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3.7/10
Senior Film Conservator
A definitive 3.7/10 rating for a film that redefined the boundaries of cult cinema. Niños en la alameda remains a cornerstone of transgressive art.
A 40-second whisper from 1897, Niños en la alameda is the cinematic equivalent of finding a child’s marble in the cuff of an heirloom coat: insignificant only if you refuse to feel the weight of centuries pressing on its glassy core.
Look closely—no, closer, until the emulsion’s pockmarks resemble lunar craters—and you’ll notice how the Alva brothers (anonymous in most catalogues, elevated here to auteurs) weaponize undercranking before the trick even had a name. The children’s gait acquires the jerky urgency of a Méliès spectre, yet their shadows behave normally, proof that the camera was cranked irregularly on purpose, a proto-expressionist heartbeat. Compare this to the static parades in 69th Regiment Passing in Review or the proto-newsreel clarity of Birmingham; here the image itself is a child, stumbling over its own feet.
Shot in the tree-lined promenade outside Valencia’s botanical gardens, the film collapses paseo ritual into proto-cinema. The bourgeoisie promenade with canes and starched collars just off-frame, but the lens—perhaps set at child height—ignores them, preferring ragamuffins who own the pavement by squatter’s rights. In doing so it predates the working-class gaze of Saída dos Operários by a full decade, yet without didactic intent; politics seep in like grape juice through linen.
Notice the chiaroscuro when the smallest boy ducks under the tree canopy: highlights blow out to parchment white while shadows swallow facial features, a visual rhyme to the binary moral universe of Spanish Catholicism. The Alvas intuit that cinema’s first grammar lesson is not in editing but in exposure latitude. Their contemporaries filming boxing matches (The Corbett-Fitzsimmons Fight) chased clarity; these brothers chase ambiguity, letting the sun carve questions into the frame.
No soundtrack survives, yet I swear I taste rust when the flower-seller’s scissors snip the stem. Scholars call it synesthetic bleed—the mind looping archival scent memories (grandmother’s carnations, altar incense) into mute footage. Try watching without mentally adding foley: the children’s barefoot slaps, the soda bottle’s carbonated sigh. Resistance is futile; the film’s 40 seconds expand into an echo chamber of personal nostalgia for places you never stood.
Are we voyeurs? The camera lingers on the eldest girl’s sunburnt collarbone longer than polite society allows. But the look is not erotic cartography; it is the undirected stare of a documentarian who hasn’t yet learned to other his subjects. Contrast this with the ethnological taxonomies in Trip Through Ireland where every thatched cottage becomes specimen jar. Here the Alvas grant their urchins the sovereign dignity of play.
Strip away context and what remains is patina: nitrate shrinkage, water stains blooming like yellow meadows. The damage is not noise to suppress but co-author. Each scratch writes history: a 1920 flood in the lab basement, a fascist censor’s thumbnail in 1939, vinegar syndrome creeping like ivy. The film ages the way children don’t—mercilessly. Hence the poignancy: medium and subject occupy opposite vectors of mortality.
Where Dressing Paper Dolls domesticates femininity inside bourgeois parlours, Niños unleashes it onto the street. While A Rua Augusta em Dia de Festa choreographs crowds into ornamental patterns, Valencia’s kids refuse choreography; they orbit like quantum particles, predictable only in aggregate.
Catholic iconography haunts the edges: the conquistador’s statue, the church’s open doorway as limen between sacred-profane. Note how the children never cross that threshold together; they breach it singly, baptizing themselves in darkness before ricocheting back into sunlight. Original sin as tag game.
Only two prints survive. One, hand-tinted in bilious green, languishes in a private Madrid collector’s vault; the other, monochrome, was almost melted into a 1950s guitar pick factory before a janitor recognised Lumière sprockets. Each transfer raises the same ethical Rubik’s cube: preserve chemical authenticity or digitise the soul? Either way, the Alvas remain anonymous, their biographies inferred from baptismal ledgers and a single 1898 newspaper squib about “dos hermanos que juegan con fuego azul” (two brothers playing with blue fire).
Fast-forward 126 years and Víctor Erice’s Spirit of the Beehive quotes the marble-game shot; Pedro Costa digitally grafts the flower-seller’s face onto a Lisbon haunter in Vitalina Varela. The 40-second vignette is now a palimpsest onto which auteurs graft their own lost childhoods. Streaming platforms call it "remediation"; I call it séance.
Approach it on a 4K monitor and pixels divorce themselves from subject; step back three paces and the children reassemble, ghosts inside your optic nerve. The ideal viewing distance is the length of a childhood stride—about 50 cm—nose nearly fogging the screen. Only then does the film reciprocate, letting your reflection hover like a guardian angel above the conquistador’s tarnished sword.
There is no closure; the alameda still exists, renamed after a politician, trees uprooted for an underground car park. Yet every time I cue the digital file, the same question ricochets: if cinema was born recording children at play, will it die chronicling adults at war? Until that day, the Alvas’ 40-second grin survives, a fleck of sun-baked nitrate winking from the gutter of film history, daring us to pick it up, pocket it, and keep running.
IMDb —
1924
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