In 1932, Carlos (Milo Quifes), a young gay man desperately trying to blend in, attempts to join an exclusive Casino like his father and grandfather before him. We're somewhere in Granada, at a time when those who don't fit in are brutally ostracized from society, or worse. The heads of the Casino know who and what he is, and blackball him from the establishment. It is as good as marking him for life.
Years later, in 1939, Sebastian (Álvaro Lafuente Calvo) sees his village brutally destroyed by the pro-Franco nationalists. As he attempts to flee, he pretends to be one of the conscripted soldiers and ends up serving the fascists who murdered his family. Some time later, he meets the wounded Rafael (Miguel Bernardeau), a prisoner bound for execution, and the two fall in love.
Even later, in 2017, Madrid, Alberto (Carlos González) is a student and playwright searching for meaning in queer history and popular music. He receives a mysterious call from the executor of his grandfather's estate. Unaware that his estranged grandfather had been alive, Alberto is even more confused by the realization that he had followed his grandchild with interest, but never reached out.
During the course of the near-three-hour narrative, these tales cross paths and destinies as time folds and unfolds over itself. The Black Ball is both a historical epic and an elegy for queer identity in a world that seems hellbent on snuffing out the lives of those it deems different. It is also a powerfully composed, beautifully acted masterpiece that will be cherished for all time. Haunting and poetic, full of love and longing, pain and regret, and grandiose visuals that took my breath away.
The Black Ball toys with fact and fiction, yet feels truer for every embellishment. Like one of my all-time favorite films, Cloud Atlas, it is fixated on the nature of what we pass on to the next generation. For decades, the history of queerness was that of tragedy and loss. In 2017, as difficult as Alberto's life is, he is loved and a part of society. There is a sense that no matter how small the progress, each step matters. The Black Ball depicts queerness as a great separation from society, not by choice, but due to bigotry and withered hearts. It is the ultimate act of kindness to ensure that a spark of love endures for those who came after.
The sprawling narrative takes detours and asides, some of which are superfluous, but so sumptuous that it doesn't matter. The sublime Penélope Cruz shows up in a cameo for a setpiece that could work as a finale for any lesser film. A moment of magical realism embraces the poetry and humor of playwright Federico García Lorca, whose works the film is partly inspired by.
In one momentous sequence, a dying man speaks with the spirit of death, embodied by a vast mountain range. It is audacious to place it in the middle of historical events so late in the film. Yet directors Javier Calvo and Javier Ambrossi are so brave and unquestioning of their vision that we, as an audience, have no choice but to submit. Similarly, an early sequence involving an airplane raid on an unsuspecting village is so sure-handed and immaculately staged you'd think it was from veterans at the end of their careers. Not new, exciting voices who are still testing out what they can accomplish.
This is a rich, beautiful film. It is fascinated by everything and anything, yet never once feels like it doesn't know what it wants to say. It is a film for anyone who has ever loved, lost, or felt alone.
There is not a single note or performance out of place, and by the time the vast story comes to an end, it made me want to dive right back in, just so that I could experience these emotions once more.
