Spanish Horror Film and Television in the 21st Century 9781032245669, 9781032280448, 9781003295075

Table of contents :
Cover
Half Title
Series
Title
Copyright
Contents
Acknowledgments
1 Introduction: Spanish Horror in the 21st Century
1.1. What’s Spanish Cinema of the 21st Century Afraid of ?
1.2. The Rise of Spanish Horror Films in the 21st Century
1.2.1. Spanish Horror in the 1990s & Early 2000s: New Directors, New Trends
1.2.2. The Streamers Era
1.2.3. Horror & Women
1.3. Book Structure
2 Early 2000s: Industrial Dynamics, Production Trends & Transnationalization
2.1. From The Others to The Orphanage via Guillermo del Toro
2.2. English-Language Spanish (Co)-Productions: An “International Style”
3 [Rec]: An International Franchise
3.1. [Rec] in Context: Data & Reception
3.2. [Rec] & Found Footage Horror
3.3. [Rec], Reality TV & Factuals
3.4. Filmax & the duo Balagueró/Plaza
3.5. From Horror to Comedy to Horror (Imperfection Will Be Over) & the Transnational Routes of [Rec]
3.6. [Rec]’s Legacy
4 Horror & Genre Hybridization
4.1. Horror/Melodrama: From The Skin I Live In to Blancanieves
4.1.1. The Skin I Live In: From Melodramatic Revenge to Surgical Horror
4.1.2. Blancanieves: Violent Chiaroscuros and Women’s Suffering
4.2. Horror/Sci-Fi, Ecohorror & the Apocalypse
4.3. The Baztán Trilogy (2017–2020): From Bestsellers to the Cinema
5 Horror & Gender
5.1. Masculinity in Crisis in the Horror Thriller
5.2. Female Bodies & the Male Gaze
5.3. Spanish Women Make Horror
6 Horror & the Past
6.1. Francoism’s Monstrous Memory
6.2. Spanish Folk Horror
7 Horror & Streaming
7.1. Streaming Platforms: New Production & Distribution Models
7.2. Streaming Platforms in Spain & Horror
7.3. Tales To Be Awake: Rebooting a Classic
7.4. 30 Coins & The Fear Collection: Álex de la Iglesia as a Streaming Brand
8 Conclusions
Index

Citation preview

Spanish Horror Film and Television in the 21st Century

This book provides an up-to-date, in-depth survey of 21st-century Spanish horror film and media, exploring both aesthetics and industrial dynamics. It offers detailed analysis of contemporary films and TV series as well as novel approaches to key works within the history of Spanish cinema. While addressing the specificities of the Spanish landscape, this volume also situates the national cinematic output within the international arena, understanding film production and reception as continuously changing processes in which a variety of economic, social and cultural factors intervene. The book first analyzes the main horror trends emerging in the early 2000s, then approaches genre hybridization and the rise of new filmmakers since the 2010s with a special focus on gender issues and the reconfiguration of the past, before addressing the impact of streaming services within the Spanish film panorama, from a production and distribution standpoint. This book will be of keen interest to scholars and students in the areas of film studies, media studies, TV studies, horror, Spanish cultural studies and production studies. Vicente Rodríguez Ortega is Tenure-Track Professor at Universidad Carlos III (Madrid) and member of the TECMERIN research group and Instituto Universitario del Cine Español-UC3M. He is the co-editor of Contemporary Spanish Cinema & Genre and has written over 20 academic articles and book chapters. He is the founding editor of Tecmerin: Journal of Audiovisual Essays. Rubén Romero Santos is Junior Lecturer at Universidad Carlos III (Madrid) and member of the TECMERIN research group and Instituto Universitario del Cine Español-UC3M. He is the author of El detective mutante (2020) and Barcelona en 12 películas (2022). He has been working as a film critic for almost two decades.

Routledge Focus on Media and Cultural Studies

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Spanish Horror Film and Television in the 21st Century Vicente Rodríguez Ortega and Rubén Romero Santos

First published 2024 by Routledge 4 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2024 Vicente Rodríguez Ortega and Rubén Romero Santos The right of Vicente Rodríguez Ortega and Rubén Romero Santos to be identified as authors of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Rodríguez Ortega, Vicente, author. | Romero Santos, Rubén author. Title: Spanish horror film and television in the 21st century / by Vicente Rodríguez Ortega and Rubén Romero Santos. Description: Abingdon, Oxon ; New York, NY : Routledge, 2024. | Series: Routledge focus on media and cultural studies | Includes bibliographical references and index.  Identifiers: LCCN 2023018659 (print) | LCCN 2023018660 (ebook) | ISBN 9781032245669 (hardback) | ISBN 9781032280448 (paperback) | ISBN 9781003295075 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Horror films—Spain—History and criticism. | Horror television programs—Spain—History and criticism. Classification: LCC PN1995.9.H6 O78 2024 (print) | LCC PN1995.9.H6 (ebook) | DDC 791.43/61640946—dc23/ eng/20230612 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023018659 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023018660 ISBN: 978-1-032-24566-9 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-032-28044-8 (pbk) ISBN: 978-1-003-29507-5 (ebk) DOI: 10.4324/9781003295075 Typeset in Times New Roman by Apex CoVantage, LLC

Contents

Acknowledgmentsvii 1

Introduction: Spanish Horror in the 21st Century 1.1. What’s Spanish Cinema of the 21st Century Afraid of ?  1 1.2. The Rise of Spanish Horror Films in the 21st Century  4 1.2.1. Spanish Horror in the 1990s & Early 2000s: New Directors, New Trends  4 1.2.2.  The Streamers Era  6 1.2.3.  Horror & Women  7 1.3. Book Structure 8

2

Early 2000s: Industrial Dynamics, Production Trends & Transnationalization 2.1. From The Others to The Orphanage via Guillermo del Toro  12 2.2. English-Language Spanish (Co)-Productions: An “International Style”  17

3

[Rec]: An International Franchise 3.1. [Rec] in Context: Data & Reception  25 3.2. [Rec] & Found Footage Horror  27 3.3. [Rec], Reality TV & Factuals  28 3.4. Filmax & the duo Balagueró/Plaza  31 3.5. From Horror to Comedy to Horror (Imperfection Will Be Over) & the Transnational Routes of [Rec] 32 3.6. [Rec]’s Legacy  35

1

12

25

vi  Contents 4

Horror & Genre Hybridization 4.1. Horror/Melodrama: From The Skin I Live In to Blancanieves 39 4.1.1. The Skin I Live In: From Melodramatic Revenge to Surgical Horror  41 4.1.2. Blancanieves: Violent Chiaroscuros and Women’s Suffering  43 4.2. Horror/Sci-Fi, Ecohorror & the Apocalypse  45 4.3. The Baztán Trilogy (2017–2020): From Bestsellers to the Cinema  51

39

5

Horror & Gender 5.1. Masculinity in Crisis in the Horror Thriller  59 5.2. Female Bodies & the Male Gaze  64 5.3. Spanish Women Make Horror  68

59

6

Horror & the Past 6.1. Francoism’s Monstrous Memory  74 6.2. Spanish Folk Horror  81

74

7

Horror & Streaming 7.1. Streaming Platforms: New Production & Distribution Models 87 7.2. Streaming Platforms in Spain & Horror  89 7.3. Tales To Be Awake: Rebooting a Classic  92 7.4. 30 Coins & The Fear Collection: Álex de la Iglesia as a Streaming Brand  96

87

8 Conclusions

103

Index105

Acknowledgments

We are grateful to the Agencia Estatal de Investigación del Ministerio de Ciencia e Innovación (Gobierno de España) for their support. We would like to extend our sincere thanks to Manuel Palacio for inviting us to join his research team. Additionally, we would like to express our gratitude to the editorial team at Routledge, particularly Suzanne Richardson and Stuti Goel, for their dedication and hard work. We would also like to acknowledge the reviewers who provided valuable feedback on the proposal for this book. Last but not least, we would like to thank Alejandro Ibáñez at Prointel, Sebastián Vibes at Viacom International Studios from Paramount, and other industry sources who have generously contributed to this project but cannot be named explicitly. This book has been written as part of the research project “Cine y ­televisión en España en la era del cambio digital y la globalización (1993– 2008): identidades, consumo y formas de producción.” Entidad financiadora: Agencia Estatal de Investigación (AEI), Ministerio de Ciencia e Innovación. Plan ­Nacional I+D 2019.

1 Introduction Spanish Horror in the 21st Century

1.1. What’s Spanish Cinema of the 21st Century Afraid of ? The resurgence of Spanish horror cinema in the 1990s has been thoroughly explained. Numerous authors have underscored the late 1960s’ and 1970s’ terrifying cinematic tradition as its fundamental inspiration. This genre emerged in a country with little prior history in this realm, as emphasized by Jo L ­ abanyi (2002) and Javier Pulido (2012). Horror became a vehicle for exorcising the demons of a brutal dictatorship. Other authors have focused on the internationalizing capacity of these pioneers, at a time of isolationism when Spanish culture had difficulties crossing borders, as was the case with the seminal work of Antonio Lázaro-Reboll (2012). From this perspective, Ian Olney (2013) has accurately described the European vocation of these works. Olney is also the author of a noteworthy first taxonomy of the thematic specificities of the horror genre in Spain (2014). However, akin to the villainous characters in horror films, the exuberant and imaginative cinema of the past disappeared seemingly overnight during the 1980s and early 1990s .  .  . And also like the villain in horror films, it reemerged in the story when least expected. It was not until the latter half of the 1990s that genre cinema began to make a resurgence. Jay Beck and ­Vicente Rodríguez Ortega (2008) provide extensive descriptions for the ­reasons behind the disappearance and renaissance of horror and other film genres. In reality, the horror cinema of the 1970s’ masters remained alive in the collective imagination, as knowledge of their filmography was transmitted both orally and through home videos and fanzines (Lázaro-Reboll, 2012). In this regard, the year 1995 bears a critical importance as two films of seminal significance for the development of the horror genre, namely El día de la bestia/The Day of the Beast by Álex de la Iglesia and Tesis/Thesis by Alejandro Amenábar, were released during this period. Their impact extended beyond the confines of horror cinema, however, as they substantially altered the trajectory of Spanish filmmaking. Notably, these films garnered box-office earnings of €4.3  million and €2.6  million, respectively, thus indicating a

DOI: 10.4324/9781003295075-1

2  Introduction reconciliation between Spanish audiences and cinema, whether it be horror or otherwise, through the emergence of a new generation of filmmakers. These films were also awarded six and seven Goya Awards and gathered substantial critical acclaim. Moreover, these works introduced novel themes, such as a meticulous reflection on the audiovisual image and a stark critique of the ­neoliberalism that permeated Spanish society. Their success would propel the careers of not only their creators but also their contemporaries. In 2001, Alejandro Amenábar reached the apex of his career with the release of Los otros/The Others, a horror film that shattered box-office records in Spain, raking in €27.2 million, and becoming the first English-language film to win a Goya Award for Best Picture. Once again, this year proved to be pivotal, as it also witnessed the dazzling emergence of Mexican director Guillermo del Toro in the Spanish film industry with the release of El espinazo del diablo/The Devil’s Backbone. The combination of both films provides a new avenue for analysis, with a focus on the transnational and globalizing potential of Spanish horror cinema. In this regard, the works by Ann Davies (2011) individually or in collaboration with Deborah Shaw and Dolores Tierney (2014) merit attention. Since then, valuable academic contributions have been made within this framework. New works and directors have been incorporated into the narrative, with noteworthy efforts such as that of Shelagh Rowan-Legg (2016), who analyzes the works of Jaume Balagueró, Paco Plaza, Nacho Vigalondo and Eugenio Mira. These volumes describe the vitality of the genre, reflected in objective data. Among the highest-grossing films of the millennium so far, three horror films can be found in the top ten. Specifically, from fifth to sixth place, we see productions within the Gothic horror variant, The Others (2001) by Alejandro Amenábar, the literary and melodramatic adaptation A Monster Calls (2016) by J.A. Bayona with €26.1 million, and, once again, Gothic horror with El orfanato/The Orphanage (2007) by J.A. Bayona with €25 million. The public support for Spanish horror finds resonance in its numerous award recognitions. Qualitatively, Spanish horror has managed to surpass genre biases. The recurrent presence of horror films in the Goya Awards, the most prestigious accolades bestowed by the Spanish film industry, serves as evidence of this trend. Notably, two horror films have claimed the Best ­Picture award: Blancanieves (Pablo Berger, 2012) and The Others (Alejandro Amenábar, 2001). Further substantiating the enduring success of the genre, seven horror films feature among the 20 most awarded films of the millennium. These include Blancanieves, which garnered eight Goyas, The Others, also with eight, Las brujas de Zugarramurdi/Witching and Bitching (Álex de la Iglesia, 2013) with eight, The Orphanage with seven, El laberinto del fauno/Pan’s Labyrinth (Guillermo del Toro, 2006) with seven and A Monster Calls with another nine. Spanish horror cinema’s acclaim transcends national borders, as evidenced by its international recognition. Films such as The Birthday (Eugenio Mira,

Introduction  3 2004) and Most Beautiful Island (Ana Asensio, 2017) have been honored at the South by Southwest festival, while others, such as Paradise Hills ­(Alice Waddington, 2019) and Cerdita/Piggy (Carlota Pereda, 2022), have been ­selected for the Sundance Film Festival, generating considerable interest. However, twenty years after the seminal year of 2001, there is a need to revisit, enrich and revitalize the canonical narrative of Spanish horror cinema. It is apparent that with the passage of time, an overly narrow focus on genealogy or generational influences may curtail a comprehensive analysis. Indeed, the contemporary understanding of the genre recognizes the mentorship and influence of filmmakers such as Chicho Ibáñez Serrador or Jess Franco on the filmmakers of the 1990s. Yet, it is imperative to explore how non-cinematic factors have affected and altered the evolution of Spanish horror cinema. ­Specifically, the study must delve into the role of private television networks, notably Telecinco and Antena 3, which, in response to the legislative changes of 1999, began producing films of all genres, including horror. In a similar vein, the arrival of streaming services in the second decade of the 21st century, with their global reach and ambitions, has resulted in significant modifications to the form and content of films. Consequently, financing horror cinema through private television or streaming platforms brings new standards, influences and production routines that inevitably affect the creation, production and distribution of horror films. Spanish horror cinema has adapted to the fears and anxieties of Spanish society in the 21st century by drawing upon its unique tradition, which originated in the 1970s. This tradition was forged through a dual creative effort, wherein it had to not only possess strong narrative and aesthetic qualities, but also devise imaginative ways to circumvent the stifling restrictions of ­Francoist censorship. The heirs of those creators have replicated motifs and archetypes while updating their treatment. Moreover, they have incorporated new themes such as environmental degradation, scarcity of overexploited ­natural resources and the fourth wave of feminism. These themes explicitly address modern societal issues such as the tensions caused by women’s ­demands in heteropatriarchy and the classic clash between modernity and tradition, as illustrated by the concept of “Empty Spain.” In the last two decades, Spanish horror cinema has introduced new variants, ranging from ecohorror to incel cinema or folk horror, reflecting the incorporation of characters and subgenres rarely seen before. The metaphorical figure of the zombie, for example, has taken on special relevance, and horror mixed with science fiction cinema has also emerged. This book focuses on commercial cinema, which is understood as films distributed in theaters by major studios or established companies like ­Filmax, as well as those released on global streaming services. Although there have been, indeed, independent horror feature films, our focus is to understand how horror has turned into a key aesthetic, ideological and economic determinant within the Spanish film industry, and, more extensively,

4  Introduction the national imaginary. Thus, our goal is to analyze significant filmmakers, trends and stylistic features while contextualizing the industrial logics at play and the impact of key agents. This requires assessing the fundamental role of the two main Spanish multimedia conglomerates, Atresmedia and Mediaset. Additionally, we will investigate the decisive impact of streaming services such as Netflix, Prime Video and HBO on the evolution of horror over the past decade.

1.2. The Rise of Spanish Horror Films in the 21st Century In order to gain a comprehensive understanding of the present state of Spanish horror, it is imperative to delve into its roots and the path that led to its rapid ascent. This involves an examination of the new wave of filmmakers that emerged in the early to mid-1990s. 1.2.1. Spanish Horror in the 1990s & Early 2000s: New Directors, New Trends In the early 1990s, Spanish cinema recorded historical lows in the domestic theatrical box office.1 Furthermore, hardly any Spanish film was successful beyond the national borders in financial terms. Several factors explain this fact. First, during the 1980s, a series of legislative measures collectively known as the “Miró decree” favored auteur and prestige films while marginalizing genre productions (Triana-Toribio, 2003; Ansola González, 2004). Second, changes in consumer habits were observed due to an increase in televisual ­offers, the emergence of private networks in the 1990s, the rise of video rentals and the gradual disappearance of movie screens (Monterde, 2002; Sánchez Noriega, 2017). Third, the post-Francoist modes of address, which mainly utilized ­allegorical narratives to address the specificities of the repressive Spanish social order during the dictatorship, became exhausted; finally, the shifting taste of audiences, with greater access to international productions and a desire for new representational templates (Beck and Rodríguez Ortega, 2008; Ibáñez, 2017). Throughout the 1990s, Spanish cinema underwent a gradual recovery, with domestic box-office receipts reaching over 10%. This shift can be ­attributed to a combination of industrial and aesthetic factors. Notably, the appointment of Jorge Semprún as the Minister of Culture played a crucial role in this transition. Under his leadership, various legislative changes were implemented, which re-conceptualized cinema as both a cultural and an industrial practice. This marked a departure from the policies of his predecessor, who favored prestigious dramas that inflated the cost of national productions, heavily ­relying on state subsidies to finance projects, without adequate attention to

Introduction  5 a film’s economic performance (Fernández Meneses, 2019). Additionally, a new generation of filmmakers emerged, radically changing Spanish cinema. While some created auteur works, others championed generic forms of address to effectively engage Spanish spectators (Heredero, 1997 and 1998; Jordan and Morgan-Tamosunas, 1998; Heredero and Santamarina, 2002; Rodríguez Merchán and Fernández-Hoya, 2008; Rodríguez Ortega, 2020). Among the filmmakers who made significant contributions to the shift were Alejandro Amenábar and Álex de la Iglesia. These creators employed two essential premises, genre mixing and aesthetic transnationalization, which ­involved using both local and global modes of representation. Both Amenábar and de la Iglesia explicitly addressed how technological shifts were altering the interaction between audiovisual media and spectators. Thesis deploys a horror/thriller generic combination to depict the existence of a snuff film network, mixing cinematic imagery with the imperfect, black and white, look of digital camcorders. In his first two features, Acción mutante/ Mutant Action (1993) and El día de la bestia/The Day of the Beast, de la ­Iglesia wove an attack on hegemonic notions of taste and aesthetics. The former film criticizes the cult for the perfect body in the media using a comedic and sci-fi mix that heavily draws from comic book conventions. The latter offers a comedic tour de force through the filter of horror to address the rampant racism and uncontrolled capitalism within Spain, questioning euphoric accounts of the country’s modernization and its inclusion within the European social order in the wake of “Spain’s year” – 1992, which saw the celebration of the Barcelona Olympics and the Seville World Expo (Compitello, 2012). Thesis and The Day of the Beast attained remarkable box-office performances and critical acclaim, thereby paving the way for the resurgence of genre films in Spanish production, culminating in the release of The Others in 2001, which propelled Spanish horror cinema into the new century. In the late 1990s and early 2000s, three other significant directors emerged, and greatly shaped Spanish horror for decades to come, namely, Jaume ­Balagueró, Paco Plaza and Juan Carlos Fresnadillo. The latter debuted with the film Intacto (2001) and afterward joined Alex Garland’s and Danny Boyle’s 28 franchise, making an English-language production, 28 weeks later (2007). Working with independent company Filmax, Balagueró’s first film, Los sin nombre/The Nameless (1999), earned over a million euros in the domestic theatrical market. In addition, the film was exported to multiple European and Latin American territories. Later on, he would go on to make English-language horror films such as Darkness (2002) and Fragile (2005), also under the Filmax umbrella. On his part, Paco Plaza made his debut with an English-language film, Second Name (2002), and a folk horror work, ­Romasanta: la caza de la bestia/Romasanta: The Werewolf Hunt (2004). ­Ultimately, as we will address later, these two filmmakers teamed up to design the most influential Spanish horror franchise to date – [Rec]. Like

6  Introduction Balagueró and Plaza, Amenábar also delivered an English-language film, The Others, featuring an A-list Hollywood star, Nicole Kidman. It is necessary to explain a series of industrial factors stemming from the peculiarities of the Spanish legislation and the configuration of the audiovisual mediascape to fully understand how these films came into existence. First, the Spanish law mostly awards financial subsidies to the companies that produce films (Riambau, 2003). Hence, established filmmakers such as José Luis Cuerda, Guillermo del Toro or Pedro Almodóvar set up their own production companies to not only produce their own films but also diversify their involvement and generate economic returns (Palacio and Rodríguez Ortega, 2020). Hence, Cuerda, through Producciones el Escorpión, produced Thesis and Almodóvar, through El Deseo, invested in The Day of the Beast or The Devil’s Backbone, thus championing the emergence of new directors or their arrival in the Spanish market. Second, the appearance of television networks had an unprecedented impact in the rise of new cinematic voices. For example, Canal+, through its production and distribution labels, Sogetel/Sogeable, entered cinematic production full-throttle, becoming the highest-grossing film producer in the 1990s (Benet, 2012). Consequently, it launched the career of novel filmmakers like Julio Medem and started partnerships with established producers such as Andrés Vicente Gómez (Lola Films) to deliver numerous productions to support its own programming strategies, which favored the television premiere of both national and international film titles (Ciller and Romero Santos, 2020). 1.2.2.  The Streamers Era Streamers arrived in Spain in 2015. The most successful Spanish productions at a global scale have been series like La casa de papel/Money Heist (2017– 2021) or Élite (2018–). Since then, these streaming companies have played a decisive role in the production, co-production and, especially, worldwide distribution of Spanish films. In this regard, Netflix is way ahead of the curve in relation to other companies such as HBO or Prime Video, striking partnerships with both independent companies such as Bambú, Apaches Entertainment, Rodar y Rodar, and also Atresmedia and Mediaset España, and acquiring the distribution rights of a variety of films, which frequently are thrillers, comedies and horror films. Most of these films continue to have a theatrical distribution; however, others appear directly on a specific streaming platform, bypassing completely the movie theaters. Regarding horror, films such as Verónica (Paco Plaza, 2017) and El hoyo/The Platform (Galder GazteluUrrutia, 2019) made a splash in the different streaming markets after an excellent critical response. In fact, The Platform became a COVID-19 pandemic hit throughout the quarantine crisis all around the world, gathering millions of viewers.

Introduction  7 Finally, streamers have also produced horror television series. Until now, they have relied on well-established directors to make new products, like HBO with Álex de la Iglesia for 30 monedas/30 Coins or, like Prime Video, have rebooted pre-existing material including the celebrated Chicho Ibáñez Serrador’s Historias para no dormir/Tales to Keep You Awake, recruiting topnotch or up-and-coming directors. 1.2.3.  Horror & Women In the last two decades, despite the extraordinary trajectories and recent success of a significant number of women filmmakers such as Iciar Bollaín, Chus Gutiérrez, Isabel Coixet, Pilar Palomero, Carla Simón, Mar Coll, Alauda Ruiz de Azúa, Paula Ortiz or Arantxa Echeverría in other genres, horror has been overwhelmingly dominated by male directors. Two main reasons explain this gender imbalance. First, there is a gender bias and discrimination within the Spanish industry that is still difficult to overcome. For example, according to the recent report, Diversidad cultural en la creación audiovisual en ­España, between 2015 and 2019, only 14% of feature films have been directed by women; moreover, only 13.3% were written by females. According to the report’s authors: “it is obvious that there is a gender gap. Demographic ­equality does not happen yet in terms of authorship” (Carrillo Bernal y ­Cascajosa Virino, 2022). Moreover, the most recent CIMA (Association of Women Filmmakers and Audiovisual Media) report makes crystal-clear that there is still a huge gender gap between men and women in the Spanish mediascape. Women only amount to 32% of the Spanish audiovisual sector. In the 12 ­analyzed leading positions, men have 67% of the jobs. This is remarkably obvious when discussing Executive Production and Production roles; only 26% are women. Contrariwise, women are a majority in art direction (60%) and Costume Design (82%). The author’s conclusion is unambiguous: Comparing the diverse roles of men and women, one can easily observe that females mostly work in fields related to aesthetics; conversely, men hold a wider diversity of roles. Many of the masculine tasks relate to characteristics such as creativity, leadership or high technologization. (Cuenca Suárez, 2021) Thus, despite the fact that there has been some progress in the last two decades, most Spanish films are still produced, written and directed by men. In the ­horror genre, this tendency is even more exacerbated. Most female directors operate within the independent, low-to-mid budget auteur-driven circuit. Do all of them choose to make this type of films? Not necessarily. While some do, others may prefer to work with large budgets, A-list actors and extensive production teams. However, due to limited resources, they have had to rely mostly

8  Introduction on public subsidies and investments from independent production companies or individuals to finance their films, which tend to be mostly dramas. Recently, women have come to the forefront of horror production, for ­example, directing several episodes of the television series Tales to Keep You Awake – namely, Paula Ortiz in the first season and Alice Waddington, in the second one. Other filmmakers like María Lidón, Isabel Coixet or Ana Asensio had opened up new ground. Perhaps, most importantly, Piggy (Carlota Pereda, 2022) made a huge splash in the film festival circuit, with a world premiere at the Sundance Film Festival, receiving widespread critical attention and praise and winning several international awards, such as the Golden Méliès at the Sitges Film Festival or the Best Picture Prize in the Fantastic Fest in Austin. Theatrically, it has achieved respectable revenue in the domestic market for an independent project, having earned 500,000 euros, and has been released all over the world. Piggy is based on Pereda’s own short, which won the Best Short Film Goya Award in 2020. It explicitly deals with relevant contemporary issues such as bullying and non-normative bodies. Starring the same actress as in the short, Laura Galán (Goya winner for Best New Actress in 2023), and adding reputed actors like Carmen Machi, the film is a dark rural slasher that greatly capitalizes on the premise of the initial film and expands its universe to build up a distressing narrative. It ultimately delivers a glaring blow on the societal standards and prejudices that largely structure today’s fabric. Carlota Pereda is already working on her new horror project, La ermita/The Hermitage. If her short was her calling card to gather the funding and talent to carry out her first feature film, Piggy’s critical acclaim and international buzz has helped her to dive right away into her next project. Hopefully, Pereda will be the first of many women to erupt into the Spanish horror film arena and reinvent it for a new generation. Time will tell.

1.3.  Book Structure This book aims to provide a comprehensive overview of 21st-century Spanish horror cinema. To this end, the different chapters explore a wide variety of topics, ranging from industrial aspects to gender issues, as well as auteur analysis. The study of key films and directors, as well as the industrial and cultural contexts, allows for a nuanced understanding of the genre’s evolution and its significance in contemporary Spanish society. Overall, this book contributes to broader discussions on the intersections of aesthetics, industry and cultural identity in cinema and television. Chapter 2, “Early 2000s: Industrial Dynamics, Production Trends & Transnationalization,” delves into the pivotal influence of Alejandro Amenábar’s The Others and Guillermo del Toro’s arrival in Spain. It scrutinizes the production of Amenábar’s and del Toro’s films, subsequently tracing the significant role of Spanish broadcasters such as Canal+, Telecinco and Antena 3, in shaping

Introduction  9 a series of industrial patterns that came to dominate the genre in the following decades. Then it focuses on Juan Antonio Bayona’s The Orphanage. The second part of the chapter shifts its attention to the consequences of their success – that is, a variety of horror (co)productions created for international markets, highlighting the significance of Filmax, a film producer and distributor. Chapter 3, “[Rec]: An International Franchise,” focuses on the most successful Spanish horror franchise to date. Specifically, it situates this set of films within the mid-2000s broader mediascape, establishing a connection with a cinematic subgenre – found footage horror – and a popular television format – the factual. Complementarily, it places the [Rec] saga within Filmax’s intervention within the Spanish film panorama. Finally, it traces the generic mix between horror and comedy within the evolution of the franchise. Chapter  4, “Horror  & Genre Hybrization,” approaches the mix between horror and other genres – melodrama, science-fiction and thriller. First, it analyzes the combination between the melodramatic imagination and horror in two of the most outstanding films of the 21st century – La piel que habito/ The Skin I Live In (Pedro Almodóvar) and Blancanieves. Specifically, it studies how both films question several building blocks of contemporary Spanish identity. Then the chapter explores how Spanish cinema has approached postapocalyptic dystopias. On the one hand, it focuses on a variety of zombie narratives both in Spanish and in English language; on the other, it scrutinizes a variety of films that utilize dystopian future scenarios to engage with current social formations and events such as economic inequality, racial bias and the effects of global pandemics. Finally, it analyzes the cinematic adaptation of Dolores Redondo’s best-selling novels The Baztán Trilogy into a three-film franchise. It examines how the films bring together a transnational mode of address – the serial killer framework – and local and regional elements that remit to Basque and Navarrese mythology in an attempt to create a mainstream product for all audiences. Chapter  5, “Horror  & Gender,” analyzes the interface genre/gender in contemporary Spanish horror. First, it focuses on the diverse narratives that depict misogynistic psycho killers to draw an attack on patriarchal societies. It specifically addresses the portrayal of toxic masculinities within the ­horror thriller. Then, it approaches the evolution in the representation of “monster mothers” and other female characters. Finally, it studies a series of films ­directed by women, who have little by little achieved decision-making capabilities in a variety of projects. These films provide a remarkable and necessary counterpoint to the politics of gender within Spanish horror. Chapter 6, “Horror & the Past,” addresses how Spanish horror has ­engaged with the historical past. In the opening section, “Franco’s Monstrous ­Memory,” it analyzes a variety of films that have specifically addressed the key traumatic event in 20th-century Spanish history: the Civil War. In that regard, it starts by studying Guillermo del Toro’s diptych The Devil’s Backbone and Pan’s Labyrinth. Then it moves on to discuss a recent commercial zombie horror comedy,

10  Introduction Malnazidos/Valley of the Dead (Alberto Toro and Javier Ruiz Caldera, 2020) and the work of domestic horror Musarañas/Shrew’s Nest (Juanfer Andrés and Esteban Roel, 2014), which focuses on the Francoist dictatorship’s subjugation of women. Then, it explains how Spanish horror has tackled the Spanish Transition to Democracy in the 1970s via Balada triste de trompeta/The Last Circus (2010) and Malasaña 32/32 Malasana Street (Albert Pintó, 2020). The second section, “Spanish Folk Horror” explores a variety of titles that have fundamentally approached locally rooted traditions and myths, especially set in Galicia and the Basque country. In that sense, Spanish cinema has participated in the recent global revival of this subgenre after 2010. Chapter 7, “Horror  & Streaming,” studies the decisive impact of global streaming platforms in the production and distribution of Spanish films and series. First, it approaches the national streaming landscape to define what genres have been favored by diverse transnational companies such as HBO, Netflix and Prime Video. Second, it focuses on horror films and, in more ­detail, television fiction. It specifically analyzes three works: the reboot of the classic series Tales to Keep You Awake, Álex de la Iglesia’s HBO series 30 Coins and, finally, The Fear Collection, a co-production project between Sony Pictures International, Prime Video and de la Iglesia’s and Carolina Bang’s Pokeepsie Films to deliver two films yearly.

Note 1 In 1982, there were 36  million spectators for domestic films. This number plummeted to 6.6 million viewers in 1989. This trend continued in the early 1990s; in 1994, the market share went down to a historical low of 7.02% [data from the Instituto de la Cinematografía y de las Artes Audiovisuales (ICAA)].

Bibliography Ansola González, T (2004) El decreto Miró: una propuesta ambiciosa pero fallida para impulsar el cine español de los 80. Archivos de la Filmoteca, 48: 102–121. Beck, J and Rodríguez Ortega, V (2008) Introduction. In: Beck, J and Vicente ­Rodríguez Ortega, V (eds) Contemporary Spanish Cinema & Genre. Manchester: Manchester University Press, pp. 1–31. Benet, Vicente J (2012) El cine español. Una historia cultural. Barcelona: Paidós. Carrillo Bernal, J and Cascajosa Virino, C (2021) Diversidad cultural en la creación audiovisual en España. Diversidad de autores y de historias (2015–2019). Madrid: DAMA. Ciller, C and Romero Santos, R (2020) Andrés Vicente Gómez: un productor que marcó los 90. In: Palacio, M and Rodríguez Ortega, V (eds) Cine y cultura popular en los 90: España-Latinoamérica. Berlin: Peter Lang, pp. 127–142. Compitello, MA (1999) From Planning to Design: The Culture of Flexible Accumulation in ‘Post-Cambio Madrid’. Arizona Journal of Hispanic Cultural Studies, 3: 199–219.

Introduction  11 Cuenca Suárez, S (2022) Informe CIMA. La representatividad de las mujeres en el ­sector cinematográfico del largometraje español. Madrid: CIMA. Davies, A (ed) (2011) Spain on Screen: Developments in Contemporary Spanish ­Cinema. London: Springer. Davies, A, Shaw, D and Tierney, D (eds) (2014) The Transnational Fantasies of Guillermo del Toro. London: Springer. Fernández Meneses, J (2019) Between Art and Commerce: The Semprún Decree and the New Spanish Cinema of the 1990s. Hispanic Research Journal, 20(2): 87–103. Heredero, CF (1997) Espejo de miradas. Entrevistas con nuevos directores del cine español. Madrid: Festival de Alcalá de Henares. Heredero, CF (1998) 20 nuevos directores del cine español. Madrid: Alianza Editorial. Heredero, CF and Santamarina, A (2002) Raíces de futuro para el cine español. In: Heredero, CF and Santamarina, A (eds) Semillas de futuro cine español 1990–2001. Madrid: Sociedad Estatal España Nuevo Milenio, pp. 23–85. Ibáñez, Juan Carlos (2017) Cine, televisión y cambio social en España. Madrid: Síntesis. Jordan, B and Morgan-Tamosunas, R (1998) Contemporary Spanish Cinema. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Labanyi, J (ed) (2002) Constructing Identity in Contemporary Spain: Theoretical ­Debates and Cultural Practice. New York: Oxford University Press. Lázaro-Reboll, A (2012) Spanish Horror Film. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Monterde, JE (2002) Panorama desde el siglo XXI. In: Heredero, CF and Santamarina, A (eds) Semillas de futuro cine español 1990–2001. Madrid: Sociedad Estatal ­España Nuevo Milenio, pp. 87–127. Olney, I (2013) Euro Horror: Classic European Horror Cinema in Contemporary American Culture. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Olney, I (2014) Spanish Horror Cinema. In: Labanyi, J and Pavlovic, T (eds) A ­Companion to the Horror Film. New York: John Wiley & Sons, pp. 364–389. Palacio, M and Rodríguez Ortega, V (2020) Cine y cultura popular en los 90: EspañaLatinoamérica. Claves conceptuales. In: Palacio, M and Rodríguez Ortega, V (eds) Cine y cultura popular en los 90: España-Latinoamérica. Berlin: Peter Lang, pp. 9–21. Pulido, J (2012) La década de oro del cine de terror español (1967–76). Madrid: T&B. Riambau, E (2003) El periodo ‘socialista’ (1982–1995). In: Gubern, R et al (eds) Historia del cine español. Madrid: Cátedra, pp. 399–445. Rodríguez Merchán, E and Fernández-Hoya, G (2008) La definitive renovación generacional (1990–2005). Foro hispánico: Revista hispánica de Flandes y Holanda, 32: 23–38. Rodríguez Ortega, V (2020) The Return of Genre in 1990s Spanish Cinema: Industry, Legislative Changes and Economics. Hispanic Research Journal, 21(1): 3–22. Sánchez Noriega, JL (2017) Génesis de la crisis, nuevos públicos y cineastas. In: Sánchez Noriega, JL (ed) Trayectorias, ciclos y miradas del cine español (­1982–1998). ­Barcelona: Laertes, pp. 53–84. Triana-Toribio, N (2003) Spanish National Cinema. London: Routledge.

2

Early 2000s Industrial Dynamics, Production Trends & Transnationalization

2.1. From The Others to The Orphanage via Guillermo del Toro Certain moments have the power to alter the course of a genre or an entire national filmography. One such moment occurred in 1998, in a place as distant from Spain as Utah. It was during the Sundance Film Festival that year that the movie Abre los ojos/Open Your Eyes (Alejandro Amenábar, 1997) made its premiere. Among the attendees were Tom Cruise and Paula Wagner, a duo who were just embarking on a prosperous production partnership. From the subsequent meetings, two projects emerged: one was the remake of Open Your Eyes directed by Cameron Crowe (2001), starring Tom Cruise. The other would be The Others, an original film produced by Cruise/­Wagner and starring Nicole Kidman, who was then Cruise’s sentimental partner. It was a Spanish-American co-production made up of four companies: the American Cruise/Wagner Production and Dimension Films and the Spanish Las Producciones del Escorpión and Sogecine. What is relevant here is to observe the interests of the Spanish part. Las Producciones del Escorpión was an independent company. It belonged to filmmaker/producer José Luis Cuerda who had also financed Amenábar’s two previous films. José Luis Cuerda had been mentoring Amenábar’s career up until then, and he had been doing so in collaboration with Sogecine, the production branch of the Canal+ television network. Amenábar and Canal+ had a symbiotic relationship. To understand it, it is necessary to go back to the foundation and purposes of the network. In August 1989, the Spanish government ended the monopoly of public broadcasting services and adopted the French model, allowing for the launch of three private channels: Antena 3, Tele 5 and Canal+. While the first two followed the traditional commercial model, Canal+ was a pay television channel that focused on sports and cinema, like its French counterpart. Canal+ and its branch, Sogecine, financed national productions in addition to international premieres. Given the absence of a pay television tradition in Spain, their content had to stand out, emphasizing modernity and youth. As a result, Sogecine became a vital force in the generational renewal of Spanish cinema in the DOI: 10.4324/9781003295075-2

Early 2000s  13 1990s, led by Álex de la Iglesia, Santiago Segura and Alejandro Amenábar, with the latter generating the most international interest. Amenábar’s stories were not as tied to Spanish tradition and reality, making The Others a ­production with expansionist ambitions in the international market. This aspiration is a common theme in Spanish cinema, with past examples such as Las Vegas, 500 millones/They Came to Rob Las Vegas (Antonio Isasi-Isasmendi, 1968), Hay que matar a B/B Must Die (José Luis Borau, 1974), or, in the horror genre, Vampyros Lesbos (Jesús Franco, 1971), ¿Quién puede matar a un niño?/Who Can Kill a Child? (Chicho Ibáñez Serrador, 1976), or Mil ­gritos tiene la noche/Pieces (Juan Piquer Simón, 1980). Therefore, The ­Others belongs to the same category as English-language productions such as Two Much (Fernando Trueba, 1995) or Perdita Durango (Álex de la Iglesia, 1997). Despite its success, of the three films, The Others was the least nationally marked, in terms of both content and form. The Others, set in Jersey, one of the Channel Islands, was filmed in ­Santander and Madrid. The film is a mannerist exercise that follows the precepts of Anglo-Saxon gothic horror. While Amenábar acknowledged the influence of Víctor Erice’s El espíritu de la colmena/The Spirit of the Beehive (1973) in interviews (Robles, 2001), the imprint of Jack Clayton’s The Innocents (1961) or Alfred Hitchcock’s Rebecca (1940) is much more prominent in both form and substance. Despite some authors’ attempts to find references to the Spanish Civil War in its images (Acevedo-Muñoz, 2008), with time and considering Amenábar’s subsequent filmography, it seems more likely that the film explores the influence of the Catholic religion on contemporary Spain, rather than its past. This theme is particularly important to Amenábar due to its criticism of the Catholic hierarchy’s stance on homosexuality. The Others won eight Goya Awards and became the first non-Spanishlanguage film to win the Goya Award for Best Picture. Even more impressive was its box-office performance. Distributed by Warner Bros., it grossed 27.2  million euros in Spain alone, becoming the highest-grossing Spanish horror film in history to date. It also performed equally well outside of Spain. Distributed in the United States by Miramax, in the United States it earned 96.5  million dollars, ranking 17th among the highest-grossing films of the year worldwide, with 209.9 million. The success of The Others propelled one of its Spanish producers, ­Fernando Bovaira, to involve himself in a slew of other horror films that will be ­referenced in this book, including Fin/The End (Jorge Torregrossa, 2012) and Caníbal/Cannibal (Manuel Martín Cuenca, 2013). Two notable films among them are El mal ajeno/For the Good of Others (2010), which had the backing of director Alejandro Amenábar in addition to Bovaira, and ­Regresión/Regression (2015), an unsuccessful attempt by the Amenábar/­ Bovaira duo to replicate The Others’ success in the horror genre. Prior to The Others, there was another critical and commercial success in 2001 with The Devil’s Backbone. Later in 2006, Guillermo del Toro, a

14  Early 2000s Mexican filmmaker in self-exile in Spain, released Pan’s Labyrinth, which also garnered resounding praise from both critics and audiences. Due to their themes and settings, they are often considered as part of a diptych. Indeed, both are set during or after the Spanish Civil War, feature children as their protagonists, and include elements of fantasy and terror. However, from a production standpoint, they are completely different. The Devil’s Backbone (2001) was a co-production between the Spanish El Deseo and the Mexican Tequila Gang and Anhelo Producciones, in association with Sogepaq (Canal+). Just like The Others, the key to its production can be traced back to a previous success. The design of subsidies for Spanish cinema aims to favor independent producers (Riambau, 2003). When a film is successful, the profits of these producers are reinvested in new projects to avoid both the payment of taxes and the return of subsidies. The great success of Todo sobre mi madre/All About My Mother (Pedro Almodóvar, 1999), with $67.8  million worldwide, catalyzed the production of two films The Devil’s Backbone and La fiebre del loco/The Abalone Fever (Andrés Wood, 2001) by El Deseo, the production company of the Almodóvar brothers and Esther García. Working with an independent producer led Del Toro to claim that The Devil’s Backbone was “my first film” and that “it saved my creative life; it allowed me to survive the hardships of Mimic” (Del Toro, 2002). He used these exaggerated words to convey the sense of liberation he felt collaborating with El Deseo as a Mexican director. The budget for The Devil’s Backbone was $4.5  million, a figure significantly lower than the $17  million for The Others or the $30  million for his previous film (Mimic, 1997). While The Devil’s Backbone shares some similarities with The Others in terms of its use of claustrophobic spaces, period settings, few locations and characters, it is likely that the budget disparity was due to above-the-line costs, such as the salaries of the Anglo-Saxon stars featured in The Others. Among Spanish productions, The Devil’s Backbone was the sixth most viewed film of the year, with €3 million and $4.9 million in Mexico. In the United States, the film was distributed by Sony Pictures Classics, grossing 755,000. It seemed clear that Del Toro would return to film in Spain. However, the legislation that had led to the production of The Devil’s Backbone would change in 1999. At that time, private TV channels were required to reinvest 5% of their profits into Spanish cinema. The two main private TV channels were thus obliged to form film production divisions. Telecinco created Estudios Picasso Fábrica de Ficción, Producciones Cinematográficas Telecinco (now Telecinco Cinema); Antena 3 created Antena 3 Films, later renamed Atresmedia Cine. Telecinco soon recruited Álvaro Augustin, a professional from Sogecine (Canal+). Augustin’s name would appear in the credits of Pan’s Labyrinth, another Spanish-Mexican co-production, this time between Telecinco Cinema, Tequila Gang and Esperanto Filmoj. It would be Telecinco Cinema’s second horror film, after Cámara oscura (Pau

Early 2000s  15 Freixas, 2003). While private funding for productions like Del Toro’s Pan’s Labyrinth affords creative freedom to directors, the primary interests of such ventures are commercial. This may clarify why Pan’s Labyrinth appears to rely more on replicating the successful elements of The Devil’s Backbone than pursuing a cohesive authorial vision. As private television channels belong to multimedia groups (Mediaset España and Atresmedia), another decisive peculiarity of their productions will be their ability to mobilize a multimedia advertising machinery through television, radio and print media, which is impossible for other films. Pan’s Labyrinth grossed $83.8 million worldwide, of which $11.7 million were earned in Spain and only $6.8 million in Mexico, demonstrating to what extent its subject matter was considered Spanish in Del Toro’s country. Nevertheless, it was submitted as Mexico’s entry for the Oscars that year, winning three out of the six awards it was nominated for. Undoubtedly, the nominations helped Pan’s Labyrinth earn $7.6 million in the United States. The film was distributed by Warner Bros. in Spain and Latin America, by Wild Bunch in the rest of Europe and by Picturehouse in the United States. The diptych formed by The Devil’s Backbone and Pan’s Labyrinth would change the careers of many of its protagonists, especially in technical areas. For example, in the case of the special effects and makeup company DDT SFX, or the editor Bernat Vilaplana.1 Its success paved the way for Telecinco Cinema to make a more resolute commitment to horror films. Under this label, and with the presence of Álvaro Augustin in the credits, films such as Los crímenes de Oxford/The Oxford Murders (Álex de la Iglesia, 2008), Eskalofrío (Isidro Ortiz, 2008), Hierro (Gabe Ibáñez, 2009) or Malnazidos/Valley of the Death (Javier Ruiz-Caldera and Alberto de Toro, 2020) would be realized. But undoubtedly, the great legacy of Pan’s Labyrinth has been the final push for The Orphanage (Juan Antonio Bayona, 2007), a film that will ultimately define the Spanish production system of the 21st century (and not only in the horror genre). Guillermo del Toro and Juan Antonio Bayona crossed paths at the Sitges International Fantastic Film Festival of Catalonia. Del Toro convinced Augustin and Telecinco Cinema to support the feature film debut of his protégé. The production was joined by Rodar y Rodar, a small Barcelonabased company whose business at the time was in the education industry. The director’s and producer’s inexperience justified the film’s $4 million budget. The influence of The Others on The Orphanage is unmistakable, despite the latter being set in the present instead of the past. A  Gothic narrative is ­employed, with a confined setting and a mother who unwittingly becomes monstrous. The lead role of this pivotal character is portrayed by Belén Rueda, in her first major starring role. While Nicole Kidman was an international star, Rueda was primarily known domestically, with a long and extensive career on television, mostly on Telecinco, the company that ultimately produced the film. It is not daring to assert that the production followed the process of “difference and repetition” (Altman, 1999) in the search for box-office success.

16  Early 2000s Similarly, the organizational structure mirrored that of Pan’s Labyrinth: Spanish distribution by Warner Bros., international distribution by Wild Bunch and US distribution by Picturehouse. This fruitful partnership was confirmed by the film’s box-office figures. The Orphanage earned $78.6 million worldwide, with almost half coming from Spain at $37.7 million and $11.4 million in Mexico, due to Guillermo del Toro’s patronage. The film won seven Goya Awards and made Juan Antonio Bayona the most successful director of his generation. The people involved in the film’s success would become a recurring presence in the horror genre. Thus, their inseparable screenwriter Sergio G. Sánchez made his directorial debut in the successful El secreto de Marrowbone/Marrowbone (2017). Their production company, Rodar y Rodar, specialized in horror films such as El silencio de la ciudad blanca/Twin Murders: The Silence of the White City (Daniel Calparsoro, 2019) and El páramo/The Wasteland (David Casemunt, 2020). Their second most successful production was probably Los ojos de Julia/Julia’s Eyes (Guillem Morales, 2010), which saw Rodar y Rodar reunite with Guillermo del Toro and starred Belén Rueda. Its importance lies in becoming a launching pad for director Oriol Paulo’s career, who directed El cuerpo/The Body (2012) and Contratiempo/The Invisible Guest (2016). Finally, it is worth noting Del Toro’s role as an intermediary between Spain and Latin America as a co-producer of horror films. He produced Rabia/Rage (2009) by Ecuadorian filmmaker Sebastián Cordero and Mamá (2013) by ­Argentinean director Andrés Muschetti. While The Orphanage shares some similarities with The Others, its most noteworthy aspects may actually be found in its differences from the latter. The film is more explicit in its international references, from nods to Peter Pan and the ghostly approach of Henry James to the presence of Geraldine Chaplin. Even the casting of Rueda seems to follow Hollywood criteria, according to the director: “so slim and with such marked features, it caught my eye because it reminded me of the heroines of American cinema from the 1970s, like Sissy Spacek in Carrie (Brian de Palma, 1976) or Margot Kidder in The Amityville Horror (Stuart Rosenberg, 1979)” (De Fez, 2007). However, unlike Sogecine and The Others, the productions of Telecinco Cinema (and Atresmedia Cine) are mostly aimed at the domestic market. This explains its limited success in the United States, with a box office of 7.1 million dollars, far from the almost 100 million dollars earned by The Others. To sum up, the success of The Orphanage has established a model for 21stcentury Spanish cinema (Rodríguez Ortega and Romero Santos, 2020). This model involves actors and technical teams frequently sourced from the television industry. Such individuals possess the ability to adapt effortlessly to budgetary constraints and are well known to local audiences, though not necessarily to international ones. An independent production company, capable of accessing public subsidies, is financially supported by the two major private production powerhouses, namely Telecinco Cinema and Atresmedia Cine. These two companies also own print and advertising outlets, which is appealing for the American major distribution. This not only opens opportunities for distribution by major

Early 2000s  17 players in Spain but also establishes a production system that has prevailed in the country for the last two decades, thanks to the success of a horror movie.

2.2. English-Language Spanish (Co)-Productions: An “International Style” The Others was greatly impactful for two main reasons: it altered the standard production system for mainstream films, and it raised the interest of both national and international investors and distributors in Spanish horror. After magnus opus such as No profanar el sueño de los muertos/Let Sleeping Corpses Lie (Jorge Grau, 1974) or Who Can Kill a Child? Amenábar’s film is the starting point of a second “golden age” of Spanish horror, in this case in English language, which lasted two decades. Certainly, our focus on The Others compels us to enumerate films and directors. However, the work of a select group of producers will be equally instrumental in driving the internationalization process of Spanish cinema. In terms of the narrative framework and production choices, it is easy to determine The Others’ influence. Probably, no other national horror output has featured so many children in major roles, for example. As is common in co-production projects, the reasons to justify the use of English as the main language vary. Amenábar turned Santander into the Isle of Man in The ­Others; other filmmakers reproduced this strategy or attempted to eliminate all specificity from the locations where filming took place, also suppressing visible elements of local culture. Through this “international style,” filmmakers make a conscientious effort to deliver products in a “Hollywood way,” targeting global audiences. Furthermore, the obsession to get US distribution could sometimes impact the narrative and visual style of these films. Filmax was the first production and distribution company that immediately attempted to exploit The Others’ wave of success in the international markets. This company is a unique case in the Spanish scenario since it is vertically integrated, and it had the resources to carry out this task. Their goal was to control theatrical distribution and the domestic market, which was growing due to the arrival of the DVD format. In fact, Filmax redoubled its efforts in the new millennium. The main umbrella company was ­Filmax, directed by Julio Fernández; additionally, it created the joint venture ­Fantastic Factory, in partnership with director Brian Yuzna. Both labels sponsored the careers of a new generation of filmmakers, most remarkably Jaume Balagueró, Paco Plaza and Nacho Cerdà. Balagueró would get immediate recognition after the release of Los sin nombre/The Nameless (1999), which is an adaptation of a Ramsey Campbell novel. His second film would be Darkness (2002). In this film, there is thematic continuity with The Others: haunted spaces, ghosts from the past, photographs that epitomize disturbing horror, sensitive children who love drawing and a story that chiefly relies on female characters.

18  Early 2000s Darkness opens with an American family moving to a rural house in Spain. Despite this setting, the architecture of their new home is unequivocally American: wood construction, huge rooms and a gigantic porch. In other words: although the house may possibly exist in the Spanish countryside, it could also be anywhere in the United States. Thus, the film diligently plays down the cultural specificity of the location where the narrative takes place. With the arrival of an eclipse, an occultist group invokes Evil through a ritual sacrifice that remained incomplete forty years ago, the last time that this astronomical event happened. Despite diverse poltergeist events in the house, the parents Maria (Lena Olin) and Mark (Iain Glen) remain oblivious. Only adolescent Regina (Oscar winner Anna Paquin) and the boy, Paul (Stephen Enquist), possess enough sensitivity to realize that something is wrong. “Are we going back to the US?,” asks Paul in the end. With the ritual’s consummation, Spain turns into an inhospitable space the family must escape, bringing to the fore the traditional American fear to foreign spaces and locations. Like The Others, the film was distributed in the United States by the ­Weinstein brothers through Dimension Films, three years after it was originally released, and with a different cut to get a PG-13 rating. Reviews were, generally, negative. Despite this, Darkness obtained excellent box-office ­returns, earning 22.2 million dollars in the United States, and over 30 million worldwide, against a $10.6 million budget. Balagueró’s next film, Frágiles/Fragile (2005), would not repeat Darkness’ success. Shot near Barcelona, it follows The Others and Darkness formula. This time the haunted space is a hospital in Mercy Falls, in the Isle of Wight, which is about to be closed. Amy (Calista Flockhart), a nurse with a traumatic past caused by a medical negligence, is hired to help with the closure and the children’s transfer. The fact awakens the wrath of a former patient’s spirit, Charlotte Rivers (Karmeta Cervera/Julieta Marocco), a.k.a. “the mechanical girl,” identified as such due to her multiple orthopedics. Like in Darkness, the children are seers between the living world and the dead. In addition, Balagueró steps into the realm of body horror. Unmistakably shot in a Hollywood style, the film also capitalizes on the rising wave of Japanese horror. In terms of art design, this is specifically detectable in the water motifs and, above all, Charlotte’s character design. The spirit is a yūrei, a girl with long, uncombed, black hair and full of orthopedics. Fragile had a seven-­ million-dollar budget. It barely recuperated this investment, earning half of it in Spain and performing well in Mexico. In the United States, it was distributed by Bauer Martinez Distribution, a company that was created that same year and went largely unnoticed. Los abandonados/The Abandoned (Nacho Cerdà, 2006) would not earn significant returns either. Cerdà had become a cult director thanks to his short films known as “Trilogía de la Muerte”/“Death Trilogy.” His feature film debut was a co-production between Spain, the United Kingdom and Bulgaria, with the help of another cult artist, Richard Stanley, who co-wrote the screenplay.

Early 2000s  19 It is an offbeat story of doppelgängers in which a woman travels to Russia to meet her adoptive family. To her misfortune, and her twin brothers, this place is inhabited by zombie doubles. Once again, The Abandoned does not have any specific national referent. The complicated and surprising storyline connects with an early 2000s fashionable trend within the English-speaking world, led by Hostel (Eli Roth, 2002) or Severance (Christopher Smith, 2006). In these films, fears towards the Other move to unknown and threatening locations beyond the Iron Curtain. Cerdà follows this formula and, following its aesthetic referents, offers several instances of extreme violence. Thus, the film normalizes gore, a stylistic approach that prior to this era had largely remained within the confines of Z movies or short films. The Abandoned earned a total 4.5  million dollars; in the United States, it made $1.6  million, triple of the amount gathered in Spain. Versus Entertainment, funded by Adrián Guerra and Alejandro Miranda, followed Filmax’s approach. Initially it was a distribution company; it became a producer in 2010. From the very beginning, they attempted to create exportable products. Versus made a huge splash in the international markets with Enterrado/Buried (2010), Rodrigo Cortés’ second feature after Concursante/ The Contestant (2007). It is a free adaptation of Edgard Allan Poe’s short story “The Premature Burial,” written by Chris Sparling, who was included in Hollywood’s notorious blacklist. Ryan Reynolds, an American soldier, is trapped inside a coffin with only a zippo lighter, a pen and a BlackBerry as his tools for survival. The camera remains fixed within the confines of the coffin, creating a claustrophobic and tension-filled atmosphere that builds throughout the film. Reynolds’ powerful performance and Eduard Grau’s exceptional photography hold the audience’s attention throughout. Shot in only sixteen days in Barcelona, with a modest two-million-dollar budget, the film was picked up by Lionsgate after its Sundance premiere. Buried went on to achieve great success, earning an impressive 21.3 million dollars worldwide.2 Cortés and Guerra continued to collaborate on other horror and fantastic cinema productions, this time working alongside Nostromo Pictures, but unfortunately, they were not able to replicate the success of Buried. Their film Luces rojas/Red Lights (2012) is conceptually linked to The Illusionist (Neil Burger, 2006) and The Prestige (Christopher Nolan, 2006) and follows the attempts of two scientists (Sigourney Weaver and Cillian Murphy) to expose a seer (Robert De Niro). Although set in Barcelona, the city is transformed into a fake version of an unnamed US city. Despite its star-studded cast, the film failed to perform at the box office, earning only 14.1 million dollars globally, despite having a similar budget.3 If one identifies Cortés with Sundance, then the international career of other filmmakers will be associated with the thriving scene around the South by Southwest Festival and the Fantastic Fest in Austin. This is the case for ­Eugenio Mira, who presented two English-language films at the Fantastic

20  Early 2000s Fest: The Birthday (2004) and Grand Piano (2013). The first, starring former teen star Corey Feldman, swept the first edition of the Fantastic Fest, winning Best Director for Mira, Best Actor for Feldman and Best Supporting Actor for Jack Taylor. Taylor’s inclusion in the film may be interpreted as a nod to those English-language co-productions shot in Spain during the 1970s, in which he was a recurring presence, such as in Count Dracula (Jesús Franco, 1969) and Dr. Jekyll and the Werewolf (León Klimovsky, 1971). The Birthday is a claustrophobic fantasy with surreal touches that, at times, evokes Barton Fink (Joel Coen, 1991) or the anthology film Four Rooms (VV. AA, 1995). The protagonist’s social discomfort and clumsiness intermingle with the activities of a bizarre and bloody sect. Recently, its unique blend of horror and comedy has been championed by the highly regarded director Jordan Peele, who programmed it at the Lincoln Center. The second film, Grand Piano, features Elijah Wood and John Cusack. It is a Hitchcockian tour de force in which Wood plays Tom Selznick, a piano virtuoso who is threatened by a sniper and forced to play a perfect concert under the penalty of death. Notably, the film’s screenplay was written by Damien Chazelle, one year prior to his industry breakthrough with Whiplash! (2014). Grand Piano, like nearly all Rodrigo Cortés’ films, was produced by Nostromo Pictures. Nacho Vigalondo is also closely connected to Austin. His distinctive style is characterized by his encyclopedic and expansive understanding of horror and science fiction, coupled with a penchant for exploring space-time paradoxes, always seasoned with a romantic subplot. His feature debut, Los Cronocrímenes/Timecrimes (2007), was shot in Spanish. Nonetheless, it emerged victorious at the Fantastic Fest, securing the prestigious awards for Best Film, Gold Jury Medal and Silver Audience Award. After a second feature film in Spanish, Extraterrestre/Extraterrestrial (2011), Vigalondo directed two English-language films, co-produced by big Hollywood stars. Open Windows (2014) was co-produced by Spectre Vision, the production company of its lead actor, Elijah Wood, and Spiderwood Studios in the United States, along with Apaches Entertainment and Antena 3 Films in Spain. The film was intentionally crafted for international ­audiences, as noted by Fernández Meneses and Rodríguez Ortega (2023). Despite Wood’s presence, the main draw of Open Windows was the performance of former porn star Sasha Grey, who had gained renewed attention after appearing in Steven Soderbergh’s The Girlfriend Experience (2009). Wood portrays Nick Chambers, an ardent fan of the actress Jill Goddard (played by Grey), with whom he has supposedly won a dinner date. However, the dinner is abruptly canceled, and instead, the organizer grants him access to Goddard’s computer, camera and microphone. In reality, this is a ploy to exploit Chambers’ voyeuristic impulses, as he becomes a witness to Goddard’s stalking and murder, which he desperately tries to prevent. Open Windows adopts a Rear Window-style approach, depicting the action entirely through computer screens, offering a reflection on the role of technology in our lives, desires and privacy. The film

Early 2000s  21 premiered at the South by Southwest Festival in Austin and, despite grossing just $550,108, it made a significant impact on Grey’s fanbase during its domestic market tour. Nacho Vigalondo’s follow-up to Open Windows was the highly anticipated Colossal (2016), which boasted an impressive cast led by Anne Hathaway and Jason Sudeikis. Hathaway’s involvement in the project helped secure financing and led to her becoming a producer on the film. In Colossal, Hathaway portrays Gloria, an unemployed alcoholic writer who returns to her hometown after a breakup, where she discovers she is mysteriously connected to a monster wreaking havoc in Seoul. The film is a love letter to the Japanese Kaiju genre and a sharp commentary on gender violence, with Sudeikis playing a character whose abusive and sadistic behavior is exposed through the story. Colossal was honored with the Best Film award at the Fantastic Fest and was distributed by Neon, a company founded by the owners of the influential Alamo Drafthouse chain. Despite critical acclaim, the movie only earned $4.5 million globally, a disappointing result given its $15 million budget. Regresión/Regression (Alejandro Amenábar, 2015) is another English-­ language horror co-production directly linked to The Others. The film was meant to mark Amenábar and producer Fernando Bovaira’s triumphant return to horror after the expensive production of Ágora/Agora (2009). Set in a small town in Minnesota during the 1990s, the story revolves around a Satanist cult. The reason for setting the film in this decade is the alleged existence of multiple Satanism occurrences at the time, after the publication of Lawrence Pazder’s book, Michelle Remembers, in which the author claims to have unblocked a past of maternal aggressions in satanic rituals using hypnosis (regressions). Despite being set in the United States, the supernatural story serves as nothing but an alibi for Amenábar to address one of his recurrent themes: the harmful effects of religious fundamentalism, which he had already explored in Agora. In this case, the character of Roy Gray (Devon Bostick), Angela’s brother, who is repudiated by his father and grandmother due to his homosexuality, is of particular significance. Regression was one of the most highly anticipated films in the history of Spain. It premiered at the San Sebastian Film Festival, which is the country’s only A-list international showcase. Unfortunately, the final cut of the film was plagued by numerous issues caused by disagreements between the Spanish and US producers and distributors, the notorious Weinstein ­brothers. The Weinstein Company even postponed the film’s US release. Despite a 15-million-dollar investment, Regression earned only 17.7  million dollars worldwide, with $9.7 million in Spain alone. In the United States, it performed poorly, earning a mere 55,039 dollars. Producer Enrique López Lavigne has been one of the most active agents within Spanish cinema in the last three decades. He also has strong ties with The Others. He himself has stated that he is a Fernando Bovaira disciple. He started as a programmer for Canal Satélite. Later, he co-directed El asombroso

22  Early 2000s mundo de Borjamari y Pocholo (2004) with Juan Cavestany. Afterwards, however, his career went hand in hand with director Juan Carlos Fresnadillo. Together they co-wrote and co-produced 28 Weeks Later (2007) and subsequently López Lavigne co-produced Intruders (2011). We will discuss the first film in the following chapters. For now, let’s state that the sequel of 28 Days Later (Danny Boyle, 2002) was remarkably successful. If Boyle’s film earned 85.7 million dollars, the franchise’s continuation made an acceptable amount, $65.8 million. López Lavigne then decided to create Apaches Entertainment with Belén Atienza. Their first production was Intruders (2011), a project that skillfully maneuvers the Spanish English-language co-production formula in the 21st century. To justify the presence of children, it resorts to a monster born out of one of the protagonists’ nightmares, Carahueca/Hollowface, who steals the senses from the living. To overcome the suspension of disbelief associated with Spanish films in English language, Hollowface becomes an international villain, terrorizing a Spanish boy and an English girl. The film thus turns into a bilingual enterprise, filled with stilted alibis. Hollowface’s design, faceless and with a black hood, its ability to appear inside wardrobes and near humid areas in buildings, is also a globally comprehensible template.4 Like in 28 Weeks Later, the film extensively utilizes CCTV images. Unfortunately, none of these ingredients and a stellar cast, Clive Owen, Carice Van Houten, Pilar López de Ayala and Daniel Brühl, saved the film from a poor box-office performance, earning only 5.4 million dollars globally, half of its 12-million-dollar budget. Apaches continued intervening in the international horror market with English-language productions such as Open Windows (Nacho Vigalondo, 2014), Out of the Dark (Luis Quílez, 2014) or Maus (Yayo Herrero, 2017). Undoubtedly, its greatest accomplishments are Juan Antonio Bayona’s films, in partnership with multimedia conglomerate Mediaset España. Here, we will focus on Un monstruo viene a verme/A Monster’ Calls (2016), an adaptation of a Patrick Ness novel. It was the director’s return to horror through the last installment in his Maternal Trilogy after the gothic tale The Orphanage and the disaster movie The Impossible (2012), also produced by Apaches Entertainment. Young boy Conor (Lewis MacDougall) is devastated for two reasons: bullying at school and, above all, his mother’s (Felicity Jones) cancer. The appearance of a yew tree monster (with Liam Neeson’s voice) makes him turn his life around. Whereas The Impossible had an explicit connection with Spain, since it was the story of a Spanish family conveniently adapted to Hollywood’s sensibility, this time all national elements are utterly inexistent. From the opening sequence, the film is quintessentially British: the houses, the lights, the school uniforms, the crows and even Sigourney Weaver’s accent, who suitably modified it to fabricate her identity. For Spanish spectators, the only element that refers to the history of their national cinematic tradition is perhaps Geraldine Chaplin, muse and wife of Carlos Saura and a recurrent

Early 2000s  23 presence in Bayona’s works. Nonetheless, A Monster Calls epitomizes many of the characteristic elements at work in English-language Spanish horror in the two decades after the release of The Others. Once again, and playing the international card, the Spanish director resorts to the story of a child, in this case justified by its genre, the so-called “low fantasy.” Connor spends lots of time in front of a blank page, like the protagonists of The Others, Darkness, Down a Dark Hole or Intruders. This activity is precisely what allows him to connect with the supernatural world, which is otherwise invisible to adults. In addition, A Monster Calls is significant in as much as it allows us to pinpoint how the genre has evolved. If, in The Others, Amenábar made a conscientious effort to deliver an elegant revision of the classical gothic haunted house formula, Bayona’s film aims to question the monster movie template. In fact, the film may be considered a melodrama. Moreover, it combines live action with animation. While the monster makes the young protagonist to question morality and stereotypes, spectators are also obliged to ponder the true nature of the monster. They must decide whether this gigantic being with red eyes that pushes Connor towards violence is good-hearted or evil. With a budget of 43 million dollars, the film ended up making over 47. In the United States, it did not perform well, making only $3.7 million and losing the genre revisionist duel with Underworld: Blood Wars (Anna Foerster, 2016). In Spain, however, it earned $28.1 million and it was the most watched film in 2016. It was nominated for 12 Goya awards, winning nine, amongst them, Best Director. A Monster Calls is a prime example of Spanish films designed for international audiences that have gained greater recognition, critical acclaim and box-office success within their domestic market. The same happened with Marrowbone, directed by Sergio G. Sánchez, co-writer of The Orphanage and The Impossible. The film was also made with Bayona’s usual creative team and was produced by Belén Atienza and Sandra Hermida. Marrowbone centers around the story of four English brothers who relocate to Maine (United States) in 1969, featuring a talented cast of rising stars including George MacKay, Charlie Heaton, Mia Goth and Anya Taylor-Joy. Marrowbone is conceptually linked to The Orphanage, employing similar ­elements such as a gothic plotline, a child as the protagonist, an old house as the main setting, an unreliable narrator and characters with identity disorders. From the very beginning, Marrowbone openly acknowledges that the story takes place abroad and features foreign protagonists. Although it had mostly unknown actors in Spain and was directed by an unfamiliar filmmaker for mainstream audiences, the film was a resounding success in the domestic ­market, grossing over 8.6 million dollars and ranking among the top five mostwatched films. However, the film remained relatively obscure elsewhere. A Monster Calls and Marrowbone are a defining moment in the ­history of English language productions. The arrival of streaming services, and the subsequent urgency to get new contents, along with the ongoing

24  Early 2000s reconceptualization of global audiences, has altered the processes of film distribution and production all over the planet. Shooting in English does not seem a necessary condition to become successful in the international areas. If The Others extensively modified the production practices in the beginning of the millennium, it seems that the great international reception of Spanish TV series like La casa de papel/Money Heist or films like The Platform (Galder Gaztelu-Urrutia, 2019) or Verónica (Paco Plaza, 2017) has also had a tremendous impact. It seems that, in the second decade of the 21st century, English language is no longer a “necessary visa” to conquer America.

Notes 1 Vilaplana went from editing La monja/The Nun (Luis de la Madrid, 1985) to ­Hellboy II: The Golden Army (Guillermo del Toro, 2008). 2 Buried made almost three million dollars in the United Kingdom, performing generally well in the international markets. 3 Jaume Collet-Serra is also a noteworthy filmmaker worth considering in the context of English-language Spanish horror cinema. Although he has recently transitioned towards action films, culminating in his directorial role in the 2022 film Black Adam, starring Dwayne Johnson (“The Rock”), he began his career in horror. Collet-Serra’s debut was House of Wax (2005), a remake of the 1953 film of the same title, which featured Paris Hilton. Another film to highlight from Collet-Serra’s horror filmography is Orphan (2009), which boasts a notable cast including Vera Farmiga, Peter Sarsgaard, and Isabelle Fuhrman. In addition, he also directed the horror thriller The Shallows (2016), which stars Blake Lively. It is significant that Collet-Serra has built his entire career in Hollywood. 4 Hollowface is reminiscent of Marvel’s Dr. Doom.

Bibliography Acevedo-Muñoz, E (2008) Horror of Allegory: The Others and its Contexts. In: Beck, J and Rodríguez Ortega, V (eds) Contemporary Spanish Cinema and Genre. Manchester: Manchester University Press, pp. 202–218. Altman, R (1999) Film/Genre. London: British Film Institute. De Fez, D (2007) El orfanato: una película de J. A. Bayona: la película y sus creadores. Ocho y Medio: Zaragoza. Del Toro, G (2002) Director’s Commentary, El espinazo del diablo, DVD. Sony ­Pictures Classics. Fernández Meneses, J and Rodríguez Ortega, V (2023) Su primera vez. Del corto al largo: Cobeaga/Ipiña/Vigalondo. Valencia: Tirant Lo Blanch. Riambau, E (2003) El periodo ‘socialista’ (1982–1995). In: Gubern, R et al (eds) Historia del cine español. Madrid: Cátedra, pp. 399–445. Robles, J (2001) Los otros: una película de Alejandro Amenábar. Ocho y Medio: Madrid. Rodríguez Ortega, V and Romero Santos, R (2020) Spanish Horror Film: Genre, ­Television and a New Model of Production. In: Lewis, I and Canning, L (eds) ­European Cinema in the Twenty-First Century: Discourses, Directions and Genres. London: Springer, pp. 317–333.

3

[Rec] An International Franchise

3.1.  [Rec] in Context: Data & Reception Surrounded by a great deal of expectation, the documentary [Rec]: Terror Sin Pausa/[Rec]: Non-Stop Horror (Diego López-Fernández) premiered in the 2022 Sitges Film Festival. This work chronicles the impact of the first [Rec] film in 2007, conceptualizing it as key step in the consolidation of Spanish horror within the national and the international arenas. Through a series of interviews with key actors in the development, writing, directing, acting and commercialization of the franchise, this documentary makes one thing clear: [Rec] changed horror filmmaking in Spain and, fundamentally, addressed a young generation of cinema goers that were in the middle of one of the most important shifts in the contemporary era: the establishment of the digital as a fundamental tool to articulate social, economic and cultural relationships. The documentary explicitly acknowledges that the directors of [Rec], Jaume Balagueró and Paco Plaza, aimed to make a timely intervention within midto-late 2000s audiovisual panorama, addressing both the growing importance of found footage horror in the global cinematic arenas and the pervasiveness of reality TV’s immediate aesthetics in the televisual screens. The [Rec] franchise includes four films: [Rec] (Jaume Balagueró and Paco Plaza, 2007), [Rec]2 (Jaume Balagueró and Paco Plaza, 2009), [Rec]3: ­Genesis (Paco Plaza, 2012) and [Rec]4: Apocalypse (Jaume Balagueró, 2014). [Rec] first installment begins with the following premise: a TV reporter, Ángela (Manuela Velasco), and her camera man, Pablo (Pablo Rosso), are recording the night activities of a Barcelona firehouse. All of a sudden, they receive an emergency call. The TV crew follows the firefighters to a building where some of the tenants seem to be infected by a strange virus. As the story unfolds, one by one, all tentants, firemen and policemen will be infected except for Ángela and her camera man. Rapidly, the two protagonists are surrounded by voracious fast-moving zombies and need to find a way out. In the end, Ángela and her companion reach the building’s attic where they discover the origin of the virus, the Medeiros girl (Javier Botet), a young woman who is allegedly possessed by a devilish creature; a priest was researching her body in order to

DOI: 10.4324/9781003295075-3

26  [Rec] isolate the enzyme causing the virus. Things went awry and the virus spread in the building. Captured exclusively though the camera man’s viewfinder, [Rec] banks on a direct, in-your-face, digital aesthetics that articulates horror through the jerky imperfection of DV’s fabric and a restricted point of view that it never abandons. In that sense, spectators become privileged voyeurs that have firsthand access to what the camera sees (Brady, 2018). [Rec] (2007) was not an expensive project. It was made for two million euros, a mid-size budget for Spanish standards; [Rec]2 almost doubled its budget, with $3.5 million (Cineconñ, 2021). The estimated budget for [Rec]3 was nearly five million euros: finally [Rec]4 was made more modestly, it cost between two and three million euros (Cinefilolisto, 2012). In theatrical terms, domestically, all four films made a total of 16.7 million euros, gathering 2.9  million spectators.1 At the international level, [Rec] is the highestgrossing Spanish franchise ever. It earned a total of 67.2 million dollars; in other words, almost four times more money than in Spain.2 For example, the film was successful in other Spanish-speaking countries such as Mexico. When Nacho Vigalondo’s film Los cronocrímenes/ Timecrimes was released in this country shortly after [Rec], the film was re-labeled as Rewind, clearly attempting to appeal to the fans of Balagueró’s and Plaza’s work, as though Vigalondo’s film were a continuation of their universe, when, in actuality, it is conceptually, formally and narratively very different.3 To sum up, [Rec]’s visibility beyond Spain brings to the fore a key aspect to understand the franchise’s success: Filmax, the film’s producer and distributor, designed a global product that aimed to engage horror fans across borders. The critical reaction to the first [Rec] film was, for the most part, positive. Jordi Costa, for example, wrote in Fotogramas that the film “belongs to a rare kind of films that frightens the spectator without renouncing to a certain ironic tone. The film’s secret is its aesthetic accuracy and, above all, its capacity to create, within a unique register, a well-articulated and tremendously original horror tale” (2008). Most critics typically highlighted the influence of The Blair Witch Project and found footage horror, more extensively, on [Rec]. At the same time, they praised the film’s “liveness,” the narrative’s real-time approach, connecting it to its capacity to draw spectators. In this sense, for example, Alfonso Rivera states “close to the realist aesthetics of documentaries, like the The Blair Witch Project, but even more well-crafted and using techniques and narratives structures borrowed from television, . . . the film is a trepidant and tense journey into horror” (2008). Similarly, the international press conceptualized [Rec] as another entry in the shaky-cam horror trend that Cloverfield (Matt Reeves, 2008) and Diary of the Dead (George A. Romero, 2007) had revived in the mid-to-late 2000s, while expressing that, precisely because of its derivative character, [Rec] was a movie likely to fade away from memory (Russell, 2008). [Rec] capitalized on the increasing commercialization of DV technology and the consequent familiary of spectators with its capacity to capture the

[Rec]  27 immediacy of the real. Furthermore, since the early 2000s the affordability of digital equipment had created a direct link between grainy footage and shaky camera movements and the spectators’ quotidian life experiences. In other words, in this period individuals deciphered digital images not only as consumers but also as producers of media since many of them created their own videos and consumed them in their day-to-day life. In this sense, DV potentially works “as a window to the external world and as a viewfinder to inner life. Functioning as a notary of history but, above all, the intrahistory of contemporary daily life, digital video is a ubiquitous documentalist –­ wherever something extraordinary happens, a camera captures it – and a chronicler of the day-to-day” (Reviriego, 2010, p. 356). Additionally, in the digital era, images and sounds assault spectators from several screens, multiplying stimuli from a variety of directions; their omnipresence is thus a cultural marker of the contemporary era. These audiovisual artifacts penetrate diverse practices of social exchange through the portable connectivity devices such as tablets, cellphones and cameras provide. Nonetheless, the human sensorium is equipped to decode digital imagery fluently, as an ordinary, everyday, element of our social engagements. Digital media also offers a new set of tools to reinvent established film genres – such as horror, sci-fi or thrillers. Within this context, [Rec] banked on the popularity of two dominant representational templates within the first decade of the 21st century: found footage horror and reality TV.

3.2.  [Rec] & Found Footage Horror Found footage horror made a huge splash in the waning days of the 20th century through The Blair Witch Project (Daniel Myrick and Eduardo Sánchez, 1999). This film was a low-budget feature made for around 60,000 dollars that was destined to circulate through the independent and fantastic/ horror film festival circuits. And yet this was just the beginning of the story. After the film’s premiere at the Sundance Film Festival, a huge buzz surrounded the film. Artisan Entertainment bought the distribution rights for 1.1 million dollars. Subsequently, this company chiefly designed the film’s marketing strategy via the Internet, creating a website that offered additional details and materials such as photographs, faux police reports, crafting the The Blair Witch Project’s legend as a true story.4 When the film was widely released, some spectators actually believed that it was a documentary and completely immersed themselves, at least initially, within the successful fabrication of the witch’s legend. As J.P. Telotte states, The Blair Witch Project was revolutionary in conceiving a cinematic entreprise as a media hypertext, existing beyond the filmic and penetrating the social through several digital screens (1999). In other terms, it conceptualized spectators as viewers but also as internet users that could absorb the film in a diversity of media environments.

28  [Rec] Found footage horror also became an attractive template for filmmakers since it allowed them to work cheaply, with skeleton crews, bypassing several monetary hurdles. Additionally, its direct aesthetic turned into an appropriate vehicle to depict several of the genre’s building blocks. Consequently, horror fully embraced the digital as a privileged storytelling device. In this sense, “the independent and amateurish look of the product appeals to a number of horror filmmakers . . . and the hand-held look chimes with the genre’s affective drive” (Aldana Reyes, 2016: 150). Since its seismic appearance in 1999, The Blair Witch formula became a model to imitate, largely expanding and retooling the aesthetics of horror towards the immediate appeal of the digital. A few years later, in parallel to the [Rec] first film, another English-­speaking found footage horror film, Paranormal Activity (Oren Peli, 2007), became also a hit; immediately afterwards, digital found footage horror entered the mainstream with Cloverfield, a studio production with a substantial 25-milliondollar budget, which built upon the Godzilla formula through an aesthetic approach based on DV’s imperfect look and a restricted point of view.5 Both these films turned into lucrative sagas, establishing the centrality of the found footage horror template. Beyond their aesthetic similaries, all these films share a common concern: a preoccupation with the very concept of representing reality and the sensorial engagement with the spectators’ bodies, while questioning how specific images pass “for the real thing” (Aldana Reyes, 2015: 131). Building upon long established common places of horror (the final girl, a restricted point of view, the impossibility of escaping a sealed or secluded location etc.) these films directly address viewers, presenting themselves as unmediated, live, experiences and, simultaneously, question the very processes of image and sound crafting, calling attention to their own making. Additionally, as reality shows conquered prime time slots on the different television networks, spectators also got used to the imperfect, unstable aesthetics of this kind of product and could easily understand its bet on immediacy as a crucial storytelling device.

3.3.  [Rec], Reality TV & Factuals Within Spain, reality TV had exploded in the 1990s. In this regard, the media coverage of the “Alcàsser case” – the brutal rape and murder of three young women in 1992 – was a milestone, populating the Spanish televisual screens during the early 1990s and mid-1990s. The media representation of the Alcàsser case reached unparalleled explicitness after the bodies of three teenagers were found. That same night, De tú a tú, an Antena 3 talk show, was broadcast from Alcàsser. In front of a live audience, the host, Nieves Herrero, interviewed the parents and friends of the victims, exploiting their sorrow. The Alcàsser case re-configured the limits of representation about violence and sexual abuse (Imbert, 2003; Mateos-Pérez, 2011). Furthermore, in the 1990s, this type of talk shows was largely featured in most Spanish channels,

[Rec]  29 including national public television. For example, TVE’s Quién sabe donde reached a whopping 27% share in 1993, the year of the Alcàsser case (Pérez Rufí and Gómez Pérez, 2003: 540–541).6 Some Spanish media outlets went beyond any ethical standard; channels showed explicit and morbid information seeking to glue audiences in front of the television screen. For these reasons, some commentators have labeled the De tú a tú broadcast as the night Trash TV was born (Fernández, 2013; Negro, 2013; López Frías, 2017). Playing the sensationalism card, a few years later, night show Esta noche cruzamos el Mississippi (Telecinco, 1995–1997) extensively discussed the Alcàsser case, even showing photos of the teenagers’ corpses onscreen, creating a media environment in which morbidity and explicitness, especially in relation to sex and violence, were a key component of the Spanish televisual diet (Rodríguez Ortega, 2022a). As the 2000s went on, another type of reality TV format gained increasing popularity: factuals, a non-fiction kind of program that chronicles the daily lives of actual people, with a focus on sensationalistic topics. These shows depict unscripted action, in which events are placed within a narrative context for the chief purpose of entertainment (Nabi, 2007). Typically, factuals feature a reporter accompanied by a camera person who approaches diverse subjects and “spontaneously” interviews them about a particular issue. In Spain, the most popular factual show of this era is Callejeros (2005– 2014), broadcast in channel Cuatro. This program showcased a journalist and a camera operator capturing different social vignettes, which portrayed scandalmongering topics such as drug trading, alcohol abuse, social destitution and, at times, bizarre over-the-top behaviors, typically attempting to catalyze emotional responses from the interviewed subjects. Often, the reporter appeared on screen, interviewing diverse subjects, while the other only crew member, the camera person, followed him/her, improvising, as unplanned actions ­occurred through the logic of successive, uncut sequence shots that disguised the extensive editing and scripting through the apperance of slices of reality. Furthermore, like in [Rec], the Callejeros’ journalists were co-­ protagonists of the different reportages, questioning subjects and attempting to shape their “stories” (Hill, 2005; Aslama and Pantti, 2006; Ortells, 2011). In this regard: “in these formats, reporters turn into the directors of anonymous citizens’ quotidian experiences, who become actors in their own lives. Reality is a stage in which the reporter, camera operator and main character, along with secondary players, act to offer spectators fragments of their own, previously anonymous lives” (Vázquez La Hoz and Román Portas, 2011: 809). Shows like Callejeros strategically deploy the visual aesthetics of ­observational documentaries to elicit the performances of actual individuals, ultimately seeking to deliver a sensationalistic portrayal of their lives (Holmes and Jermyn, 2004). Consequently, to boost ratings, these products sell themselves as unique ­media events that capture the extraordinary within then ordinary, ­allowing

30  [Rec] spectators to witness insights on everyday life they cannot find elsewhere (Beck, Hellmueller and Aeschbacher, 2012). Even if spectators do not necessarily buy the authenticity of these depictions since they are often ­perfectly aware of the conventions and dramatic exaggerations this type of shows generate, they do seek the pleasures the mix between fact, spontaneity and dramatic structure existing in programs like Callejeros (Rose and Wood, 2005). Thus, on the one hand, Callejeros utilized a noisy and imperfect handheld aesthetic to build up its “authenticity,” bringing to the fore the everyday of different marginalized or bizarre communities or individuals. On the other, it exploited ad infinitum the excessive rhetoric of some of its “found characters,” especially if they offered idyosincractic viewpoints on apparently mundane social behaviors. Finally, Callejeros shaped these “true stories” in the editing room, creating carefully woven narratives that fundamentally determine how spectators access the social vignettes they approach. In its first seasons, Callejeros obtained large audience shares. Furthermore, because of their excessive discursivity, some of its pieces became cult media events, especially after they went viral on YouTube. These vignettes typically concentrate on over-the-top, extraordinary or, at the very least, sensationalistic events that “hide” behind the everyday of citizens, resembling the quotidian experiences of spectators. In “The Valencian neighbors,” for example, the program addresses the abhorrent behaviors of two neighbors who do all kinds of things to make the life of their foe as unpleasant as possible. One, for example, shelters her completely with plastic bags every time she gets out of her apartment because she claims that her neighbor throws piss and faeces all over her body.7 Pedro Almódovar himself has labeled “the Valencian neighbors” a key artifact in contemporary Spanish media, claiming that it should belong to the national “anthology of horror.”8 To a great exent, [Rec] built upon the popularity of factual television, and specifically Callejeros, banking on the ubiquity of its imperfect aesthetics and the growing presence of digital media devices in the spectators’ everyday (Iturbe Tolosa, 2017).9 For, as many authors have rightly expressed, it is necessary to establish the close links with television to understand the aesthetics of 21st-century Spanish cinema (Fernández Meneses, 2015; Smith, 2015; Triana Toribio, 2015; García-Mainar, 2019).10 Along with the found footage horror formula, the popular Callejeros style would be one of the key organizing templates for [Rec], giving spectators a familiar framework to decipher its horror narrative. Although clearly imbued with the particularities of the Spanish mediascape, [Rec] was fundamenally conceived as a transnational enterprise that could be exported globally. In this regard, along with The Others and The Orphanage, [Rec] is perhaps the most important film in terms of repositioning Spanish horror films into a “post-national context” (Rowan-Legg, 2013). To

[Rec]  31 understand this fact, it is necessary to briefly outline the key characteristics of its production company, Filmax.

3.4.  Filmax & the duo Balagueró/Plaza By the time [Rec] was released in 2007, Filmax was a producer and distributor with a long trajectory in the realization of genre films. In the late 1990s and early 2000s, it was a key agent in the progressive popularization of Spanish horror and the careers of both Jaume Balagueró and Paco Plaza (Rowan-Legg, 2016; Lázaro-Reboll, 2017). In 1999, Filmax produced Los sin nombre/The Nameless by Balagueró. Despite its modest domestic box-office results, making 1  million euros, it marked the way for Spanish horror to function productively at the international level, earning two million dollars in Mexico and another million in Italy. It was also released in several European countries. A  few years later, Filmax also financed Paco Plaza’s opera prima, Second name (2002), an ­English-language title based on Ramsey Campbell’s novel Pact of the Fathers (2001), a seemingly international production that bares no trace of Spanishness onscreen even though most of the creative talent behind the camera is, in fact, from Spain. Via the horror genre, Spanish cinema was reaching new paths for its international commercialization. Furthermore, in the early 2000s, Filmax created a branch, Fantastic ­Factory with American horror maverick Brian Yuzna, specializing on English-­ language fantasy and horror films shot in Spain. Even though it was shortlived, the Fantastic Factory produced two early 2000s English-language efforts directed by Jaume Balagueró, Darkness (2002), and Paco Plaza, ­Romasanta, la caza de la bestia. Both films are set in Spain and yet, beyond a few details of local flavor (Willis, 2008; Sánchez Trigos, 2013), these two works are chiefly international productions with identifiable actors such as Anna Paquin, Iain Glenn, Julian Sands or John Sharian, along with a cast of respected Spanish players. After retiring the Fantastic Factory label in 2006, Filmax doubled down on genre films, banking on their transnational recognizability and the minimization of nationally specific elements that could prove challenging for global audiences with limited cultural competences in Spanish culture (Van Liew, 2018). For example, Filmax embarked in Fragile (Jaume Balagueró, 2005), a Spanish-British co-production, shot in English, with an internal cast headed by Calista Flockhart and selected Spanish talent, most remarkably Elena Anaya. Despite an uneven if not poor critical reception, Fragile doubled the number of spectators in relation to The Nameless, reaching 600,000 and gathering 3 million spectators domestically. Thus, when Filmax produced [Rec], it was designing a transnational formula, via the popularity of found footage horror and factual television, even if

32  [Rec] the film was shot and released in Spanish (Lázaro-Reboll, 2008). Furthermore, this saga built upon “the brand reputation accrued by the Fantastic Factory as a pioneering generator of horror genre products and genre practitioners” (Ndalianis, 2012: 163). Consequently, on the one hand, [Rec] is the result of a specific industrial context: Filmax’s attempt to expand its brand beyond Spain through the utilization of horror, without neglecting the domestic market as both the producer and distributor in charge of the film’s promotion (TrianaToribio, 2012: 142). On the other hand, it capitalizes on a key shift within the day-to-day social practices of individuals via the careful implementation of a digital aesthetics to easily engage spectators.

3.5. From Horror to Comedy to Horror (Imperfection Will Be Over) & the Transnational Routes of [Rec] Following the resounding the success of [Rec], it was evident that this project had the potential to reach a global audience in English language. Filmax, the production company behind the original Spanish film, struck a deal with Screen Gems, a subsidiary of Columbia Pictures, to produce a remake.11 With a modest budget of 12 million dollars, Quarantine was directed by John Erick Dowdle and released in 2008, just a year after the Spanish version hit theaters. Although it generated 31  million dollars in the United States, it failed to replicate [Rec]’s triumph internationally, grossing only ten million dollars. In other words, while it recouped its initial investment and drew ­considerable crowds in the American market, it fell short in replicating [Rec]’s global success. In 2011, three years after the release of Quarantine, Screen Gems ­produced Quarantine 2: Terminal without Filmax’s involvement. This lower-budget film, costing four million dollars, deviated significantly from the Spanish franchise’s trajectory. Despite receiving a limited theatrical release, it primarily circulated as a video and later streaming product. Quarantine largely mimicked the formula of [Rec], transplanting the ­action to Los Angeles. In doing so, it minimized the cultural nuances of the Spanish original, particularly the significant role of the Catholic Church in the virus’s spread, replacing it with a Doomsday Cult. Aesthetically, Dowdle’s film heavily relied on the night-vision and handheld approach that [Rec] had extensively employed, resulting in an unoriginal work that failed to push the stylistic or ideological boundaries set by the Spanish original. Only two years after the first film, co-directors Balagueró and Plaza ­embarked on the highly anticipated [Rec]2. The film continues the story of the first installment, picking up only fifteen minutes after the original events. In this second chapter, the filmmakers extended their experimentation with the use of digital tools, building on several of the aesthetic staples of the original while also introducing new features.12

[Rec]  33 [Rec]2 opens with a SWAT team heading towards the quarantined building where the virus has been contained. The change in aesthetic register is immediately apparent, as the policemen test their camera helmets and smaller frames-within-the-frame appear on screen, offering multiple points of view. As the story unfolds and the policemen navigate the building to kill the infected zombies, the narrative fragments to follow their different viewpoints. This departure from the single-camera perspective of the first film adds depth and complexity to the storyline.13 While remaining faithful to the original aesthetics of the franchise, ­Balagueró and Plaza expanded their experimentation with digital tools, creating a visual fabric that resembles a common currency in the contemporary audiovisual scenario – that of video games. To put it simply, [Rec]2 introduced a new mode of address that was familiar to a significant portion of its target audience: moviegoers who were also gamers. By incorporating visual elements reminiscent of video games, the film was able to appeal to this ­specific demographic, thus broadening its appeal beyond just traditional horror fans.14 Critics and commentators have praised [Rec]2 for its innovative stylistic shift, which employs multiple cameras and digital textures to enhance the immersive experience. Some have also noted how the film’s use of shooter game aesthetics adds to this immersive quality (Sánchez Trigos, 2013; Aldana Reyes, 2015 and 2016; Córdoba, 2018). In addition, the filmmakers explore the idea of cameras as extensions of the human body, shaping a reality where digital images do not necessarily capture reality but create it. While still utilizing found footage horror techniques from the first film, [Rec]2 also incorporates elements from video games and comedy, which become more prominent in the third film, [Rec]3: Genesis. The franchise increasingly incorporates nationally specific cultural ­elements, as seen in the trailers and promotional materials for [Rec]2. By interweaving horror and comedy, the filmmakers expertly negotiate the economics of the genre, building a loyal fanbase while remaining faithful to the aesthetic and narrative fabric of the first film (Lázaro-Reboll, 2017; Rodríguez Ortega, 2022b). Ultimately, Balagueró, Plaza and Filmax create a globally ­appealing horror product while also showcasing a unique Spanish sensibility. Towards the end of [Rec]2, the unsettling truth is revealed: the ­Medeiros girl has infected Ángela, who has now become the new host for the virus. ­After dispatching a priest who enters the building with the SWAT team, Ángela eerily imitates his voice, demanding to be rescued. When this occurs, the virus will be released into the outside world. In short, it will prevail. While the film’s ending leaves the virus threat unresolved and opens the possibility for the [Rec] franchise to continue, Ángela’s story will not be concluded until the fourth film. However, in [Rec]3, Paco Plaza takes a dramatic shift, changing both the genre and aesthetic of the previous two films.

34  [Rec] The teaser for [Rec]3: Genesis begins with the announcement of “The Marriage of Clara and Koldo” (Leticia Dolera and Diego Martín), accompanied by a sequence of still images showcasing a beautiful wedding, set to romantic music. But the idyllic scenes quickly morph into a gruesome nightmare, as the guests transform into ravenous zombies and start attacking everyone in sight. The still images transition to frantic handheld footage, reminiscent of the first two films, as the horrified guests try to escape the carnage. As the bride appears on screen wielding a chainsaw, the footage shifts to high-­resolution images, blending horror and comedy. Finally, the bride declares, “It’s my special day,” as the film’s title appears, along with the clever tagline, “Til’ Death Do Us Apart,” subverting the traditional wedding vows and signaling the mix of genres in the film. By capitalizing on the widely recognizable wedding iconography, [Rec]3: Genesis leverages the challenges that the bride and groom must face in the midst of a zombie apocalypse. The film transforms the bride into an unlikely but fierce action hero, armed with a chainsaw, in a wildly exaggerated and action-packed movie that incorporates elements of slapstick comedy. It also pays homage to numerous horror classics. While the first two films in the franchise aimed to scare audiences, [Rec]3 takes a different approach, utilizing violence that is comically excessive and pushing the film away from the tone of its predecessors. [Rec]3 opens with the familiar aesthetic of the franchise: a young wedding guest records the event using the camcorder style that has become a trademark of the series. However, as chaos erupts, the film shifts to the perspective of the wedding videographer. Eventually, the groom attacks the videographer and destroys the camera, resulting in a deliberate blank screen. Then, the franchise’s characteristic blinking red light appears, signaling the film’s title. When the image returns, the visual style has already changed. The camera lies on the ground, its recording light blinking, but then the red light switches off in a close-up, signaling the end of the franchise’s dominant aesthetic. From then on, [Rec]3 uses high-resolution digital imagery to portray the bride and groom’s efforts to escape the infected zombies. As expected, they ultimately fail and die together in a gruesome manner. By abandoning the shaky found footage style, Paco Plaza frees himself from its limitations and structures his unrestrained narrative as a mainstream horror-action film that employs various viewpoints and camera techniques at will. Paco Plaza’s skillful reimagining of the [Rec] franchise is evident in [Rec]3: Genesis, where he deftly incorporates a range of nationally and locally infused references. On the one hand, he makes explicit references to Catalan Sant Jordi and 1980s and 1990s Spanish pop tunes. On the other hand, Plaza creates an iconographic link to horror classics like The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (Tobe Hooper, 1974) and auteur genre hybrids like The Shining (Stanley Kubrick, 1980), while also drawing on comedic horror films such as Evil Dead (Sam Raimi, 1981). By melding diverse stylistic regimes, Plaza

[Rec]  35 creates an action-packed comedic horror film that appeals to film enthusiasts and Spanish audiences alike. In [Rec]3: Genesis, he transforms the saga into a self-referential tour de force, one that points to the genre’s history and evolution while rearticulating its comedic elements through the addition of national and local features. [Rec]4: Apocalypse was the last film of the franchise. Returning to canonical horror, the film brings Ángela back as the main protagonist, now locked in a cargo ship where a group of researchers investigate the virus. As expected, chaos ensues, and the virus spreads rapidly, infecting everyone on board except for Ángela and video technician Nick (Nick Fritschi), who manage to escape the sinking ship. However, the virus manages to survive through a fish that swallows its larva, reintroducing it to the food chain. Although both Balagueró and Plaza have stated that the franchise has concluded, [Rec]4 contains potential for further continuation. When the first [Rec] film was released in 2007, found footage horror was highly popular globally, but by the time of [Rec]4’s release in 2014, zombie films had become the dominant trend in horror. By forgoing the comedic elements of [Rec]3, [Rec]4 aimed to appeal to a wider international horror audience. However, it was met with mostly negative reviews and mediocre box-office results. Despite attempts to appeal to international audiences, [Rec]4 failed to gain traction and the decision was made to bring the franchise to a close.

3.6.  [Rec]’s Legacy [Rec] (2007) is an exceptional Spanish horror film that has left a significant mark in the 21st-century horror landscape. Even after all these years, it ­remains one of the most important horror films to come out of Spain, and its impact on the genre cannot be overstated. The franchise has ­garnered an incredible amount of attention and recognition globally, setting it apart from any other Spanish horror saga. In many ways, [Rec] stands as a groundbreaking, unparalleled achievement in the history of modern Spanish cinema. In 2007, the emergence of digital technology was altering our sensory experiences and transforming our media landscape. As both consumers and producers of media artifacts, we were becoming accustomed to the primacy of imperfect images in our daily lives. Balagueró and Plaza were astute in ­recognizing this shift and, utilizing the established conventions of found ­footage horror and the ubiquity of digital imagery, made a timely and significant intervention in the Spanish film scene. Their greatest achievement was condensing these momentous transformations in media engagement into a 90-minute horror narrative that could be easily understood by both national and international audiences. Drawing on the tropes, aesthetic devices and storytelling techniques of both found footage horror and television, Balagueró

36  [Rec] and Plaza crafted a fully immersive cinematic work that created a participatory viewing experience (Aldana Reyes, 2015). Balagueró and Plaza have since pursued separate film and television projects. However, their individual trajectories have run parallel to each other, in many ways reflecting the trajectory of 21st-century Spanish horror as a secondary engine within an industry still dominated by mainstream comedies and, occasionally, action thrillers.

Notes 1 Data from the ICAA. 2 Data from Box-Office Mojo. 3 See Mexican poster of Timecrimes as Rewind here: http://fluzeandoando.blogspot. com/2012/10/rewind-asi-se-llamo-los-cronocrimenes.html 4 For example, the website listed the main actors as “missing,” fabricating their biographies as though they were real individuals. 5 Paranormal Activity was shot for a total of 35,000 dollars approximately, earning 193 million worldwide. 6 However, it is necessary to point out that aside from Quién sabe dónde, most of these shows were not necessarily amongst the most watched programs on Spanish television (Palacio, 2007: 61–62) except for in specific occasions such as the De tú a tú’s Alcàsser broadcast. 7 See the Valencian neighbors episode here: www.youtube.com/watch?v=2AUGuctx CHk The video has almost 700,000 views on YouTube. 8 See Pedro Almodóvar’s statement here: www.youtube.com/watch?v=aNvrdWR 2w84&t=78s Thanks to Roberto Huertas Gutiérrez for letting me know about the existence of this video. 9 In the documentary [Rec]: Non-Stop Horror, Paco Plaza also cites as an influence the crossover episode betweeen Cops and The X-Files. In this episode, directed by Michael Watkins and written by Vince Gilligan, the fiction show adopts Cops’ ­aesthetic, inserting the protagonists, Mulder and Scully, within a police case that features a paranormal phenomenon. The episode self-reflexively interrogates the limits between reality TV and fiction. 10 For example, in the 2009 Christmas show for TVE, comedian José Mota imitated [Rec] in one of his sketches. In this show, the zombies were bankers hunting tenants who had not paid their mortgages. This sketch was directed by Koldo Serra, a filmmaker who has mostly worked within the thriller and horror genres. 11 Additionally, Filmax and Screen Gems struck a deal with Vértigo Entertainment, owned by producers Doug Davidson and Roy Lee. The latter launched pioneering transnational horror remakes such as The Ring (Gore Verbinski, 2002) and The Grudge (Takeshi Shimizu, 2004), both based on Japanese pictures. 12 For Monnet night vision shots bring the narrative toward the spectral, reinforcing the optical technology of the camera and, therefore, the processes behind crafting the story (2015). Seguin (2017) goes a step further, affirming that, by making spectators aware of the techniques and processes behind the film, the camera acquires a life of its own. 13 Halfway through the film, a group of teenagers enter the building. They also carry a DV camera. This allows the directors to further fragment the narrative and weave a different point of view into the story. 14 It may be argued that the first [Rec] film is partially structured like a video game. The participants, Ángela and her cameraman Pablo, have to go up to the building’s attic to find out the origin of virus, as though they were going through several video game levels to face the final monster at the top.

[Rec]  37

Bibliography Aldana Reyes, X (2015) Reel Evil: A Critical Reassessment of Found Footage Horror. Gothic Studies, 17(2): 122–136. Aldana Reyes, X (2016) Horror Film and Affect: Towards a Corporeal Model of Viewership. New York: Routledge. Aslama, M and Pantti, M (2006) Talking Alone: Reality TV, Emotions and Authenticity. European Journal of Cultural Studies, 9(2): 167–184. Beck, D, Hellmueller, LC and Aeschbacher, N (2012) Factual Entertainment and Reality TV. Communication Research Trends, 31(2): 4–27. Brady, J (2018) La maternidad imposible: hiperrealidad e histeria en el cine apocalíptico de Jaume Balagueró. Arizona Journal of Hispanic Cultural Studies, 22(1): 243–252. Cinefilolisto (2015) [Rec]: un repaso a toda la saga, Abandomoviez, Córdoba, A (2018) Los niños perdidos zombis: La España postsecular y los descontentos con la memoria histórica en [REC]2. Alambique. Revista académica de ciencia ficción y fantasía, 6(1): 1–22. Costa, J (2008) [Rec], Fotogramas 29 May, Fernández, J (2013) El crimen de Alcàcer: una historia de morbo y televisión”, Abc, 8 December, García-Mainar, LM (2019) Reality Matters: Transnational Realist Crime Film and Television in Spain. Studies in Spanish & Latin American Cinemas, 16(3): 363–381. Hill, A (2005) Reality TV: Audiences and Popular Factual Entertainment. London: Routledge. Holmes, S and Jermyn, D (2004) Introduction: Understanding Reality TV. In: Holmes, S and Jermyn, D (eds) Understanding Reality Television. London and New York: Routledge, pp. 1–32. Imbert, G (2003) El zoo audiovisual. De la televisión espectacular a la televisión especular. Barcelona: Gedisa. Lázaro-Reboll, A (2008) Now Playing Everywhere: Spanish Horror Film in the Marketplace. In: Beck, J y Rodríguez Ortega, V (eds) Contemporary Spanish Cinema and Genre. Manchester: Manchester University Press, pp. 65–87. Lázaro-Reboll, A (2017) Generating Fear: From Fantastic Factory (2000–2005) to [Rec] (2007–2014). In: Marí, J (ed) Tracing the Borders of Spanish Horror Cinema and Television. New York: Taylor & Francis, pp. 161–189. López Frías, D (2017) El caserón de Alcàsser 25 años después: aquí asesinaron a las niñas, El Español, 13 Nov, Mateos-Pérez, J (2011) La telerrealidad en las televisiones españolas (1990–1994). ­Comunicación y sociedad, 15: 169–194. Monnet, AS (2015) Body Genres, Night Vision and the Female Monster: REC and the Contemporary Horror Film. In: Botting, F and Spooner, C (eds) Monstrous Media/ Spectral Subjects: Imagining Gothic from the Nineteenth Century to the Present. Manchester: Manchester University Press, pp. 143–156. Nabi, RL (2007) Determining Dimensions of Reality: A Concept Mapping of the Reality TV Landscape. Journal of Broadcasting & Electronic Media, 51(2): 371–390. Ndalianis, A (2012) The Horror Sensorium: Media and the Senses. New York: McFarland.

38  [Rec] Negro, A (2013) Del crimen de Alcàsser y la telebasura. Diario siglo XXI, 2 December, Ortells, S (2011) La consolidación de los programas de infoentretenimiento en el panorama televisivo español. Fòrum de Recerca, 16: 279–291. Palacio, M (2007) Elementos para una genealogía del término ‘telebasura’ en España. Trípodos, 21: 9–15. Pérez Rufí, JP and Gómez Pérez, FJ (2003). El reality show en España durante los años 90: evolución del formato y respuesta de audiencia. In: Mínguez Arranz, N and Villagra García, N (eds) La comunicación: nuevos discursos y perspectivas. Madrid. Foro Universitario de Investigación en Comunicación, pp. 539–546. Reviriego, C (2010) Los años del limbo. fulgores del cortometraje digital. In: Yáñez, J (ed) La medida de los tiempos. El cortometraje español en la década de los 2000. Alcalá de Henares: Festival de Alcalá de Henares, pp. 345–377. Rivera, A (2008) [Rec], Cine Europa 16 November, Rodríguez Ortega, V (2022a) Coda. From the Barcelona Olympics to Alcàsser: Two Images of 1992 and Their Afterlives. Journal of Spanish Cultural Studies, 21(1): 97–117. Rodríguez Ortega, V (2022b) [Rec] and Beyond: Spanish Cinema, Digital Technology and the Transnationalization of Horror. Studies in European Cinema, 1(8): 21–30. Rose, RL and Wood, SL (2005) Paradox and the Consumption of Authenticity Through Reality Television. Journal of Consumer Research, 32: 284–296. Rowan-Legg, SM (2013) Don’t Miss a Bloody Thing: [Rec] and the Spanish Adaptation of Found Footage Horror. Studies in Spanish & Latin American Cinemas, 10(2): 213–223. Rowan-Legg, SM (2016) The Spanish Fantastic: Contemporary Filmmaking in Horror, Fantasy and Sci-fi. London: Bloomsbury Publishing. Russell, J (2008) [Rec], BBC 6 April, Sánchez Trigos, R (2013) Muertos, infectados y poseídos: el zombi en el cine español contemporáneo. Pasavento: revista de estudios hispánicos, 1(1): 11–34. Scarlett, E (2019) Recording the End Time in Twenty-First Century Spanish Film. ­Hispanic Issues On Line, 23: 184–205. Seguin, JC (2017) I am an Eye, I am a Mechanical Eye . . . In: Marí, J (ed) Tracing the Borders of Spanish Horror Cinema and Television. London and New York: Routledge, pp. 212–231. Smith, PJ (2015) Film and Television. In: Labanyi, J and Pavlovic, T (eds) A Companion to Spanish Cinema. Oxford: Blackwell Publishing, pp. 504–517. Telotte, JP (2001) The Blair Witch Project: Film and the Internet. Film Quarterly, 54(3): 32–39. Triana-Toribio, N (2012) Telecinco Cinema and El Deseo. In: Labanyi, J and Pavlovic, T (eds) A Companion to Spanish Cinema. Oxford: Blackwell Publishing, pp. 420–426. Van Liew, M (2018) Going Viral in the Age of the Synchronous Remake: [Rec] and Quarantine. Arizona Journal of Hispanic Cultural Studies, 22: 269–280. Vázquez La Hoz, B and Román Portas, M (2011) La tradición histórica de la telerrealidad, Callejeros y Vidas anónimas. Vivat Academia, 14: 808–825. Willis, A (2008) The Fantastic Factory: The Horror Genre and Contemporary Spanish Cinema. In: Beck, Jay y Rodríguez Ortega, Vicente (eds) Contemporary Spanish Cinema and Genre. Manchester: Manchester University Press, pp. 27–43.

4

Horror & Genre Hybridization

4.1. Horror/Melodrama: From The Skin I Live In to Blancanieves Two of the most remarkable Spanish films of 21st-century Spanish cinema, The Skin I Live In (Pedro Almodóvar, 2011) and Blancanieves (Pablo Berger, 2012) mix the generic tropes of horror and melodrama to frame and, at times, question several building blocks of Spanish identity, especially in relation to gender. While Almodóvar has extensively tackled the melodramatic imagination throughout his career, he has seldom approached the realm of horror.1 Berger, on his part, is a rara avis within the Spanish cinematic field since he has only made two other feature films, the drama Torremolinos 73 (2003), albeit spiced with comedic elements, and the over-the-top dark comedy ­Abracadabra (2017).2 In the latter, Berger delves into the horror genre with the character of a deranged killer who takes possession of the protagonist after a disturbing event at a wedding banquet.3 The Skin I Live In is a twisted revenge narrative set in a secluded mansion where Doctor Ledgard (Antonio Banderas), a reputed surgeon, alters the body of man called Vicente (Jan Cornet) to transform him into the woman of his dreams/nightmares. Vicente had previously raped his daughter, who subsequently became mentally unstable and committed suicide. Moreover, Ledgard’s wife also took her own life after a traumatic automobile crash disfigured her face. Exorcising all his demons, Ledgard kidnaps Vicente, locks him inside a room and, utilizing cutting edge technology, transforms Vicente into a woman, Vera (Elena Anaya). Even further, the surgeon gives Vera his deceased wife’s face. Ultimately, he falls in love with “his creation” and ­releases him/her, planning to act with his/her as a partner. Vera, however, takes advantage of his/her freedom to kill Ledgard and return to his/ her mother to state who s/he is. In the last scene of the film, Vera, hesitantly, states: “I’m . . . Vicente.” S/he must come to terms with his/her new body and his/her new, hybrid identity. The film fully embraces some of the building blocks of melodrama: the extensive deployment of masquerade, the last-minute revelation of identity

DOI: 10.4324/9781003295075-4

40  Horror & Genre Hybridization or the dramatic transformation of a character’s appearance to signal a change, cure or alteration (Marcantonio, 2015b). Unlike classic melodrama, there is no initial order restored or a sacrificing virtuous act that seeks to generate pathos in the spectator. Conversely, Vicente as Vera must accept the challenge of a new beginning via an unknown path that s/he has only began to learn through his/her transformed body and psyche. At the same time, Almodóvar combines melodrama with several tropes that could be characterized as surgical horror, focusing on the male’s manipulation and control over the female body to enact his perverse sexual fantasies. Blancanieves converts the original 19th-century Brothers Grimm’s fairy tale and its cinematic retellings into a black and white silent film set in 1920s Spain, which gravitates around the world of bullfighting. The protagonist, Carmencita (Macarena García), loses her mother at childbirth and is subsequently mistreated by her stepmother, Encarna (Maribel Verdú), who seduces his father, Antonio (Daniel Giménez Cacho), and ultimately renders him powerless. Moreover, she ignores and mistreats Carmencita. Pursuing her dream to follow her father’s steps as a bullfighter, Carmencita manages to escape after Encarna tries to kill her and, with the help of a group of traveling dwarfs, she fulfills her goal, triumphing in a corrida. However, in disguise Encarna delivers a poisoned apple to Carmencita after her successful faena in the bullfighting ring. Apparently, Carmencita dies. One way or another, ultimately, Carmencita is locked once again. In the last sequence of the film, her dead corpse has turned into a fair attraction or, if we wish, a “freak show.” Customers pay money to attempt to wake her up kissing her cheek. In the closing shot, Rafita (Sergio Dorado), one of the dwarfs who is still in love with Carmencita, kisses her. Then, a tear drops down her face. She is not physically dead; however, she is completely helpless, being utilized as a fi ­ nancial commodity by a ruthless empresario. In Blancanieves, Berger weaves a narrative based on the figure of the tragic character – Carmencita – who must overcome paramount difficulties to achieve her objective in life – to ultimately signal the ephemerality of that instant of joy and throw us back into a grotesque universe greatly articulated through the ruthless exploitation of the female body. In that sense, several scholars have noted that while melodrama may constitute a particular film genre, it can also serve as a mode within the broader domain of popular cinema. As a mode, it furnishes an emotional underpinning for a film, combining elements of pathos and action. This transgeneric substratum has been theorized by prominent scholars such as Gledhill (1987), Williams (2001) and Gledhill and Williams (2018). Beneath a diverse array of both dramatic and comedic elements, Blancanieves employs a blend of melodrama and carefully crafted editing and lighting techniques more commonly associated with horror films. Through this approach, the movie taps into the emotive potential of the melodramatic mode to draw viewers into the tragic journey of Carmencita, from her moments of joy to her subsequent imprisonment, liberation and ultimate downfall. As a bullfighter, Carmencita defies the odds and emerges as a successful action heroine, but her lifetime of suffering, ­captivity and eventual

Horror & Genre Hybridization  41 assassination transform her into a quintessential figure of melodrama, evoking deep pathos. The use of horror techniques within this framework exposes the twisted underpinnings of the societal structures that ensnare Carmencita. 4.1.1.  The Skin I Live In: From Melodramatic Revenge to Surgical Horror Like many Almodóvar’s films, The Skin I Live In orbits around the interrogation of identity and the malleability of gender categories to define a subject position beyond a clear-cut differentiation between male and female (Thibaudeau, 2013; Russo, 2019). Mostly happening within two spaces – Vera’s ­living quarters and the surgeon’s operating room – it allows spectators to follow Vicente/Vera’s transformation step by step under the disquieting hands of Ledgard, who applies transgeneric skin (made of humans and pigs) to Vera layer after layer until it becomes a soft and yet indestructible surface. Almodóvar’s attention to detail is conscientious: he frames Vicente/Vera’s transformation through a series of extreme close-ups and close-ups that almost acquire a documentary character focusing first on Vicente’s sex change to become Vera and, afterward, in his/her skin mutation as Ledgard carries out the transgenesis operations (Poyato Sánchez, 2015). Obsessed and determined to finalize his project, Ledgard not only constantly touches Vera’s new skin to examine its progress but also watches him/ her through a gigantic high-resolution screen he has installed in his bedroom, zooming in to get every single detail of his/her transformation. Hence, a second process of transformation occurs since the film aesthetic apparatus: Creates the woman’s perfect skin through digital manipulation. Her skin, digitally enhanced during the postproduction process, is the result of a second transgenesis, an extratextual one overlaid on the first: the melding of analog and digital cinemas. Vera Cruz . . . signals this intersection between biology  and technology. Vera’s body is thus the surface upon which the film’s diegetic and extradiegetic transgeneses acknowledge the fact that a recombinant fate is one that cinema, like the genome, can no longer escape. (Marcantonio, 2015a: 49–50)4 Within this framework, Almodóvar explicitly mobilizes a variety of artistic references from diverse fields, establishing a recurrent dialogue with them. Thus, the mise-en-scène functions as an active agent in the creation of meaning through the accumulation of multiple artifacts that connect the story with various transnational imaginaries centered on the intimate relationship between psyche and body.5 In this regard, no other intertext is more relevant to Vera’s character development than the works of Louis Bourgeois, which little by little start populating the walls of his/her room/cage. In this case, ­Almodóvar is blatantly unambiguous: Vera’s own version of one of Bourgeois’ works in the series Femme-Maison, featuring a nude female body whose head has been

42  Horror & Genre Hybridization replaced by an architectural form, is constantly displayed, capturing how s/he feels about his/her own condition within Ledgard’s domain: Vera has become a prisoner who must play the mad doctor’s game to escape and pursue his/her own, newborn, identity. Thus, The Skin I Live In explores the horrific side of a patriarchal order that seeks to control women by enacting male fantasies of violence and desire (Barker, 2020). Consequently, the film may be understood as a surgical horror piece in which Vicente/Vera’s body turns into the raw material for Ledgard to feed his obsessions, craftily reshaping his/her body to match his cravings (Barker, 2017; Mondal, 2021). Furthermore, Almodóvar’s work may be conceptualized in relation to an early 2000s horror subgenre, torture porn, epitomized by Saw (James Wang, 2004) or Hostel (Eli Roth, 2005). However, rather than centering on a spectacle of multiple and explicit images of bloodletting and body dismembering, the Spanish filmmaker situates the narrative’s focus on the violent and yet scientific and scrupulously planned transformation of a human body to question the fixity of gender categories. By suggesting that a woman can potentially be a product of man, a malleable mass of clinically grown and enhanced skin and tissue, Almodóvar addresses: The perils of a society that has quartered and dissected womanhood to exhaustion in order to satisfy the requirements of individuals with specific physical fixations. In that respect, the film is a direct descendant of timely discourses surrounding beauty and the commodification of bodies in Western societies; woman is here seen as a direct victim of male desire and its concomitant culture. (Aldana Reyes, 2013: 820) Furthermore, technology, in the hands of a brilliant and yet deranged male, controls the female body and socially constructs it according to the man’s desires and gender biases. Vicente/Vera ends up free after killing Ledgard, finishing off his twisted dream of transforming him/her into a composite of his wife and daughter. As mentioned earlier, the film concludes with Vera’s saying: “I’m . . . Vicente”; s/he utters these words from a very different bodily and psychological position prior to his/her transformation. The film seems to tell spectators that s/he has surpassed any conforming position of femininity and masculinity, becoming a newborn whose identity has not been fully determined yet. In other words, s/he has succeeded in escaping the passive assimilation of gender within a melodramatic/horror hybrid mode of address that needs him/her to utter his/her own identity to achieve closure (Aldana Reyes, 2013; Marcantonio, 2015b). Armed with the unambiguous power of the melodramatic imagination to communicate and express affect and also the terrifying, aseptic and meticulous visual fabric of surgical horror, The Skin I Live In ultimately questions the hegemonic societal constructions of the gender divide and aims at a new target: the constitution of a subject that potentially embodies a new way

Horror & Genre Hybridization  43 of understanding the relationship between males, females and those subjects who do not fit any of these two identifying markers. 4.1.2.  Blancanieves: Violent Chiaroscuros and Women’s Suffering Carmencita defies all norms in early 20th-century Spanish society to become a celebrated female bullfighter, albeit briefly. Eventually, she succumbs to her own innocence and dies, poisoned, like the Snow White of the original G ­ erman fairy tale. Scholars have conceptualized the film within a recent trend of neo-gothic and baroque films that address the Spanish historical past, in line with works such as Pan’s Labyrinth or The Last Circus (Yarza, 2021).6 In addition, For Anna K. Cox, the film puts in contact several silent film traditions and ­national forms of popular culture, bringing together Buñuel’s avantgarde, German Expressionism and Andalusian folklore (2017). Others go a step further claiming that the film builds up a historical mirror of Spain’s contemporary identity, putting forth a parody of the stereotypical utilization of flamenco and bullfighting as key identifying markers of Marca España (“Brand Spain”) (­ Latorre, 2015). Pablo Berger has stated that with Blancanieves he wanted to perform an act of “cinematic terrorism,” going against all dominant trends and cycles, reminding spectators that cinema essentially consists of writing with images. This is what differentiates it from other artistic disciplines. Furthermore, he wanted to leave aside the Hollywood tradition of silent film and get closer to European cinema and filmmakers such as Jean Epstein, Abel Gance or Jacques Feyder, along with specific films such as La aldea maldita/The Cursed Village (Florián Rey, 1930). Thus, his main aesthetic focus was an emphasis on montage and how the cinematic relates to other artistic disciplines, such as photography. Consequently, Edward Steichen’s and Cristina García Rodero’s photographs were also key intertexts to define Blancanieves’ aesthetics.7 Moreover, he conceives the film as a: Love letter to silent cinema, and this is precisely why we chose the 1:33 format. This format, as compared to more rectangular approaches, allows filmmakers to gather more intimacy and, above all, contemplate the actors’ faces. It is also great for close-ups and for action and montage sequences because it has great flexibility. (Rodríguez Ortega, forthcoming) Complementarily, the Basque director acknowledges the direct homages to Hollywood films such as Sunset Blvd. (Billy Wilder, 1950) and What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? (Robert Aldrich, 1962). Ultimately, he describes the process of adapting the original fairy tale as follows: When you are adapting a classic you need to protect the soul of the original. Classic fairy tales have withstood the test of time because they possess a powerful structure and well-defined characters. In the past, oral stories were the oracle: they gave answers to real situations. Today, conversely,

44  Horror & Genre Hybridization children’s stories tend to be too light. The control of political correctness over stories eliminates death, pain and evil from today’s stories. In other words, children are over-protected. Old stories did focus on themes such as loss, resentment, and death. Greatly, this is why they continue to be relevant. (Rodríguez Ortega, forthcoming) In other terms, Berger intently focuses on dark themes such as pain, death and suffering which were at the core of traditional tales and are typically absent in most contemporary children’s tales and, at least, diluted in other cinematic adaptations. This particular emphasis is what gives Blancanieves its full strength in examining the Spanish historical past. He situates the story in early ­20th-century Spain and explicitly centers on polemical topics within the Spanish present cultural scenario such as bullfighting to draw a grim social imaginary that subjugates deviant subjectivities who do not conform to the established rules. The film follows Carmencita’s tragic journey from childhood to her entrapment in a freak show where she is rendered physically powerless and emotionally disconsolate (she is only capable of crying). For that purpose, it puts forth two specific aesthetic techniques that point in complementary directions. Thus, the recurrent motif of circularity is combined with fast-paced montages sequences, which capture the intense emotional state of the main characters. The first technique “derives from the imaging and reiteration of photo- and phonographic processes in the diegesis of the film that are paired with circular editing techniques (Cox, 2017: 316); the second one establishes a direct dialogue with 1920s European silent film to create a visceral cinematic experience. In other words, Berger mobilizes common techniques of the silent era to establishing the passing of time within the narrative and, to a certain extent, anticipate the doomed fate of Carmencita. As Yarza states: “the story itself has a circular structure which resonates with the bullfighting’s ring own circular shape, suggesting a programmed and spectacular death” (2021: 35). Specifically, the utilization of fast-paced montage is reminiscent of films such as Abel Gance’s Napoleon (1927), kinetically engaging spectators to ­anchor the emotional fabric of the film. At the same time, the imprint of German Expressionism is clearly detectable in the sequences that feature Encarna (the evil stepmother), especially her ultimate and brutal demise by the bull Satanás, even if it happens offscreen. In the end, continuing with a low-key lighting approach, the narrative takes us to the necrophiliac freak show: an immobile Carmencita is displayed in front of attendees who may kiss her in order to “wake her up” from her nightmare. It does not happen. Ultimately, spectators are thrown into the dark corners of human subjectivity and exploitation. Like it occurs with Carmencita, the narrative traps viewers in an endless loop of powerlessness where the true horror that the film is addressing becomes fully visible: capitalism will not cease to exploit

Horror & Genre Hybridization  45 a woman’s body even if she is, literally immobile, unable to determine her own fate. Armed with a diverse set of intertexts stemming from a variety of both cinematic and artistic traditions, Berger creates a dark tale where the melodramatic mode seeks to boost the spectators’ empathy and suffering. Complementarily, the film’s aesthetic fabric approaches 1920s Spain as a dark era where individuals, and specifically women, are trapped in a societal order where the horrific exploitation of their subjectivities and bodies remains ­unyielding. For that purpose, the Basque director mobilizes a variety of visual tropes of several silent film traditions, exploring the gloomy, low-key corners of an oppressive reality.

4.2.  Horror/Sci-Fi, Ecohorror & the Apocalypse Before the 21st century, Spanish cinema had seldom approached the Apocalypse or a dystopian future. Perhaps this is due to budgetary reasons, since these  endeavors typically command high budgets; perhaps, the lack of a national literary tradition on speculative fiction has not facilitated either the realization of this kind of projects. Everything changed in the new millennium.  Spanish cinema joined the increasing interest on pandemic cinema and post-apocalyptic social orders, a leading horror trend in the 21st century (Prince, 2021: 87). In this regard, ecological consciousness and awareness are becoming trending topics in the last decades, especially when humanity is facing the increasing shortfall of basic resources across the globe. ­Additionally, other problems – global warming, food waste, biodiversity loss, devasting droughts, deforestation, plastic and air pollution and food and water insecurity – seem to grow year after year. Moreover, global pandemics such as Ebola, the chicken flu or COVID-19 have shaken the building blocks of our society. Both film and television fiction have extensively approached several of these issues in recent times. Furthermore, dystopian videogames (for example, Resident Evil or The Last of Us) have garnered worldwide popularity. In today’s mediascape, dystopias are a ruling narrative. Spanish films that explore the Apocalypse have a deep connection to the 2007 global economic crisis, particularly in Southern European countries like Spain, where its effects were strongly felt. During this time, the media was inundated with images of evictions, never-ending lines for food and concerning statistics on social exclusion. This context led to a questioning of the foundations of democracy, with some even advocating for the end of the political system that had been in place since the first democratic election in 1978. It is no surprise that the apocalyptic genre became a favored means to express these anxieties and pessimism towards the future, as it is a fitting reflection of these concerns. Hamonic (2017) and Schweitzer (2018) have attempted to categorize US viral and apocalyptic cinema through a genre studies lens. However, their

46  Horror & Genre Hybridization frameworks do not fully capture the unique development of this genre in Spain. Spanish dystopian cinema has three notable characteristics that are inherently autochthonous. First, the presence of a scientist or a scientific explanation of a given catastrophe is practically non-existent. Second, creators often portray conflictual situations within the family unit. Finally, the Apocalypse tends to be portrayed with an extremely radiant quality, with abundant sunlight, perhaps due to the seminal importance of Who Can Kill a Child? or Spain’s own iconographic tradition. Family and the sun are, for example, the most remarkable elements of 3 días (F. Javier Gutiérrez, 2008). The film is set in Andalusia, southern Spain.8 The earth will disappear in 72  hours because of an asteroid’s impact. Álex (Víctor Clavijo) decides to seek refuge in a country house with his mother, Rosa, and his four little nephews, sheltering them from the devastating event. However, the social collapse is unavoidable and reaches their haven when prisons open their gates, letting inmates run free. One of them is El Soro (Eduard Fernández), a child murderer, captured fourteen years ago thanks to Álex’s accusation. In the waning days of humanity, he is looking for revenge. The Apocalypse is thus mixed with a psycho killer thriller, delivering a significant amount of onscreen violence, thus breaking the genre’s rules. El Soro kills one of the children and later Álex manages to murder him. However, this is not a satisfying closure. Now they must wait for the end of the world to come. In other words, Álex has risked his life to kill El Soro so that the rest of the family would live a few more hours. 3 días only obtained a Goya for Best Sound; however, it triumphed at the Málaga Film Festival, earning the Best Picture Award, and many others. Subsequently, it became a cult film with a strong reputation amongst horror fans. Pandemic zombie cinema has emerged as a prominent genre in Spanish cinematic production in the 21st century. However, prior to this era, there were only a handful of “zombie films” such as the Blind Dead quartet (Armando de Ossorio, 1971–1975) and The Living Dead at the Manchester Morgue (Jorge Grau, 1974). This scarcity of production has led some scholars to identify the defining characteristics of the Spanish zombie: namely, the “lack of relationship with Christianity” and “the absence of cannibalism” (Sánchez Trigos, 2008: 583). While 21st Spanish zombies generally conform to the first feature (except for [Rec]), the second element is no longer accurate as Spanish zombies have become cannibalistic, like their counterparts in other countries. However, it is worth noting that the Spanish scenario has not engaged with racial issues in the same way as many other international efforts have. Let’s analyze two English-language zombie films, namely 28 Weeks Later (Juan Carlos Fresnadillo, 2007) and Extinction (Miguel Ángel Vivas, 2015). 28 Weeks Later is a sequel to the successful film 28 Days Later, which earned acclaim, particularly in the United States, leading Andrew MacDonald and Danny Boyle to hire Fresnadillo, whose debut film, Intacto/Intact (2001), had impressed them. In the second installment of the franchise, the

Horror & Genre Hybridization  47 filmmakers aimed to give the narrative universe an international flavor. While the original film reflected on “late capitalism” (Olney, 2017: 71), the geopolitical subtext is evident in the sequel. The film centers around a family, reversing typical and normative tropes. The father, Don (Robert Carlyle), cowardly refuses to help a woman and a child during a zombie attack in a spectacular opening sequence. This original sin has fatal consequences. An ellipsis then takes us 28 weeks after the events of the first film, where the pandemic has been controlled, and the reconstruction of London is underway under the supervision of the US Army. Don’s siblings return to the British capital to live with him, and their mother reappears. Surprisingly immune to the fatal virus, the mother does possess the ability to propagate it. When Don kisses her, he is infected, and chaos ensues. The virus’s origin is no longer zoonotic like in the first installment but human, and the film becomes a fight to escape and kill the father. While 28 Days Later portrays a father (Brendan Gleeson) who makes a sacrificial decision for his daughter’s (Megan Burns) survival, 28 Weeks Later presents a monstrous father with filicidal impulses. As the boys attempt to escape, they receive assistance from a medical Colonel (Rose Byrne) and an army sniper (Jeremy Renner). By focusing on these characters and emphasizing the military’s role in the story, the film presents a critical perspective on the 2003 Iraq war. This is particularly relevant as the public was still trying to come to terms with the events that occurred at Abu Ghraib prison. In Fresnadillo’s interpretation of the New World Order, the United States exerts almost absolute guardianship. This theme is effectively conveyed through several night scenes and CCTV images, which have been popularized in horror cinema since The Silence of the Lambs (Jonathan Demme, 1991) and The Blair Witch Project. The use of such imagery continued to grow in relevance with the release of Paranormal Activity in 2007 and the emergence of production company Blumhouse. The film concludes with the children fleeing the military in a helicopter and arriving in France. The epilogue reveals that the virus has spread to continental Europe through them, setting the stage for a sequel and reinforcing one of the fundamental elements of the genre: evil transcends national boundaries. Politically, the film suggests that the notion of pre-Brexit British isolationism and the corresponding US domination is unrealistic in a globalized world. Extinction also delivers an apocalyptic scenario in which a family faces a catastrophic situation. It is an adaptation of the novel Y pese a todo, by Juan de Dios Garduño, starring two television stars, Matthew Fox (Lost) and Jeffrey Donovan (Burn Notice).9 Vivas immediately sets the tone by opening with a zombie apocalypse sequence, without explaining the cause of this situation. Two buses filled with survivors are attacked by the infected, including two men, a mother and her newborn. The mother becomes infected, and a nine-year ellipsis takes us to a scenario that evokes Richard Matheson’s universe in I Am Legend (1954). The

48  Horror & Genre Hybridization film follows three survivors, Patrick (Fox), Jack (Donovan) and his daughter Lu (Quinn McColgan), who live as neighbors but do not talk due to past disputes. Patrick is an alcoholic, obsessed with his radio messages, while Jack takes care of Lu, trying to create the illusion of a normal family. However, their fragile balance is broken when evolved zombies reappear. The zombies are no longer familiarly human but are white skin homunculus, resembling Peter Jackson’s Gollum, moving around on all fours, naked, and guided by ear since they are blind. They have lost their infectious capacity but remain fast, voracious and homicidal. Both men fight for Lu’s tutelage since she is Patrick’s daughter, and Jack took care of her because of Patrick’s incapacity due to alcoholism. The plot thickens when a fourth survivor, Anne (Clara Lago), who is pregnant, appears. In the penultimate scene, the four survivors defend their home from a zombie attack, and Patrick sacrifices himself so that Jack, Lu and Clara can escape. Eventually, the three of them and their future baby arrive in a survivor’s colony, forming a unique family. In this way, ­Extinction reverses one of the building blocks of zombie films by questioning the ­structure of traditional families and establishing bonds beyond ­consanguinity that depend on affect, one of the key structural changes in 21st-century societies. The family also plays a central role in Infectados/Carriers (Àlex and ­David Pastor, 2009). The film tells the story of vengeance between two brothers, Brian (Chris Pine) and Daniel (Lou Taylor Pucci), and their respective girlfriends (played by Piper Perabo and Emily VanCamp). From the outset, the film establishes itself as a road movie, with the four characters traveling down a Texas road, apparently headed to a vacation in Turtle Beach, Florida – their paradise when they were children. However, the country they are crossing has been devastated by “The World Ender Virus,” a deadly infection that ­resembles the A flu. To avoid contracting the virus, the group adheres to three rules set by Brian: “1. Avoid the infected at all costs – their breath is highly contagious; 2. Disinfect anything they have touched in the last 24 hours; 3. The sick are already dead and cannot be saved.” The depicted United States is shockingly Caucasian. The only non-white person they encounter is an Asian man who has been lynched. On his chest, there is a sign “Chinks brought it,” signaling the alleged origin of the virus. The ending catalyzes the fraternal disintegration: Danny kills his infected brother Brian to save his life and his girlfriend. The next Pastor brothers’ film would also be apocalyptic and viral: Los últimos días/The Last Days (2013). This time, the Apocalypse happens in Barcelona. In the Western world, people are incapable of getting out, suffering what is known as “The Panic”. It is thus a pandemic of agoraphobia. For some, it was caused by the eruption of Icelandic volcano Hekla. Paying close to the protagonist’s behavior, Marc (Quim Gutiérrez), we may infer that the real cause of the pandemic is the unbearable weight of responsibilities: stress caused by the pressure of labor productivity and a couple’s crisis after he

Horror & Genre Hybridization  49 refused to become a father in a world that is on the brink of collapse. In many ways, Marc incarnates the very core of millennial generation’s anxiety.10 In this world, citizens are confined to the subterranean realm, traveling solely through the subway tunnels, and never venturing outdoors. Marc and Enrique (played by José Coronado), who were once adversaries before the pandemic, are forced to work together for the sake of their families. They join forces to assist Marc’s pregnant partner and Enrique’s father. Within the building where our protagonists reside, there is a semblance of order amidst the chaotic world outside. The city’s re-naturalization progresses above ground, with deer roaming freely around the popular Arco del Triunfo, bears taking over abandoned churches, and vegetation engulfing most buildings. As the film draws to a close, we witness yet again a celebration of the importance of family ties. Following Marc’s reunion with his wife Julia (Marta Etura), a flashforward reveals their son Enric (named in honor of their deceased friend), who can venture outside without suffering from agoraphobia, unlike his parents. Similarly, other children are shown to be free from this affliction as well. However, Marc and Julia remain trapped indoors, indicating the failure of their civilization. It is now up to young Enric and his friends to build a new and habitable social order. Of all the Spanish dystopias, The Platform (Galder Gaztelu-Urrutia, 2019) stands out as the most politically charged. If The Last Days touches upon issues surrounding class struggles stemming from the workers’ exploitation in late capitalist societies, The Platform delves deep into this theme, in the form of a Hobbesian parable. The film centers around Goreng (Iván Massagué) and Trimagasi (Zorion Eguileor), who are imprisoned on level 48 of a towering structure. Every day, a platform descends with leftovers for the prisoners on the lower levels. One day, the two are transferred to level 171, where no food is left. Trimagasi, in desperation, attempts to kill Goreng and consume his flesh later. But he is thwarted by another prisoner, Mihaur, and they end up killing Trimagasi instead. In a horrifying twist, they ultimately resort to cannibalism to survive. Thus, the film openly tackles themes of social inequality, lack of solidarity, racism and human greed. It employs brutal violence, often with scatological and cannibalistic overtones, in a narrative that takes place in a claustrophobic and oppressive space.11 At the Sitges Film Festival, The Platform was awarded Best Film, Best New Director, Best Special Effects and the Audience prize. It also received Best Special Effects at the Goya and EFA Awards. Critically acclaimed, the film’s relevance skyrocketed during the pandemic, making it a global phenomenon. The narrative’s focus on confinement allowed society to easily connect with the characters during worldwide quarantine. The prison’s different levels also mirrored how people of varying economic resources isolated themselves from COVID’s dangers in vastly different settings, ranging from luxurious yachts to dimly lit apartments or homeless shelters. As a result, The

50  Horror & Genre Hybridization Platform became the ninth most watched film on Netflix that year, earning the top spot amongst non-English language works. According to the streaming giant, it had 56  million views within its first four weeks of release. Unfortunately, only 40,757 spectators paid to see this remarkable film in Spanish theaters, an underwhelming number for such a noteworthy cinematic achievement. Distancia de rescate/Fever Dream (Claudia Llosa, 2021), a unique example of pan-Hispanic ecohorror, was also produced by Netflix. This ambitious co-production between Chile, Spain and the United States boasts top-notch talent from all three countries. Directed by Peruvian filmmaker Claudia Llosa, it is an adaptation of Argentinian Samanta Schweblin’s novel, with art direction by Estefanía Larraín (No, Pablo Larraín, 2012), cinematography by Óscar Faura, and executive production by Sandra Hermida, the latter being frequent collaborators of J.A. Bayona.12 Schweblin’s short novel weaves together different types of horror. It is set in an Argentinian hacienda that is home to a singular and superstitious community. As a result, it incorporates elements of folk horror. The story follows a mother searching for her daughter with the assistance of a neighbor and an old woman who inhabits the Green House, putting forth a feminist discourse. Finally, the story’s resolution grapples with a problem stemming from the Anthropocene, where children and animals die due to a pesticide factory’s activities. This issue is perhaps the film’s most notable intervention, as the factory’s toxicity generates monsters in the form of deformed and phantasmagoric children, ultimately triggering terror. Finally, Fin/The End (Jorge Torregrossa, 2012) provides a thought-­ provoking reflection on the Anthropocene and its demise. It is an adaptation of David Monteagudo’s acclaimed novel, featuring a screenplay by Sergio G Sánchez and Jorge Guerricaechevarría, who are frequent collaborators of J.A. Bayona and Álex de la Iglesia, respectively. Fin presents a unique take on horror by depicting it in broad daylight and a summer atmosphere. The film follows a classic slasher premise where a group of friends in their forties are harboring a dark secret from their past. In this case, they were responsible for forcing Ángel, known as The Prophet and portrayed by writer and director Eugenio Mira, to ingest drugs that led to a schizophrenic crisis due to massive intoxication. After a long time apart, the group of friends reunites at a country house to watch the Perseids. The group includes Félix (played by Daniel Grao), who has hired an escort named Eva (Clara Lago) due to his embarrassment over his unresolved feelings for his former love interest Maribel (Maribel Verdú), now married to Rafa (Antonio Garrido), a troubled businessman. Also in ­attendance are Sara (Carmen Ruiz), a maternal figure, her histrionic partner Sergio (Miquel Fernández), and another couple, Hugo (Andrés Velencoso), a womanizer, and Cova (Blanca Romero), who are currently facing ­relationship issues.

Horror & Genre Hybridization  51 Félix is the first to realize that something is amiss when he notices the Sirius star has vanished. Soon after, all electronic and mechanical devices malfunction. Desperate, the group tries to reach the nearest city. Along the way, they encounter various animals such as vultures, goats and even a pack of German shepherds. But things take a dark turn as each member of the group mysteriously vanishes, one by one, without a trace. What the group soon discovers is that humans are gradually disappearing from the earth, being replaced by various animal species. They disintegrate into nothingness, leaving only a shadow behind. Maribel witnesses this firsthand as she watches a little girl evaporate before her eyes. Ángel had foreseen these events and carefully documented them in his notebook, which Félix finds after discovering his lifeless body. However, the last page is missing. As Félix and Eva manage to escape in a boat, they are still aware of their ephemeral existence, with the knowledge that they too may soon vanish ­without a trace. All the dystopian films that have been analyzed thus far have one thing in common: they all end with humanity triumphing over adversity, even if it means surviving through chaos, violence or trauma. However, Fin breaks away from this trope and presents a bleaker message. The film signals the end of the Anthropocene, a time for humans to face their own extinction after ruling the planet during many millennia.

4.3. The Baztán Trilogy (2017–2020): From Bestsellers to the Cinema When Nostromo Pictures and Atresmedia launched the film adaptation of Dolores Redondo’s best-selling novels, The Baztán Trilogy, comprising El guardián invisible/The Invisible Guardian (2013), The Legacy of the Bones/ Legado en los huesos (2013) and Offering to the Storm/Ofrenda a la tormenta (2014), it seemed a guaranteed success. By 2014, Redondo’s novels had sold over 500,000 copies worldwide (Deia, 2014). Five years later, they reached two million readers, and had been edited in 36 different countries (Infoliteraria, 2020). The trilogy chronicles detective Amaia Salazar’s (Marta Etura) attempt to find a serial killer who is ritualistically murdering young girls in rural Navarra. Halfway between a procedural thriller with echoes of The Silence of Lambs and Millennium (Niels Arden Oplev, 2009) and the reinvention of classical fairy tales imbued with Basque and Navarrese mythologies, these novels are strongly local and global, playing out common places of similar horror thriller narratives that combine the fantastic, the ancestral and the “whodunit” modes of address. Additionally, they capitalize on the eerie look of Northern Navarra landscapes with their incessant fog and rain, featuring the distinctiveness of regional culture to show the decisive role of geography in creating a particular set of rules and principles to structure society.13 Redondo’s narratives also

52  Horror & Genre Hybridization mobilize typical elements of crime novels such as forensic reports, serial killers or ritualistic murders that global audiences easily comprehend (Martín Matos, 2016). In this sense, The Baztán Trilogy weaves a collision between scientific and causal knowledge – epitomized by Salazar’s FBI-trained analytical mind – and the supernatural elements that prowl around the social order to emergence abruptly, putting into the question the building blocks of a given community. Thus, the novels stage a clash between science and myth (Ramón García, 2022), situating Salazar’s quest to stop the killer at the epicenter of a story that fundamentally attempts to peel the different layers that coexist in the depicted universe. Ultimately, Salazar will have to accept the supernatural as part of her own heritage to unravel the murder cases (Borham-Puyal, 2020). Very soon, Redondo’s literary trilogy became coveted intellectual property for a potential film adaptation. Peter Nadermann, producer of the Millennium saga, acquired the rights. Despite the initial plans to launch the project as an English-speaking cinematic franchise, ultimately, the trilogy became a ­Spanish product. Fernando González Molina, a filmmaker with a solid trajectory making commercial films, often based on bestsellers, such as Tres metros sobre el Cielo/Three Steps Above Heaven (2010) or Palmeras en la nieve/Palm Trees in the Snow (2015), was chosen to direct the first installment: The Invisible Guardian. Luiso Berdejo, a young but established author who had co-written two horror films – [Rec] and its US adaptation Quarantine – was selected to pen the script, with a clear goal: faithfully respect the main elements of the novels to bank on the large in-built audience the upcoming films potentially possessed (Muñoz Gadea, 2017). The cast included a recognized Spanish actress, Marta Etura, as Amaia Salazar, and well-reputed interpreters that included Ramón Barea, Susi Sánchez, Elvira Mínguez, Manolo Solo or Paco Tous. Redondo was hired in an advisory role and gave recommendations during the writing process. The film was shot in Madrid and Barcelona and the rural landscapes of the Baztán valley where the books take place. The first film’s production budget reached five million euros. After an intense and, at times, overwhelming, marketing campaign through Atresmedia’s multiple media outlets, The Invisible Guardian hit the movie theaters in 2017. It gathered 610,000 spectators, earning 3.7 million euros. The film also received a Spanish government’s public subsidy of 800,000 euros. In other words, prior to its worldwide distribution agreement with Netflix, it did not break even in economic returns. It was the seventh highest grossing Spanish film of the year, way behind animation film Tadeo Jones 2: el secreto del rey Midas/Tad the Lost Explorer and the Secret of King Midas (Enrique Gato and David Alonso), with $17.5 million, Álex de la Iglesia’s remake of Perfetti sconosciuti (Paolo Genovese, 2016), Perfectos Desconocidos with 13 million, the comedy Es por tu bien/It’s For Your Own Good (­Carlos Therón) with $9.6 million, and another horror film, Marrowbone

Horror & Genre Hybridization  53 (Sergio G. Sánchez), which earned 7.1 million euros and did reach the one million spectator mark (Taquilla España, 2018). In other words, Spanish spectators preferred comedies, or an English-language horror film directed by Sergio G. Sánchez. They did not show much interest in the long-anticipated adaptation of Redondo’s novels. Some Spanish critics praised The Invisible Guardian’s atmospheric ­cinematography and its competent narrative development, pointing out that, perhaps, its pace and absorbing, even, poetic moments make it too slow and not particularly exciting for mainstream audiences (Medina, 2017). Others are less generous. Mikel Zorrilla, for example, titles its review “a lost opportunity” (2022). After applauding the film’s visual fabric, this critic slams the use of flashbacks to explain Salazar’s familial traumas and their connection with the ongoing investigation. Like others (Belategui, 2017), he categorizes González Molina’s work as ultimately deficient and Berdejo’s writing as too explanatory, bordering the “CSI” mode of address. Ultimately, Javier Ocaña in El País crystallizes this common thread amongst the Spanish press. His review is blatantly titled “The Professionalism of the Impersonal,” emphasizing the film’s excellent audiovisual craftsmanship but also its lack of brilliance and its aversion to taking risks and challenging spectators, offering a run-of-the mill hybrid between a supernatural thriller and a heavy-dialogue police procedural. Significantly, no major international media outlet has written a review of the film. This fact signals its quasi-invisibility within the global markets prior to its worldwide distribution through Netflix and, therefore, the significant failure of the project in terms of theatrical international sales. In other words, if The Baztán Trilogy was born as an attempt to create a Spanish horror thriller that could also function abroad, it failed from the very beginning, gathering less than a million spectators in the domestic arena, and turning insignificant beyond the Spanish national borders, at least in terms of theatrical distribution. Despite the mediocre economic results, the trilogy was completed three years later, shooting simultaneously Legacy of the Bones and Offering to the Storm to offset costs, which were around five million euros for both films, making possible to finalize the project (Lakunza, 2020). With the same core cast and both Berdejo and González Molina writing and directing, Legacy of the Bones also incorporated two well-known figures within the Spanish-speaking world – that is, Spanish actor Imanol Arias and Argentinian Leonardo Sbaraglia. Theatrically, the film bombed, obtaining 1.8 million euros, and gathering a bit less than 300,000 spectators, half of what The Invisible Guardian had accomplished, and below the top ten of Spanish films in the domestic box office.14 In addition, Legacy of the Bones was not released theatrically outside Spain. Beyond praising the film’s aesthetic craftsmanship and the solid interpretation of Etura and other cast members, critics basically deemed this sequel as

54  Horror & Genre Hybridization inferior and more convoluted and rhythmically deficient that the first installment, since, again, it relied too heavily on overexplanatory dialogue (Luchini, 2019; Ocaña, 2019; Vázquez, 2019). When the third film, Offering to the Storm, was about to be released, the global COVID-19 pandemic changed the distributor’s plan. It completely ­bypassed the theatrical window and appeared directly on the home screens, via Netflix. According to González Molina, even though he would have preferred a theatrical release, they chose to go directly to Netflix for two main reasons. On the one hand, spectators had mostly stayed away from theaters due to the ongoing health crisis. On the other, Legacy of the Bones had astounding viewing numbers on Netflix, which led them to believe that it was the right platform to release it (Lakunza, 2020). It is almost impossible to obtain reliable data on Netflix’s viewing numbers since the only information that becomes public is what this company releases periodically, following its own commercial interests. It is indeed plausible that Netflix gave a second life to The Baztán Trilogy’s dwindling relevance within Spain and its practical non-existence worldwide. Nonetheless, it is difficult to determine its exact impact in terms of spectators and their degree of engagement.15 Facing the uncertainties of releasing Offering to the Storm in movie theaters within the COVID-19 context and given the economic returns of the two previous films, it seems that the direct-to-streamer strategy, a practice that has become ubiquitous since 2020, was the less damaging approach. In fact, according to Netflix’s own interface, the film rapidly climbed to the top five in Spain upon its release, managing to allure spectators immediately (Magallanes, 2020). Yet, despite all this apparently reassuring data, it is hard to think about the cinematic adaptation of The Baztán Trilogy as a minimally impactful or influential set of films within the Spanish context. First, the films performed below expectations from a financial standpoint. Second, critics were, at best, indifferent to González Molina’s well-crafted but ultimately risk-averse and rhythmically flawed adaptations. Third, despite the alleged amount of Netflix viewers both domestically and internationally, the three films failed to generate any kind of significant buzz beyond the binge-watching scenarios in which many subscribers sought refuge during the worst health crisis of the 21st century. The Baztán Trilogy disappointing economic returns and lack of visibility puts into question the ways in which, within the present historical juncture, film companies and media corporations are attempting to engage cinematic audiences via the adaptation of crime and horror thrillers. Moreover, a few years later, Atresmedia would launch a similar product, adapting Eva García Sáenz de Urturi’s bestseller El silencio de la ciudad blanca/The Silence of the White City (2019), with two A-list stars, Javier Rey and Belén Rueda and a recognized director, Daniel Calparsoro. The film flopped – earning only 2.3 ­million euros and having 464,000 spectators – and was panned by most

Horror & Genre Hybridization  55 critics. It is difficult to turn a complex, multi-layered, narrative into an audiovisual commercial format with a duration that does not typically exceed two hours, indeed. This is perhaps why media companies are increasingly adapting bestselling novels as serialized fiction to feed content for streaming platforms – recently, for example, La novia gitana, Nada, La chica invisible or Cicatriz. In a saturated scenario in which Apple, Disney, Netflix, HBO, Prime Video, Hulu, Paramount+ and others compete to keep subscribers, attempting to constantly allure them with new content available immediately worldwide, few films are truly impactful both domestically and internationally beyond highoctane franchises and occasional sleepers. Furthermore, in the post-pandemic scenario, theatrical releases have become a thornier scenario. In 2022, only Santiago Segura’s third installment of the Padre no hay más que uno franchise and Tadeo Jones 3: La table esmeralda/Tad the Lost Explorer and the Emerald Tablet hit the one-million spectator mark in Spain (Taquilla España, 2022).

Notes 1 Although Almodóvar is best known for his melodramas and comedies, he has also explored the horror genre in two films – Matador (1986), which focuses on a serial killer, and Átame/Tie Me Up! Tie me Down! (1989), loosely based on John Fowles’ novel, The Collector. 2 Berger’s first acclaimed short, Mama (1989) is a comedic horror piece set in an apocalyptic scenario. The film’s art director is Álex de la Iglesia. 3 Pablo Berger is currently finalizing the animation film Robot Dreams, scheduled to be released in 2023. 4 As several authors have acknowledged Vera Cruz may be translated as “True Cross.” Vera/Vicente represents precisely that physical and mental state: a crossroad between male and female that renders a new type of subject. 5 The most obvious cinematic reference of the film is Eyes without a Trace (Georges Franju, 1960). For a detailed account of how The Skin I Live In’s quotes or mobilizes other art works see D. Yung’s “Yuxtaposición artística en La piel que habito de Pedro Almodóvar: en torno a las obras de Tiziano, Louise Bourgeois, Guillermo Pérez ­Villalta y Juan Gatti” and M.P. Pulido’s “Intertextualidad en La piel que habito: pintura, escultura y dibujo”. 6 Some authors go a step further, claiming that the Blancanieves supports a backwards, taurine and Catholic version of Spain (Martín Arias, 2015). In our view, these claims are hardly substantiated and stem from a lack of a thorough analysis of the film’s narrative, mise-en-scène and aesthetic fabric. 7 Pablo Berger states that España oculta (1989) by Cristina García Rodero was one of the key influences in creating the film’s aesthetics. He also points out that Sunrise (F.W. Murnau, 1927) is a fundamental work to understand the cross-fertilization between Hollywood and European Art Film. 8 3 días was produced by Antonio Banderas, who is from Málaga, Andalusia. 9 It is worth noting that the film’s creative team included well-established professionals within the horror genre, for example, Jaume Collet-Serra (Orphan, The House of Wax) was one of the producers and Luis de la Madrid (Devil’s Backbone, Darkness, The Machinist) was the editor. 10 The Last Days also offers a blatant critique of late capitalism and the contemporary obsession with work. Additionally, it explicitly signals class difference as an organizing principle of society.

56  Horror & Genre Hybridization 11 Precisely because of its claustrophobic settings, some critics have compared The Platform with Buñuel’s works (Wilner, 2019). 12 Schweblin lives in Berlin; Claudia Llosa also lives in Barcelona. 13 Redondo’s novels may be defined as “landscape thrillers” (Molinaro, 2020). 14 Legacy of the Bones obtained 200,000 euros of Spanish public subsidies, a quarter of the amount granted to El guardian invisible. 15 Both The Invisible Guardian and Legacy of the Bones appeared in the top 10 within the Netflix interface (Alonso, 2020). However, it is impossible to determine their exact number of spectators or even if users watched the complete films. Netflix did not release the exact data.

Bibliography Aldana Reyes, X (2013) Skin Deep? Surgical Horror and the Impossibility of Becoming Woman in Almodóvar’s The Skin I Live In. Bulletin of Hispanic Studies, 90(7): 819–835. Alonso, B (2020) Las películas de la trilogía de Baztán arrasan entre las más vistas de Netflix, Elle, Barker, J (2017) Affect and Belonging in Contemporary Spanish Fiction and Film. ­London: Palgrave Macmillan. Barker, J (2020) Sculpting Women: From Pygmalion to Vertigo to The Skin I  Live In. Quarterly Review of Film and Video, 37(4): 299–327. Belategui, O (2017) El guardián Invisible: crítica de la película, El Correo, Borham-Puyal, M (2020) Red Shoes, Witches and Creatures of the Forest: Dolores Redondo’s Baztan Trilogy as Contemporary Fairy Tale. In: Brugué, L and Llompart, A (eds) Contemporary Fairy-Tale Magic: Subverting Gender and Genre. London: Brill, pp. 169–178. Cox, KA (2017) Interrogating the ‘Real’: The Circular Construction of Race and ­Remediation in Pablo Berger’s Blancanieves/Snow White (2012). Bulletin of ­Hispanic Studies, 94(3): 315–335. Deia (2014) La Trilogía de Baztán, todo un éxito de ventas, Deia, Dongsup, Y (2014) Yuxtaposición artística en La piel que habito de Pedro Almodóvar: en torno a las obras de Tiziano, Louise Bourgeois, Guillermo Pérez Villalta y Juan Gatti. Neophilologus, 98: 617–635. Gledhill, C (ed) (1987)  Home is Where the Heart is: Studies in Melodrama and the Woman’s Film. London: BFI Publishing. Gledhill, C and Williams, L (2018) Melodrama Unbound: Across History, Media and National Cultures. New York: Columbia University Press. Hamonic, WG (2017) Global Catastrophe in Motion Pictures as Meaning and Message: The Functions of Apocalyptic Cinema in American Film. Journal of Religion & Film, 21(1): Article 36. Infoliteraria (2020) Los privilegios del ángel, la primera novela de Dolores Redondo vuelve a las librerías, Infoliteraria,

Horror & Genre Hybridization  57 Lakunza, R (2020) Fernando González Molina: ‘La trilogía de Baztán es lo más oscuro que he rodado, Noticias de Navarra, Latorre, J (2015) Cine histórico para la España del presente. Blancanieves de Pablo Berger, Memoria Histórica y Cine Documental, Actas del IV Congreso Internacional de Historia y Cine: 125–137. Luchini, A (2019) Legado en los huesos: Thriller inextricable, Metropoli 4 December,

Magallanes, K (2020) Netflix inicia semana con el Top 10 de las películas y series más vistas, Naciónflix, Marcantonio, C (2015a) Cinema, Transgenesis, and History in The Skin I  Live In. ­Social Text, 33(1): 49–70. Marcantonio, C (2015b) Biopolitical Embodiments: Talk to Her and The Skin I Live In. In: Marcantonio, C (ed) Global Melodrama: Nation, Body, and History of Contemporary Film. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, pp. 25–52. Martín Arias, Luis (2015) Ideología y poética en Blancanieves (2012) de Pablo Berger. Sociocriticism, 30(1 & 2): 414–443. Martín Matos, JA (2016) Glocalización en la trilogía de Baztán: elementos locales y globales en el universo de Dolores Redondo. In: Martín Escribà, A  and Sánchez ­Zapatero, J (eds) El género negro: de la marginalidad a la normalizacón. ­Salamanca: Andavira, pp. 87–96. Medina, M (2017) El guardián Invisible, una adaptación fiel del bombazo editorial de ­Dolores Redondo, El Confidencial, Molinaro, NL (2020) Serial Tensions and Dolores Redondo’s Baztán Trilogy. In: ­Pertusa-Seva, I and Steward, MA (eds) Spanish Women Authors of Serial Crime ­Fiction: Repeat Offenders in the 21st Century. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge Scholars, pp. 59–77. Mondal, S (2021) Destruction, Reconstruction and Resistance: The Skin and the ­Protean Body in Pedro Almodóvar’s Body Horror The Skin I Live In. Humanities, 10: 54. Muñoz Gadea, C (2017) Luiso Berdejo, Así se escribió el guion de El guardián ­Invisible, Ocaña, J (2017) La profesionalidad de lo impersonal, El País, Ocaña, J (2019) La solidez del producto, El País, Olney, I (2017) Spanish Horror Cinema. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Poyato Sánchez, P (2015) Programas iconográficos en La piel que habito (Almodóvar, 2011). Anales de Historia del Arte, 25: 283–302. Prince, S (2021) Apocalypse Cinema: Movies and the End of the World. New York: Columbia University Press. Pulido, J (2012) La década de oro del cine de terror español (1967–76). Madrid: T&B. Pulido, MP (2014) Intertextualidad en La piel que habito: pintura, escultura y dibujo. Fotocinema. Revista científica de cine y fotografía, (9): 325–360. Ramón García, E (2022) El guardián invisible, un procedimiento policial femenino científico-mitológico. Hispania, 105(1): 121–134.

58  Horror & Genre Hybridization Rodríguez Ortega, V (forthcoming) Escribir en imágenes: conversaciones y desviaciones con Pablo Berger. Madrid: Tecmerin. Russo, M (2019) Devolver la mirada: el personaje de Vera en La piel que habito de Pedro Almodóvar. Comunicación y género, 2(1): 161–182. Sánchez Trigos, R (2008) El zombi en el cine fantástico español. In: Ensayos sobre ciencia ficción y literatura fantástica: 1er Congreso Internacional de Literatura Fantástica y Ciencia Ficción. Madrid: Universidad Carlos III, pp. 577–584. Sánchez Trigos, R (2013) Muertos, infectados y poseídos: el zombi en el cine español contemporáneo. Pasavento. Revista de Estudios Hispánicos, 1(1): 11–34. Schweitzer, D (2018) The Monsters We Make: The Horror Genre and the Monstrous Femenine. Lanham: Lexington Books. Taquilla España (2018) Listado de recaudación de todas las películas españolas, ­Taquilla España, Taquilla España (2022) Recaudación películas españolas 2022, Taquilla España,

Thibaudeau, P (2013) El cuerpo, la piel y la pantalla: los territorios habitados por Pedro Almodóvar. Fotocinema: revista científica de cine y fotografía, 7: 192–208. Vázquez, P (2019) Crítica de Legado en los huesos, Fotogramas, Williams, L (2001) Playing the Race Card: Melodramas of Black and White from Uncle Tom to OJ Simpson. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Yarza, A (2021) Blancanieves (Pablo Berger, 2012) y el empequeñecimiento de la ­memoria histórica. Huellas de lo trágico en la cultura española moderna. Hispanic Issues On Line, 27: 171–200. Zorrilla, Mikel (2022) El guardián Invisible, una oportunidad perdida, Espinof,

5

Horror & Gender

Ann Davies and Ian Olney have an interesting controversy about gender ­politics and Spanish horror film. For Davies films like The Others and The Orphanage “might be in the forward-thinking vanguard in terms of genre – but not necessarily of gender” (2011: 92). She appreciates the focus on ­female characters but criticizes the recurrent depiction of “monster mothers” as protagonists. Contrariwise, Olney believes that “contemporary Spanish horror cinema looks broadly progressive, not reactionary, in its gender politics” ­(Olney, 2023). This chapter addresses this debate without endorsing any of these two viewpoints. As we will analyze in the first section, in the 21st century there are diverse misogynistic, pyscho, characters that fit the same mold, and are intelligently employed to offer a blatant critique of patriarchal ­society. In the second part, we examine these “monster mothers” and how they relate to the evolution in the representation of adolescents and other female characters. Finally, the chapter closes with an an analysis of horror films directed by women.

5.1.  Masculinity in Crisis in the Horror Thriller In the 21st century, Spain has made significant strides in the rearticulation of gender politics. Notably, in 2004, the Ley Orgánica de Medidas de Protección Integral contra la Violencia de Género (Law of Measures for the Integral Protection Against Gender Violence) was passed. The following year, Law 12/2005 legalized same-sex marriage. Between 2004 and 2008, Spain also had its first parity government in history. In 2023, the Law for the Equality of Trans People and Guarantee of Rights for LGTBI Individuals was introduced, marking another important step forward. These accomplishments are even more remarkable when we consider that as recently as 1975, Spanish women required the so-called “marital permission” to carry out economic activities, work or even travel. The significant progress achieved by feminism has generated tension in the more conservative sectors of the public sphere, which horror films have inevitably addressed. Just like in other parts of the world, Spanish screens have been filled with incels (involuntary celibates). Typically, these characters DOI: 10.4324/9781003295075-5

60  Horror & Gender appear to live normal urban existences but are incapable of accepting women’s equality and liberation, and their sick misogyny drives them to commit crimes. This trend prolongs the psychoanalytic approach established by ­authors such as Núria Triana-Toribio within Francoist cinema (2003). However, it is no longer possible to solely blame the National-Catholic repression of the dictatorship for this behavior. Their hatred takes on in new forms and shapes that are characteristic of citizens in late global capitalism. A good example of this kind of male figure would be César (Luis Tosar), protagonist of Mientras duermes/Sleep Tight (Jaume Balagueró, 2011). The film stems from Balagueró’s participation in the television anthology Tales to Keep You Awake. This early 2000s homage to Chicho Ibáñez Serrador’s original series is a further example of his pivotal influence in Spanish 21stcentury horror. Balagueró shot the episode Para entrar a vivir, co-written with Alberto Marini. In Sleep Tight, the creative duo recounts the story of César, a concierge in an upscale building in Barcelona who appeals helpful and polite to the tenants. He lives in the basement and spends his nights listening to radio programs featuring people’s testimonies, in which lonely individuals explain their unhappiness. He only leaves the building to visit his bedridden and non-communicative mother. However, every night, he sneaks into Clara’s (Marta Etura) apartment, drugs her and sexually assaults her without being detected. In addition to using chemical sedation, he manipulates her cosmetics to cause eczema on her skin and infests her apartment with cockroaches, so that he can offer his assistance. Sleep Tight has been analyzed from various theoretical perspectives, ­including as a neoliberalist fable (Goss, 2017) and a Lefebvrian Marxist approach (Domènech, 2018). Both interpretations identify César as a symbol of class struggle, embodying the precarious worker’s resentment towards the wealthy. However, when analyzed from a gender perspective, Domènech argues that César’s violence towards women stems from his desire for domination. According to this author, the apartment building represents a space where César can exert patriarchal control. César’s pursuit of happiness is a central theme in Sleep Tight. In the opening sequence, he confesses: Happy. That’s my problem, I can’t be happy. I’ve never been. Not even when good things happen. You can’t imagine what is to wake up every morning with no motivation, the efforts I  make. I  must find a reason, a single reason, not to say: ‘fuck everything’. I  promise you I  really try. Everything. Every day in my life. His nemesis would be Clara, a happy woman who represents everything he lacks: economic wealth, professional success, love and beauty. César’s goal is to make her unhappy, as he tells his mother: “I’m going to wipe that smile off her face.” However, Clara is not the only woman he targets with violence.

Horror & Gender  61 In fact, all his conflicts until his fight with Clara’s boyfriend, Marcos (Alberto San Juan), involve women in the building. César’s misogyny extends beyond any age group, as evidenced by his torture of women in various stages of life. He even torments his own mother, despite her inability to communicate, by telling her about his misdeeds. He bothers an elderly neighbor, Señora Verónica (Petra Martínez), by pointing out how lonely she is and how little time she has left in her life. He threatens to kill a child, Úrsula (Iris Almeida), if she does not leave him alone, and even harasses his co-worker, the building’s cleaning lady (Amparo Fernández), by attacking her through her son. César’s ultimate triumph comes from his evil actions, as a boy is born as a result of his recurrent rapes of Clara. This victory is directly related to his invasion of the physical spaces and privacy of women and epitomizes male control over the female body. In other words, Clara’s pregnancy represents the culmination of virile domination over women – namely, the triumph of patriarchy. Sleep Tight garnered significant attention in 2011, securing its place as the seventh most watched film with impressive box-office returns of 3.6 million euros. It is no surprise that Luis Tosar’s portrayal of the repulsive character, César, earned him the well-deserved Goya for Best Male Lead. The Paramedic (Carles Torras, 2020) features a similarly misogynistic character, portrayed by Mario Casas. Despite starting his career with teenage heartthrob roles, Casas has since demonstrated his range and versatility by taking on challenging and diverse characters. In The Paramedic, he portrays a psycho kidnapper who suffers from a physical disability, rendering him unable to move the lower part of his body after a near-fatal accident. The story is reminiscent of The Collector, John Fowles’ novel that was adapted for the big screen by William Wyler in 1965. Casas’ character is an unsavory individual who steals from those he is supposed to help, and his neighbors and co-workers find him disagreeable. He becomes obsessed with the idea of paternity, as he suffers from asthenospermia. This obsession will turn into a monomania and trigger his wrath when he learns that his ex-girlfriend Vanesa (Déborah François) is pregnant with his former co-worker’s child (Guillermo Pfening). He kidnaps her and inflicts on her the same disability he has by paralyzing her lower extremities through medication. As the plot unfolds, the violence and intensity of the story escalates, leading to a dramatic conclusion. In the end, Ángel, Casas’ character, falls down a stairwell, pushed by Vanesa and is left paralyzed. The last scene shows a paraplegic Ángel, whom a pregnant Vanesa promises to take care of with a touch of irony. Both Sleep Tight and The Paramedic take place in the bustling city of Barcelona, where the evil of their protagonists goes unnoticed. However, Caníbal/Cannibal (Manuel Martín Cuenca, 2013) presents an interesting case of a folkloric incel set in the historical city of Granada. The film is an adaptation of a novel by Cuban writer Humberto Arenal, who was a friend of scriptwriter Alejandro Hernández (Gutiérrez Torres and Moya Jorge, 2020). In the

62  Horror & Gender opening sequence, the influence of David Fincher’s Zodiac (2007) is evident, but the film has an unmistakable local flavor. It is a rare case of a Spanish film to feature a cannibal, which is largely a taboo subject within the national filmography (Sánchez Trigos, 2013). The film’s protagonist is Carlos (Antonio de la Torre), a lonely and wellrespected tailor who is known as the best in Granada. He spends his days in his workshop, listening to sacred music and perfecting his craft. But Carlos, like César and Ángel, leads a double life: he kills young, beautiful women and subsequently eats them. He does so in the opening sequence of the film and also with his new neighbor, Romanian Alexandra (Olimpia Melinte), who is curious about his self-isolation and withdrawal towards women. Alexandra’s disappearance leads to the arrival of her twin sister, Nina (also played by Olimpia Melinte), who believes that Carlos has been harmed by a previous relationship and cannot relate to women. However, for Carlos, his isolation is voluntary. Aurora, the tailor for the brotherhood, is the only woman who comprehends César’s inability and revulsion towards the opposite sex. She is the sole individual with whom he confides his innermost thoughts; she then replies: “You’ll never find a woman.” Although not explicitly stated, the link between the protagonist’s cannibalism and the often-discussed question of transubstantiation during the Eucharist is acknowledged. The film’s denouement, with Nina blowing herself up in an ultimate act of love, leads the audience to the closing sequence where the virgin of forgiveness passes in front of Carlos’ window. In contrast to Sleep Tight and The Paramedic, Caníbal explores the psychological and spiritual implications of the protagonist’s gruesome acts, set against the backdrop of Granada’s historical and religious symbolism. The previous three films all share a common theme of exploring the perspective of the murderers, but none of them explains the male characters’ violent behavior towards women. In contrast, the next two films provide some form of justification or at least an alibi for the aberrant behavior, both of which draw from Oedipal explanations. Los ojos de Julia/Julia’s Eyes (Guillem Morales, 2010, written by Oriol Paulo) is a thriller that draws inspiration from Italian giallo. The film follows the story of twin sisters Sara and Julia (Belén Rueda), who suffer from a degenerative disease that gradually robs them of their sight. When Sara is found dead, Julia becomes determined to prove that her sister’s mysterious boyfriend is responsible for her passing. Presented from Julia’s perspective, the film offers a unique “first-person feminine experience” (Olney, 2023), providing both an aesthetic and ideological counterpoint to the gender politics of films like The Orphanage and The Others. Ángel, the psychopath who killed Sara’s sister and attempts to kill her, is described as an “invisible man.” Créspulo, the concierge at the hotel where the couple stayed, points out that: “nobody remembers the man who came with your sister, right? There are people with no light. Do you know what it’s like

Horror & Gender  63 to walk in somewhere and not be noticed? A pause. A vacuum. An absence. Angry at the world. He has no light. Nobody looks at him.” Ángel’s trauma, as he explains it, is the “fear of being ignored and rejected.” He is incapable of withstanding the disdain reflected in women’s gazes, and has developed a fascination with the blind, who depend on him and allow him to reaffirm his masculinity and become a patriarchal figure. His sickening behavior is shown to be a consequence of an Oedipal conflict, as revealed in the denouement. Ángel embodies an extreme form of toxic masculinity, but he is not the only negative male character in the film. Every man that Julia encounters represents a machista society that silences women’s voices. For instance, Isaac (Lluis Homar), Julia’s partner, not only disregards her suspicions about her sister’s murder but also has an affair with her sister-in-law. Dimas (Francesc Orella), the police officer in charge of the case, ignores Julia’s attempts to reopen the investigation. Sr. Blasco (Boris Ruiz), Sara’s neighbor, is a pervert. Dr. Román (Daniel Grao) speaks to Julia in a paternalistic manner even though he is obviously younger. Consequently, Julia’s mission to uncover the truth about her sister’s death also becomes a struggle against the blinding grip of patriarchal oppression that has been normalized in her society. Paradoxically, the more Julia loses her sight, the more she gains insight into the patriarchal oppression she faces. Julia’s Eyes was the second highest-grossing film in 2010, earning 6.8 million euros, only suparssed by the adolescent phenomenon Tres metros sobre el cielo/Three Steps Above Heaven (Fernando González Molina, 2010). Finally, the film Que dios nos perdone/May God Save Us (Rodrigo Sorogoyen, 2016). Uses the XXVI Jornada Mundial de la Juventud/World Youth Day (organized by the Catholic Church in Madrid between 16–21 August in 2011), as a backdrop to narrate a psychokiller’s spree. The killer takes advantage of the chaos in the streets to hide his actions and rape and murder old women. Unlike the other films discussed, May God Save Us focuses on the lives of the detectives investigating the case. The film’s aesthetics and story are clearly influenced by Memories of Murder (Bong Joon-ho, 2003), as acknowledged by the creators themselves (Zorrilla, 2016). The final clue, a little medal, is reminiscent of the famous tie pin case from Frenzy (Alfred Hitchcock, 1972). However, the director and its writer, Isabel Peña, are interested in highlighting other elements beyond these references. They aim to show a catalogue of toxic masculinities, men who are unable to relate to women, including the killer. Andrés (Javier Pereira), the murderer, is an example of a mentally troubled incel with a fixation on his own mother, as described by a priest to detective Velarde (Antonio de la Torre). Apparently, he is kind and a devout Catholic, but his troubled relationship with femininity leads him to hate and kill elderly women. Without being a murderer, Velarde also possesses incel features. He is lonely and inhibited by a stutter caused by his mother’s abuse when he was a child. He is unable to relate to his cleaner, Rosario (María Ballesteros),

64  Horror & Gender with whom he behaves violently after trying to initiate a sexual relationship with her in his apartment. Finally, Alfaro (Roberto Álamo), another detective, has serious anger management issues at work. His misogynistic behavior is a direct consequence of his lack of domestic authority. He is incapable of expressing his feelings to his wife and daughter, and he hits rock bottom when he is expelled from the police force and discovers that his partner is unfaithful. Both on the side of Good and Evil, the three men are diverse manifestations of machista and aberrant behaviors towards women in contemporary Spain.

5.2.  Female Bodies & the Male Gaze In the preceding section, we examined the portrayal of male protagonists. In this epigraph, we will conduct a detailed analysis of various depictions of women. Belén Rueda is undoubtedly the face that symbolizes Spanish horror cinema of the 21st century. After her successful debut in The Orphanage (Juan Antonio Bayona, 2007), Rueda went on to star in a series of horror productions that fully exploited her status as a muse of the genre. Born in 1965, she was 39 when she shot The Orphanage. Her late stardom often leads her to play roles in which her age greatly defines her desires and motivations (Mejón and Torreiro, 2018), except for the previously mentioned Julia’s Eyes (Guillem Morales, 2010). This is particularly evident in films such as El pacto/ The Pact (David Victori, 2018), No dormirás/You Shall Not Sleep (Gustavo Hernández, 2018), Séptimo/7th Floor (Patxi Azmecua, 2013) and El cuerpo/ The Body (Oriol Paulo, 2012). Rather than embodying a monstrous feminine, Belén Rueda typically embodies a monstrous mother. However, nuances exist, as Ann Davies notes. According to her, Spanish cinema during the dictatorship and transition to democracy presents an uneasy perception of the mother figure, portraying mothers as dangerously castrating. These ideas resonate with the observations of Carol Clover and Barbara Creed, especially the latter, who stated that “The presence of the monstrous-feminine in the popular horror film speaks to us more about male fears than about female desire or feminine subjectivity” (Creed, 1993: 7). Davies contends that both the character of Laura in The Orphanage and Grace, played by Nicole Kidman in The Others, prolong this perception. In The Orphanage, Laura’s investigation into the disappearance of her adopted son, Simón (Roger Príncep), is triggered when they move into the orphanage she seeks to reopen. To solve the mystery, she pursues the aid of the seer Aurora, played by Geraldine Chaplin, who advises her, “You are a strong mother. Your suffering gives you strength and will guide you. But only you know how far you are willing to go to find your son.” Unfortunately, the solution to the mystery is devastating since Laura inadvertently caused her son’s death, and her failure as a mother leads her to commit suicide. Therefore, despite the progressive gender portrayal, The Orphanage ultimately reinforces the notion of the dangerous mother.

Horror & Gender  65 Belén Rueda’s most successful film after The Orphanage was The Body. She portrays Mayka, a wealthy pharmaceutical company owner whose corpse has inexplicably vanished from the morgue. Mayka is married to Álex (Hugo Silva), a younger man, and the couple’s unconventional relationship is underscored by their refusal to have children. From the outset, we learn that Álex is responsible for Mayka’s murder as part of his plan to inherit her fortune and run away with his lover Carla (Aura Garrido). Through flashbacks, we witness the story of their love, and Mayka is portrayed as a fickle and manipulative woman who craves attention and affection. However, in a classic Oriol Paulo plot twist, we come to discover that Carla’s real name is Eva, and she is the daughter of Jaime Peña (José Coronado), the police officer who leads the investigation. Ten years earlier, a car driven by Álex, with Mayka as a passenger, collided with Jaime’s vehicle, causing the death of his wife. The couple was denied help, which is why the woman died. Since then, Jaime and Eva have plotted their revenge. It was Eva/Carla who manipulated Álex into killing Mayka. There is no positive female character in this tale. The Body was the fourth highest-grossing film of the year, earning three million euros. The movie would spawn three Asian remakes: Game (A.M.R. Gamesh, 2016), The Vanished (Lee Chang-hee, 2018) and The Body (Jeethu Joseph, 2019). Belén Rueda takes on the lead role in The Pact (David Victori, 2018), a story infused with Faustian undertones. In this film, the actress embodies Mónica, a divorced professional who lives and breathes for her daughter Clara, who suffers from acute diabetes. When Clara’s life is put in grave danger, Mónica discovers that she can save her daughter’s life if, within a stipulated time, she takes another person’s life. Unlike Faust, the selfish and unsatisfied scholar, Mónica’s pact with the devil is driven by maternal love, which further highlights her monstrous mother archetype. Mónica keeps her promise to the devil and takes the lives of two men. In the first instance, she denies assistance to a man in a traffic accident, resulting in his death. In the second, she shoots a man multiple times after he attempts to kill her ex-husband. Though Mónica saves her daughter’s life and restores her family, she pays a hefty price for her monstrous actions. Released practically at the same time as The Pact, the Spanish-Uruguayan co-production No dormirás/You Shall Not Sleep (Gustavo Hernández, 2018) depicts the tale of a theater project centered around the effects of sleep deprivation, which soon transforms into a terrifying nightmare. Right from the start, Belén Rueda’s character Alma Böhn is presented as unredeemable and untransformable. Unlike Laura in The Orphanage or Mónica in The Pact, when we are first introduced to Alma in 1975, she is already an artist who disguises herself as a monster mother. Alma is portrayed as a performer with characteristics of a mad scientist, who derives pleasure from subjecting her company members to sleep deprivation. She embodies Barbara Creed’s concept of the “deadly femme castratrice” (1993: 127), as she inflicts torture on both her son and the actors in her troupe with a level of cruelty that makes it difficult for viewers to empathize with her.

66  Horror & Gender While these films may present unsympathetic and harsh portrayals of f­ emale characters, this is not the case for the films Verónica (2017) and La abuela/The Grandmother (2001), both directed by Paco Plaza. Both are led by young women who, far from being canonical Final Girls, become Final Victims, to use Staiger’s definition (2018). None of the protagonists survive the terror. Interestingly, the reasons for their deaths are intimately linked to their love for others. Verónica is based on the real-life Vallecas Case, the only Spanish report in which a police inspector claimed to have witnessed paranormal phenomena. The film is set in 1991, and we meet Verónica (Sandra Escacena), the eldest of four siblings, who has recently lost her father. At only fifteen years of age, Verónica is left to take care of her younger siblings while her mother works at a bar, which is a daunting task for any teenager. Furthermore, the film makes a clear reference to Verónica’s physical ­development from childhood to womanhood by establishing that she has not yet experienced her first menstrual cycle at the start of the story. During a Ouija game with some friends, Verónica summons a demon, and her life ­becomes a living hell that drives her to madness. Interestingly, the film suggests that Verónica’s terror is not purely supernatural but rather grounded in the very real fears of growing up, the helplessness that stems from her social background, and the unbearable burden of being a mother figure – and even, to some extent, a father figure. The demons that haunt her are too familiar: the main one is her naked father, who also appears to her little brother, Antoñito; her younger sisters seem to devour her, and the youngest member of the family even tries to suffocate her, inspired by the film Who Can Kill a Child? (Chicho Ibáñez Serrador, 1976) that they watched on television. When Verónica screams for her mother (Ana Torrent) to help her, her response is a harsh one, saying “I need you to grow up,” as she experiences her first period. The small stains of that period become ominous, signals from hell. In the final scene, Verónica discovers that the demon haunting her is herself, and she commits suicide to save her siblings by slitting her throat with a shard of glass from the bathroom mirror. The film’s setting just months before the festivities of 1992, in which Spain presented itself to the world through the Barcelona Olympics and the Seville World Expo, provides another layer of political and social commentary. Verónica’s body becomes a site of tension, embodying the struggles of a country undergoing a process of change towards modernity, which adds another layer of complexity to this harrowing tale. Verónica proved to be a commercial success, ranking as the ninth ­highest-grossing Spanish film of 2017, grossing 3.5  million euros. Following its release on Netflix, the film also achieved global recognition. In fact, it caught the attention of Hollywood superstar Dwayne Johnson, who tweeted on March  4, 2018, “Well, my usual Saturday night plans of tequila and

Horror & Gender  67 documentaries just got replaced by this. I’m a glutton for punishment so bring it on. Anybody see this yet?” After the success of Verónica, Bambú produced two films marketed as based on real events: 32 Malasana Street (Albert Pintó, 2020) and 13 exorcismos/13 exorcisms (Jacobo Martínez, 2022). We will discuss the former in our chapter on Spanish horror cinema’s relationship with the past; the latter heavily features religion as it revolves around the last officially recognized exorcism in Spain, which occurred in Burgos (although the story is relocated to Ourense in the film). The film follows Laura (Maria Romanillos), a teenage girl about to undergo her confirmation, whose devout mother is consumed by guilt over the death of one son and the overwhelming burden of caring for another with a disability. Laura’s self-punishing behavior, driven by her religious beliefs, has caused her to develop anorexia nervosa and anxiety, as observed by her psychologist. Unlike Verónica, Laura becomes immediately aware of being possessed by a demon, and like Verónica, she is a virgin teenager who summons an evil spirit during a Ouija seance, which occurs on Halloween, pitting the sacred All Saints’ Day against the pagan holiday. The film 13 Exorcisms delves deep into the realm of body horror, explicitly implying that the repression of sexual impulses by religion is the root cause of possession. As a result, Laura’s body twists and contorts in a fashion reminiscent of Linda Blair’s iconic performance in The Exorcist (William Friedkin, 1973), and she is covered in bleeding scars and even swallows crucifixes. The film underscores how the torture inflicted upon the possessed body is countered by the even more brutal torture of exorcism, as Father Olmedo (played by José Sacristán) attempts to perform only the 13 exorcisms that he is ­capable of. This number is limited because any more would cause irreparable damage to Laura’s body, as the priest cautions us. Like the titular character in Verónica, Laura ultimately succumbs to supernatural forces and takes her own life, as she is unable to withstand evil or, in other words, the intense social pressure that surrounds her. La abuela/The Grandmother is a one-of-a-kind film in terms of how it builds a horror narrative. In this case, Plaza works on a script by cult filmmaker ­Carlos Vermut. The use of synthesizers in its soundtrack immediately evokes the influence of Italian giallo. The film’s protagonist, Susana (Almudena Amor), is a selfless caregiver who lives in Paris and aspires to become a model. ­However, when her grandmother Pilar (Vera Valdez), with whom she shares a close emotional bond, suffers a stroke, Susana is compelled to return to Madrid. Unlike Verónica, the action takes place in the upscale neighborhood of Retiro, far from the working-class area of Vallecas. Strange occurrences begin to happen as ­Susana seeks a caregiver and her birthday approaches. In a fascinating twist, the film portrays a soul exchange between Pilar and Susana, with Pilar taking over Susana’s body while Susana is left trapped in

68  Horror & Gender Pilar’s lifeless body. Once again, the film offers a dual explanation. On the one hand, it confronts the issue of ageism in its vampiric condition. On the other hand, it appears to distill the terror of a youth without hope for the future. Susana, at twenty-four years of age, is on the cusp of losing her last shot at a successful modeling career. Her grandmother’s interference only serves to ruin her last opportunity. The gerontophobia that Susana develops is the expression of generational anxiety that plagues millennials and centennials. Furthermore, the fact that the soul exchange is not an isolated incident but has occurred before, between Pilar’s friend Julita (Gabriela Calonfirescu) and Eva (Karina Kololchykova), highlights the film’s attempt to offer social commentary.

5.3.  Spanish Women Make Horror This chapter has explored the representation of women in Spanish horror cinema. However, it is also important to examine the contributions of women in creative roles behind the cameras. Therefore, concluding the chapter with an analysis of the specific works of several women filmmakers would not only provide a more complete picture of the representation of females in Spanish cinema, but also acknowledge the vital role that women have played in shaping the industry. Prior to the end of the second decade of the 21st century, the number of Spanish women creating horror films was relatively low. However, recently there has been a shift towards greater gender diversity and inclusion within the genre, thus broadening the range of perspectives and styles present in the country’s cinematic landscape. In recent times, there has been a heightened sensitivity towards feminist issues such as gender-based violence, parity and the wage gap between men and women in the Spanish public sphere. This has led to the creation of the Ministry of Equality in 2008. The rise of women in the cinematic field can be attributed to factors like those in other European countries. The Me Too movement sparked a demand for greater visibility of women in the film industry, particularly in directing and scriptwriting positions. In Spain, this demand materialized in the modification of criteria for the distribution of subsidies at both the national level through the ICAA (Instituto de la Cinematografía y de las Artes Audiovisuales) and at the regional level. Additionally, the Association of Women Filmmakers and Audiovisual Media (CIMA) was established in 2006, and it continues to actively advocate for women’s rights daily. The rise of a new generation of women filmmakers is perhaps headed by Carla Simón (Golden Bear at Berlinale with Alcarràs in 2022). However, there are also a good number of females who had made horror films that fit in what Patricia Pisters has labeled “new poetics of horror” (2020). Following Ngai (2007) and Brinkema (2015), her analysis focuses on three characteristics: “the intimate point of view of the inner experience of the female body”

Horror & Gender  69 (Pisters, 2020: 3); the modification of the “emotional spectrum” to approach “ugly feelings” (Ngai, 2007); and, finally, their refusal to operate within “strict genre boundaries” (Brinkema, 2015). Next, we analyze several films that comply with one or several of these characteristics. In addition, they are defined by a tendency to solve the established conflict through sorority ties. The first Spanish horror film – and first science fiction production – directed by a woman in the 21st century was Náufragos/Stranded (Luna, 2001).1 Mixing sci-fi and survival horror, and highly influenced by Hitchcock’s Lifeboat (1944) and H.P. Lovecraft, the film tells the story of the first human expedition sent to Mars. It focuses on seven astronauts, including top-notch talent Vincent Gallo, Maria de Medeiros and the mythical musician Johnny Ramone. In the Red Planet, they must overcome a supplies shortage to survive. María Lidón herself, in the role of Susana Sánchez, the new team commander, is the true protagonist of the film, and will find a solution to guarantee their survival. Despite its pioneering character in a country where sci-fi efforts have been scarce, the film was deficiently distributed and had little to no impact outside specialized networks. Renowned Spanish filmmaker Isabel Coixet made her foray into the horror genre with her 2013 film, Mi otro yo/Another Me. The film had two significant selling points. First, it was an adaptation of a Cathy Macphail novel, which belongs to the popular young adult literary genre. Second, the film’s protagonist, Sophie Turner, had already gained immense popularity through her role as Sansa Stark in the hit series Game of Thrones. The plot revolves around a doppelganger story that perfectly aligns with Pisters’ concept of the intimate point of view of the inner experience of the female body (2020: 3). Fay, a fifteen-year-old girl who had a “perfect childhood,” begins to be tormented by a young woman identical to her once she reaches puberty. As the story unfolds, it is revealed that Fay’s visions are not caused by a school bully, but by the ghost of her deceased twin sister, Layla. In a similar vein to MacPhail’s novel, Fay’s madness worsens as she takes on the role of Lady Macbeth in a theater performance – one of the most iconic female roles in history. Within this framework, Coixet’s approach to genre is fascinating, channeling a variety of English and American referents, explicitly Stanley Kubrick and his films A Clockwork Orange (1971) and The Shining (1980). The latter is clearly quoted in the red graffiti that reads “I’m here,” announcing Layla’s presence. Moreover, the presence of Geraldine Chaplin, muse of 21st-century Spanish horror, immediately points to a classic film on female madness such as Gaslight (George Cukor, 1944). Furthermore, the film showcases various photographs by Vivian Maier, an artist whose work has recently been rediscovered and often captures the peculiarities of everyday life. Coixet also employs her unique melodramatic sensibility and aesthetics in the film. She uses several intimate scenes in slow motion, non-diegetic indie music (in this case Richard Hawley’s tunes), and recurrent extreme closeups of the protagonists’ bodies. The film’s chromatism is also rather peculiar,

70  Horror & Gender with magentas and blacks dominating. All these elements come together in the sequence where Fay loses her virginity, which could easily be part of any of the sad love stories Coixet has directed before and after this film. Although Another Me was not as successful as some of Coixet’s other transnational projects, its innovative utilization of unconventional narrative tools is noteworthy. Like María Lidón, Ana Asensio went against all Spanish cinematic conventions and traditions with Most Beautiful Island (2017). After all, she was a US-based director with no prior film experience. The film opens with the common intertitle: “based on a true story.” Asensio has stated that the film was inspired by a true event that occurred during her attempt to make a name for herself in the fashion industry. Specifically, she accepted a contract to participate in a Halloween party. Most Beautiful Island opens with several shots of women walking through the New York streets, captured through a telephoto lens. The influence of the indie film tradition is clear in this sequence, with its characteristic 16mm grainy image. Additionally, it introduces the thematic axis of the story, which is harassment. Asensio herself has acknowledged this in her own words, stating that: If you ask any young and beautiful woman, she will tell you she has been harassed. If you are minimally attractive, take for granted that someone has proposed to you some kind of shady deal. I  have experienced this myself and have not even discussed it with other actresses. (Belategui, 2017) The film follows the journey of Luciana (Asensio), a woman who fled Spain to escape a traumatic past and the devastating impact of the economic crisis. Pisters (2020: 168) categorizes this film as a horror story that focuses on “surviving on the margins of society,” which justifies its realist approach. Luciana seeks to avoid a terrifying encounter with her landlord. To do so, she takes on various precarious jobs, such as working as a nanny and participating in sexist advertisements, until her Russian roommate offers her an opportunity to attend a mysterious private party. At the party, Luciana finds herself among other young and attractive women, and eventually learns that it is a form of Russian roulette, where lethal spiders crawl on the naked bodies of the participants. The objectification and exploitation of the female body, coupled with the trivialization of their suffering, creates a truly horrific scenario. However, the film offers a glimmer of hope through the power of sisterhood, as Luciana manages to prevent the spider from biting Olga, the woman who introduced her to this dark and dangerous world. Undoubtedly, the film benefited from the Me Too movement, which was happening simultaneously with its release. It received the Grand Jury Award at South by Southwest in 2017. Paradise Hills (2019), by Alice Waddington (pseudonym of Irene Lago Clavero) premiered at the renowned Sundance Film Festival. Co-written with filmmaker Nacho Vigalondo, the film can be described as a “woke dystopia”

Horror & Gender  71 that draws heavily from Waddington’s background as a costume designer and stylist. The film immerses audiences in a vibrant and visually stunning world that borrows elements from The Cell (Tarsem Singh, 2000) and pays homage to steampunk and Japanese manga cultures. Shot in English, the story is set in a future where rebellious and non-conforming women, deemed unacceptable by patriarchal standards, are sent to a detention center for the wealthy. Here, they undergo various therapeutic treatments, including being bombarded with images of the supposed ideal life, reminiscent of Ludovico’s treatment in A Clockwork Orange. However, the real process involves replacing them with genetically identical copies, reminiscent of Invasion of the Body Snatchers (Don Siegel, 1956; Philip Kaufman, 1978). Each of the women’s “deviations” represents a different form of heteropatriarchal oppression that women face in the contemporary world, and they must overcome these obstacles to assert their agency. Uma (Emma Roberts), the protagonist, refuses to marry the wealthy heir that her parents have chosen for her; Amarna (Eiza González), a Mexican pop idol, resists exploitation by an industry that prohibits her from revealing her lesbianism; Chloe (Danielle Macdonald) must conform to conventional beauty standards and undergo physical transformations; Yu (Awkawfina) must change her personality to gain social privileges. According to Waddington, “it was crucial for me to include a variety of female characters, not only positive ones, but also those who are twisted, morally ambiguous, and most importantly, I wanted to cover the entire spectrum of race, sexuality, and physical appearance” (El Periódico, 2018). The detention center’s goal is to preserve the heteropatriarchal status quo, and none of the male characters come to the women’s aid; instead, they betray them. Similar to Most Beautiful Island, Uma and her double can only escape the island by relying on sorority, defying the predetermined future that the male order has planned for them. Finally, Piggy, by Carlota Pereda (2022), is a standout in recent Spanish horror cinema, as it cleverly plays with genre conventions and subverts dominant masculine canons. It offers a fresh take on the “final girl” trope, the iconic heroine of slasher films, while also deconstructing typical revenge narratives. The film’s intriguing setting in a small town in Extremadura can be seen as a nod to the American horror genre, where many of these narratives take place. Through this setting, Pereda sheds light on the theme of Empty Spain, highlighting the precarious economic conditions of the protagonist’s parents’ butcher shop. The film’s aesthetic, reminiscent of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre is achieved by shooting in anamorphic format to capture the deformities and textures, then transferring to a 4:3 aspect ratio to intensify the story’s oppressive and asphyxiating atmosphere (Sánchez, 2022). The film’s protagonist is a departure from the norm. Rather than the typical sculpted “final girl,” Pereda questions normative bodies by casting Laura Galán as Sara, an overweight and bulimic character who is derisively

72  Horror & Gender nicknamed “Piggy” due to her physical appearance and her parents’ profession as butchers. Sara is subjected to ridicule and bullying by the town’s other youth, as well as pursued by a roaming psychopath (Richard Holmes). She is also in conflict with her mother (Carmen Machi), who loves her deeply but cannot tolerate her daughter’s bulimia. Piggy is a unique revenge narrative in that there is no rape, and the protagonist faces a dilemma: whether to allow her stalkers to be punished or to free them and punish the murderer. Pereda chooses to insinuate rather than show different kinds of torture on female bodies, rejecting their reification, a common trope in horror films. In fact, the death of one of the town’s women is only revealed through dialogue, and her body is never shown. All of Sara friends’ wounds are inflicted by Sara herself, as she tries to release them from captivity. In the final shot, Pereda reveals her true intentions: Sara ends up with the boy she likes, subverting the common fate of the “final girl” in maledirected horror films. Brilliant and self-conscious, Piggy is the most accomplished horror film directed by a Spanish woman

Note 1 Luna is the artistic name of Valencian filmmaker María Lidón.

Bibliography Belategui, O (2017) Si eres una joven hermosa da por seguro el acoso, Diario Sur,

Brinkema, E (2015) Introduction: A Genreless Horror. Journal of Visual Culture, 14(3): 263–266. Creed, B (1993) The Monstrous-Femenine: Film, Feminism, Psychoanalysis. New York: Routledge. Davies, A (2011) The Final Girl and Monstrous Mother of El orfanato. In: Davies, A (ed) Spain on Screen: Developments in Contemporary Spanish Cinema. London: Palgrave Macmillan, pp. 79–92. Domènech, C (2018) The Barcelonian Bourgeoisie in Ruins: Jaume Balagueró’s Mientras duermes (2011). In: Brady, J and Leffers, ML (eds) Shifting Subjectivities in Contemporary Fiction and Film from Spain. London: Cambridge Scholars, pp. 209–223. El Periódico (2018) Alice Waddington, la cineasta bilbaína que quiere conquistar Sundance, El Periódico, Goss, BM (2017) The Pain in Spain: An Analysis of Horror Auteur Jaume Balagueró’s Films. Studies in european Cinema, 14(1): 66–81. Gutiérrez Torres, I  and Moya Jorge, T (2020) Vive, siente, escucha. Un retrato de ­Alejandro Hernández. Madrid: TECMERIN. Harrod, M and Paszkiewicz, K (eds) (2018) Women Do Genre in Film and Television. New York: Routledge.

Horror & Gender  73 Kinder, M (1993) Blood Cinema: The Reconstruction of National Identity in Spain. Los Angeles: University of California Press. Mejón, A  and Torreiro, M (2018) La elección invisible. Encuentros con Luis San ­Narciso. Madrid: TECMERIN. Ngai, S (2007) Ugly Feelings. Harvard, MA: Harvard University Press. Olney, I (2023) Looking with Julia’s Eyes: Gender, Spectatorship, and Contemporary Spanish Horror Cinema, Thinking, Peirse, A (ed) (2020) Women Make Horror: Filmmaking, Feminism, Genre. New ­Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press. Pisters, P (2020) New Blood in Contemporary Cinema: Women Directors and the Poetics of Horror. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Sánchez, P (2022) Carlota Pereda: Cerdita ha sido un intento de exorcizar todos mis miedos por haber sufrido bullying, Vanity Fair, Sánchez Trigos, R (2013) Muertos, infectados y poseídos: el zombi en el cine español contemporáneo. Pasavento. Revista de Estudios Hispánicos, 1(1): 11–34. Triana-Toribio, N (2003) Spanish National Cinema. New York: Routledge. Zorrilla, M (2016) Aquí hay más exigencia, no podemos fallar, Rodrigo Sorogoyen, director de Que Dios nos perdone, Spinof,

6

Horror & the Past

The utilization of horror to confront the political traumas of the past is a global mode of address (Lowenstein, 2005; Blake, 2008). In Spain, the development of this genre during late Francoism tackled the authoritarian character of the regime in a metaphorical fashion, as acknowledged by Olney (2014) and Lázaro Reboll (2013), among others. Later on, in democracy, the use of horror to approach the Spanish Civil War and the posterior dictatorship was limited, possibly due to ongoing traumas and open wounds within Spanish society. It could be argued that filmmakers were too preoccupied with the possible trivialization of the most terrible violent confrontation within Spain in the 20th century. However, there were several canonical comedies that did step into this slippery slope, such as La vaquilla/The Heifer (Luis García ­Berlanga, 1985), ¡Ay, Carmela! (Carlos Saura, 1990), Belle époque and La niña de tus ojos/The Girl of Your Dreams (Fernando Trueba, 1993 y 1998). Conversely, horror films, for the most part, ignored it. Nonetheless, It is possible to point out a few exceptions that have explored the Civil War through the combination of horror and melodrama, such as Agustí Villaronga’s El mar/The Sea (2000). Additionally, Villaronga’s works are revealing in as much as when ­depicting fascism in Tras el cristal/In a Glass Cage (1986), he steps away from national politics to create an international framework, focusing on a Nazi psycopath who has sought refuge in Francoist Spain.

6.1.  Francoism’s Monstrous Memory In the 21st century, Spanish horror cinema initially addressed the Civil War indirectly through Guillermo del Toro’s diptych films: The Devil’s Backbone and Pan’s Labyrinth. In a previous chapter, we analyzed the industrial impact of del Toro’s explosive entry into Spanish horror. However, these films are also significant in their use of the Civil War as a critical ideological and ­narrative framework. Del Toro’s unflinching approach broke all taboos, transforming this historical period into raw material to illustrate the positive effects of revisiting the Civil War for the advancement of Spanish cinema.

DOI: 10.4324/9781003295075-6

Horror & the Past  75 Vicente J. Benet, following Sánchez Biosca (2006), characterizes these works as paradigmatic exercises in revisionism: “these films, rather than ­attempting to articulate the past as a historical problem or a strategy for ­recovering memory, conform to the exigencies and perspectives of the present” (Benet, 2012: 357). This point is applicable to Del Toro’s work and several films discussed in this epigraph. Lázaro-Reboll (2013) explains that both films originated from del Toro’s earlier projects. Due to personal reasons, the Mexican director was living in Spain and decided to adapt them to the national scenario. Both projects became co-productions with Spanish funding, and the artistic and technical team was mainly Spanish. Del Toro’s ability to reshape his original ideas with elements of his adopted country gives both films their effective transnational character. As Lázaro-Reboll notes, “both evoke a Spanish cinematic tradition in which the protagonist is a child dealing with traumatic experiences, as seen before in Víctor Erice’s El espíritu de la colmena (1973) and Carlos Saura’s Cría cuervos (1975)” (2013: 26). Furthermore, del Toro’s non-Spanish background allowed him to break the typical self-censorship among Spanish artistic creators, at least until a few years ago. For instance, The Devil’s Backbone offers a cinematic rendition of popular comic book author Carlos Giménez’s series Paracuellos. The cartoonist and writer, who collaborated with del Toro in designing the film’s storyboard, had created a sordid depiction of the Civil War, with ill-fed and violence-traumatized children. Lázaro-Reboll (2013) also highlights that both films, as well as others that followed, are imbued with central issues present within the broader Spanish public debate. This process would culminate in 2007 when José Luis Rodríguez Zapatero’s PSOE government approved the so-called Ley de Memoria Histórica/The Law of Historical Memory (Ley 52/2007, 26 December/Law 52/2007), which recognized all Spanish Civil War victims. In the 21st century, Spanish horror cinema would oscillate between works that engage in this ­debate and those that ignore it, offering a consensual understanding of the Civil War, accepting unproblematically that everyone was ultimately defeated. The Devil’s Backbone served as a model for the Spanish horror aesthetic, but it was Pan’s Labyrinth that solidified Guillermo del Toro’s position as a cornerstone of the genre within the Spanish film industry. The film was submitted as Mexico’s entry for the 2007 Oscars and received six nominations, making it the most nominated Spanish film ever. It went on to win three awards: Art Direction for Pilar Revuelta and Eugenio Caballero, Director of Photography for Guillermo Navarro, and Best Make-Up for David Martí and Montse Ribé. Finally, the talented Spanish workers within the fantastic and horror genres received the international recognition they deserved. Del Toro’s success inspired other filmmakers to boldly explore Spain’s past through the lens of horror.

76  Horror & the Past A recent example of engaging with the Spanish Civil War through horror is the 2020 film Malnazidos/Valley of the Dead, based on the book Noche de difuntos del 38 by Manuel Martín. The film follows the formula of the cult Norwegian film Dead Snow (2009) by combining comedy, gore and Nazis, while paying homage to John Carpenter with the inclusion of his song “Farewell Slayer.” However, Valley of the Dead sets itself apart by using dark and grotesque humor to portray the folly of war, which is a distinctively Spanish trait. The film parodies the beliefs of soldiers with varying ideologies, and belongs to a pure Berlangesque tradition, with clear influence from his polemical film The Heifer. Thus, Valley of the Dead can be seen as equidistant from ideological poles, as was the case with Berlanga’s masterpiece decades ago. Valley of the Dead opens with a jarring scene: a Nazi squad invades a small Spanish village and ruthlessly slaughters all the wedding attendees with machine guns. To cover up their experimentation with a secret weapon that could turn the tide of the war in Germany’s favor, they spray the corpses with a mysterious blue gas, which transforms them into zombies. The film’s main character is Jan Lozano, portrayed by Miki Esparbé, a Captain in the National army fighting against his own brother who joined the Republicans. Lozano has a history of disciplinary problems, including ­headbutting Franco’s “almost cousin” and freeing condemned prisoners. Alongside him is DeCruz, played by Manel Llunell, a Galician who joined the army to protect the “hojaldrinas,” a local sweet made by nuns and threatened by the Republican’s anti-clerical stance. They engage in a suicidal mission, and they are caught by a Republican militia led by the Sargento, played by Luis Callejo, which includes Brodsky (Sergio Torrico), a self-proclaimed Russian giant, Matacuras (Aura Garrido), a strong woman, Mecha (Álvaro Cervantes), a former motorcycle racer, and the Political Commissioner, played by Dafnis Balduz. Soon, they encounter three National army soldiers, nun Sor Flor (María Botto), blue shirt Jurel (Jesús Carroza) and Mooris guard Rafir (Mouad Ghazouan). Together they must face a zombie-infested territory. They realize that they must work together to survive and move forward. As Lozano tells the Republican militia, “it may piss you off, but we are on the same side.” The narrative is well-balanced, with scenes constantly promoting the idea of reconciliation. Aside from the zombies, the film’s antagonists are the Nazis and the ideological zealots on both sides: General Lozano (Manuel Morón), a fervent Francoist and the Republican Political Commissioner. Their fanaticism is contrasted with the kindness and naivety of the other characters, who always show empathy and forgiveness towards their foes. Captain Lozano’s compassionate heart is matched by the Republican Sargento, who is unable to execute his enemies after DeCruz reveals that he has a wife and children. Eventually, Mecha and Jurel sacrifice themselves killing a group of ­zombies after explaining to each other the main reason behind their mutual hatred: their respective wives were killed by the other side. In the end, the

Horror & the Past  77 Civil War – a fraternal and absurd conflict – obliges Matacuras and Jan to say farewell to each other, until the ultimate reconciliation happens. In Valley of the Dead, the historical setting is primarily used as a backdrop to promote the idea of reconciliation in the face of the external Nazi threat. In contrast, Musarañas/Shrew’s Nest (Juanfer Andrés and Esteban Roel, 2014) directly confronts the issue of women’s subjugation under National Catholicism during the dictatorship. The film, which was the first project produced by Pokeepsie Films, a company founded by Álex de la Iglesia and Carolina Bang to promote the works of young directors, is set in the postwar era and almost entirely takes place in the cramped apartment where the two main characters, Montse (Macarena Gómez) and “La Niña” (Nadia de Santiago), live. As such, it is a domestic horror film that explores the terror of everyday life under Franco’s regime. Montse has been taken care of La Niña ever since their mother died during childbirth. Their father (played by Luis Tosar), a sanctimonious man with strong Catholic beliefs, disappeared at the start of the war. However, his ghost continues to haunt Montse, reproaching her behavior and constantly humiliating her. Traumatized by her past and consumed by guilt, Montse suffers from agoraphobia and is unable to leave the apartment. In this oppressive and misanthropic environment, her confinement is both figurative and real. Like a shrew, she never ventures beyond the confines of her home. Everything changes when two different events happen: first, La Niña’s eighteeen birthday and, therefore, the fact that she becomes an adult; second, the irruption of a neighbor, Carlos (Hugo Silva), in their lives when he appears at their doorstep after falling down the stairs. Montse will obssess with Carlos, similary to what happens with Annie Wilkes (Kathy Bathes) in Misery (Rob Reiner, 1990), awakening her repressed sexual drive. Shrew’s Nest portrays the theme of women’s submission during Francoism by prominently displaying Catholic paraphernalia such as crucifixes, plaster virgins and saint cards. These symbols illustrate the intimate relationship between religion and women’s oppression. For instance, La Niña is terrified by biblical passages that depict a punishing God as a strong and powerful ogre who watches over men. This ideology forces women to endure all forms of abuse, including sexual abuse, as revealed in the end when it is disclosed that La Niña was born out of such abuse: she is Montse’s daughter. Montse, overwhelmed by shame and guilt, does not report the crime, but instead, kills and walls up the corpse of her abusive father to protect her daughter/sister. Similarly, consumed by the same guilt as Montse, La Niña kills her mother/ sister to save Carlos and closes the apartment’s door in the final shot. The familial cross symbolizes the transfer of guilt from one family member to another, much like the Judeo-Christian concept of guilt. In Spain, the critical reception of Shrew’s Nest was largely centered around the performance of Macarena Gómez, with pundits offering differing assessments of her portrayal. Meanwhile, The Hollywood Reporter characterized

78  Horror & the Past the film as “enjoyable if unsubtle historical horror” (Holland, 2014). Despite the varied reactions, the film went on to receive three Goya Award nominations, including Best Lead Actress for Macarena Gómez, Best New Director for Juanfer Andrés and Esteban Roel, and Best Make-Up for José Quetglas, Pedro Rodríguez and Carmen Veina. However, it only won the latter prize. Renowned director Álex de la Iglesia also explored the Francoist period with his film Balada triste de trompeta/The Last Circus (2010), employing a combination of grotesque parody and horror. The film spans a lengthy period from 1937 to 1973, but primarily focuses on the late Francoist era, specifically between 1959 and 1973. This timeframe encompasses significant historical events such as the inauguration of Valle de los Caídos, a massive mausoleum built by Republican prisoners for the dictator, and the assassination of the Spanish president, Admiral Luis Carrero Blanco, in 1973 by the terrorist group ETA. This event marked a crucial turning point in Francoism and largely sparked the beginning of the Spanish Transition to Democracy. The film’s Spanish title is borrowed from a song by Raphael, a famous artist of Francoist times who played a clown in the film Sin un adiós (Vicente Escrivá, 1970). De la Iglesia’s movie revolves around two clowns who represent the two opposing sides of Spain. Javier (Carlos Areces), the sad clown, is the son of those who lost the war, while Sergio (Antonio de la Torre), the stupid clown, with his alcoholism and violence, symbolizes the winners. Both men compete for the love of Natalia (Carolina Bang), whose unyielding affection for them leads to her tragic end. Once again, the viewer is confronted with an equidistant position in relation to the Civil War, where Spain is on the verge of dying as a nation because of the obstinate hatred between two irreconcilable sides that claim to love their country. De la Iglesia extensively uses archival materials, parodying Forrest Gump (Robert Zemeckis, 1994) by placing Javier alongside important historical figures, but with real actors. When Javier loses his mind after attempting to kill Sergio, the Basque director transforms him into a hound dog that bites Franco’s hand after bringing him a partridge bird. This animalization is a powerful metaphor for the oppressive regime that sought to turn Spaniards into obedient and submissive creatures. In his attempt to recover Natalia, Javier witnesses Carrero Blanco’s assassination, making him a ubiquitous witness to important historical events. In his typical fashion, de la Iglesia uses iconic locations to great effect in The Last Circus, notably the Valle de los Caídos, a nod to Alfred Hitchcock’s North By Northwest (1959). This monument to Spain’s past dictator plays a central role in the film’s plot, as Javier’s father is imprisoned there, and it serves as both the beginning and end of the story. The monument’s importance extends beyond the film, as it has been the subject of much public debate in Spain. For some, it is a symbol of the dictatorship and should be destroyed, while others advocate for its transformation into a museum about the Civil War. After years of controversy, Pedro Sánchez’ PSOE government finally

Horror & the Past  79 exhumed Franco’s corpse in October 2019, relocating it to the Mingorrubio cemetery. The Last Circus competed in the 67th Festival Venice Film Festival, winning the Silver Lion for Best Director and the Golden Osella for Best Screenplay. It was also awarded the Méliès d’Or and was nominated for 15 Goyas, winning only two (Best Make-Up and Best Special Effects). In Spain, reviews were generally uneven; the international press, conversely, praised the film almost unanimously. The Village Voice defined the film as “a stunning ­funhouse-mirror allegory of Franco-era that makes Pan’s Labyrinth look like Sesame Street” (Hillis, 2011). In terms of box-office returns, the film fared poorly in the domestic market, earning only two million euros against a budget of seven million euros. This pales in comparison to the success of films by directors such as Guillermo del Toro. If The Last Circus ends in 1973, Malasaña 32/32 Malasana Street (2020) takes us a year back in time. Directed by Albert Pintó it was produced by Bambú, a company renowned for its successful period dramas for television, including Velvet, Gran Hotel, Alta Mar, Las Chicas del Cable, Seis Hermanas and Dos Vidas, among others. Malasaña 32 is faithful to the 1970s exploitation genre, which inspired the creation of the franchise The Conjuring (James Wang, 2013), produced by Blumhouse. The influence of Wang’s style is clear in the film’s use of typical elements and props, such as a rocking chair, a poltergeist television set, a telephone as a vehicle to communicate with the afterlife, and a spectacular levitation during a climactic exorcism. The film’s prologue, set in 1972, three years before Franco’s demise, sets the tone, pointing to the presence of some kind of spirit in the Malasaña street building where the story takes place. An ellipsis brings the story four years later, 1976, right after Franco’s death. The Spanish Transition has just began and the country is still rather unstable. The film follows the journey of a family that embodies the aspirations of a new Spanish society in the midst of an era of change. Manolo (Iván Marcos) and Candela (Beatriz Segura), along with their children and grandfather, have left their village in search of a brighter future in Madrid. Candela secures a job at the prestigious department store Galerías Preciados, while Manolo works at the cutting-edge motor company Pegaso. However, symptomatically these companies soon struggled to compete with global market forces and eventually closed. Meanwhile, Amparo (Begoña Vargas) dreams of becoming an Iberia flight attendant, while Pepe (Sergio Castellanos), the eldest son, hopes to overcome his stutter. But their hopes are dashed when they move into a haunted apartment, inhabited by a ghost from their past. In a similar fashion to Shrew’s Nest, Malasaña 32 also heavily utilizes Catholic imagery, such as fluorescent crosses and saint cards. The film ­explores the overpowering grip of National Catholic guilt, despite the arrival of democracy. The plot is driven by three maternal secrets, which challenge the social norms of a dictatorship-ridden society. Candela’s involvement with

80  Horror & the Past her brother-in-law, Manolo, while her sister was dying, and Amparo’s unwed pregnancy in their village are examples of motherhood that do not fit within the constraints of the dictatorship’s moral framework. The third type of maternity, an “abject” one according to Julia Kristeva’s theory, is also present in the film and serves as a source of horror. Like Montse in Shrew’s Nest, the ghost’s malevolence arises from sexual repression. Clara, the previous tenant of the family’s apartment, was alienated and mistreated by her family for her cross-dressing tendencies. Her ghost becomes obsessed with motherhood and seeks to possess other people’s children, initially targeting Rafael, the youngest member of the family, and later focusing on Amparo’s unborn child. In this manner, the film engages with current debates about the rights of the LGTBI community, which have been at the forefront of progressive politics since the inception of democracy. The Law for the Equality of Trans People and Guarantee of Rights for LGTBI Individuals, which has been subject to considerable social conflict, was eventually passed in 2023. In addition to its horror elements, 32 Malasana Street tackles a different type of horror, one rooted in the fear of political change during the transition from dictatorship to democracy, and the resulting disillusionment with the social, economic and ideological outcomes. Manolo’s sacrificial death, as he jumps out of the balcony to save his family, and the family’s subsequent return to their village convey a pessimistic outlook on the Spanish Transition. However, there is a glimmer of hope as Amparo manages to save her child. Ironically, the closing credits roll on as Julio Iglesias’ song, “La vida sigue igual” (“Life Stays the Same”), plays. The film was marketed as “based on a true story,” following the formula established by The Conjuring. However, it is more accurately based on a ­series of real-life murders that occurred in Malasaña neighborhood, particularly in a building on Antonio Grillo street. Despite being released shortly before the pandemic, the film enjoyed significant box-office success, becoming the third highest-grossing Spanish film of the year with earnings of 3.7 million euros and ranking eighth overall. This success prompted Bambú to continue exploring the horror genre, leading to the release of 13 Exorcisms (Jacobo Martínez, 2022) a few years later. Finally, it is worth mentioning Insensibles/Painless (Juan Carlos Medina, 2012), a film that owes a clear debt to Guillermo del Toro’s work in its use of Giménez’s aesthetics and its focus on children and gothic codes. However, it differs from del Toro’s films by adopting a more realistic tone, devoid of the fantasy elements that often characterize the Mexican director’s works. In Painless, David (Àlex Brendemühl), a brilliant neurosurgeon, is in need of a marrow transplant and sets out to investigate his past through a series of flashbacks. These flashbacks take the viewers on a journey with David as he uncovers that he was adopted and searches for his real father. The first flashback transports us to Canfranc, in the Huesca Pyrenees, a location that holds great significance in both Spanish and European history. During the

Horror & the Past  81 Civil War, Nazis and Francoists used Canfranc international railway station to exchange gold for wolfram. In 1931, a young boy named Benigno is hospitalized in a monastery with a rare condition; he and the other children are unable to feel pain. The second flashback takes place in 1935, where Dr. Holzmann (Derek de Lint) makes his first appearance. The subsequent flashback shows the Nazis experimenting with children during the Civil War to explore their insensitivity, with the potential of weaponizing it. It is then revealed that Berkano, formerly known as Benigno, is now a prolific torturer in Franco’s regime. Ultimately, it is exposed that Berkano is David’s father, completing the circle of David’s journey from a representative of a modern and new Spain to being the son of a monstrous and traumatic past.

6.2.  Spanish Folk Horror As discussed in the previous section, the Francoist dictatorship has been a privileged scenario for Spanish horror’s revisitation of the historical past; other filmmakers have preferred to stage their interventions within the specificity of local roots, creating folk horror works. In the new millennium, this subgenre has undergone a strong revival within the international arenas via works such as Ben Weathley’s films – Kill List (2011), Sightseers (2012) and A Field in England (2013) – or the recent interventions of two iconic directors of US distributor and producer A24 – namely, The Witch (Robert Eggers, 2015) and Midsommar (Ari Aster, 2019). Obviously, to define “folk horror” is a complex endeavor. Even more, if we consider that this categorization greatly stems from Mark Gatiss’ documentary series A History of Horror (2010). Thus, its definitions are abundant and multifarious. Dawn Keetley points out that some define folk horror as the conflict between a primitive conceptualization of the universe and modernity. This idea, typically associated with the rural world is based on “the repository of (often orally transmitted) folk traditions and rituals” (Keetley, 2020). Adam Scovell, for his part, offers a far more complex approach, ­defining what he calls a “folk horror chain,” that is, a story with three different steps. First, there is “topography,” which must be singular enough to permit a ­second stage, the “isolation” of the protagonists. These first two steps trigger the “skewed belief systems and morality” in all or some of the protagonists. This latter situation drives the story to the third step: the “happening/­summoning” – a typically violent resolution (Scovell, 2017: 17–18). Historically, Dawn Keetley establishes two crucial moments in the history of folk horror: 1970s and 2010s. In both eras, Spanish cinema explored this subgenre. In the 1970s, the possibility of utilizing popular legends was a very attractive strategy since filmmakers could hide or, at least, veil their political critique of the dictatorship and escape censorship. In this scenario, Spanish television fiction is particularly significant. In national channel TVE2, the young students of the Escuela Oficial de Cine and their associates would improve

82  Horror & the Past their craft in programs such as Cuentos y leyendas (1972–1976). Often, they would adapt authors like Eça de Queiroz’ El tesoro (Jesús Fernández Santos, 1974), or María Zayas’ Inocencia castigada (Alfonso Ungría, 1975). In the cinematic field, Jesús Franco, León Klimovsky or Armando de Ossorio would tread on similar grounds mixing icons of English-speaking gothic horror and erotism. Even though these films were perhaps less politically engaged than their televisual counterparts, this cinema did express the terror of a seemingly never-ending and inevitable dictatorship in a visceral fashion. In terms of folk horror, the most remarkable filmmaker is Armando de Ossorio with his Blind Dead Tetralogy, which starts with La noche del terror ciego/Tombs of the Blind Dead (Armando de Ossorio, 1972). The film focuses on a group of Knights Templar who, additionally, are zombies. In the second era specified by Keetley, starting in 2010, folk ­horror reappears strongly in Spain again. Perhaps, it is due to the influence of ­English-speaking cinematic trends and cycles. It could also be argued that the abundance of folk horror titles reflects one of the main preoccupations of 21st-century Spain: how to halt the unrelenting process of depopulation in rural areas, the so-called “Empty Spain.” It is also important to remark that the specific idiosyncrasy of the Spanish political scenario favors this kind of production, since filmmakers who focus on local stories, legends and communities can get funding from diverse local and regional institutions. It does not seem accidental that Galicia and the Basque Country are the two regions in which this subgenre has reached the highest popularity. The ineffable Julio Fernández (Filmax  & Fantastic Factory) has been a pioneer in producing films that utilize his native rural Galicia as backdrop. Romasanta: The Werewolf Hunt (Paco Plaza, 2004) is based on a real event. It depicts the life and death of Manuel Blanco Romasanta, El Hombre Lobo de Allariz (the Werewolf of Allariz), considered one of the first serial ­killers in Spanish history. Previously, in 1968, Pedro Olea had already brought this story to the cinematic screens with El bosque del lobo/The Wolf’s Forest (1970). The film takes place in 1851, a time when rural Galicia is struggling to embrace modernity. María (Manu Valdivieso), her sister Bárbara (Elsa Pataky) and María’s daughter Teresa (Luna McGill), who is mute, reside in an isolated mountain house. Their tranquility is disrupted by the discovery of brutally dismembered bodies in the vicinity. Meanwhile, the three women yearn to escape their home, with María and Bárbara infatuated with Manuel (Julian Sands), a traveling peddler and scribe who provides his services to the illiterate villagers. Manuel convinces María that science may cure Teresa’s muteness, prompting her to agree to accompany him to Santander to seek treatment, leaving Bárbara behind. Unbeknownst to them, Manuel is the killer responsible for the gruesome murders, and they will never reach their destination. Meanwhile, District Attorney Luciano de la Bastida (Gary Piquer) hires Professor Philips (David Gant), an alienist who employs a deductive approach reminiscent of Sherlock Holmes to investigate the killings. The film draws a

Horror & the Past  83 clear contrast between superstition and science, as the two worldviews compete to solve the enigmatic murders. Philips dismisses the supernatural aspect of the crimes, and Manuel also presents science as the solution to Teresa’s condition. The film’s conclusion is not just about Manuel’s apprehension; it also shows his trial for the murder of fifteen people. During his trial, Manuel, or Romasanta, claims that he was cursed, but Professor Philips diagnoses him with “lycanthropy.” As a result, the film does not entirely clarify whether he is mentally ill or the victim of a demonic curse. In the closing intertitles, it is revealed that Queen Elizabeth II commuted Romasanta’s death sentence to life imprisonment after learning about Philips’ diagnosis. This suggests that science was gradually making progress in a rural and traditional environment. The intertitles also reject the film’s fictional ending in which Bárbara, representing the village, executes Romasanta. Perhaps owing to Romasanta’s infamy or the prevalence of wolves in the Galician wilderness, lycanthropy has been a recurring theme in Galician folk horror. Another illustration of this is Lobos de Arga/Game of Werewolves (Juan Martínez Moreno, 2011). This movie also features a hallmark of Spanish folk horror, namely, the tension between tradition and modernity, albeit in a comedic vein. Game of Werewolves begins with an animated portrayal of an old legend, depicting a countess who suffers from satyriasis and a traveling gypsy artist. The countess rapes the gypsy man to become pregnant. Vengefully, he curses her. A century later, an unsuccessful writer, Tomás Mariño (Gorka Otxoa), with no prior knowledge of this event, returns to the rural country house where he grew up to receive an homage from his neighbors. However, the whole village has set up a trap. Terrorized and decimated by the presence of werewolves, the villagers believe that only the blood of the last Mariño (Tomás) will stop the centuries-long curse. Tomás then begins a ridiculous journey to save his life in which horror is mixed with comedy and vaudeville, in the style of The Fearless Vampire Killers (Roman Polanski, 1967). Failing to kill Tomás, the curse extends to the whole village, transferring from werewolves to humans. The film is filled with over-the-top and rather typical comedic elements: jokes about the Guardia Civil (Military Police), the exaggeration of Tomás’ fearful character, the useless amputation of his fingers (devoured by a hungry dog) or his best friend’s zoophilia. The paradigmatic example of Spanish folk horror is, perhaps, Álex’s de la Iglesia Las brujas de Zugarramurdi/Witching and Bitching (2013), a mix of costumbrismo, folklore and humor. Its storyline epitomizes the definitions and topics outlined earlier. Within the Spanish imaginary, Zugarramurdi, a Navarrese town in the border between Spain and France, is somewhat like Salem within the English-speaking world. In 1610, 24 people were judged for the celebration of covens in a local cave; 6 of them were burned alive. In fact, even though some argued that Goya’s

84  Horror & the Past famous black paintings are linked to the Barahona process, they have also been largely associated with Zugarramurdi. Julio Caro Baroja’s auto-de-fé’s studio would solidify Zugarramurdi’s presence within the popular Spanish imaginary. The film’s opening credits show several artistic works focused on the representation of women such as the Venus from Dusseldorf or the Dama de Elche, interspersed with images of real people such as film director Leni Riefenshtal, actress Marlene Dietrich, politicians like Margaret Thatcher or Angela Merkel, spies like Mata Hari or the Princess of Eboli, and murderer Myra Hindley. In the opening sequence, the three protagonists (Terele Pávez, Carmen Maura and Carolina Bang), who symbolize three generations of witches, read the Tarot cards and interpret the imminent arrival of the Messiah. Right after, the film radically changes location. A group of inexpert robbers assault a pawn shop in Puerta del Sol, Madrid’s central square – that is, km 0 of the Spanish road system and unofficial center of the country. The trio of male protagonists are formed by thieves José (Hugo Silva), a divorced man who fights for his son’s custody, Tony (Mario Casas), an uneducated man who feels inferior to his girlfriend, who is a lawyer, and Manuel (Jaime Ordóñez) a taxi driver who is obsessed with paranormal activities. In their wild escape towards France, they end up in Zugarramurdi. Thus, geographically, they travel from the heart of the State and, consequently, modernity, to a rural area where a different kind of knowledge rules. Following Scovell, this location epitomizes the idea of “isolation.”1 The “skewed belief systems and morality” in Zugarramurdi is established by witches, who control the place and have kept alive pagan cult practices. Characterizing the witches and their followers, De la Iglesia makes them interact with all kinds of objects and animals that belong to the iconographic tradition of Spanish witchcraft, immortalized by Goya: brooms, toads, snakes, dunce hats, cow bells or all of them at once, in characters identified as zanpantzar, a Basque carnival character. The witches await the end of male hegemony through the advent of the kingdom of Goddess Mari of Earth. To invoke her, it is necessary to sacrifice several humans; the key component of this ritual is a child. Ultimately, the story takes us to the “happening/summoning,” a spectacular next-to-last sequence in which Goddess Mari – Mother Earth – a gigantic monster that resembles a Paleolithic Venus tries to devour José’s son: a necessary step to begin the witches’ rule. In this sequence, de la Iglesia reproduced with utmost fidelity the scale and specific characteristics of Zugarramurdi’s cave, where the 1610 covens took place. Witching and Bitching was nominated for ten Goya Awards, winning eight, most of them in technical categories. Internationally, for the most part, the film was well received. The Village Voice compared it to Sam Raimi’s and Peter Jackson’s early films (Scherstuhl, 2014). Dissolve linked it to Quentin Tarantino’s and Robert Rodriguez’s works, defining it us “gloriously gory civil war” (Ehrlich, 2014). In Spain, de la Iglesia’s representation of witches was deemed shocking, at a time when the portrayal of females is increasingly

Horror & the Past  85 more complex and far more politically correct. Consequently, the feminist magazine Pikara labeled the film’s depiction of women “masculinist, sexist and misogynist” (Castejón Leorza, 2013). As a producer, de la Iglesia is also behind another film that mobilizes the aesthetics and common places of folk horror: Errementari, el herrero y el diablo/The Blacksmith and the Devil (Paul Urkijo, 2017). The film is an adaptation of a popular Basque legend and is shot in Euskera. It starts with a firing squad executing prisoners in 1835, during the first Carlista War, a founding moment of Basque nationalism. Surprisingly, Patxi (Kandido Uranga), who was about to be executed by Pro-Elizabeth soldiers, survives. Eight years later, Alfredo Ortiz (Ramón Agirre), a Province official and, therefore, on the war’s winning side, arrives in the small town and tries to enter Patxi’s house, who lives in reclusion after his miraculous survival. Locals, following faithfully the canons of folk horror, do not welcome Alfredo, since they suspect that he wants to seize a secret treasure, donated by Russia’s Tzar, in favor of the Carlista cause. Rather unambiguously, the local priest epitomizes the resistance to modernity. For example, in a sermon he proclaims his total rejection of “dirty liberal ideas” and “bourgeois fornicators.” This pejorative view of the village is only a mirage. Soon thereafter, it becomes clear that Patxi is a hero that has trapped a devil called Sartael, to whom he promised his soul if he saved his life in the execution that opens the  film. Everything is revealed when a group of people led by Ortiz enter the smithy to execute Patxi. It is then when Ortiz true nature is also unveiled: he is Alastor, a powerful and wicked devil. The story’s resolution allows for the town people to expiate their guilty and demonstrate their good heart. Along with the aforementioned films, there is a recent folk horror movie that is also worth mentioning. Titled Infiesto (2023) and directed by Patxi Azmecua, the film is set in a small town in Asturias, known for its sanctuary. The story unfolds during the first week of the COVID-19 lockdown, when a young woman is found disoriented in the middle of a local road. She is carrying a straw doll and wears a necklace with a scarified rune. Two police detectives (Iria del Río and Isak Férriz) investigate the case and link it to the disappearance of several young people. Initially, they suspect a disturbed serial killer is responsible for the events, but as they dig deeper, they uncover a cult to the Celtic God Taranis, which is kidnapping and sacrificing young people. Taranis’ followers have revived a series of Druidic rituals and are led by The Prophet, who dresses in animal skin. They kidnap young people every three months according to the different solstices and equinoxes and keep them in a rural area until their ultimate sacrifice. According to the cult members, the pandemic has confirmed their beliefs that the world is coming to an end. Infiesto blends an apocalyptic worldview, fitting for the current pandemic era, with elements of Celtic folk horror, which is rather atypical in Spanish cinema. This unprecedented hybridization makes Azmecua’s film a unique and fascinating work.

86  Horror & the Past Note 1 For example, locals do not have access to television programming due to the recent DDT switchover. Instead, they watch old programs in a VHS player.

Bibliography Benet, VJ (2012) El cine español. Una historia cultural. Paidós: Barcelona. Blake, L (2008) The Writings of the Night: The Horror Genre and the Critique of ­Ideology. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Castejón Leorza, M (2013) Las brujas de Zugarramurdi: entre el sexismo feroz y la reivindicación, Pikara Magazine, Ehrlich, D (2014) Witching and Bitching: Film Review, Time Out, Hillis,A(2011) ClownsWithout Borders:A Circus of Horrors in Spain’s CivilWar, The ­Village Voice, Holland, J (2014) Shrew’s Nest: Sitges Review, The Hollywood Reporter, Keetley, D (2020) Introduction. In: Keetley, D (ed) Folklore, Horror Stories, and the Slender Man: The Development of an Internet Mythology. New York: Palgrave ­Macmillan, pp. 1–24. Lázaro-Reboll, A (2013) Spanish Horror Film. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Lowenstein, A (2005) Shocking Representation: Historical Trauma, National Cinema, and the Modern Horror Film. New York: Columbia University Press. Olney, I (2014) Euro Horror: Classic European Horror Cinema in Contemporary American Culture. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Sánchez Biosca, V (2006) Cine y guerra civil española: del mito a la memoria. Madrid: Alianza. Scherstuhl, A (2014) Witching and Bitching: Alex de la Iglesia’s Horror-Comedy, The Village Voice, Scovell, A (2017) Folk Horror: Hours Dreadful and Things Strange. Bristol: Auteur.

7

Horror & Streaming

7.1. Streaming Platforms: New Production & Distribution Models In the last decade, the influx of global streaming platforms to Spain has had a pivotal impact in the production and distribution of both serialized fiction and films. By 2022, the five main international streamers have arrived – that is, Netflix, HBO, Prime Video, Disney+ and Apple TV.1 In addition, Spanish media corporations have launched their own services – most remarkably, Movistar+ and Atresmedia player.2 So far, amongst the global streamers, Netflix has been the main actor, extensively producing both films and series. Prime Video and HBO have also developed and created products, but a lesser amount. In 2022, Disney+ and Apple TV carried out their first Spanish projects. Furthermore, over the past few years there has been an increase in the production of film and series, both through platform projects, co-productions between streamers, multimedia corporations and independent companies, and the large spending by national free-to-air and pay-television agents, which have invested heavily in their own VOD services (Meir, forthcoming). These national and international companies have become the main content providers for Spaniards who watch series and films, shaping the ways in which they access content through carefully designed, algorithmic-driven, interfaces. In this regard, their interfaces are structured through recommendation categories that present the different available contents to each user, predicting what they may like. As Morris states: “far from neutral purveyors of predictions, recommendation systems measure and manufacture audiences to provide targeted suggestions for popular cultural goods and exert a logistical power that shapes the ways audiences discover, use and experience cultural content” (2015: 447). In other words, streaming platforms are both distributors and producers of content, which come to our households through seemingly transparent interfaces that greatly condition what products we access and how we do it. In turn, each of our actions as users feeds data to these companies so that they can develop future products, determine acquisition strategies and personalize their catalogue for subscribers depending on their viewing habits,

DOI: 10.4324/9781003295075-7

88  Horror & Streaming behaviors and preferences (Napoli, 2014; Herrero Subías et al., 2018; Finn, 2019). The algorithm has become a sort of demigod that gathers and processes data to shape business decisions with a clear goal: to create a customized product designed to appeal to users and continously engage them (Alexander, 2016; Arnold, 2016). Each user becomes a compilation of massive data, which is utilized to define his/her preferences and create content to cater tailored to his/her tastes (Zuboff, 2019). As they expand globally, these streaming platforms must adapt and accommodate to the different tastes and preferences of diverse markets. While they feature expensive English-language series and films, they also attempt to showcase products that may allure national and regional audiences (Aguiar and Waldfogel, 2018; Lobato, 2019). Thus, they function through a “multiterritory footprint” that often requires exclusive ownership over content for a prolonged period (Doyle, 2017). Consequently, they simultaneously target global and local audiences. In other words, on the one hand, they identify genres or types of films and series that may function more effectively within a particular territory. On the other hand, they target the same market niches in diverse regions to operate effectively worldwide (Fernández-Manzano et al., 2016: 575). To sum up: streaming platforms: Process consumption habits and tastes and subsequently strike licensing deals with content owners or (co-) produce their own artifacts through a global and yet regionally specific strategy aimed at catering to a diversity of users. Thus, they create highly personalized experiences for each user, derived from the continuous gathering of data as he/she interacts with their interfaces. These processes of planned differentiation are at the very core of how streaming services appeal to users through a variety of shifting contents. (Rodríguez Ortega, 2021: 139) As mentioned earlier, these companies produce new content and distribute it, purchasing licenses of preexisting materials. Hence, they strike bulk deals with multimedia corporations, broadcasters and independent companies to buy products and diversify their catalogues (Afilipoaie et  al., 2021: 308). Within the European context, these companies treat each market differently, depending on a variety of factors. In this sense, they “have tailored their strategies to different European markets based on potential return-on-investment. This calculation points to a complex formula based on a variety of factors, including the size of the market in terms of subscriber base, the strength of its media industry, potential for export and transnational appeal, collaborations with local partners, and the type of investment made” (Iordache, 2021: 318).3 In Spain, streaming platforms have adopted different strategies to distribute and/or produce these contents. First, they have acquired the distribution rights of specific films either globally or in different territories. Second, they have co-produced series and films with either independent companies or multimedia corporations such as Atresmedia or Mediaset. Third, they have internally developed and financed specific films and shows. Finally, in the

Horror & Streaming  89 case of series, they have struck continuation deals (Afilipoaie et al., 2021) to take over both the production and distribution of pre-existing products that had initially been developed by other companies. Strategically, these streaming platforms have typically established partnerships with both pay-television services and national multichannel providers to strengthen their subscriptionbased business models (Wayne and Castro, 2021). Through all these strategies, they have managed to diversify their offerings, owning enough materials to potentially cater to very diverse users in a highly personalized level. According to Neira (2019), the more popular certain content is, the more similar products these platforms would offer, trying to boost the successful market niches they have created. This has raised concerns about the diversity of their offer and the subsequent marginalization of more alternative, non-conventional content. For example, in Spain, for some authors, Netflix’s catalogue privileges current, mainstream films, featuring largely products that were box-office hits, and were mostly produced by Atresmedia Cine or Telecinco Cinema. In other terms, it basically re-produces the dominant logic within the current Spanish cinematic panorama, controlled by these two main corporations as far as theatrical box-office results go (García Santamaría, 2018; García Santamaría and López Villanueva, 2019). For Aranzubia and Gallego Pérez this implies that Netflix recirculates and gives visibility to “a type of cinema that overwhelmingly dominates (more than 80%) the Spanish screen quota. These films are also aesthetically and narratively standardized since they target the average spectator” (2021: 17). In other words, streaming services have chiefly maintained the status quo and have rarely bet on novel filmmakers, creators and showrunners. Alternative or independent cinema and series are, for the most part, an afterthought. At the same time, it would be a mistake to forget that streaming platforms have extensively opened the market for smaller companies which had little to no chance to carry out their own projects in the previous scenario – that is, the Mediaset/Atrasmedia corporate monopoly and a limited roster of successful independent companies that continuously produced and co-produced series and films such as Bambú, Avalon or Morena Films, often in collaboration with the aforementioned corporations. In this regard, it is also necessary that we look for instances of crossfertilization between traditional independent cinema and that which features investment from the platforms (Meir, forthcoming). This same logic applies to television series as we will see in the case of Tales to Keep You Awake (Prime Video, VIS and RTVE, 2021–2022).

7.2.  Streaming Platforms in Spain & Horror There are several differences between the ways in which the various streaming platforms have acted in Spain. Their diverse approaches, to a great extent, correspond to their global strategies. We mostly focus on those films and series that these companies have produced or co-produced since, in the case of licensed content, their catalogues are continuously changing, depending

90  Horror & Streaming on the temporary agreements they reach with the different copyright holders. Next, we will map out the different horror films and series in the most important streaming platforms in Spain. Netflix has mostly followed an “all-you-can-eat” method, boosting its catalogue with very different films and series to attract new subscribers, exponentially increasing their offer since 2015. In the last five years, it has also augmented the production of “Netflix originals,” attempting to reduce its dependence on other content providers and deliver exclusive, appealing products to enhance its content differentiation (Spangler, 2020). For some authors, at least in the Spanish case, Netflix has not contributed to create a more diverse audiovisual offer. Contrariwise, this company has perpetuated an unbalanced audiovisual flow, featuring a “transnationalized US menu” with some “international-flavored seasoning” (Albornoz and García Leiva, 2022). Yet, at the same time, undeniably, streaming services such as Netflix have boosted the Spanish audiovisual production, turning it into an important player in the international market, especially in terms of series (Castro and Cascajosa, 2020). In terms of numbers, until 2022 Netflix has released over 80 Spanish films, the second most prolific nation since 2015, only behind the United States, with 394 titles overall (Meir, forthcoming). Netflix mostly focuses on the production and distribution of dramas, thrillers and comedies. In the Spanish case, by 2022, other than these genres, it has only produced a few documentary series. So far, it has only produced one horror series Alma (2022), created by Sergio G. Sánchez, director of Marrowbone and co-writer of The Orphanage and A Monster Calls, most significantly. Netflix has invested in several horror thrillers such as Hogar, Infiesto or The Parademic and commissioned the horror work Hermana muerte (Paco Plaza, 2023). In this case, Netflix has strategically snatched content that was initially developed by other companies, expanding a pre-existing universe. After Verónica garnered a significant following upon its release on Netflix, this company struck a deal with Spanish independent production company El Estudio to create the prequel. In other words, starting as a distributor of this content, Netflix subsequently became its producer. It was able to gather user data on Verónica and, with that information, it has launched a new, related product, attempting to capitalize on the visibility of the original film both in Spain and abroad. Prime Video has only produced or co-produced five Spanish fiction films, all of them comedies except for Álex de la Iglesia’s Veneciafrenia (2022) and Venus (Jaume Balagueró, 2022) which are horror projects. The last two belong to The Fear Collection, a set of films that is part of a deal between Prime Video, Sony Pictures International and Pokeepsie Films. The Fear Collection will consist of two films per year, either directed by De la Iglesia and other reputed or upcoming Spanish directors. In terms of serialized fiction, Prime Video has mostly focused on the production and development of historical dramas like Hernán (2019) and

Horror & Streaming  91 El Cid (2020) and is currently finalizing the adaptation of Juan Gómez-Jurado’s Reina Roja, a bestseller with more than two million copies sold. However, it has extensively co-produced content with both Atresmedia and Telecinco as well as independent producers, diversifying its offerings. In terms of horror, it has participated in the reboot of the series El internado (2007–2013), El internado: las cumbres (2021) with Atresmedia, and, perhaps most notably, in the remake of the classical anthology series created by Chicho Ibáñez Serrador Tales to Keep You Awake with RTVE, which, for its first season, counted with the participation of top-notch Spanish directorial talent – namely, Rodrigo Cortés, Paula Ortiz, and Paco Plaza and Rodrigo Sorogoyen. The second season follows a similar formula, with four episodes, directed by recognized directors – that is, Jaume Balagueró, Salvador Calvo, Nacho Vigalondo and Alice Waddington. For this project, Prime Video struck a deal with independent producers Prointel SL and Isla Audiovisual. In terms of horror, Prime Video is thus betting on both commercial hits, El internado, and prestige products, Tales to Keep You Awake. In the cinematic arena, so far, they have favored established talent (for example, The Fear ­Collection) capitalizing on the status of renowned filmmakers. According to industry sources, Amazon Spain gets involved in a film during the ­development stage. Additionally, this company needs to approve the script, and relevant on-camera and above-the-line talent; they also need the commitment of different television operators/multimedia conglomerates as investors and a carefully planned theatrical run with a significant number of copies. In other words, they seek to invest in commercially viable projects. At the same time, and specifically within the realm of horror, soon Amazon Spain aims to incorporate up-and-coming talent, and especially women filmmakers. HBO has not produced or co-produced any Spanish film so far. It has ­produced nine fiction series and co-produced three others. Mainly, they are dramas and comedies. Three of them stand apart. Patria (2020), an adaptation of Fernando Aramburu’s bestseller on the ETA Basque conflict; ¡García! (2022), based on the graphic novel by Santiago García and Luis Bustos, which was the first series HBO produced in Spain under the label Max Original; and 30 monedas/30 Coins, a horror tour de force directed by Álex de la Iglesia, co-produced with Pokeepsie Films. Season two of 30 Coins will be released in 2023. In other words, like Prime Video, HBO has greatly banked on pre-existing materials to slowly build up its catalogue of Spanish originals. When it comes to horror, it has relied on the established status of a writer/director such as de la Iglesia to launch its only project. Finally, Movistar+, the main Spanish streaming platform, has not produced any horror series despite its significant catalogue of originals, focusing fundamentally on prestige dramas and thrillers, and comedies. To sum up, dramas, thrillers and, to a lesser extent, comedies dominate both the filmic and serialized fiction panorama in Spain. However, horror and

92  Horror & Streaming horror thrillers are increasingly becoming relevant. As we will see, horror films are fundamentally either star-vehicles for recognized A-list actors, or projects carried out by reputed directors who have extensively worked with this genre, mostly in the cinema. In other words, streaming platforms bet safely trying to associate their brand to established talent such as Álex de la Iglesia, Paco Plaza or Jaume Balagueró. Additionally, streaming platforms conceptualize horror as a means to shape unique catalogues that appeal to national audiences. It is a useful tool for creating a robust offering that, while still largely dominated by English-language productions, can also appeal to horror genre fans worldwide. In some cases, streaming platforms identify the potential of a given content and strike continuation deals with independent production companies for TV series – for example, Money Heist with Vancouver Media – or develop new content expanding the original film through a related universe – from Verónica to Hermana Muerte. These deals originate in the distribution of these initial products through the streaming service. By analyzing user behavior and viewing data, streaming platforms can determine how to keep customers engaged, prevent churn and attract new subscribers. In the next two sections, we analyze Tales to Keep You Awake and 30 Coins, the two most significant Spanish horror TV series released on streaming platforms in the past years. Each of them allows us to study the logic of production and distribution of horror within contemporary Spain. Additionally, we will situate The Fear Collection within the current cinematic and streaming panorama.

7.3.  Tales To Be Awake: Rebooting a Classic Tales to Keep You Awake is a legendary anthology TV series from the 1960s created by writer, director and television personality Chicho Ibáñez Serrador, originally broadcast between 1966 and 1968 and, later, in 1982, on TVE, the public Spanish television. It comprises 29 episodes, including both original scripts and non-official adaptations of the literary works of Edgar Allan Poe, Arthur C. Clarke or Ray Bradbury, among others.4 Despite several attempts to reboot the series, Ibáñez Serrador passed away before this project was realized in the streaming era. Alejandro Ibáñez, Chicho’s son and CEO of production company Prointel, carried on honoring his father’s legacy and, in 2018, teamed up with production company Isla Audiovisual to pitch an anthology series to the different streaming platforms. They initially pitched the project to Prime Video, which agreed to distribute it in Spain on the condition that it was led by renowned directors and featured popular onscreen talent. Here is when Viacom International Studios (VIS) joined the project as main financier, co-producing the series. In addition, Viacom retained the distribution rights for the Americas via Paramount+, and ultimately struck a deal for other international territories with German company ZDF. TVE also

Horror & Streaming  93 joined the project, having second-run distribution rights for Spain, after its broadcast in Prime. After all financial aspects were secured, Prointel and Isla Audiovisual were hired by VIS to carry out the day-to-day production operations of filming. The Tales to Keep You Awake complex financial and distribution structure is an exemplary instance of the diverse agents involved in the realization of many audiovisual projects today. These works often involve independent production companies as well as international corporations. The latter guarantee both a project’s worldwide distribution through diverse streaming platforms and other networks and contribute to gather the financial assets necessary to carry them out. In addition, in this case, an original Spanish material became fully international, owned by VIS, which was able to strike deals beyond the national arena with other media companies, in this case ZDF. According to Alejandro Ibáñez, the arrival of streaming platforms has had an incredibly positive impact in the Spanish media industry since, beforehand, Atresmedia and Mediaset completely controlled the market, often in partnership with a few independent producers they favored time after time (Ibáñez, 2022). Consequently, having new, financially powerful agents has allowed small companies to multiply their chances to launch projects. On his part, Sebastián Vibes, VP of Sales & Co-productions at the International Studios from Paramount, expressed that his company was especially interested in the project because the original material was extremely powerful; their goal was to develop the series as a launching pad into the Spanish market, hiring top-notch Spanish directorial, writing and acting talent to make a first-class product that could productively function both nationally and internationally (Vibes, 2022). When Alejandro Ibáñez started to “move” the project, he had initially contacted Juan Antonio Bayona, a great fan of Chicho. He agreed to write and direct the whole first season. After striking a deal with Bayona, he was allowed to “sell the project,” using his name. This is a key factor since international media companies typically want directorial and acting brands to garner critical and media visibility. This strategy worked successfully but Bayona had to step down since the project was delayed and he moved on to direct the first two episodes of The Rings of Power (2022), and, later, Society of the Snow (forthcoming). Facing a new challenge, Prointel, Isla and Viacom agreed to produce a four-episode anthology series, featuring recognized Spanish directors, coming from both the horror genre – Paco Plaza – the horror thriller – Rodrigo Sorogoyen and Rodrigo Cortés – and the art-house drama circuit – Paula Ortiz. Ibáñez states that their goal was double-folded: on the one hand, to be faithful to Chicho’s original works and, on the other, for each director to contribute to the franchise with their authorial style (Ibáñez, 2022). With this idea in mind, they offered directors the choice to remake any of the original Tales to Keep You Awake episodes. Thereafter, each director selected what work they wanted to realize. Within this framework, writers and directors

94  Horror & Streaming had complete freedom. After this step, each director and their partners wrote their own scripts, adapting Chicho’s materials for a new era. Cortés chose La broma/The Joke; Paco Plaza wrote Freddy with Alberto Marini; Paula Ortiz directed El asfalto/Asphalt, written by Manuel Jabois and Rodrigo Cortés; and, finally, Rodrigo Sorogoyen El doble/The Double, co-written with Daniel Remón. All four episodes include top-notch Spanish acting talent, including Eduard Fernández, Nathalie Poza, Raúl Arévalo, Vicky Luengo, Dani Rovira, David Verdaguer, Inma Cuesta and Miki Esparbé. Even though the project was designed to become a Spanish media event, featuring A-list directors, writers and stars, it was made with a limited budget, below market standards (Ibáñez, 2022). On the one hand, the 2021 episodes had to preserve the main premises and settings of the original works: one, or very few locations, a very limited cast and no special effects or jump scares, focusing on psychological horror and thrills.5 In this sense, the title of the series itself, Tales to Keep You Awake, should be taken literally; they are stories that generate distress. After watching them, if successful, spectators should not sleep easily. On the other hand, all creative talent chiefly agreed to participate in the series’ reboot to contribute to Chicho’s unparallel legacy, reducing their fees. Consequently, all episodes had the same budget; all actors and directors earned the same fee. The series was moderately successful in Spain. After it premiered in Prime Video, it topped the list of most watched shows for a week. As mentioned earlier, it has also been sold internationally. Critically, all four episodes, especially, Freddy have been praised. Most critics remark time after time how these four directors, even if stylistically very different, have channeled their “inside Chichos” for this new installment of the series. In that regard, Ibáñez Serrador’s indelible imprint is omnipresent (Hermoso, 2021). José A. Cano states: “The series offers diverse ways to approach horror in the contemporary era, perhaps from an auteur perspective: meta, black comedy, thriller and social film. There are no jump scares since this type of narrative wasn’t typical of Chicho Ibáñez Serrador” (Cineconñ, 2022). Javier Estrada, on his part, affirms: “The series features four directors that have made Chicho’s mocking spirit their own, adapting episodes that were once directed by the ‘Spanish Alfred Hitchcock’. They are full of details that true cinephiles will appreciate” (2021). While The Joke is fundamentally a thriller and The Asphalt may be defined as a social drama, both Freddy and The Double are clearly horror pieces that approach the dark corners of human subjectivity from two very different places. Freddy is a metatextual piece that centers on a 1982 recording of an episode of Tales to Keep You Awake, featuring Ibáñez Serrador as one of the protagonists, directing a ventriloquist whose dummy takes over his mind and begins committing a series of gruesome murders reminiscent of the aesthetics of giallo. The Double depicts a futuristic sci-fi scenario where a pandemic and regular quarantines are part of the day-to-day inhabitants of Madrid. In

Horror & Streaming  95 addition, some individuals have doubles, which are indistinguishable from real humans. Within this scenario, Sorogoyen and Remón focus on a couple’s sexual and affective crisis. According to Sorogoyen, the well-trodden idea of the clone, ever-present in a vast number of both sci-fi series and films, became a vessel to concentrate on the micro-story of a heterosexual couple that cannot longer relate to one another (Fernández, 2021). Sorogoyen not only adapts the original Ray Bradbury story, which, at this point, is nothing but a starting point of reference but also establishes a direct dialogue with successful and critically acclaimed series like Westworld or Black Mirror (Cineconñ, 2022). Like the first installment, the second season of Tales to Keep You Awake is stylistically and thematically diverse, featuring an outstanding cast that includes Javier Gutiérrez, Petra Martínez, Ramón Barea, Aníbal Gómez, Javier Areces, Mina El Hammani, Álvaro Morte or Manuela Vellés. However, the first episode, El transplante/The Transplant (directed by Salvador Calvo and co-written with Ignacio del Moral) works as a sort of conceptual continuation of The Double, depicting a futuristic dystopia in a recognizable and yet somewhat eerie Madrid in which humans have reached immortality by renewing themselves and returning to youth at the cost of socially, and economically marginalized individuals that act as donors. With echoes of Blade Runner (Ridley Scott, 1982), this episode establishes a direct dialogue with a series of contemporary dystopian narratives that draw a disturbing future social fabric, dehumanizing people and establishing the omnipresence of digital technology as an organizing and unbalancing principle to structure day-to-day life. Salvador Calvo’s episode focuses on the micro-story of an elderly couple who must decide which one of them will undergo rejuvenation due to financial constraints. This decision triggers an affective crisis in their relationship, exposing inner workings of society. While The Transplant is fundamentally a sci-fi dystopian drama, La alarma/The Alarm (written and directed by Nacho Vigalondo) focuses on the mundane everyday of a group of people confined to a house due to the presence of toxic rain outdoors. They are seemingly condemned to coexist until their food and water supply runs out. Freely adapting Arthur C. Clarke’s short story, The Sentinel, the episode is fundamentally an exploration of familial and contingent social ties between a group of individuals who are forced to share a common space due to unforeseen circumstances. Similar to Vigalondo’s film Extraterrestre/Extraterrestrial (2011), the narrative centers around the breakdown of interpersonal communication dynamics when people are forced to coexist during an ecological disaster, which exists at least in the minds of the protagonists. The third episode, La pesadilla/The Nightmare (directed by Alice Waddington, and co-written with Rocío Martínez-Llano) is a vampire narrative set in a small town of 19th-century Galicia, where the deaths of a series of young women trigger violent religious and ethnic bias against a man of African ancestry who lives in the village and delivers, in the end, an emancipatory female revolution against the true perpetrator of

96  Horror & Streaming the assassinations, a white authoritarian male figure. Finally, El televisor/The Television set (directed by Jaume Balagueró and co-written by Alberto Marini) is a straight horror piece that mixes the home invasion and the haunted house templates. A man is obsessed with his family’s security inside an affluent mansion where they just move in. Omnipresent, the television set presides all family interactions. In the end, the man’s security measures are useless since the actual threat comes precisely from the house’s interior, specifically from the silent witness of their day-to-day life – the television set. The episode delivers a harrowing tale about the dangers of technology since the television turns into an entry point for ill-intentioned ghosts from the past which aim at destroying a family. The second season of Tales to Keep You Awake fundamentally focuses on two main issues: the dangers of technology and its impact on the individuals’ day-to-day activities, clearly echoing the influential series Black Mirror, and the difficulties and dangers of interpersonal communication in extreme circumstances, or, in other words, the horrors of lack of understanding. While this series is fundamentally a generic hybrid that inhabits the spaces of sci-fi, drama and horror, chiefly addressing human relations, 30 Coins is, undoubtedly, a by-the-book tour de force that crisscrosses a variety of horror subgenres to deliver a high-octane narrative where the devil and a potent roster of monsters conquer the screen.

7.4.  30 Coins & The Fear Collection: Álex de la Iglesia as a Streaming Brand 30 Coins is an expensive and sprawling HBO Europe enterprises production with Álex de la Iglesia as director, co-written with his habitual partner Jorge Guerricaechevarría. From a production and distribution standpoint is a key step for HBO in its European and Spanish expansion. In that regard, 2020 was a decisive year in as much HBO also produced Patria/Homeland, based on Fernando Aramburu’s best seller on the impactful consequences of ETA’s terrorism in the Basque country and the comedy Por H y por B, created by Manuela Burló, and based on her own short film Pipas (2013). 30 coins would become the most expensive and most ambitious HBO project in Spain to date, giving immense freedom to de la Iglesia to channel his horror fandom and connoisseurship. Featuring Eduard Fernández, Megan Montaner, Miguel Ángel Silvestre, Cosimo Fusco and Macarena Gómez, among others, the series focuses on a priest confronting a series of evil forces that want to bring back the Antichrist to earth. 30 Coins is fundamentally a postmodern pastiche that mixes diverse horror sources, ranging from the literary to the filmic and televisual, a template De la Iglesia had successfully explored with The Day of the Beast. Thus, it is, to a great extent, a mainstream expensive production that can be read at multiple levels, depending on the spectators’ capacity to tune in with de la Iglesia’s and ­Gerricaechevarría’s vast knowledge of the horror genre. Speaking on the

Horror & Streaming  97 series’ references, Guerricaechevarría signals the key role of appropriation as a structural principle: 30 Coins is a cocktail of different things we’ll have seen. This is why it has so many references. It is, in a way, that megamix that we all have in our heads. Instead of saying, ‘we can’t do this because it’s already done’, we said, ‘let’s play with all these different elements, shaping them in a different way and let’s not worry about the fact that it may have been previously done. Otherwise, you become paralyzed, or you blatantly show that it is an homage, making references obvious so that it is clear where a particular element has been taken from’. (Guerricaechevarría in Arias, 2021) When watching the series, spectators may detect or decipher miscellaneous references such as H.P. Lovecraft’s short story “The Shuttered Room,” Spanish gothic cinema like El extraño viaje/The Strange Journey (Fernando Fernán-Gómez, 1964), comic books such as Hellblazer, specific episodes of the previous reboot of Tales to Keep You Awake, Films to Keep You Awake such as La habitación del niño/The Boy’s Room (2006), directed by De la Iglesia himself ), John Carpenter’s The Thing (1982), The Mist (Frank Darabont, 2007), Italian horror pieces such as Black Sabbath (Mario Bava, 1963), horror blockbusters like The Exorcist (William Friedkin, 1973) and many others. What is more, one of the key structural codes of the series remits to a world beyond the cinematic, role-playing games. De la Iglesia explains: Using the language of a role-playing game, the series is a campaign: there are different modules, the episodes, and all of them are connected in the main plot. I’m thinking about campaigns such as Masks of Nyarlathotep, included in the game Call of Cthulhu. Structuring this campaign has been very complex, conceiving it in terms of a unified narrative arc, so that each episode does not lose its own identity. (De la Iglesia in Loser, 2022) Some critics have defined the series as a pure orgy of free and pure horror (López, 2020). Others praise its creative mélange of multiple references: the series is a fast-paced cocktail designed for cinephiles (Yáñez, 2020). Distinguishing De la Iglesia’s grotesqueries and phantasmagoric visuals, De la Cerda praises the series’ mix of religious horror and thriller tropes and its focus on the dangers of interpersonal relationships (2021). Scout Tafoya, on his part, highlights the series’ stylistic prowess and its alluring “tastelessness” (2021). Others have been less lenient. Alberto Rey, for example, identifies a continuity between de la Iglesia’s recent cinematic fiascos and the series: “Álex de la Iglesia’s and Jorge Guerricaechevarría’s cinema (and now television series) has a very powerful starting point, but it never fully delivers. Their ‘would it be great if . . .,’ straight from a friends’ conversation, are typically

98  Horror & Streaming dragged by hasty and pyrotechnic developments. Thus, they turn into mere occurrences which are fundamentally flawed. If Pirandello’s six characters were looking for an author, the dozens of de la Iglesia’s and Guerricaechevarría’s pseudo-characters beg for an ending that is not ridiculous” (2021). According to HBO, 30 Coins was its most viewed program in Spain in 2021, surpassing popular international shows and films such as The Handmaid’s Tale (2017–) and Zach Snyder’s Justice League (2021) (Cineconñ, 2021). In addition, the series obtained several national awards, such as Best Dramatic Series, Best Male and Female Protagonists in the Premios Feroz and Best Dramatic Series, Best Showrunners (for De la Iglesia and Carolina Bang) and Best Male Protagonist in the Almería Film Festival. The second season of 30 Coins is on the way and it will be released in 2023. Paul Giamatti and Nawja Nimri have joined the cast. HBO Spain is thus building on de la Iglesia’s horror brand after its successful engagement with audiences, at least nationally, with the first season of the series. In parallel to the realization of 30 Coins, de la Iglesia and executive producer Carolina Bang are also collaborating with Prime Video via The Fear Collection. According to industry sources, de la Iglesia and Bang pitched the project as a Spanish horror label, having Blumhouse as its main referent. De la Iglesia, for his part, has stated that his goal was to create a set of “disruptive cosmic horror films” (Sony Pictures International, 2020). These films are first released theatrically by Sony Pictures International and later on by Prime Video. Ricardo Carbonero, Head of Content of Amazon Prime Spain has declared: “Álex de la Iglesia is one of Spain’s great cinematic benchmarks. The Fear Collection enables us to offer our customers a collection of films with a seal of indisputable quality. Cinema is one of the great pillars of our service, and this project will help us to carry on developing a catalogue of Spanish content that is exclusive, differentiating, and innovative” (Sony Pictures International, 2020). Carbonero’s words give us two clues to understand why Prime Video was particularly interested in The Fear Collection. This company is fundamentally buying De la Iglesia as a producing and directing brand, beyond the fact that the collection comprises horror films. Second, Prime Video’s strategy is greatly based on the concept of accumulating exclusive content within specific territories and markets, in this case the Spanish-speaking one, to differentiate itself from competitors. Above all, the Spanish team of Prime Video aims to produce, co-produce and distribute films and series that are nationally relevant, not necessarily global hits. So far, two films from The Fear Collection have been finalized. The first one, Veneciafrenia (2021), was directed by De la Iglesia, co-written with Jorge ­Gerricaechevarría. The second one, Venus (Jaume Balagueró, 2022), was released in late 2022 after doing a festival tour: the Toronto International Film Festival, the Fantastic Fest in Austin and the Sitges International Film Festival. Veneciafrenia is an over-the-top and blood-filled actualization of the slasher/giallo subgenres that, at the same time, comments upon the touristic exploitation of the Italian city; Venus reshapes H.P. Lovecraft’s “The Dreams in the Witch House” into an action-horror film set in an apartment complex in the outskirts of Madrid

Horror & Streaming  99 haunted by supernatural beings. Filmmakers Paula Ortiz, Carlos Therón and Fernando Navarro are slated to make further films for the collection. Recently, Prime Video created a new society, Amazon Digital Spain SL, to independently manage its streaming service beyond its parent US company. This new Spanish company aims to deliver “services in the field of digital entertainment (products and services for media) including over-the-top channels via web, internet and future tools, and also through on-demand services, and linear and non-linear broadcasts” (García Alcalde, 2022). This development signals Prime Video’s goal to reinforce the international markets and improve sales beyond the United States via a strategy of product differentiation. In other words, Prime Video is conceiving its diverse markets as connected but differentiated territories that must be global and, simultaneously, specialized. Thus, both Tales to Keep You Awake and The Fear Collection are clearly part of a greater strategy to expand internationally, especially within large markets such as the Spanish-speaking arena. In the streaming era (and wars), media companies are choosing to progressively offer more and more exclusive contents and diversify their offerings. In the Spanish market, although they have opened the doors to a more miscellaneous pool of independent companies, they have mostly maintained the existing state of affairs, launching projects that are often based on renowned established material such as Patria or Tales to Keep You Awake, or recruiting well-known directors and writers, with a long career in the production of media projects, chiefly in the cinematic world, such is the case of De la Iglesia’s collaboration with multiple companies. The arrival of streaming platforms has resulted in a surge of horror film productions and, to a lesser extent, serialized fiction. However, it would be erroneous to assume that horror is the primary genre for engaging Spanish audiences. In fact, comedies and thrillers still reign unchallenged. Spanish horror is part of a broader range of products aimed at reducing churn and cultivating customer loyalty.

Notes 1 SkyShowtime, incorporating also Peacock and Paramount+, recently arrived as well. 2 There are also other services such as Flixolé, which features Spanish films, and Filmin, which mostly showcases independent, auteur films and European TV series. 3 To see the impact of platforms in the commissioning of TV series see Castro and Cascajosa (2018), and Cascajosa (2021). 4 Ibáñez Serrador never contacted or paid the original copyright holders of these ­literary works. 5 The Double is an exception since it features multiple locations, all around a futuristic Madrid.

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8 Conclusions

Spanish horror is thriving today, despite having been haunted by ghosts from the past: the genre was subjected to widespread disregard during the 1980s and bore the weight of a tradition that was born under the oppression of dictatorship. Since the start of the 21st century, there has been a steady growth of films within both the mainstream and independent arenas. Established filmmakers like Jaume Balagueró, Álex de la Iglesia and Paco Plaza, or emerging talents like Carlota Pereda, Galder Gaztelu-Urritia or Oriol Paulo, among others, are constantly producing new works, revitalizing the genre for both domestic and global audiences. These filmmakers are actively transforming Spanish horror, reimagining it for the newer generations. Moreover, the advent of streaming platforms has enabled the resurrection of horror in television fiction. In this regard, series like Tales to Keep You Awake and 30 Coins have been fundamental. The third season of both series is already confirmed. Spanish horror has partaken in international trends and cycles, such as the rise of zombie apocalyptic or found footage narratives, the periodic reimagining of exorcism stories, the renovation of folk horror with strong local roots, the creation of horror/thriller hybrids set in dystopian futures or adapting bestselling novels and sagas. It is particularly remarkable that two subgenres, zombies and science fiction, which were virtually non-existent until the 21st century, have now gained a notable presence. Spanish horror, although not exclusively, has also embraced the utilization of English language as a vessel to appeal to global audiences. Simultaneously, it has remained true to its autochthonous roots, incorporating a plethora of ­local elements, and drawing from diverse artistic traditions within the Spanish national imaginary. The presence of metaphorical elements inherited from the cinema of the 1970s is apparent in many of these films, particularly in those that address past events. These processes often involve blending different genres, such as comedy and horror, in a uniquely idiosyncratic style. Although comedies and thrillers have long been the primary forces of the Spanish film and television industries, horror has emerged as a significant tool to engage with both national and international audiences by resonating DOI: 10.4324/9781003295075-8

104  Conclusions with their evolving sensibilities and tastes. Several Spanish horror films have ­obtained sizeable box-office returns, for example, The Others, 28 Weeks Later, [Rec], The Orphanage or, more recently, 32 Malasana Street. Others have become streaming hits, such as Verónica or The Platform. Series like Tales to Keep You Awake or 30 Coins have been exported all over the globe. The Spanish horror industry is currently lacking in diversity when it comes to creative talent. Most producers, directors and writers in this field are men, with women historically underrepresented. Moreover, men-led projects tend to receive larger budgets than those helmed by women, who are often forced to operate on the fringes of the industry, carving out new paths within the worlds of cinema and television. Despite the rise of new horror creators like Carlota Pereda, Claudia Llosa, Paula Ortiz and Alice Waddington or ­producers like Nahikari Ipiña, Sandra Hermida or Belén Atienza, there remains a significant amount of work to be done to promote gender diversity within the field. Streaming platforms have moderately favored the production of both ­horror films and series. However, they have mostly bet on established talent and have seldom favored the ascent of new filmmakers. Unequivocally, they have facilitated the creation of a more diverse mediascape; at the same time, they have chiefly maintained the status quo. Perhaps it is time for them to open their pool of choices and strongly bet on up-and-coming filmmakers, creative producers and writers. The next few years are key to determine the development of horror within the Spanish audiovisual industries.

Index

3 días 46 13 Exorcisms 67 28 Weeks Later 22, 46 – 47, 104 30 Coins 7, 10, 91, 96 – 99 The Abandoned 18 – 19 Alcàsser case 28 – 29 Almodóvar, Pedro 6, 9, 14, 30, 39 – 42 Amenábar, Alejandro 1 – 2, 5 – 6, 12 – 13, 17 – 19, 21, 23 Anaya, Elena 31, 39 Another Me 69 – 70 Apaches Entertainment 6, 20 – 22 Apocalypse 34, 45 – 51 Artisan Entertainment 27 Asensio, Ana 3, 8, 70 Atresmedia 4, 6, 14, 16, 51 – 54, 87 – 93 Azmecua, Patxi 86 Balagueró, Jaume 2, 5 – 6, 17 – 19, 25 – 37, 60 – 61, 90 – 96, 103 Banderas, Antonio 39 Bayona, Juan Antonio 2, 9, 12 – 18, 22 – 24, 59, 62, 64 – 65, 90, 104 Baztán trilogy 9, 51 – 56 Berger, Pablo 2, 39 – 41, 43 – 45 The Blacksmith and The Devil 85 The Blair Witch Project 26 – 28, 47 Blancanieves 2, 9, 39 – 41, 43 – 45 The Body 65 – 66 Buried 19 Callejeros 29 – 31 Canal + 6, 8, 12, 14 Cannibal 13, 61 – 62 Carriers 48 Casas, Mario 61 – 62

Cerdà, Nacho 18 – 19 Coixet, Isabel 7, 8, 69 – 70 Colossal 21 Cortés, Rodrigo 19, 91, 93 – 94 COVID-19 pandemic 6, 45, 49, 54, 86 Darkness 5, 17 – 19, 31 The Day of the Beast 1 – 2, 5 – 6, 96 De la Iglesia, Álex 1, 2 – 5, 7, 10, 13, 15 – 16, 50, 77 – 78, 83 – 85, 90 – 92, 97 – 99, 103 De la Torre, Antonio 62 – 63, 78 Del Toro, Guillermo 2, 6, 8 – 9, 12 – 16, 74 – 75, 79 – 80 The Devil’s Backbone 2, 6, 9, 13 – 15,74 – 75 Dystopia 9, 45 – 51, 70 – 71, 95 – 96, 103 Ecohorror 45 – 51 El Deseo (production company) 6, 14 Empty Spain 3 The End 50 – 51 Etura, Marta 49, 51 – 56 Extinction 46 – 48 Factuals 28 – 31 Fantastic Factory 17 – 18, 31 – 32, 82 Fantastic Fest (Austin) 8, 19 – 21, 98 The Fear Collection 10, 90 – 92, 98 – 99 Feminism 3, 59 – 60 Fernández, Julio 17, 82 Fever Dream 50 Filmax 3, 5, 9, 17, 19, 26, 31 – 34, 82 Folk Horror 3, 5, 10, 50, 81 – 86 Found Footage Horror 9, 25 – 35, 103 Fragile 5, 18, 31 Franco, Jesús 3, 13, 20, 82

106  Index Franco’s Dictatorship 3, 4, 9 – 10, 60, 74 – 81 Fresnadillo, Juan Carlos 5, 22, 46 – 47 Game of Werewolves 83 Gaztelu-Urrutia, Galder 6, 24, 49 – 50, 103 Genre Hybridization 39 – 58 Gómez, Macarena 77 – 78 González Molina, Fernando 50, 53 – 54 Goya Awards 8, 13, 16, 23, 46, 49, 61, 78, 79, 83, 84 The Grandmother 66 – 68 Guerricaechevarría, Jorge 50, 96 – 99 HBO 91 – 98 Horror/Comedy 9 – 10, 20, 32 – 35, 76 – 77, 83 – 84, 103 Ibáñez Serrador, Chicho 3, 7, 13, 15, 60, 66, 91, 93 – 96 In a Glass Cage 74 Incel cinema 3, 59 – 63 Infiesto 85 Intact 5, 46 – 47 Julia’s Eyes 16, 62 – 64 Kidman, Nicole 6, 12 – 15, 64 The Last Circus 10, 43, 78 – 79 The Last Days 48 – 49 Lidón, María 8, 69 – 70 Llosa, Claudia 50, 104 López Lavigne, Enrique 21 – 22 Malasaña 32 10, 67, 79 – 80 Marrowbone 16, 23 – 24, 52, 90 Martín Cuenca, Manuel 31, 61 – 62 Martínez, Jacobo 67 Martín Moreno, Juan 83 Masculinity (in crisis) 59 – 67 May God Save Us 63 – 64, 91 – 95 Mediaset 4, 15, 22, 88, 89, 93 Medina, Juan Carlos 80 – 81 Melodrama 39 – 45 Me Too (movement) 68 – 70 Mira, Eugenio 3, 19 – 20, 39 – 50 Miró Decree 4 – 5 A Monster Calls 2, 23 – 24, 90 Morales, Guillem 16, 62 – 64

Most Beautiful Island 3, 70 Mutant Action 5 The Nameless 5, 17, 31 Netflix 87 – 90 Open Windows 20 – 21 Open Your Eyes 12 The Orphanage 2, 9, 12 – 18, 22 – 24, 59, 62, 64 – 65, 90, 104 Ortiz, Paula 7 – 8, 91, 94, 99, 104 The Others 2, 5 – 6, 12 – 18, 21 – 24, 59, 62, 104 The Pact 66 Painless 80 – 81 Pan’s Labyrinth 2, 9, 14 – 16, 43, 74 – 75 Paradise Hills 3, 70 – 71 The Paramedic 61 – 62 Pastor brothers 48 – 49 Paulo, Oriol 16, 62 – 63, 64 – 65, 103 Pereda, Carlota 3, 8, 71 – 72, 103 Piggy 3, 8, 71 – 72 The Platform 6, 24, 49 – 50, 104 Plaza, Paco 2, 5 – 6, 17, 25 – 36, 66 – 68, 80 – 96, 82, 103 Prime Video 90 – 99 Reality TV 25, 28 – 31 [REC] 5, 9, 25 – 38 Redondo, Dolores 9, 51 – 53 Regression 13, 21 Reynolds, Ryan 19 Romasanta: The Werewolf Hunt 5, 30 – 31, 82 – 83 Rueda, Belén 15, 16, 54, 62 – 65 Sánchez, Sergio G. 16, 23, 53, 90 Second name 5, 31 Shrew’s Nest 77 – 78 Sitges International Film Festival 8, 16, 25, 49 The Skin I Live in 9, 39 – 42 Sleep Tight 60 – 62 Sorogoyen, Rodrigo 63 – 64 Spanish Civil War 13 – 14, 74 – 81 Stranded 69 Streaming Platforms 87 – 102 Sundance Film Festival 3, 8, 12, 19, 27, 70

Index  107 Tales to Keep You Awake 7, 8, 10, 60, 89 – 96 Telecinco 3, 6, 8, 15 – 16, 29, 89 – 91 Thesis 2, 5 – 6 Thriller 5, 46, 51 – 55, 59 – 64, 90 – 95, 99, 103 Timecrimes 20, 26 Torregrossa, Jorge 13, 50 – 51 Tosar, Luis 60 – 61, 77 Urkijo, Paul 85 Valley of the Dead 10, 15, 76 – 77 Velasco, Ángela 25 Veneciafrenia 90, 98 Venus 98

Verónica 6, 24, 66 – 67 Vigalondo, Nacho 2, 20 – 21, 26, 70, 91, 95 Villaronga, Agustí 74 Vivas, Miguel Ángel 46 – 48 Waddington, Alice 3, 8, 70 – 71, 95 – 96 Who Can Kill a Child? 13, 17, 46, 66 Witching and Bitching 2, 83 – 85 You Shall Not Sleep 65 Yuzna, Brian 17 – 31 Zombie films 3, 9, 19, 25 – 36, 46 – 49, 76 – 77, 103