Published on March 25, 2026
Less than a decade ago, the quality of narratives was often prioritized over the ideological biases of their viewers. Or perhaps it wasn’t. Maybe bias always existed, but it mattered less back then. Nowadays, it’s difficult to watch films like these without suspecting they might have received government subsidies for various reasons, especially given the ongoing cultural battles and everyday political conflicts.
Some viewers may hesitate to enjoy a commendably crafted comedy like Dinner ( Manuel Gómez Pereira). Not because the film isn’t enjoyable, but because they might think it should not have received funding linked to Franco’s era, coinciding with the anniversary of his death—a decision that, , deserves its own comedy.
It’s a shame not to appreciate this film as it’s generally refreshing and features a magnificent central character: the maître of the Hotel Palace, portrayed wonderfully Juan, who adeptly delivers a mix of comedy, pain, fear, heroism, and pathos, sometimes within the same scene. Mario Casas performs his role suitably, while the supporting cast, especially the more seasoned actors, remains as reliable as they have always been in Spanish cinema. You can believe them no matter what they wear or do. Thanks to the tone of the story, even Asier Etxeandia works as an abhorrent Falangist—an inevitable cliché, turned into a caricature of a nearly mythified terror.
I would only have eliminated a couple of obvious markers that are completely unnecessary, as everything can easily be deduced without adding an extra line. It seems the typical Spanish screenwriters seldom resist the urge to explicitly explain how opportunists, informers, and dictators operated during that increasingly less-recent period in our history. However, one cannot aspire to the heights of Lubitsch or Azcona in today’s comedy landscape. Just the fact that some comedies are no longer hyper-televised (as has been the trend lately) is already a notable achievement.
Mediterráneo is another example of a transparent and apt narrative, with a background that many might find irritably ideological, despite efforts from the script and characters to narrow the issue down to a matter of humanitarism and administrative maritime law: the unavoidable moral obligation to save castaways, regardless of who they are or where they come from.
However, this story recounts the origins of Open Arms, which provides enough political ammunition for critics to hurl the tragedy of drowning migrants back in our faces. Nobody seems to consider that it is, for once, comforting that Spanish protagonists are portrayed as citizens urging others to shake off their indifference to the intolerable.
The 2015 Syrian refugee crisis, with countless deaths off the coast of Lesbos, is narrated through a handful of kamikaze rescuers from Barcelona in a film of medium caliber—one of the few being made in an industry so polarized both economically and ideologically.
Its only cinematic drawback is Dani Rovira. It’s not that he performs poorly; it’s simply that he is Dani Rovira. He is difficult to believe in this role. He would need to be a phenomenal actor to transcend the persona of a monologuing character—one who shines in comedies like Eight Basque Surnames or I’m Going to Have a Good Time. He fulfills his role adequately, but it’s easier to buy into Eduard Fernández swimming like a mermaid, showcasing real interpretive talent.
Regardless, such commendable films are scarce, making this another small triumph worth celebrating.
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