspective in film. 7–8. 94–5. 125 Generation X. 153. 65. 60. Andrew. 87. Barry. 125 see also feminism industrialization. 127 Kids. 45–6 see also postmoderism identification in film. 77 García Escudero. Román. 57. El. 97. 80 Kawin. 107. 64. 134 Haine. 10. 2n. 10 intertextuality. 86. 100 Galán. 94. Las (film). 91 Greatest Story Ever Told. 142. 110. 135. 78. The (film). Susan. 110. 87–8. 137 Kessel. 82–4. 160. 97. Thomas. 135 Strangers on a Train. 107–8. 86. The. see Saura. 23. 9–10. Fredric. 30. 30 García Berlanga. Alfred Sabotage. Paul 98 Gillepsie. 163–4 in literature. Benito ‘hapticality’. 143. John. 84–5. 111–12. 11–12. 47. Devon. see Pérez Galdós. 58. 83. 21 ‘heritage film’. 67 Kinder. Carlos. 59. 7 Heredero. 155 Keown. 45. 159.INDEX 193 Fuenteovejuna (film). José María. Pier Paolo Gozlan. Linda. 155 Hayward. Antón. 82. 124. representations of the past Hitchcock. 117–19. 65. John. 120–1. 166 see also postmodernism. Felipe. 164 Irving. 62. George. 132. see Armendáriz. Luis Jordan. 52–3 Hopewell. Tom. Catherine. Le (film). D. 37. 63. Luis. 106–7. 32. 6 Gershwin. 97.. 110 Historia de una escalera (film). Baron. 56. 22 Gunning. 41. 160 King of Kings. 150. 2 Hodges. 150 Griffith. 17. 93–5. Robert. 97. Dominic. 85. 114. 70 Gilbert. 120. Jean-Luc. 63.

5 Llanto por un bandido. 73–6. 147 . 56 Mirbeau. see Perojo. see Suárez. 66. 86 Marsé. Woody Mañas. 115. 12. 40 contemporary. 47. 118. 82 leyenda del alcalde de Zalamea. see implied male perspective Mandrell. James. 74. Las. Rob. Joan. José Ángel Historias del Kronen (novel). 144. 83. 154–61. see Camus. 15 lute. 6–7. 33–45 Marxism. 12. Manuel. 9 literacy. 69. 80. 101–3. 15 Losilla. 4. ‘abstract space’ León. 106. 13. Mercedes. Alfredo. 24 Miller. 67–71 Magretta. 43. 106 male gaze. 22 Lasch. 126. see Scorsese. 162 modernisme. 39. Fernando. 77 Marcus. see Saura. 132. 13. 140–7. Henri. see Allen. 73. 58–9. 69. 103. 86. 33 Martialay. Benito Mariscal. Octave.194 INDEX Labanyi. 40. Alfredo. 97. 164 Mañas. Martin Lefebvre. 9 Machado. Gonzalo Madrid nineteenth-century. Josefa Esquilache. Emilio. 18 Lara. 139. 91. 13. 135–6. Antonio. 42. 11. Michael. 7 Mexican cinema. Drove. 127 Miró. 72. Pilar. 70. Fray Luis de La perfecta casada. 77. 164–5 modernism. see Pérez Galdós. 48. 106 López-Baralt. 97. 89 Fortunata y Jacinta (television series). 163 see also ‘absolute space’. 151 Lacan. 24. 18. 165 Merchant/Ivory films. 19–20. 104. 10 McFarlane. 100. 111 Manhattan. 18 Martín. 124 Last Temptation of Christ. 34. 18. 95. 129 Mahoney. 100. 37. 34. 127. 21 Monegal. 83–4. Félix. Juan de. Jo. 15–16 ‘Miró’ decrees. 127 Luces de Bohemia (film). 115 La Regenta (television series). 10 López. Susan. 129. 79. 8. Brian. Carlos. La (film). Antonio. 64–5 see also nostalgia Méndez Leite. La (part of Los Pazos de Ulloa television series). 9 madre naturaleza. 95. Vicente Machado. 4–5. 14. 92. 62. 21 Metz. 104. 105 Martín Gaite. 54. 98 largas vacaciones del 36. 115 ‘Miró adaptations’. 103. 104. 137 see also postmodernism Mata Moncho Aguirre. La (film). 136–7 ‘middlebrow’. 16. 78. 65. 86 Martín-Santos. see Aranda. 117–19 Linares. 67–72. 64 Lapsley. 107. Norberto. 29–30. muerte de un poeta. Carlos Lola se va a los puertos. Christopher. 126. 90 Martínez-Lázaro. 94–5. 31. 132 Landa. 76 Lara. 55. Benito Marianela (novel). 87. Pierre La Femme et le pantin. 27. 89. 125. Sharon. Jacques. 53 ‘mindscreen’. 130. 125 Marianela (film). Carmen. 99 López Aranda. Luis. 19 Louÿs. 9 Lope de Vega. 109. 20 memory. Luisa María. 47. 28. Ana. 108 Mérimée. 131 Minden. Maribel. Prosper. 105 Lorca. 164 Mínguez Arranz. 40. Ricardo Fortunata y Jacinta (play). 19–20. Antonio. 130–1. Elisabeth. 13. 34. 57 Martin-Márquez. 82. 76 see also Barcelona Molina. 140. Fernando Director-General of Film. 51–3. Mario. El. Christian. 67. 15. Beth. 165 Tiempo de silencio (novel). 150–3. Antonio liminality. 60. The. 61. Juan. the. 115–24. Charo. 16. 56. 143 post-war. 128.

Ricardo Pasolini. Pedro. 97. see Franco. 32. 98. 56 narration in television imagery. 38. 164 first-person. 20. 55. 85–6. 28. 95 Ortega y Gasset. 91–3. see Pons. Franco. 45–6. see Buñuel. 49. rural space Notari. 164 . 144. Laura. 149–50. 1n. 140–7. 155. 91–3. 80. 154 opposition to Franco in culture. 111. 14. 151. 80. 73. 139. 62–3. 25. 56. Benito. 73 Pérez Galdós. 45. Jesús. 129–30. 89. 124–5. 62 Pazos de Ulloa. 120. 12. 33. 41 in cinema. 38. 164 Ocaña. 150–3. 21. 54. 149–50. see French New Wave nineteenth-century novel. 100 ‘Institutional Mode of Representation’. 38. Emma in Fortunata y Jacinta (film). 21. 22. 36. 40–42. José Enrique. 40. 145–6. 27. 29–30. 138–9. 135–6. Susan. 150–1. 137 Morgan-Tamosunas. 38 novela rosa. 17. 100. 11. 63. Quim. 38–9. 10 narration in film. 108. 147 Paun de García. 50 Noticiarios y Documentales (NO-DO). 71. 84–5. 163. 15. 10. 37. 97. see Aranda. 152. 76. see Pons. 35. 127 Fortunata y Jacinta (novel). 157. 87. Rikki. 72 Mora. 163 in literature. 85. 158 Nuevo Cine Español. 140. 141. 163 self-consciousness. La (film). 131. 9 Parker. 127. 83–4. 59. 37. 15. Two Heavens. 80 affinity with film. 14. 112. 146–7. 56. José. 128. 133. 153–4. 103. 33. 142. Vicente Mulvey. see Suárez. Liana. 94. 23. 139 subjectivity. see Nuevo Cine Español New Wave. 165–6 see also postmodernism. 1 narrator. 86. 18. 9 Pérez. 88–108. Carl. 81. 48 Monzó. 134–6. 113. 136. 23. Claire. 122 as star. Ventura O’Donnell. 27–8. Colin. 85. 119. 136. 12. 61. 122 Nada (film). 67. 158–9. 138. 78. 40 Palacios. 84. 164 in La Regenta (film). narration in television naturalism. 34. 123 see also ‘reaction shot’ narrator. ‘mindscreen’. 10–11. 110–11. 164 Doña Perfecta (novel). 38. 87. 134. 155. 88. 159 see also identification. 163 imagery. 64 Morir (o no) (film). 126. Armando. 56. 136. 120. 114–15. 62. 69. 135. Los (television series). 154.. 110 Tormento (film). 37. 159 New Spanish Cinema. Alexander A. Ventura muchacha de las bragas de oro. see narration in film. Marcel. 138 Partridge. 157 self-consciousness. 79 affinity with television. 157.INDEX 195 Monk. 160 first-person. see Pérez Galdós. narration in literature. 44. Elvira. Pier Paolo The Gospel According to St Matthew (film). 148. 161. 55–6. 25. 94. rural space Orfei. Hugh. 77 Palacio Valdés. 20. voice-over narration in literature. 4. 112. Luis Nazarín (novel). 44. 62. 25. 93. 36. 110. 37. 99 Olea. 9. 157 third-person. 141. 118. 10–11. 100. 98 nostalgia. 139 Nazarín (film). 19. Xavier. 131 see also estética franquista. 89. 62. 88. 150 subjectivity. 119. 90. 144. 116–17 narrator. 89. Benito Neorealism. 85–6. Gonzalo Penella. 124. 108 Monterde. 62. 32. 136. 95–7. 116–17 narrator. retrat intermitent. 133 imagery. see Italian Neorealism Nero. 150 third-person. 100 Oms. 132–6. Carmen. 154–61. 161 Pascual Duarte. 86. 4n. 9. 27. 125. 116. 150. 95 Peña-Ardid.

163. 23. 72 popular cinema. 48 Rivelles. 88 Richards. 33. 53 Powrie. 89. 87. 37. Phil. 106 rural space. 54. 166 see also historical film. Luis Rodgers. 49. 129. 34–5. 16. Miguel. see León. see Alas. 55–6. 148 Querejeta. Emilio. 47. 5. 34. 164 Pinal. retrat intermitent. 59. 129. 67. see Pons. 12. 122–3. Ezra. Elías. 29. 129 propaganda. Laura. 29. 161. 141. 75 Ocaña. 15. 67 Quesada. 66. 136. 31–3. 73 Rose. 165 Morir (o no) (film). 148–61. 165 recuperation under democracy. 143. 72. 108. 106. 45–6 and Marxism.. 162 Regenta. 33. 72. 18 Porto. 164–5 PSOE (Partido Socialista Obrero Español). 16. 13. 90 Nazarín (novel). Amparo. La. The. 139. see Delibes. 111 postmodernism. 30 in film. 22 Rey. 133. Miguel Ray. 156 Rich. 127. 127. postmodernism Réquiem por un campesino español (film).B. 23. Mike. 57–9. 55. Silvia. 137–8. Mercè La plaza del diamante (novel). see Bergman. Benito Marianela (film). 72 Carícies (film). Juan Antonio. Las (novel). 25. 50. see Méndez Leite. 166 ‘historiographic metafiction’. 147 Rodoreda. 23. 110–11. La (film). 37–9. La (novel). 54. 139. representations of the past post-structuralism. 49. 54. 86. J. 29. 8–9n. see Betriu. 79. La. Leopoldo Regenta. 136–47. 9. 164 Pound. 23. 95. 7. 29. Adrienne. 162 see also ángel del hogar perfecta casada. 32. 47–8. 17. 128 Pinto. 19. see Rodoreda. 72–7. 37. 62. 39. see Saura. Ventura. Luis. see Suárez. Eamonn. 72 Actrius. 57. Fátima. Gonzalo Regenta. 25 Priestley. 130. 148. 78. 61 in literature. 18. 80 original/copy/‘simulacra’. 41. 40. Mercè Pons. 156. 122 realism. 63–4. 22 Rodríguz. 37. 150. 84. El (film). 40. 90 perquè de tot plegat. 45–6. 84. Francesc Retrato de familia (film). La (film). 16. 162 in literature. Mercedes. 57. 17 see also historical film. 67 Persona. La (television series). 61–2. Gillian. 151. Chris. 127 plaza del diamante. 45–6 ‘nostalgia’/‘pseudo-history’/ ‘historicity’. 16n. 90 Rabal. 79 Perojo. 136 ratas. 142. La (novel). 15. Carlos Primo de Rivera. 3 ‘reaction shot’. 14. see Betriu. 29. 30. 84. Ventura Perriam. Fernando representations of the past. 55. 131–2. 63. 162 Tormento (novel). 49. 121. 150 La de Bringas (novel). 108. 136. 64. 109 Ronde. 17. 39. 4 prima Angélica. 37. 164 psychoanalysis. 60. see Buñuel. 77. 78 dissident ruralist cinema.196 INDEX Halma (novel). 44. Ingmar Peste. 63. 23. see Camus. 109 Robe. 48. 154. 100 Tristana (novel). 54. 132. 79. 127. 85. 120. 79. Miguel La tía Tula (film). 142 Robinson Crusoe (film). Fernando. La (play). Fray Luis de period drama. 133. 165 co-option under Francoism. 53–4. 89. 86 Rivkin. 129. 12. Francesc plaza del diamante. 64 . Francisco. 49. Robert. 110. 78 in film. 53–4 co-option under Francoism. 84. 84. 149 Marianela (novel). 31. 99. 89. 119. Albert Picazo. 45. La. 127. 72 El perquè de tot plegat (film). 10 Piedra. 20. 161.

Paul Julian. 134 in film. Mario santos inocentes. Luis . see Hitchcock. 95. Casimiro. 108. 85–6. 10 Smith. Montxo Shakespeare. Los (novel). 72. 155. 61–5. 140 La caza. see Armendáriz. Alfred tía Tula. 152. 21 Francoist view of. 15 Carmen (film). 111 Los Pazos de Ulloa (television series). see Camus. Martin Cape Fear. 28. 61 Cría cuervos. Montxo Tejerazo. 21. see Olea. see Pérez Galdós. 25. 112. the. 43. 133.INDEX 197 nostalgia for. Alfred stars. 18. 33. see Unamuno. 157 Talens. 85. Aitana. 89. 67 transition to democracy. 58. La (film). 41. Kaja. 110 La madre naturaleza (part of Los Pazos de Ulloa television series). 11. 61. 57. 95. 34. The. Marquis de Dialogue entre un prêtre et un moribund. Pedro Tormento (film). 13. 136 Sánchez-Gijón. 109–10. 48. 24. 52. José Luis. 17. 15. see Aranda. 163. 87. 33. 72. Gonzalo. see Armendáriz. 80. 19. 29. 5–6. 11. 22. 79 39 Steps. 28 Sade. 127. 108–9. Patricia. 80. 93 Tasio. see Picazo. Vicente Silencio roto. Montxo Silverman. Tony. 62 Trainspotting (film). William. 1n. ‘hapticality’ Sabotage. 15. 5–7. 95. La (novel). 25 Llanto por un bandido. 117. Benito Torreiro. 61. 106 second Republic. 89 Si te dicen que caí (film). William Sánchez Noriega. 29. 96. 110–15. 87 see also Penella. 54. The (film). 49–50. 11. 23. 121 Santoro. 125. 132. 54 Tristana (film). 125 tremendismo. Alfred structuralist approach to adaptation. José. Miguel Saura. Gregorio. 122. Vicente Tiempo de silencio (novel). 124 Ten Commandments. 111 La Regenta (film). 86. Martín Todo sobre mi madre. see Dieterle. Carlos. 129. 143 as auteur. see Aranda. 165 see also ‘absolute space’. 90. 12. 147 sainete. 21. 25. 16. 25 La prima Angélica. 27. 70. Agustín. 59. 129 Secretos del corazón. 25n Bodas de sangre (film). 21. 121 sirena negra. Jenaro. 16. see Hitchcock. 155 Salomé. 130–1. 54 Scorsese. 164 see also exile Stage Fright. 86. 54 Los golfos. Pedro Tormento (novel). 4. La (film). see Hitchcock. 26. 33. see Buñuel. 76–7. 16. 98–9. 165 subjectivity. see narration in film. Alison. 161 Tanner. 85. see MartínSantos. Emma Strangers on a Train. 120. 86. 9. see Delibes. 54. the. 20. 142 theatre adaptations. 122. see Hitchcock. 97–9. 55. 60. Miguel tía Tula. 19–20. 13 see also nineteenth-century novel television studies. see Almodóvar. narration in literature subsidies. 95–7 star studies. see Civil War Spanishness of Buñuel. Miguel de Tiempo de silencio (film). 66 Spanish Civil War. 60. 86–8. 31. 8. 110 Torres Nebrera. 122 Sinclair. 88 Sánchez Vidal. see Armendáriz. Alfred Sacristán. 99 television adaptations. 6 The Last Temptation of Christ. Los (film). 163 Suárez. 63 santos inocentes. 128. 147 Sección Femenina. 164–5 see also ‘Miró’ decrees surrealism. 87 female.

103. 63. Linda. 47–8. Wim Wings of Desire. 49. 49. see Camino. Luis ‘visuality’. 73. 66 in literature. 12 violence. Ginette. 68–9. 48. 163 political. 39. 78. 61. 50–1. 164 La tía Tula (novel). 74. 73–5. 49. Benito Trueba. 17. 52. 12. see Drove. Jaime Vincendeau. Miguel de. Antonio Vernon. see Buñuel. 51. Máximo. 23. 49–50. 69–71. 135. 76 Widdis. 2n. 46. 69.198 INDEX Tristana (novel). Charlotte Young Sánchez. George. see Camus. 138 Usigli. 132–3. 128. Orson Campanadas a medianoche. 127 Utrera. 74. 13. 103–6 in film. Elizabeth. 60. 50. 52. Wim Wood. 89 Wenders. 55. 71. Fernando. Raymond. 163 voice-over. 86 verdad sobre el caso Savolta. 66. 56–9. 55. 133 Woolf. 68–9. 41. 53. Virginia. 77. 78 see also ‘abstract space’. 98 Wilson. 70. 163. Mario youth. 68. Elvira UCD (Unión de Centro Democrático). Kathleen 57 vieja memoria. 50 Two Heavens. 29. La. 162 Wings of Desire. Rodolfo. 15 Valverde. 50 Williams. 103–6 violence in. 77. Michael. 53 Wuthering Heights (novel). 144 Williams. 31. 58 Valle-Inclán. 70–1 zarzuela. 53. 65. 76. La (film). 50–1. see Wenders. 47. 66. 89 Don Quijote (unfinished film). 165 in television. see Pérez Galdós. 95. Ramón María del. 164 Unamuno. 144. 5. 107. 10 urban space. Emma. 78. 49–50. ‘visuality’ Urey. 54. 7. Rafael. 126. 70. 67. 122–3 Welles. 34 Belle Époque. 60. 59. see Notari. 73. 100 . 166 see also urban space Viridiana. 105 Wilson. see Brontë. 48. 16. 67. Diane.

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