THE LAST CIRCUS (2010)

Chasm Films is a new subsidiary label from the consistently reliable Radiance, describing itself as dedicated to curating a catalogue of world genre movies that are under-seen, under-appreciated, and underground. So far, its first two titles have been a bold statement of intent. György Pálfi’s satirical body-horror Taxidermia (2006) launched the list earlier this year. Now comes Álex de la Iglesia’s satirical clown-horror The Last Circus, making its Blu-ray debut with first-rate bonus content to please fans and film scholars alike. Those coming fresh to this outrageous oddity will never have seen anything quite like it. Others will relish the opportunity to revisit this contentious classic of coulrophobia again and again…

Álex de la Iglesia’s The Last Circus is a bold assault on the senses that rarely allows any pause or respite. The director has explained it as his most personal film, featuring many autobiographical elements dressed in often brash metaphor. It’s also a biography of the Spain he grew up in, peppered with meticulous historical references that place the often surreal events against a very real historical backdrop.

Set in 1937, the opening vignette is the movie’s strongest 10 minutes. The laughter of children is interrupted by the sound of shells exploding too close to the circus, where a two-man clown act quickly improvises to calm and distract the audience. The Silly Clown (Santiago Segura) and Serious Clown (Fofito) are all too aware of how structurally flimsy the big top is and how rare laughter has become. They switch to “the dress act”, which involves The Silly Clown’s ingenious costume falling away to reveal a big pink frilly number and, on removal of his top hat, a cascade of ‘Shirley Temple’ curls. It’s at this point that the militia take control of the circus, demanding every man immediately take up arms and join them. And this is how a clown in a dress ends up at the chaotic battlefront wielding a machete. Surprisingly—probably down to the physical agility of clowns used to stunts and pratfalls—he is one of the few survivors taken prisoner by Franco’s Nationalist rebels.

The sequence hinges upon a brave, emotionally grounded performance from Santiago Segura who, under the smeared greasepaint of his happy clown make-up, is hardly recognisable as the actor who played José María, the metalhead sidekick in de la Iglesia’s equally dark yet funnier The Day of the Beast (1995). There is a tear-jerking farewell in which he tells his young son, Javier (Sasha DiBenedetto), to become a sad clown because, as a war orphan, he will have no childhood and thus will never know how to make children laugh. However, the clown isn’t executed as expected, but assigned to a labour detail breaking ground for the construction of a huge war memorial. This will turn out to be the Basilica of the Holy Cross of the Valley of the Fallen, featuring vast crypts where the bodies of more than 33,000 unknown casualties of the civil war from both sides will be interred, ultimately becoming Franco’s mausoleum. This provides the vertiginous setting for the finale, bracketing the narrative though offering little sense of closure.

The montage of images behind the opening credits provides a collage of historical and cultural iconography that would be all too recognisable to Spaniards of a certain age. It functions as a graphic summary of the nation’s history—from the atrocities of the war and the political aftermath of a nation under dual forms of oppression from state and church, through famous movie monsters and headline-grabbing crimes, to the post-war economic boom and the growth of international tourism in Madrid up to 1973.

The adult Javier (Carlos Areces) is starting his new job as a Sad Clown. Arriving at the tawdry circus, he’s briefly shown the ropes by Ramiro (Manuel Tallafé), elephant trainer and escapologist, and is immediately smitten with the trapeze artist Natalia (Carolina Bang), in a knowing nod to Tod Browning’s Freaks (1932). However, Ramiro tells Javier in no uncertain terms that she is the property of his new boss, Sergio (Antonio de la Torre), the Happy Clown. This is a culture where people—particularly women—are owned by others.

Sergio is a humourless, intimidating man who soon reveals himself as a dangerously violent alcoholic when he viciously beats Natalia unconscious during Javier’s first night out with the troupe. After they leave the diner, Javier sneaks back to tend to Natalia, but has to hide when Sergio returns to take sexual possession of her. There’s no mistaking this for anything other than gendered violence, though it isn’t framed as rape because Natalia appears to capitulate willingly. Thus begins the dysfunctional love triangle that shapes the entire narrative.

Though The Last Circus offers multiple readings, it’s tempting to see Javier and Sergio as the opposing factions of the Spanish Civil War, and Natalia as the embodiment of the country caught in the middle. It’s one of the more interesting interpretations to ponder, as it examines the gendering of political ideologies—there’s a reason why right-leaning regimes fight for a fatherland and leftists for a motherland. Sergio wants to possess and dominate Natalia both emotionally and physically. Javier sees himself as her (albeit ineffectual) saviour and, as an orphan of war, views her as an idealised mother substitute. Natalia finds aspects of both men appealing and repugnant in equal measure. Her indecision in the face of irreconcilable obsessions ultimately leads to tragic consequences for all involved, offering an unflinching reflection on the fallout of a civil war where no one truly wins.

Both men were robbed of a normal childhood during the nationwide adversity, suffering, and ever-present violence of the war years. As a result, they remain woefully stunted emotionally. They long to reclaim what we value in childhood, but lack the foundational experiences upon which to build a functioning adult persona. Natalia is similarly damaged and incapable of escaping her past, deriving a sinister pleasure from playing the two men against each other—until it all comes to a head and they nearly kill each other in bouts of spectacular violence that neither should reasonably have survived.

By this time, however, we realise we’re not dealing with realism, but with political metaphor pushed to comic-book extremes. Álex de la Iglesia started out in comics and graphic novels, and this background remains apparent in his use of stunning imagery that elevates individual moments into pure cinema. Sometimes, the sole purpose of the narrative seems to be setting up a bold composition where the image is regnant and the story its servant. This will come as no surprise to those familiar with the director’s earlier films, including his ultra-violent debut Mutant Action (1993), the dark Satanic comedy The Day of the Beast, the transgressive psycho-thriller Perdita Durango (1997), and perhaps most pertinently, Dying of Laughter (1999), which starred Santiago Segura as half of a comedy duo defined by mutual loathing and was likewise set in the final years of the Franco regime. Álex de la Iglesia certainly has his recurring themes.

To maintain momentum, significant time skips are required, which lead to incongruities if one isn’t paying close attention to the visual cues. Sometimes this is indicated by background news reports, a serious injury scarring over, or a stag carcass being devoured. As in life, it’s the intense moments that we truly experience and embed in memory. Thus, the narrative leaps from one psychologically challenging incident to the next—moments that also pull the character arcs together. Thankfully, the narrative avoids getting mired in a melodrama about dim or damaged people having a miserable time. There’s plenty for the cast to sink their teeth into, and the three leads are frighteningly good. Their characters are revealed rather than developed, with the shifts required to propel the story brought about by cathartic events and archetypal motifs, deliberately avoiding preachy moral judgements.

Nevertheless, we are prompted to make our own judgements and may be shocked to find ourselves rooting for one clown as he completely disfigures another with a trumpet thrashing. Occurring at the point of narrative reversal, this is a visual play on the original Spanish title Balada triste de trompeta / Sad Trumpet Ballad, which refers to a recurring pop song by Spanish superstar ‘clown’ Raphael. At this point, we’re immersed in the fiction and forced to take sides in what threatens to be a three-way tie for last place. Our central trio are all emotionally or physically wounded and descend into spectacular madness. Javier pushes his sad clown persona into psychotic territory when, after being condemned to execution for biting dictator Francisco Franco, he hallucinates Natalia as the Virgin Mary commanding him to become her avenging angel. Alejandro Jodorowsky would be proud; The Last Circus would make an excellent double bill with Santa Sangre (1989), which is a clear influence.

Apart from the bravura performances, Álex de la Iglesia’s meticulous attention to detail stands out when recreating long-lost historical places. This was his first time working with digital effects, which are effectively deployed throughout. On first viewing, the dated CG rendering is rarely noticeable because the story and performances are so engrossing that one doesn’t register the background extras as digitally animated avatars. It is obvious, however, that the Hitchcockian climax high on the 150-metre cross dominating the Valley of the Fallen is digitally rendered, as the angles and camera motions would be impossible to achieve otherwise. Furthermore, permission to film on location was denied, so the site had to be recreated in studio using extensive green screen. This doesn’t detract from the finale’s power, which actually benefits from the cleaner ‘graphic novel’ aesthetic.

The Last Circus won’t please everyone and will certainly offend some. However, it is a wild ride featuring some of the most audacious images and set pieces in Spanish cinema, drawing on a rich heritage of political allegory from Luis Buñuel to Guillermo del Toro. Álex de la Iglesia refuses to provide easy answers or offer ideological comfort. The ending is not an easy watch, though it’s undeniably edge-of-your-seat thrilling. While I was totally riveted while watching, I remained critically ambivalent in the aftermath. Although the imagery is striking and surreal, the comedy isn’t amusing and the tragedy is diluted by the lack of a clear protagonist to identify with. Ultimately, no one is likeable or sympathetic. In love and war, does anyone truly win?

SPAIN | 2010 | 105 MINUTES | 2.35:1 | COLOUR | SPANISH

Limited Edition Blu-ray Special Features:

• UK Blu-ray premiere/
• High-definition digital transfer from the original HDCAM . Retains the careful final colour grading to match digital VFX and live action. Visual textures—from drifting smoke in the shadows to close-ups of scarred skin and make-up—are crisp and clear. The two-minute discrepancy between the 107-minute IMDb listing and the 105-minute Blu-ray runtime is entirely down to standard cinematic formatting and PAL/NTSC frame rate differences, rather than cuts.
• NEW audio commentary by Spanish horror expert Valeria Villegas Lindvall. A well-researched commentary that manages to be informative, thought-provoking, scholarly, and highly entertaining. Opening with a brief overview of Álex de la Iglesia’s career, Lindvall contextualises The Last Circus as his ninth feature and explores how it addresses the past through a contemporary lens. She underscores the symbolic conflict between circus and war, relating this to dualities such as church and state, and reminding us that Franco was given papal endorsement by the Catholic Church. She traces influences back to the engravings of Francisco Goya and discusses the historical accuracy of the events depicted—particularly useful for viewers less versed in 20th-century Spanish history. Finally, she offers sharp analysis of the central characters, with particular reference to the ‘trainwreck’ trope of the disagreeable female archetype evoked by Natalia.
• 18-minute interview with director Álex de la Iglesia with newly translated English subtitles. Reflecting on The Last Circus as a deeply personal project with a solo-penned script, de la Iglesia recalls his childhood, including picking up scattered sweets from a blood-stained pavement outside a local shop. He explains how the opening titles present a collage of his early memories—war, exhumed nuns, ETA bombs, and Universal monster movies. There are even flashes of influential television shows, including La cabina (1972), which he references visually when Javier is captured and driven away in a truck, hands and face pressed against the rear window. He also outlines his philosophical approach, emphasising that he wanted to avoid portraying the war or its legacy in polarising terms.
• Send in the Clowns: NEW 21-minute video essay by Xavier Aldana Reyes, author of Spanish Gothic (2017). A thorough, scholarly discourse that places the film within a defined contextual framework. Citing Guillermo del Toro’s The Devil’s Backbone (2001) and Pan’s Labyrinth (2006) as breaking the taboo of tackling the Spanish Civil War on screen, Reyes positions The Last Circus as the next major entry in that lineage. He emphasizes how quintessentially Spanish the film is, suggesting its uncompromising cultural authenticity explains why it won accolades at home while performing modestly in overseas territories. He explores key references within the narrative, starting with Raphael’s song Balada triste de trompeta, which underscores three key plot points. He highlights the real-world clowns and circuses glimpsed in the film, detailing their relevance before pointing to cinematic predecessors such as Laugh, Clown, Laugh (1928)—which shares plot beats and starred Lon Chaney in similar make-up. He also draws parallels with two of Tod Browning’s circus classics: The Unknown (1927) and Freaks (1932).
• Making of The Last Circus (2010). Includes contributions from the principal cast, special make-up effects designer, and costume designer, alongside archival production footage.
• Behind the scenes footage. Unnarrated archival footage showing the filming process.
• Visual effects footage . A compilation of raw green-screen studio footage shown alongside final composites, demonstrating how digital environments and characters were created and blended with full-size sets and live action.
• Trailers.
• NEW and improved English subtitles. Timing and flow are very good.
• Limited Edition booklet featuring new writing by Andy Willis, co-author of The Cinema of Álex de la Iglesia (2007) and co-editor of Spanish Popular Cinema (2004). Not available at time of review.
• Limited Edition of 2000 copies, featuring an O-card slipcase with new artwork by Nick Charge, full-height Scanavo packaging and reversible sleeve featuring original poster artwork and alternative artwork by Nick Charge.

Cast & Crew

writer & director: Álex de la Iglesia.
starring: Carlos Areces, Antonio de la Torre, Carolina Bang, Manuel Tallafé, Alejandro Tejería, Santiago Segura, Fernando Guillén Cuervo & Sancho Gracia.