Balearic

Three fierce dogs keep a group of young people trapped in the pool of a luxury house they have sneaked into, while the neighbors celebrate the start of summer at a nearby party. It is St. John’s Eve, a time ripe for magic. In Balearic, Ion de Sosa transforms the sun-drenched Mediterranean landscape into a stage of moral horror, where indolence becomes the most insidious form of violence. Following four adolescents as they trespass into the garden of a luxury villa, the film exposes the invisible walls of privilege and the quiet cruelty of a complacent society. Under the glaring sun, laughter and celebrations mask a systemic apathy: the real monster is not mythical but structural, thriving in the distance between comfort and conscience. Filmed in 16 mm, with a luminous, rough texture that evokes the visual language of Spain’s Transition-era cinema, Balearic channels both the influence of Carlos Saura and José Luis García Sánchez, and the moral absurdities of Luis Buñuel. The pool, the house, the party—all become mirrors of generational and social fractures, where the young inherit both the freedom and the constraints imposed by the elders’ decadence. Within El futuro ya no está aquí, Balearic resonates as a contemporary echo of El desencanto. Like Chávarri’s documentary, De Sosa interrogates the inheritance of unspoken histories and the tensions between generations. While El desencanto traced disillusionment within a family emblematic of cultural prestige in post-Franco Spain, Balearic extends this genealogy to a society at large, showing how the comforts of the present can conceal the violence and indifference that continue to shape our collective future.