Carlos Saura
Peppermint Frappè

When it comes to modern Spanish cinema, it's inevitable to acknowledge that the founding father and master of everything that has been created is Luis Bunuel. At the origin, there's an author who, with a corrosive style marked by surrealism and nonconformity, paved a path that has brought us almost to the present day with authors like Pedro Almodovar. Certainly, for some decades, living and working in a nation like Spain wasn't exactly easy, considering that the Francoist regime also applied strict censorship in the artistic field. However, if one goes back and revisits this film I'm about to review, it's evident how it wasn't impossible to express a sarcastic and dissenting message beneath the surface against the prevailing morality of Spanish society at the time. In particular, the director in question, Carlos Saura, who already had a few films to his credit, in making "Peppermint Frappe" in 1967, tackled a decidedly explosive theme such as sexuality and the also twisted way it is experienced in a particular socio-historical context.

The protagonist is an esteemed and respected radiologist named Julian, who is single (well portrayed by actor José Luis Lopez Vazquez, whose facial expression unmistakably hints at lust and seduction). He practices from his own residence. It immediately stands out that he is assisted by a nurse and secretary named Ana, of the sweet and docile female type (one of the roles played by Geraldine Chaplin, obviously talented also because she's Charlie's daughter). But as if that weren't enough, Julian also has a strange obsession (and it's granted that each of us may have obsessions) - he collects women's magazines from which he cuts out advertising photos. To what end, one might ask, and the only explanation is that he's trying to define his ideal female type, possibly attractive, well-made-up, and modern.

As he engages in these oddities, one day he meets again Pablo, a dear childhood friend with an extroverted character. Returning from a business trip to Africa, he's accompanied by his new bride named Elena (again, Geraldine Chaplin), a blonde woman with a liberated and modern demeanor, just as Julian would like. Upon seeing her for the first time, he's struck and disturbed because he believes he recognizes in her a blonde woman seen at a party in the town of Calanda during Holy Week. It's only a strange suggestion since Elena denies being that woman, never having been to Calanda.

From here, one side begins with Julian's clumsy attempt to seduce Pablo's wife, while on the other, the radiologist manages to induce nurse Ana to adopt more seductive and sexy ways and poses, to the point of becoming his lover. However, this bizarre situation cannot be prolonged too much, as Elena not only avoids Julian's advances, but along with her husband, teases him good-naturedly. And being a touchy man, the revenge against the two will be wicked and fateful, while Julian can always console himself with a woman like Ana, now so uninhibited that she appears in every way like Elena, a female model coveted by any repressed but desirous man.

The film is explicitly dedicated to Luis Bunuel, precisely to reaffirm that debt of gratitude all Spanish filmmakers have had and have towards the master (as I had prefaced in this analysis). Director Saura, with a very subtle but effective style, depicts a story at times surreal but still clear in highlighting certain complexed attitudes of the protagonist (and by reflection, of the average Iberian man of that time). Not coincidentally, in a sequence, Julian is seen entering a room in his apartment where nothing less than an altar is set up, with a portrait of the Madonna presiding over it and under which the pious protagonist lights a votive candle. As if to say: here's a Catholic and devout man, but one who is not deaf to the call of sex and indeed lusts over advertisements for female products. Certainly, he experiences sexuality in a twisted manner, he wishes to repress himself, but as soon as he meets a beautiful blonde, he feels an irresistible attraction. Perhaps this can also be explained by the exotic charm, exercised on the repressed Iberian and Latin macho by a sexophobic education, by those women usually from Northern Europe, who indeed are free of complexes.

The message conveyed by this film, shot in 1967 in Franco's Spain (nothing to do with other parts of the modern West like contemporary London and San Francisco) is not at all reticent and remains valid. That is: the so-called libidinal urges can be driven out the door, but sooner or later, they will re-enter more forcefully through the window. As if to say that sexuality is an uncontrollable force of nature. Herein lies its charm and its mystery, as old as the world. Those who try to repress it are destined to succumb.