Spain lost a treasure on July 20, 2004, when Antonio Gades died of lung cancer. Gades was a flamenco dancer and choreographer.
A native of Alicante, he dedicated his life to popularising some of Spain’s greatest works of art through dance.
In the 1990s, he toured the world with his adaptation of Fuente Ovejuna, a 16th-century play as well-known in Spain as Hamlet is in the UK.
El Amor Brujo is a Spanish ballet that Gades introduced to a wider audience via his feature-length film of the same name.
His two masterpieces were film versions of Blood Wedding (1981) and Carmen (1983), both collaborations with director Carlos Saura.
Carmen is a free interpretation of the famous story, with minimal dialogue. The phrase “ojos de gitana, ojos de lobo” – the eyes of a gypsy girl are the eyes of a wolf – captures its essence.
A modern ensemble rehearses a flamenco version of the Carmen tale. The producer and lead dancer is Antonio, played by Gades.
The setting seems to be suburban Madrid, but we see so little outside the rehearsal room that it barely matters.
Antonio, obsessed with the Carmen legend, has studied it intensely. He casts a girl named Carmen in the title role, and life tragically begins to imitate art.
Antonio pores over his copy of Mérimée, while a knot of singers and guitarists breaks into a bulería. Suddenly, Bizet’s music is jarringly overlaid.
He is torn in two directions – drawn by the duende of authentic flamenco and the allure of Bizet’s 19th-century romanticism.
One current is spontaneous and true; the other is theatrical and foreign.
“Cats don’t come when you call them – they come when you don’t,” Antonio remarks. Here lies the essence of Carmen’s elusive spirit.
Antonio’s senior dancer is Cristina (the marvellous Cristina Hoyos). But as he tells her, talented though she is, she is not the Carmen.
So he travels to Sevilla – where else? – to find his ideal. There he discovers his leading lady, and his nemesis. A young gypsy woman arrives late to class, her raw power and poise unmistakable. Antonio knows: this is his Carmen.
The film’s artistic device is a subtle shift between reality and fantasy, mirroring the tension between flamenco’s truth and the artifice of Bizet’s version.
Are Cristina and Carmen at odds in real life, or only in Antonio’s mind?
Antonio sculpts Carmen, teaching her to dance and to feel the dance. He pushes her hard, making intense physical demands – but from their first cigarette together, the dynamic is set. Carmen is unknowable, untameable.
Some scenes rise above even the film’s already high standard. Among them is the Tabacalera number.
Women pound tables in flamenco rhythm, singing the haunting Don’t Go Near the Brambles. Tension between Cristina and Carmen erupts into violence, mirroring Mérimée and Bizet – all conveyed through dance.
Carmen and Antonio share a glass of manzanilla, symbolising their bond. At her prompting, Antonio performs the Farruca – a baile jondo that unlocks flamenco’s soul.
Aroused, Carmen joins him. Their dance – a metaphor for sex – becomes the act itself. But joy turns to disappointment. At 2am, Antonio wakes to find Carmen slipping away. She is Carmen – that is all the explanation there is.
Antonio dances alone in the rehearsal room. The room’s stark, mirrored box contrasts with his fluid, expressive form.
Does dancing help him think? Do his thoughts shape his dance? The image of a man moving alone in a bare room is one of the film’s quiet triumphs.
The film’s finest scene blends reality and fantasy, simplicity and high art: the poker game.
José Fernández, newly released from prison, joins the troupe. He and Antonio clash, and fight. As José rises from the floor, he removes his wig. The troupe rushes to him – and once again, the film strips away illusion to expose truth.
There are other gems.
A mock bullfight is performed in stylised dance, with balletic verónicas and a silent faena. A dance-off between a jealous Antonio and a fiery Carmen shows their distinct rhythmic signatures. And the betrayal and abuse that mark the story’s end are stark and raw.
The presence of Paco de Lucía, legendary guitarist and heir to a great flamenco dynasty, is itself a seal of artistic authenticity.
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