Throughout cinema, queer stories, as expansive as they emotionally may seem, have been relegated to a small scope. Gradually, the limits have expanded, with stories becoming grander and more ambitious over time. Just when I thought Jane Schoenbrun was one of the few artists left making audacious, staggering, outwardly queer art—with Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma being one of the year’s finest—the two Spanish Javiers: Ambrossi and Calvo (aka Los Javis), raise the bar with their bold, grandiose La Bola Negra.
The film marks the Spanish filmmakers’ sophomore feature in over a decade. Throughout the 2020s, they’ve navigated television, one of their greatest accomplishments being the brilliant biodrama series Veneno, which honored the late trans Spanish icon La Veneno while juxtaposing her history with that of trans journalist Valeria Vegas. Much like Veneno, La Bola Negra continues themes of self‑actualization, identity, and liberation—this time through a triptych generational story that translates the late Federico García Lorca, the Spanish poet and playwright assassinated in 1936, and his play. In doing so, it illustrates the importance of queer preservation and the figures of the past who were sacrificed to pave the way for the liberation of today’s Spanish LGBTQ community.
An Ambitious Triptych in Time
Alternating between different periods in time, the decade-spanning story centers on three gay men in the throes of their identity.
In 1937, trombone player Sebastián (Guitarricadelafuente) is in his town celebrating what they believed to be liberation. Until the troops they see flying above, saluting, rain bombs down on their village. Sebastián is the sole survivor. Found by far‑right nationalist soldiers, he’s forced into military occupation and assigned to guard Rafael (Miguel Bernardeau), a former football player and Republican imprisoned for knowledge. The moment they meet, Sebastián slowly experiences his first-ever man crush and faces an internalized war, falling for a man whose demise is inevitable.
Then, in pre‑war 1932, we meet Carlos (Milo Quifes), a young man who wants to join a private social club. During his hearing, the board of old men votes with white balls for approval and black balls (hence La Bola Negra) for rejection. Carlos is “blackballed” over rumors of homosexuality.
Decades later, in 2017, we meet Alberto (Carlos González), a former theater writer with a PhD facing ennui—navigating Grindr hookups and feeling irritable in his relationship with his estranged, emotionally distant mother (Lola Dueñas). When he learns that his late grandfather, whom he never met, left him his inheritance specifically, he embarks on a life‑altering journey to unravel his family tree.
With its three timelines, La Bola Negra bears the lyrical nesting nature of a Nolan film—meticulous, beautifully paced, and narratively digestible. Ambrossi and Calvo’s frequent collaborator, Alberto Gutiérrez, stacks the house of cards, leaving you enticed as to what it’s building toward. Each pause to focus on one of the three leads keeps you thoroughly engaged. Granted, the film gets a little self‑indulgent, losing momentum in spots and feeling padded; it could’ve shaved a good 15 minutes. But unlike many other international features screened during this fest with long runtimes (this clocking at nearly three hours) like Gentle Monster or Minotaur, this one warrants its pacing and never feels like it meanders.
LA BOLA NEGRA. Milo Quifes as Carlos in La Bola Negra. Cr. Carla Oset/Netflix © 2026.
A Visual and Emotional Masterpiece
Undoubtedly, La Bola Negra is among the most beautifully crafted, mesmerizingly shot films I’ve seen this year. It’s like watching the colorful and larger‑than‑life cues from Los Javis’ prior works burst onto the big screen at the maximalist point of their vision. The filmmaking styles shift per period, but never jarringly—each cue feels naturalistic yet dazzling. Every frame made me think, “That Best Director at Cannes was deserved.” For the uninitiated, think of an Iñárritu film mixed with the over‑the‑top charm of Burton’s Big Fish and the intimate nature of Andrew Haigh. The bombastic elements live in the ’30s‑set stories more than the 2017 thread, which enacts a more melodramatic sensibility. But the writing—penned by the directing team alongside co‑writer Alberto Conejero—and the lavish yet intimate storytelling deliver a surreal, transportive weight that’s real and moving.
There’s a level of extravagance in Gris Jordana’s clean, sweeping DP framework—whether translating Sebastián’s desire and intimacy with Rafael, the picturesque Spanish landscape in stunning color, or the surreal musicality. Roger Bellés’ production design is endlessly immersive, shaping various Spanish towns, from the brutalist decor of war settings to Madrid’s modern urbanism. It adds to the film’s theme of liberation and freedom: for Sebastián, Madrid is a mecca for promising gay Spanish life, and juxtaposed against Alberto’s isolation in the present, it carries a harrowing weight.
LA BOLA NEGRA. Guitarricadelafuente as Sebastián in La Bola Negra. Cr. Carla Oset/Netflix © 2026.
Standout Performances and a Powerful Legacy
At the core of the performances that bring the bustling film to life is Spanish music sensation Guitarricadelafuente, who shines in his first performance. As Sebastián, he delivers a potent poetic illustration of first love in all its intensity and intimacy. His wide eyes speak a thousand words with just a look, and his chemistry with Miguel Bernardeau is heartfelt and brimming with sincerity and soulful tenderness. Another highlight is González as Alberto, the modern gay person blasé about the normalcy of his lifestyle and the discontent, especially heightened against an incredible Lola Dueñas as his mother.
There are also great cameos by Penélope Cruz and Glenn Close, both making the most of their brief screen time in one of the film’s most heartfelt scenes. Cruz is a powerhouse in just a few minutes as a showstopper named Nené Romero, who drops in to sing and dance for the troops, briefly bonding with Sebastián. Her exuberant aura matches, if not elevates, the film’s overall extravagance. Then Close, speaking solely in Spanish, does the same with the film’s emotional elegance as American historian Isabelle Durand in a tender turning-point beat with González.
As La Bola Negra plays its cards, the message creeps up on and decimates you. Man, I couldn’t help sobbing in the theater. It powerfully does what Los Javis have been doing their whole career: honoring the architects who sacrificed their identity in secrecy—not just so the community could live freely today, but so they could pave inspiring works for future generations.
There’s a reason why every screening at this year’s TIFF was met with a standing ovation. La Bola Negra is an audacious, staggering work of art, and one of the best films of the year. It reminds you what true cinematic epicness feels like, equal parts style and immense, life‑affirming substance. Marking a new landmark achievement in LGBTQ storytelling, it’s unlike anything I’ve seen before, everything queer filmmakers should have a shot at making, and something I’m already clamoring to see again.
La Bola Negra premieres on Netflix in the United States on December 4, 2026.
