DIRECTOR SPOTLIGHTElena Gilda
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What inspired you to uncover and share the story of your great-grandmother?
It was a moment when everything connected. First, there were the personal questions about the silence surrounding her and my relationship with my grandmother, Pepi. She had Alzheimer’s, and the way I grew up with her was completely different from what I had imagined. I was the one asking others about her—what she liked, what she was like—until I asked about Pepi’s mother, and no one seemed to know what had happened to her.
It was a moment when everything connected. First, there were the personal questions about the silence surrounding her and my relationship with my grandmother, Pepi. She had Alzheimer’s, and the way I grew up with her was completely different from what I had imagined. I was the one asking others about her—what she liked, what she was like—until I asked about Pepi’s mother, and no one seemed to know what had happened to her.
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During my time in primary and high school, I had some wonderful history teachers—whose names I can’t quite recall, but I remember 100% of what I learned from them, and how they taught us with commitment. This sparked a connection to the critical thinking I later developed with my friends and at university, especially in María Ruido’s classes (who also mentored my project). For me, the balance between theory and real-life experience is crucial, and I felt this was a moment where all these processes converged. I had to act. Making films, for me, is another form of political and critical expression—a way to contribute even a small part to the vast potential of imagination in this very peculiar and terrifying narrative we find ourselves in.
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How does your film connect your family’s history with the broader memory of the Spanish Civil War?
The most important thing for me is that Joaquima’s case represents one of millions of similar stories—of people who, during the Spanish Civil War, were not aligned with the system and faced violence in their own bodies and lives. This issue is not confined to Spain, as we see similar patterns of violence and oppression around the world (though without underestimating the specific violence of each context/state) where the intersection of patriarchy, capitalism and colonialism works as a perfect combination to oppress in every way it is possible. When I talk with friends in Spain, for example, these stories often emerge: "an aunt, an uncle who never married, the town madman, the spinster, or the crazy cat lady" and isn't a coincidence. Mental health has always been another tool of control. The silence around the Spanish Civil War and its aftermath is now exploding in our faces. It was literally a "pact of silence" (there are many documentaries on this, but El silencio de otros by Almudena Carracedo and Robert Bahar is particularly illuminating) and families like mine simply didn't talk about it, and now, as we see in the present, those silences are louder than ever.
For me, history is not linear. We grow up believing that events follow a straight timeline, but I don't think it's that simple. The past is always affecting the present, and it's impossible to ignore what happened. In Spain, there is a great fear of losing the "official" narrative, even when we look back before the Civil War and especially regarding the lack of historical reparations for the crimes committed during the colonial era, where these power relations persist today. As Kae Tempest sings in their song Lessons: "The lessons will come again tomorrow, If they're not learned today." For me, history is like this: "a constant succession of cause and effect" as my friends Marta and Bernat say in the film.
The most important thing for me is that Joaquima’s case represents one of millions of similar stories—of people who, during the Spanish Civil War, were not aligned with the system and faced violence in their own bodies and lives. This issue is not confined to Spain, as we see similar patterns of violence and oppression around the world (though without underestimating the specific violence of each context/state) where the intersection of patriarchy, capitalism and colonialism works as a perfect combination to oppress in every way it is possible. When I talk with friends in Spain, for example, these stories often emerge: "an aunt, an uncle who never married, the town madman, the spinster, or the crazy cat lady" and isn't a coincidence. Mental health has always been another tool of control. The silence around the Spanish Civil War and its aftermath is now exploding in our faces. It was literally a "pact of silence" (there are many documentaries on this, but El silencio de otros by Almudena Carracedo and Robert Bahar is particularly illuminating) and families like mine simply didn't talk about it, and now, as we see in the present, those silences are louder than ever.
For me, history is not linear. We grow up believing that events follow a straight timeline, but I don't think it's that simple. The past is always affecting the present, and it's impossible to ignore what happened. In Spain, there is a great fear of losing the "official" narrative, even when we look back before the Civil War and especially regarding the lack of historical reparations for the crimes committed during the colonial era, where these power relations persist today. As Kae Tempest sings in their song Lessons: "The lessons will come again tomorrow, If they're not learned today." For me, history is like this: "a constant succession of cause and effect" as my friends Marta and Bernat say in the film.
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Why did you choose to use both archival footage and new images, and how do they work together in the film?
I love exploring archives and the narratives they hold, trying to discover both old and new ways of conveying what I want to express. Sometimes, I feel it can be a trap—especially for this short film—but I often work with found footage, as I love the way old videos resonate in our memories. I try to be very subtle in my approach to both archival material and the images I film myself. It's a huge responsibility, especially now, when we’re collapsing with so many images. |
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Your work often challenges traditional storytelling. How did that influence the way you told this story?
While filming and editing the movie (which I did simultaneously), I had to figure out where I stood, how I wanted to approach the material, and be confident in my own voice. The first edits were structured like a documentary for a history channel, which is fine, but after showing it to my tutor, she said: "Okay, but where are you in this story? What do you want to say?" That hit me hard. I started to cry because she was absolutely right.
While filming and editing the movie (which I did simultaneously), I had to figure out where I stood, how I wanted to approach the material, and be confident in my own voice. The first edits were structured like a documentary for a history channel, which is fine, but after showing it to my tutor, she said: "Okay, but where are you in this story? What do you want to say?" That hit me hard. I started to cry because she was absolutely right.
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The film balances irony with sensitivity. How did you approach these emotional tones in such a personal story?
For me, irony (in a critical way) is a personal approach to life, and it’s the same way I approach my films. Just like everything in life is political, I have no doubt about this, and it affects me on every level. I feel that making films is an important part of this—today, we live in a world where no one wants to feel uncomfortable, but avoiding discomfort is making us going in the wrong direction. Trying to ignore the painful realities happening around us only gives space for fascism, nazism, and zionism (plus all the systems that are going, basically, against human rights) to rise up again. Irony, for me, is an effective tool to dismantle hate speech and the grotesque justifications for war crimes and genocides that we’re witnessing live. |
What do you hope people will take away from this look at memory, family, and history?
If just one person watches my short film (or the work of some of my incredibly talented political colleagues) and feels, thinks, or changes their perspective—and then shares that with someone else, helping them realize that another world is possible—then that’s enough for me.
I’m working on a new film, and all the conversations I have with my friends and those around me (who are where I learn everything) are focused on finding love and hope. It's essential to bring the past into the present, as I highlight in the short film. The parallels are so clear, and we must confront them head-on right now, day by day in any sfera we can.
If just one person watches my short film (or the work of some of my incredibly talented political colleagues) and feels, thinks, or changes their perspective—and then shares that with someone else, helping them realize that another world is possible—then that’s enough for me.
I’m working on a new film, and all the conversations I have with my friends and those around me (who are where I learn everything) are focused on finding love and hope. It's essential to bring the past into the present, as I highlight in the short film. The parallels are so clear, and we must confront them head-on right now, day by day in any sfera we can.
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Elena Gilda (Barcelona, 1997) graduated in Fine Arts from the University of Barcelona. Based in Berlin and currently working in critical&social researches from a political and self-questioning perspective where the focus is on memories, inheritances and power relations. The balance between irony and all that is sensible -personal and collective- is presented in their audiovisual works characterized by day-to-day life images, materials and contents.
You can find more about their work here : Elena Gilda |
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