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This article spotlights an experimental form of early moving-image storytelling by examining the formal novelty and generic creativity of Pio Baroja's novela film. Thus subtitled, his short novel El poeta y la princesa o el Cabaret de la Cotorra Verde (1929) incorporates cinema's narrative strategies and engages cinema's associated print cultural form of the novelized film plot. As a different kind of 'cinematographic novel,' Baroja's novela film launches an inquiry into notions of genre, narration, audience, and medium, revealing a unique insight into the ways in which the modernist novel was being redefined in response to cinema's methodological challenge to traditional modes of writing. Through its exploration of what it means to fuse literature and film-and, hence, its interrogation of what it means to write for a different kind of reading-Baroja's novela film adapts and speaks to an expanding body of cinema-literate readers. As it elicits an enhanced awareness and sophisticated critical attention on the part of a reader-viewer through metafictional disclosing, intertextuality, and parodic content, it may be considered that its formal innovation advances a new manner of intellectualized consumer reading. Ultimately, as a response to entertainment industries such as film and cinema print culture, the novela film rethinks the very notion of what is literature.

This essay proposes a reconsideration of ingenio lego by comparing Miguel de Cervantes and Don Quixote with the director Tommy Wiseau and his film The Room, considered one of the worst films in history. Through an analysis of both, a nuanced understanding of authorial intent and an audience's capacity to alter the meaning of a work emerges, suggesting the possible fruitful perspective of considering an author or a creator as both a \"genius\" and \"fool\" simultaneously. The purpose of this analysis is to challenge and complement the present dominant view of Miguel de Cervantes as a \"genius\" author.

Since the advent of cinema at the end of the nineteenth century, the windmill has become Cervantes's most ubiquitous icon and persistent meme.2 Few discrete moments extracted from literature have enjoyed a more popular appeal than Don Quixote's charge against a group of windmills, whose intersecting blades have come to stand, inextricably, for Don Quixote and Quixotism in much the same way that the cross stands for Christ and Christianity.3 The pinning of Don Quixote to the revolving blade of the windmill, an innovative ploy developed by G. W. Pabst and repeated by subsequent filmmakers from Kovinstev to Gilliam, resonates, perhaps parodically, with images of Christ on the cross-and, more specifically, with drawings and paintings of a crucified Don Quixote from Unamuno to Dali to steampunk graphic novelists Patricio Clarey and Lara Fuente.4 For filmmakers, Cervantes's description of the adventure in part one, chapter 8 (1605)-a mere page and a half in most editions-is brimming with cinematic potential, promising an explosion of spectatorial pleasure as expectant viewers witness a delusional middle-aged man, dressed as a knight, barrel into the revolving sails of a windmill (which, he thinks, is a giant) while his perplexed squire anxiously advises him not to do so. By shooting the sequence with a diverse collection of creative angles and camera movements, and by cutting the footage very quickly, Pabst effectively elevated the sequence to what we might call, with a nod to Eisenstein, the Odessa Steps of the Don Quixote film, employing Sancho's scream to move spectators toward a contemplative mode in which Don Quixote became relevant for the twentieth cen tury. Feodor Chaliapin, a Russian opera singer who had taken on the role of Don Quixote in Jules Massenet's Don Quichotte, envisioned this cinematic project as a vehicle for expressing his interest in Cervantes's character (see figure 2). For Baldelli, Pabst had merely extracted characters, situations, panoramas, and pieces of dialogue from the literary work to promote his private elegiac contemplation of the novel, transferring the filmmakers' own defeat and lonely exile onto Don Quixote.8 Ferran Herranz, confirming Baldelli's observation (albeit in more sophisticated terms), noted that the alternating poetic flashes of chivalric madness, of light-heartedness, and of premeditated irreverence toward the literary text, combined with Pabst's slapstick staging and the extremes of the knight's insanity (from the sublime to the superficially comical) produced a challenging, self-reflexive game, a joke at the novel's expense, one that infects itself with the novel's most irreverent meaning.9 While these criticisms-abridgment, excess, ludic lightheartedness, and willful irreverence-do not bode well for those expecting a transparent transition from the literary work to the film, they do highlight characteristics that comply perfectly with a monstra8 tive imperative whose goal is to make the spectator \"see something else\" and delight in the visual exhibition.

El secreto de sus ojos (2009) directed by Juan José Campanella and Zulu Love Letter (2004) by Ramadan Suleman are films made five years and 5000 miles apart. Though the locations and the players are different, much in the way that the two states attempted to terrorize the community were similar. More importantly, for the historical record and for the people who suffered these atrocities, the artifacts, such as film, theatre, and music, that arose and still rise in answer to the state-sponsored violence is another striking commonality. Through the examination of two of these two artifacts, I examine the similarities of what I call posttraumatic texts and do so across cultural and linguistic borders. Joshua Hirsch in Posttraumatic Cinema and the Holocaust Documentary attempts a theory at posttraumatic discourse in cinema. I will build on Hirsch's ideas yet divert from them in some significant ways. Hirsch uses traumatic images in the documentary form as a way of supporting his theory. Although documentaries have a great deal to teach us about certain traumas, they do not fit the definition of posttraumatic cinema for very specific reasons. Posttraumatic cultural products, which include theater, literature, music, and cinema, bear witness to trauma but must do so in a way that is not didactic. Moreover, posttraumatic cinema must explore without trying to create an argument or a specific explanation for what happened. I have chosen El secreto de sus ojos and Zulu Love Letter for a variety of different reasons, but foremost in my mind is the fact that these two films epitomize what I am calling posttraumatic film. Furthermore, since they were filmed five years apart in very different parts of the world with different cultures which suffered different types of state-induced trauma, the similarities in the way they address trauma are all the more striking.

This article examines the way in which the future of Europe is imagined in European cinema, especially in European speculative fiction and science fiction. The first part of this article discusses the dynamics and parameters within which European science fiction and European science fiction cinema navigate when they imagine the future face of Europe and the construction of pan-European identities. The second part of the article focuses on one example as a case study of cultural transfer to illustrate these processes: Damir Lukačević's film Transfer (2010, Germany), an adaptation of Mil euros por tu vida (2003), a short story by the Spanish science fiction writer Elia Barceló. The discussion pays attention to the cultural translation process from literature to film, from a Spanish to a German context, and to the changing image of the future. In drawing on other examples from contemporary European science fiction cinema for comparison, the analysis shows that both texts align with a wider European discourse on migration and race and, more specifically, are examples of a European imaginary that envision the future of Europe as shaped by Europe's colonial past, persistent racism, and continuing exploitation of the Global South.

This article examines Fatih Akın's 2017 film Aus dem Nichts (In the Fade) and Zafer Şenocak's 1998 novella Gefährliche Verwandtschaft (Perilous Kinship) by focusing on how each work represents the notion of personal responsibility through the recognition of the characters’ involuntary complicity in world historical atrocities. Both Akın and Şenocak create fictional situations of conflicting commitments and representations of transnational forms of solidarity in order to gesture toward the historical interconnectedness of characters who occupy uniquely hybrid cultural and ethnic positions. The article argues that what lies at the heart of both Akın's and Şenocak's inquiry into representations of violence is a profound concern with temporality—a concern that renders linguistic and geographic multiplicities secondary to the main issue of understanding and narrating past atrocities as an ever-present humanistic responsibility.

Juan de los muertos (2011), Cuba's self-proclaimed first horror film, gained international acclaim when it won Spain's Goya award for best Spanish-language foreign film on Feb 17, 2013. The film is an able zombie movie improved by its Cuban context, with survivors wrestling with new reasons to go to Miami as they weigh the abandonment of their country that the trip has always signified. On the less serious side, the film plays with the representation of Cuban media, with official television reports referring to the zombies as political dissidents trained by the CIA as part of a US imperialist plot. What director Alejandro Brugues is doing in this film, among other things, is participating in a creative process that recently has become pronounced in both global and Latin American cultural production--he is creating a kind of mashup of global pop culture on the one hand and Latin American lived reality on the other.

While several scholars have observed that this act condemns consumerism and McCarthyism, none have adequately explained its many references to real events and people.1 I will argue that Altolaguirre, from his new home in Mexico, was an acute observer of the events unfolding in the United States of the 1950s, and that \"El filtro\" allegorizes these events in a way that sharpens the contrast between Anglo and Hispanic cultures. If during the war they had deployed the Golden Age as a weapon against the Nationalists, Spain's cultural heritage now came to represent the humanist values that they saw as a bulwark against Anglo-American modernity. According to Sebastiaan Faber, they considered the Anglo world's \"capitalism and imperialism as expressions of a basic anti-humanist attitude; for them, a Hispanic modernity would be more human, more 'cultural,' less unjust\" (175). According to Faber, \"the key feature of hispanismo is its representation of the Hispanic world as a bastion of spirituality in an increasingly materialist world\" (177).

This article analyzes the trajectory of Makunaima, a myth originally collected by the German ethnologist Theodor Koch-Grünberg, among the Taurepang people, on the bor-der between Brazil, Venezuela and British Guiana. We used an interface between anthropol-ogy, literary theory, and semiotics of images to reflect on the ways this Amerindian \"cultural hero\" was adapted to the modernist literature of Mário de Andrade, and to the cinematic aes-thetics of Joaquim Pedro de Andrade. This set of mythological variants is analyzed by means of its main remaining characteristics, and its differential distances. This study aims, lastly, to apprehend the recurring elements that configure a Makunaimic poetics in those narratives. Keywords: Makunaima; Mythology; Literature; Cinema.

After nearly thirty years in development with numerous setbacks that were chronicled in the 2002 documentary Lost in La Mancha, Terry Gilliam’s film The Man who Killed Don Quixote (starring Adam Driver and Jonathan Pryce) was released in 2019 to mixed reviews. The movie will doubtless foster critical discussions of Gilliam’s engagement with Miguel de Cervantes’ best-known work for years to come, as the director’s treatment of Cervantine themes offers new readings of Don Quixote. I explore one such reading here by tracing the use of giants in both works and the individualism that these giants bring out in the works’ protagonists. The two works provide complementary solutions to a common problem: what should a protagonist in a position of privilege do when confronted by people who are not privileged? As we shall see, both works portray the non-elites as giants. In a loose sense, these giants evoke Abraham Bosse’s frontispiece for Thomas Hobbes’ Leviathan, a single body composed of many smaller ones showing the power of the many, though, in our discussion here, they are not united under a single sovereign. Rather, the giants capitalize on the tension between the protagonist and society.