Wednesday of this week we sought to understand and read competently Gothic and Bromance as filmic narratives, and to tease out their relation with transnational fascist tales. To connect them to better see what role these and other signs play in the interplay of fascism and religiosity in Spain.
How does a critique of the self (such as the Gothic), or of masculinity (such as Bromance) contribute to a radical questioning of Nationalism and , religiosity in the midst of fascist legacies, and their signs in Spain–manipulated historical memory, exceptionalism, and imperial politics? How hidden continuities provoke terror and laughter at once? How do new directions in film in the Spain of the 90s at once install and discard homoerotic relations between men, and classic religious iconographies and myths, thus questioning the very heart of traditional politics and religion? The essays by Oria and Oliete-Aldea can help us generate a good discussion about Gothic and Bromance film narratives, as well as their Transnational Dimension, as well as one of the most poignant films about neofascism and neo-Nationalism, Alex de la Iglesia’s El día de la Bestia / Day of the Beast (1995), a noir comedy with apocalyptic strokes that points to the need to reconsider folkloric, nostalgic panoramas of Spanish literature and cinema. Beast counts on one of the most memorable performances by the then rising star of stinking and grunchy masculinity, Santiago Segura, later on canonized by the series known by his fictive last name, Torrente (Spain’s truly disgusting Borat).
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The Day of the Beast is a bizarre and unexpectedly funny film. The gender dynamics clearly favor men, which is interesting to see in comparison to the previous films we watched like Dark Habits and Cría Cuervos that center around women. The Bromance in The Day of the Beast redefines the boundaries of male friendship and takes small steps to reject the hyper-masculinity of fascist Spain, but does so in a way that represents women’s value as either sex objects who allow men to share space and affection without fear of being labeled “gay” or as innocent virgins to exploit. Oria describes the Spanish use of bromance as potentially damning to the national identity and argues that to avoid this, Spanish films “resort to the myths of a national past” by portraying a stereotyped protagonist or an idealized setting of a time long gone. In Oliete-Aldea’s work “Questions of Transnationalism and Genre” she says, “Generic conventions rest on international interactions that undercut any attempt to put forward a unique and distinctive account of national identity.” I think in the case of The Day of the Beast, which clearly makes use of the Hollywood Bromance trope, this is only partially true. The film is set in Madrid and features recognizable locations in the city like the two large towers that make up the Devil’s mark. Additionally, the emphasis on religious imagery and the presence of a Catholic priest as the protagonist feel distinctly Spanish and relate to a number of other films we have watched this semester. However, as Sam thoughtfully mentioned in class, The Day of the Beast is reminiscent of New York City films from the 1970s and 80s like Taxi Driver. As Oliete-Aldea argues, “Genre is about establishing categories, but it also about accepting the limitations of those categories.” The Day of the Beast, because it falls within the Bromance genre, is reliant on the limitations of that category, expressing male friendship at the expense of female characters and losing some of its distinct “Spanishness.”
Religious iconographies are called into question in the 1990s, potentially on account of their association with fascism itself. The old adage of “tragedy + time= comedy” is perhaps no better demonstrated by the Spanish bromance punchline being a metaphor of Spain’s past. Not only does The Day of the Beast satirize that aspect of fascism in accordance with the bromance, but the film also takes a dig at another facet of fascism, namely religious iconography and mythology. Twisting religious iconography might be seen by some as blasphemous, particularly how the new direction in Spanish film, specifically Day of the Beast, did so. The twisting of religious iconography is in fact a dig at the fascist tradition however, and how it was the fascists that initially twisted religious myths to their whims. By using religious iconographies in a more comedic context, the power of religious icons to sway us has been promptly reduced. At the time of fascism, religion was sacrosanct, but only because it operated as a tool of fascism itself. This shift to comedy was likely an unconscious relief to many. Day of the Beast manages to not only satirize fascism by making the “punchline” an emblem of Spain’s past, but it satirizes another tentacle of fascism in the form of religion itself.
Alex de Iglesia’s Day of the Beast (1995) is yet another example of Spanish filmmakers freeing themselves from the shackles of fascism; entering into the world of contemporary cinema. Having only embraced democracy by Franco’s death in the mid 1970s, Spanish cinema has seen a somewhat stunted growth, with trends and technologies lagging behind other hubs of cinema, such as France and Hollywood. We have seen this phenomena earlier, in Spain’s late entry into neorealism during the 1960s, following the Italian interest in the 1940s. Likewise, Day of the Beast is reminiscent of Hollywood films from decades prior, such as Martin Scorsese’s Taxi Driver or Dario Argento’s Suspiria; gritty and gory classics from the 1970s, depicting the ugly and even hellish aspects of modernity and urbanization. Iglesia’s satire embraces the caricature of the hellish urban jungle with satanic iconography throughout his film. Like Guillermo del Toro would achieve in the early 2000s with Pan’s Labyrinth, Iglesia’s plays with horror and macabre tropes, and the supernatural to make a sobering commentary on fascist Spain. Reading into the donations of Day of the Beast, we see death and despair at the hands of drugs and crime, the worship of false prophets and the abuse of the poor and marginalized of society by the rich, well-connected, and in this case, neofascist members of modern Spain. Day of the Beast may be absurd, crass, and in my opinion, difficult to watch, however it does plenty to explore Spain’s ugly relationship to its history and the wounds it remains to heal from.
I have been further considering the visual dynamic that was brought up in the class discussion about what versions of Spain each of the characters represent. If the priest represents the past, the metal rocker represents the transition, and the tv fortune teller represents the future, then there are further clues to what the visuals are telling the viewer about the different stages in Spain’s history. The metal rocker is violent and despised: he does drugs and acts crudely towards women, and yet he has some form of reverence towards the older male characters. Despite his lack of religiosity, there is still some respect for the patriarchal past that has not died. At the end, despite the other characters’ best efforts, the transition period has to die for the rest to survive. The two characters out of three that remain are the priest, representing the past, and the tv fortune teller, representing the future, but both only emerge from their fight with the devil maimed and tossed into the streets. The past continues to haunt the future, and the future is marred by it’s relation to the past.
Who is the devil in Day of the Beast? Is it the fictional CGI-generated satan? The television personality who invokes the occult? A priest who commits innumerable sins? A group of rich murderers “cleaning up” the streets? Or, is it more allegorical? A reading of Day of the Beast that applies devility to a single individual or group is reductionist. The devil, it seems in the film, is the insidious forces of modernity in the wake of Franco’s death. This most apparent in the final moments of the film. Filmed under the Gate of Europe, the devil, the antichrist, and anyone who could be seen as devilish in the film congregate. Whatever it may be, the devil could not be reborn without the entrance of Spain into the cradle of neoliberalism. The film leaves open whether the forces of modernity are a rejection of the Francoist tradition or a continuation of it. Is modernity just the new Fascism?