My experience with writing/directing duo Los Javis pretty much starts and ends with their judging duties on the ridiculously entertaining Drag Race España. Thus, my expectations were more of curiosity than anything else going into their newest collaboration, La Bola Negra, which translates directly as ‘the black ball.’ Somehow, this timeless tale has plenty to say about our ancestors, and how precious and important it is to live every single day to the fullest. It might sound like a simple message, but this film has been beautifully crafted from top to bottom with the utmost care. Spanning generations of queer love, heartbreak, political persecution, and artistic expression, Javier Calvo and Javier Ambrossi weave three stories into an achingly real tapestry about the importance of preserving our history. With breathtaking cinematography, lush performances, and potent emotional power, La Bola Negra is a modern masterpiece of Spanish cinema.
Despite knowing next to nothing about Spanish history, the Javis make everything easily accessible to the average viewer. It also helps that each of the three intersecting chapters have time period labels and concise focal points. La Bola Negra opens with the first of our stitched-together stories. Amid the devastation of the Spanish Civil War, trumpet player Sebastián (Guitarricadelafuente) struggles to survive after the bombing of his village. He is forced to join Franco’s Nationalist army, where he gets assigned to guard an important, chiseled prisoner named Rafael Rodríguez (Miguel Bernardeau). With his abdomen torn open and his body covered in bandages, former actor/footballer Rafael seems vulnerable but complex. Sebastián’s assignment essentially becomes pumping Rafael for information; yet, the duo appear to recognize something within one another that will forever alter the course of their lives. The intimacy of their connection, even with the division of being on opposite sides of the war for their country, is mesmerizing. Sebastián is certainly not a Fascist by choice, either. Guitarricadelafuente and Bernardeau have excellent chemistry that makes them a favorite to revisit throughout the two-and-a-half-hour runtime.
In 1932, young gay Carlos (Milo Quifes) desperately seeks acceptance within a prestigious casino. Members will vote for his admittance using white balls for approval or black balls for denial. Despite Carlos’s enthusiasm, his application is overwhelmingly rejected after the vote, bringing embarrassment to his family. They quite bluntly have voted based on assuming Carlos is a homosexual. Suffocating expectations surround him, as his disappointed father insists that Carlos should return to the casino and demand a re-vote. A growing closeness with Enrique (Hugo Welzel), a handsome anarchist, suggests the possibility of a different kind of future, one where Carlos can finally embrace his true identity. These 1932 segments are gorgeously realized with stunning sequences of clarity that tie together the entire movie. Quifes pours his soul into his portrayal of Carlos in the film’s breakout performance.
Shifting to 2017, Alberto (Carlos González), as queer as his fellow leads, navigates modern life and relationships. He unexpectedly receives a call that his grandfather, whom he has never met, has died. A surprising inheritance left behind drives an even deeper wedge between Alberto and his awful mother. At the encouragement of his supportive roommate (Julio Torres), Alberto journeys to a distant village to uncover a collection of family secrets, including an old letter and a mysterious manuscript. At first glance, this chapter’s contents may appear to be the least compelling. The period piece costuming that stood out in the other portions is missing, and so too are the expansive landscapes. The scale feels dialed back and more reserved. Yet, from the second Alberto enters the distant town, everything changes.
The way these separate pieces intersect is part of what make it all so special. These aren’t merely segments, but parts of the same whole, stitched together with expert precision. The specificity carves out a unique niche among other gay films this year. We’ve had Leviticus, Heartstopper Forever, and even Blue Film. Nothing has emerged that feels quite as sprawling as La Bola Negra. Rafael’s nervousness, his fascination with Sebastián’s body, and the intimacy of their interactions feels truly authentic. The film incorporates nudity and sexuality in an organic manner, never treating the male body as shameful or ugly. Instead, these moments become expressions of longing and desire in a world where even acknowledging those feelings can have ugly consequences.
The nuances are peppered throughout other elements of the film as well. A dazzling sequence at the Ritz, filled with music and celebration, offers a brief glimpse of freedom before the war comes crashing back into focus. Penélope Cruz leaves her mark as a complicated performer offering a moment of reprieve. In the modern day story, Glenn Close plays a famous historian whose research into playwright Federico García Lorca becomes essential to Alberto’s search for his own identity within the greater framework of his grandfather’s legacy. Lorca and other characters are real, plucked straight from the pages of Spanish history, and the movie itself was inspired by Lorca’s own infamous unfinished work. That the Javis and co-writer Alberto Conejero are able combine all elements coherently is a miracle, but that the movie itself feels so vibrant and lively despite the subject matter is another case entirely.
La Bola Negra transports us to multiple viewpoints easily, often even allowing the music to bleed over into the next scene. A surreal, almost dreamlike sequence set in an endless snowy landscape makes for a stunning visual departure from everything that came before. From the destruction of wartime Spain to the beauty of the mountains, each timeline contains its own distinct atmosphere while remaining part of a cohesive experience. The transitions between past and present allow surprising overlapping parallelism. There’s a poetic quality to the editing by combining these stories. Each seamless connection deepens the emotional significance of what came before. Generations of queer people were forced to hide their identities or suffer for merely loving someone. Alberto’s privelege to live more openly becomes an extension of the sacrifices that came before him.
La Bola Negra‘s definition of grief and grander familial takeaways spoke to me on an unexpected personal level. Having lost my mother and grandparents, I found myself connecting with the idea that the people we love never truly disappear as long as we continue carrying them forward. There are so many things I wish I could ask them, and consequently so much about their lives that I can never fully comprehend. Life is painfully short. We can never assume there will be another chance to say what’s in your heart. Some stories deserve to be preserved forever, just like the works of Lorca himself. La Bola Negra makes the case of spreading its potent message locked into place for all eternity. History should be recognized, especially when we stand on the shoulders of our ancestors every single day.
La Bola Negra unearths the past in theaters now, and comes to Netflix worldwide on December 2nd.
