La Ardilla Roja (The Red Squirrel)

McLady: I want to start this entry by saying that I have an M.A. in Spanish Literature, and my emphasis of study was Spanish-language film. More specifically, I wrote my thesis on Spanish film, and champion the Spanish, South American, Mexican, and Cuban film industries. I also intellectually understand the many reasons that La Ardilla Roja is cinematically important and culturally relevant. That said, I firmly believe that sitting through a screening of this film with any purpose other than to rip it mercilessly is grounds for a sanity hearing. La Ardilla Roja is film by way of Bellevue. It is so bizarre that it makes Blue Velvet look like Finding Nemo.

To be fair, I ought to list its high notes: the fine and unique camerawork of Julio Medem, who uses this film as an opportunity not only to graze issues of Basque nationalist identity, but also to question male and female societal roles; the stellar cast, including Nancho Novo, Emma Suarez, and María Barranco (who some will recognize from Mujeres al borde de un ataque de nervios/Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown); and the reverential presentation of the Spanish countryside. There. That's plenty. Because unless you have the film on mute and your eyes closed for 90% of the movie's screening, all of those good points will be swept from your mind as you revel in the pure psychotic weirdness. The plot centers around Jota (Novo), a cave painting of a man, who meets an amnesiac (but beautiful) young woman. He calls her Lisa, convinces her that he is her lover, and essentially kidnaps her from the hospital where she is recovering. What does he want to do with his new pal? Why, go camping of course! The two head off for the campgrounds on Jota's motorcycle, where they befriend a family and have plenty of wacky misadventures, all of which will undoubtedly send you straight to the bar afterward for a comforting vodka-and-bleach which you will administer directly into your own eyes. But the best part is when Lisa (whose real name is in fact Sofía) is pursued by her real lover, Félix. (Full disclosure: the actor who plays Félix, Carmelo Gómez, appears in a film called Entre Rojas. When my friend and I watched Rojas for a film class, we were so baffled by the attraction that Penelope Cruz's character felt for him that we dubbed him "Big Nasty". So I had to look up his real name, and the name of his Ardilla character, because I truly could only recall "Big Nasty", and I felt certain that was not his name.) Félix catches up with the happy couple, and gives the film its startling climactic scene. And by "startling", I mean "mentally scarring".

You may be saying to yourself at this point: "Come on, McLady! That doesn't sound too terrible! After all, you've studied Cronenberg, pondered the dadaist work of Buñuel, giggled your way through 80s music videos featuring robots. What could be so bad?" Well, if the kidnapped-amnesiac-goes-camping-and-gets-stalked story leaves you cold, Ardilla has lots more to offer you. You see, Jota is a talentless musician formerly of a band called "Las Moscas (The Flies)", whose only hit song is repeated ad infinitum throughout the film and will make you wish you were born without ears. You also get a taste of the music video, which features Jota in a fur that had to have been one of Zsa-Zsa Gabor's castoffs, screaming "Misterio!" at a passing plane. So proud is he of his former glory that he wears a shirt with pictures of flies on it. At one point some actual flies become enamored of his shirt, and flit around on it, an image that the director found so moving that he captured it for the world to enjoy. And enjoy we do! Almost as much as we enjoy the t-shirt that has a shoulder-to-waist picture of his face on it (aaaannnndd I'm going to need another vodka-and-bleach). And as if his glorious musical past and fabulous wardrobe weren't enough, Jota also has incredible reflexes...although they seem pretty much like regular reflexes, which would really only astound the frighteningly slow. Nevertheless, the other characters seem to feel the need to make a huge deal out of him catching things like shrimp (ooh!) and a glass (ahh!). There are two moments where his reflexes actually seem impressive--when he performs a trick with his and Lisa's helmets that is extremely difficult to describe and is more choreographed than Barishnikov, and when he latches onto the side of a moving car and proceeds to climb inside. Then again, these moments are not so much impressive as they are absurd, and the inevitable spectator reaction to seeing them is screaming laughter. So much for Jota's dignity! When he's not performing these spectacular acts, he is staring weirdly at Lisa, and generally creeping out the people around them.

On to Lisa. It becomes clear about fifteen seconds into the camping trip that she does, in fact, know who she is, but is so enamored of Jota's totally normal reflexes and simian unibrow that she has decided to go along with the game. Fortunately for him, she's also a complete nutjob, given to squeezing little boys' fingers with her vag. I wish I were kidding. I won't bother to set up how that scenario is established, because it won't make sense anyhow, but I can assure you that what lasts a millisecond onscreen will be burned into your brain forever. When I am 112 years old and have forgotten my own name, I feel certain that I will always remember the sight of that woman "biting" that kids fingers. That'll be another round, bartender. And keep 'em coming.

By the time Félix catches up with our romantic heroes the bar for freakiness is pretty high. After all, not too long before that moment, Jota rode his motorcycle up a tree. It seems as though Félix would have to really commit himself to out-weirdo these people. One thing is clear: Félix is up to the challenge. He declares to the entire campsite that he is an angel, and to prove his claim cuts off his own cheek with a pair of scissors. Yes, you read that right. But go ahead and read it again. I'll wait for you.

Ahem. The now-cheekless Félix pursues Lisa/Sofía, who clearly wants to be with Jota (probably because he still has both cheeks). This is the shining moment where Jota jumps into the window of Félix's moving car, which Félix drives off of a cliff to kill them both. But Jota's untimely death is a mercy Ardilla is not willing to afford us. He escapes from the car and swims to the surface. The film ends with a little scene between Lisa/Sofía and Jota in the zoo, where she has taken a job of some sort (at that point of the film, I'm always blinded with tears of laughter, and so have no idea what she's supposed to be). A squirrel craps on Jota, and he shares a smile with his lady love. The *fucking* end.

The more observant of you will notice that I said "always" in reference to watching a certain point of the film, implying that I have watched it more than once. I have in fact subjected myself to Ardilla multiple times. Like a fart in an elevator that one purposefully keeps inhaling in order to assure onself that something *does* stink, and one was not hallucinating, I have watched Ardilla more than once in order to confirm that it was not some sick dream. Indeed, it is not. It is bizarreness that makes the painting Saturn Devouring His Son look like a Norman Rockwell Thanksgiving scene.

Saturn Devouring His Son: Still not as fucking creepy as La Ardilla Roja

In conclusion, this movie is not part of the "Watch Hard" pantheon because it is poorly filmed, or poorly acted, but because it makes you wish that you could hunt down the writer and make him listen to Jota's band until he screams for the sweet release of death. And that, my friends, is a bad movie.