El Mar is a mouse that becomes a tiger when your back is turned. There’s an undercurrent of urgency that erupts in quiet, gradually more devastating explosions until you’re confounded--devoured--used up? Set in a sanatorium for tuberculosis in the Mallorca of post civil-war Spain, El Mar tells the story of three friends: Ramallo, Tur and Francisca, all seeking expiation for a ghastly crime that happened when they were children. When Ramallo is sent to the hospital for treatment he finds his old friends staying there, Tur (Bruno Bergonzini) is a patient and Francisca (Antonia Torrens) in service as a nun.
There’s a deceptive air of tranquility and fastidiousness that pervades the film. It’s not that these themes aren't part of the mix, but they belie the layers of anguish and turmoil underneath. The characters are struggling to reconcile their need for spiritual transcendence with the perils of human connection, with all its potential for degradation and delight. Even supporting roles like Carmen (Angela Molina) demeaned and abused by her husband, and Galindo (Hernan Gonzalez) the beautiful teenage boy who longs for his first signs of manhood are heartbreaking in the depths of their frustration and longing.
Directed by Agustin Villaronga and adapted for the screen from his novel by Blai Bonet and co-writer Antonio Aloy, it submerges us in a realm more quiet than a museum or the ocean depths. Where the possibility of death is always imminent and the caretakers more obsequious than acolytes. The specter of Roman-Catholicism looms large, and for this (as well as many other aspects) I must give El Mar credit. In film, the Brides of Christ are often depicted as either zany, innocuous clowns, or strident, sexually frustrated harridans.
Francisca is by far the most well-adjusted participant in this Freudian, existential morality play. She loves non-judgmentally and (perhaps this is the glitch) doesn’t cleave to canonical edict when it departs from sanity. Her call to the convent is not a refuge from the harsh world, it facilitates her dealings in the midst of it. There is a lot of irony at work in El Mar. While Tur becomes a whipping boy for Catholicism, Francisca goes with the spirit of its broader intent. Though Ramallo can be impulsive and violent, he seems less self-absorbed than Tur.
While the plot seems to revolve on Ramallo’s obstacles and aims, Tur’s character is more intriguing. Paralyzed by guilt, his desire for the rambunctious, exquisite Ramallo (Roger Casamajor) is nonetheless keen and excruciating. Who among us queer boys wouldn’t love to return to their rooms to find his gorgeous buddy borrowing the shower, grinning under a stream of water, with the curtain pulled back? Ramallo figures it’s okay, since they are so close. And poor Tur is left to sort it all out, wondering if he must forfeit one sort of closeness for another, if he identifies with his beautiful friend or stands in opposition. Whether he can exhale or surrender or wrestle or partake.
Villaronga is cunning here, it takes a moment to gather that Tur hears Ramallo as if from very far away, marking the distance perceived between them. How Tur, frail and conflicted, sees Ramallo as unapproachable as God himself. What could be sadder than seeing him inhale the scent of Ramallo’s clothes, desperate for a trace experience of that glory? Villaronga shows the difference between Galindo’s comprehension of Ramallo and Tur’s. The discrepancy, I suppose between brotherly and homoerotic patina.
In the end, El Mar, like so many marvelous, deeply disturbing movies is about a number of issues, but at the center deals with the ugly feelings that men sometimes attach to sexual connection between men. Ramallo loves Tur in a deep, brotherly way, and is more tolerant of Tur’s profound longing than Tur himself. Pretty early on we realize that they must resolve the tension. We want so badly for them to kiss or masturbate together or just something. We understand Tur is too deeply invested and Ramallo too insouciant, and Christ, the piercing, demoralizing pain as we watch Tur aching with crisis of conscience.
The reason why this Stations of the Cross, this undersea world as interface between the secular and liturgical worlds of carnal impetus and realms of glory clicks is the shock of recognition we feel when Tur’s highest expression of care is denounced as depravity. When we’re told our love is hurting God. What’s a poor Christian Queer to do? We see Tur’s grotesque masochism, doubtful stigmata, betrayal of the man he loves but it’s difficult not to see him also as the victim of persecution. Like a virus, El Mar, will submerge you in a warped, fugue state before returning you to planet earth.