#thelastcircus

Álex de la Iglesia’s masterpiece uses the clown—not as a joke, but as a wound—to dissect Spain’s unburied trauma: fascism, machismo, and the silence that follows mass violence. Set against the shadow of the Valle de los Caídos, this tragicomic nightmare follows two clowns locked in a brutal dance of toxic masculinity, with a woman caught between them—not as a prize, but as a battlefield.

The violence is operatic. The humor is pitch-black. The grief is national.

Every frame is drenched in blood-reds and bruised purples. The performances—Carlos Areces’ shattered vulnerability, Antonio de la Torre’s terrifying charisma, Carolina Bang’s fierce resilience—are staggering. And that final image, atop Franco’s monument? One of the most haunting in 21st-century cinema.

This isn’t grindhouse for shock’s sake. It’s grotesque as political language—beautiful, brutal, and necessary. A landmark of antifascist cinema that refuses to let Spain forget.

As critic Cole Abaius wrote:

“Over all, the film is incredible. In the oldest sense of that word, it is awe-inspiring and grotesque. Stunning and heartfelt. It is a love letter to a country, a time and a frowning clown singing mournfully about a weeping trumpet.”

I 100% agree.

5/5 stars. A film I return to again and again—not for comfort, but for catharsis.

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