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“More Than a Trip”:
Migration as Memory, Mobility and Space in Un Franco,
14 Pesetas (2004)
Araceli Masterson-Algar
University of Kansas
______________________________________
In Un Franco, 14 Pesetas (2004), Carlos Iglesias tells the story of Spanish
migration to Central Europe during the 1960s through a fictional remembering of
his family’s years as immigrants to Uzwil, in the Swiss eastern province of
Toggenburg. His memories of the Swiss landscape, luminous, green, and open
contrast with a grim, grey and enclosed Madrid, both origin and end of the six-year
journey. This essay explores the interrelation between memory, space, and human
mobility in Un Franco, 14 Pesetas. Through a journey of migration to Switzerland,
Iglesias tells a story of return to Madrid, and unveils the contradictions of Spain’s
so-called ‘economic miracle’ of the 1960s. Merging experiences of arrival and
departure, presents and pasts, Iglesias’s film shows how immigration is rooted in
space, and inseparable from economic, political and social processes that are
historically specific.
______________________________________
Araceli Masterson-Algar is Associate Professor at the University of Kansas. She
works on the intersection of urban cultural studies and human mobility. Her
published research is largely on Ecuador-Spain migration dynamics, and
specifically on the ties between transnational social processes, cultural production,
and urban planning in both Quito and Madrid. Araceli has authored Ecuadorians
in Madrid: Migrants Place in Urban History (Palgrave 2016), and co-edited ‘Migrant
Deaths in the Arizona Desert: La Vida no Vale Nada (University of Arizona Press,
2016). She is Associate Editor of the Journal of Urban Cultural Studies.
______________________________________
In his short story “El otro yo,” Jorge Luis Borges imagines his alter ego in
Switzerland, where he lived as a child, from a bench that is “en dos tiempos y en
dos sitios” [in two times and at two locations].1 Borges’s memories materialize
through idealized Swiss landscapes, where memory and forgetting converge.
More recently, in his film Un Franco, 14 Pesetas (2004) Carlos Iglesias remembers
his childhood in Uzwil, in the Swiss eastern province of Toggenburg from 1960 to
1966, through a story of Spanish migration to Central Europe. In the film, Martín
(Carlos Iglesias) and his close friend Marcos (Javier Gutiérrez) lose their jobs at
the Pegaso factory on the outskirts of Madrid, and migrate to Switzerland to work
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as industrial mechanics in Uzwil. After falling prey to a real estate scam that meant
the loss of one year of remittances, Pilar, Martín’s wife (Nieve de Medina), and
their son Pablo (Iván Martín and Tim Frederic Quast) join Martín in Switzerland,
where they live until their return to Madrid five years later. Their memories of the
Swiss landscape, as luminous, green, and open as those of Borges’s story,
contrast with a grim, grey and enclosed Madrid, both origin and end of the six-year
journey.
This essay explores the interrelation between memory, space, and
human mobility in Un Franco, 14 Pesetas. Merging experiences of arrival and
departure, presents and pasts, Iglesias´s film shows how immigration is rooted in
space, and inseparable from economic, political and social processes that are
historically specific. Through a journey of migration to Switzerland, Iglesias tells a
story of return to Madrid, and unveils the contradictions of Spain’s so-called
‘economic miracle’ of the 1960s.
Although Un Franco, 14 Pesetas is normally included in the corpus of recent
films addressing migration to Spain, it stands apart in important ways. Namely, its
protagonists are Spanish nationals, and their journey is above all, and as will be
further developed, one of return. Furthermore, the film’s biographical and
autobiographical elements challenge its general categorization as a fiction piece.
Adrián Sáez notes how Iglesias “recupera y retuerce para la ficción retazos de su
biografía personal” [recuperates and twists patches of his personal biography into
fiction] (57). Yet, rather than using the term ‘fiction,’ Iglesias explains the script as
a merging of memories: those collected through interviews with 58 Spanish and
Italian families who migrated to Switzerland during the 1960s, his parents’
memories, and his own (Iglesias, “The making”). Thus, the main characters, Martín
(played by Carlos Iglesias himself) and Pilar, are based on the director’s father and
mother respectively. It follows that their son, Pablo, is an autobiographical young
Iglesias.
As an expression of a collective history through individual memories, Un
Franco, 14 Pesetas draws attention to the absences, erasures and silences at the
margins of dominant narratives of Spanish migration. For instance, Isolina
Ballesteros finds Iglesias’s approximation to migration “unusual” in its largely
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positive account of Spanish immigrants’ experience in Switzerland (255). Carlos
Iglesias on his part, describes the difficulties in selling a story that digresses from
master narratives of migration to Central Europe during the Franco regime:
“Había gente que quería ver a suizos malísimos tratando mal a los
emigrantes, y otros suizos que querían ver a la Guardia Civil pegando a
los obreros a la salida de Pegaso. Como yo me resistía a ponerlo, tuve
que ir pasando de productores hasta que encontré a alguien que creyó en
la historia tal y como yo la contaba. [Some people wanted me to show the
terrible treatment of Spanish immigrants at the hands of the Swiss, and
some Swiss wanted to see Spain’s Civil Guard beating the workers at the
entrance to the Pegaso factory. Because I resisted including that, I went
from producer to producer until someone believed in the story as I wanted
to tell it] (Coucero).
Indeed, Un Franco, 14 Pesetas does not explicitly address the mistreatment of
Spanish immigrants in Switzerland, nor does it use their story to convey a political
position against the Franco regime.2 Rather, it is an invitation to think the
interrelation between individual memories and collective histories, and between
lived experience and its narratives: “Que cada uno saque sus conclusiones de lo
que fue, lo que somos, lo que fuimos, como nos trataron, como tratamos; que cada
uno sacara sus conclusiones” [Let each of us draw our own conclusions of what it
was, of who we are, what we were, of how we were treated and how we treat
others; let each draw their conclusions] (Iglesias, “The making”).
Following on Michel Foucault, Patrick Hutton highlights how “rather than
returning to some mythical beginning and working forward, the historian would do
better to proceed from the present backward” (112). Un Franco, 14 Pesetas stems
from contemporary migration dynamics in Madrid in order to evoke memories of
Switzerland, decades after Iglesias’s return to Madrid at the age of sixteen. The
director himself confirms his project as part and parcel of present day migration
debates in Spain: “se me ocurrió que a lo mejor era necesario contar nuestra
emigración hacia centro Europa en los años 60” [I thought that maybe it was
necessary to address our emigration to Central Europe during the 1960s] (Iglesias,
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“The making”). This is further strengthened in the words that close the final scene:
“Dedicado a ellos, a todos ellos” [Dedicated to them, to every one of them]. Thus,
Iglesias evokes the power of Spain’s collective memory of migration (our
emigration) to question narratives of ‘us’ and ‘them’ through time and space, and
to confirm the film as a creative process that is active and unfinished.
Memory, as noted by Geoffrey White, is the cultural expression of “social
practices, embodied emotions, and material landscapes that move individuals and
communities alike.” It is therefore as much about the past as it is about the present
and its imagined futures (335). This is certainly the case in Un Franco, 14 Pesetas,
where personal experiences speak to larger social processes in an effort that
prioritizes remembering over representations of the past. As Iglesias explains:
“En cualquier caso, esta es una historia contada desde la perspectiva y la
comprensión que da el tiempo, y desde la ternura y humanidad que da el
haberla vivido” [Ultimately, this is a story told from the perspective and
understanding that time provides, and from the tenderness and humanity of
having lived it] (Coucero).
As the quote above suggests, the collapsing of time and space through individual
and collective memories is not an impediment to remember, nor a slip from fact to
‘fiction’, but rather, a strengthening of memory’s possibilities in the present.
Offering a narrative for past-presents and present-futures, Carlos Iglesias
returns to his memories of Switzerland, in order to address the distance between
his parents’ experience of return to Madrid, a city they knew well, and his arrival
as a 16 year-old-boy to a city he did not choose. Iglesias spent much of his
childhood, and all of his schooling, in Switzerland. Hence, in the film, Pablo
understands his parents’ decision to return to Madrid as a departure that will
eventually bring him back to Uzwil. As he explains to his friends, he will return
because, “Yo no soy inmigrante. Yo crecí aqui” [I am not an immigrant. I grew up
here]. Thus, contrary to his parents’ journey, Pablo’s arrival to Madrid is not a return
home, but a departure that rearticulates master narratives of Spanish migration to
Central Europe into an embodied personal memory of the “sentimiento amargo
tremendo de la vuelta a Madrid en el 66” [tremendous bitter feeling of the return to
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Madrid in 1966]. Under this light, Iglesias’s film is not so much a story of emigration
from Spain to Switzerland, as it is a return to a Madrid immersed in massive
urbanization during the period known as the ‘economic miracle’ of the 1960s. This
journey, physical and imaginary, is one of movement, of its reach, possibilities and
limitations, as contingent on social hierarchies that extend well beyond national
boundaries but that are nonetheless anchored in specific time and space. Hence,
attention to the ties between memory, mobility and space in Un Franco, 14 Pesetas
opens a window into Madrid’s recent history.
“More than a trip”: Bridges
Changes in Spain’s agrarian practices due to industrialization, high unemployment
and increased social tensions led, starting in the 1950s, to an estimated seven
million Spaniards (nearly 20% of the population) leaving rural areas and settling in
cities. Approximately two million of them took the journey to Central and Northern
Europe, where the end of the Second World War marked a period of economic
growth. In turn, their remittances, estimated in well over three thousand million
dollars, fueled the Spanish economy (Riera Ginestar 44-48).3 Inseparable from
these processes, in 1953, the Franco Regime signed the ‘Pacto de Madrid’ that
allowed the United States to install U.S. military bases in Spain in exchange for
support in foreign investments. Malcolm Compitello (1999, 2003a, 2003b) and
others highlight this moment as Madrid’s surrender to the dynamics of capital.
Immersed in continued demographic growth, the city became the grounds for
Franco’s turn to “full engagement in city-building business” (Richardson 15),
marked by alliances of the Regime with real estate and construction industries.4
Spain’s cinematic production spoke to the above processes, showing a
gradual transition from the idealization of rural Spain in films from the 1940s to
narratives of middle-class urban consumption and leisure starting in the 1950s.5
Un Franco, 14 Pesetas draws from the tragicomedy and neorealist aesthetics of
this filmic genealogy (Iglesias, “The making”) to address Madrid through the
experiences of migration and displacement of three generations: Martín’s parents,
Martín and Pilar, and Pablo. This tie is made explicit when Martín’s mother
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critiques her son’s decision to move to Switzerland. Her husband replies with a
question that ties their migration from rural Spain to Madrid to their son’s decision
to leave for Switzerland: “¿Y tú, en tu pueblo?” [what about you and your village?].
Broadly, Iglesias’s film inserts itself in a genealogy of popular culture through
memories of travel; that is, through the ways in which movement and displacement
–lived and imagined– unveil the entwinement between Spain’s so-called
“economic miracle” of the 1950s and 60s, Madrid’s urban processes, and the lived
experiences of its residents.
Un Franco, 14 Pesetas structures the narrative through the experience of
travel. But, as the promotional poster for the film announces [See figure 1], this
Figure 1.
journey is “mucho más que un viaje” [much more than a trip]; it is the starting point
of a path to a new life [“Iniciaban el camino hacia una nueva vida”]. The
accompanying image shows Martín and Pablo sitting facing each other atop a
bridge in the moment in the film when Pablo learns of his parents’ decision to return
to Madrid. Richard Dennis analyzes the bridge as a space of hopes and fears, of
opportunities and threats (20), precisely all the contradictions at play in the various
implications of this return for each member of the family. This medium-long shot
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marks the start of the end of the film, while further reinforcing the salience of the
return to Madrid over the arrival to Switzerland. As a structure that is inherently
for passage and transition, the bridge also connects the characters’ specific
experiences of departure and return across generations, simultaneously affirming
individual and collective histories.
Smets and Shannon explain that some of Switzerland’s bridges date to the
14th century, and were built for pilgrims on their way to Santiago de Compostela
(128). In a way, Carlos Iglesias’s return to his childhood in Switzerland via the film
is a form of pilgrimage. Under this light, the bridge connects Madrid to the
landscapes of Switzerland, offering a means to convey the distance between
Martín and Pilar’s return to Madrid, and Pablo’s departure to his parents’ location
of return. In other words, in order to understand his place in Madrid’s built
environment, Carlos Iglesias must return to ‘the source;’ that is, to the idyllic
landscapes that hold his memories in Switzerland. Vladimir Jankélevitch
addressed this process in regards to Franz Liszt’s piece Années de pèlerinage,
where the composer explores his physical and spiritual response to the Swiss
landscape:
The very intention of the pilgrim (when not making a homecoming) is to
return to the source, whatever source that might be, the way one finds in
Italy the origins of Western civilization, or in Switzerland, primitive nature.
At the edge of the source-spring: during his year in Switzerland, the
emotional pilgrim saw the wellspring of primal waters rise forth from the
glacier, listened to their sweet, soft murmurings, saw their childlike games.
One never makes a pilgrimage to Chicago –unless one has grown up there,
or by chance, loved and suffered there” (Jankélevitch 345)6
Bergson and Bachelard, Deleuze and Guattari, as well as other scholars in
mobility studies have insisted on the journey as an embodied experience. To them,
the physical experience of moving rearticulates how we perceive the relation
between ourselves and the world. Above all, moving is an embodied experience
that articulates the interrelation between the imagined and the material: “The body
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especially senses as it moves” (Urry, Mobilities 48). Drawing from the metaphor of
memory as a journey, Beatriz Sarlo addresses remembrance as a form of healing
the alienation of the migrant body (51) –that is, an embodied experience. The
journey proposed by Iglesias, imagined and physical, acts as an embodiment of
memory, and as such a venue to heal. In Un Franco, 14 Pesetas, Iglesias returns
to Switzerland through memories that are past, present and future, and that weave
through the continuities of departures and returns. Ultimately, this trip is about the
process of remembering, as a venue of return through the remaking of a
destination. Hence, after six years in Switzerland, Martín, Pilar and Pablo do not
return to the city where they once lived, but to one they had to make. In this journey,
memory –lined inevitably with departures– ties migration and space to embodied
experiences, and offers a bridge between individual and collective memories that
preference the human experience over national narratives. Thus, Carlos Iglesias
provides what Raquel Rubio-Goldsmith describes as ‘memories with warnings’
(35). Through Martín’s story, Iglesias merges his memory with that of his parents,
and with those of the millions of Spaniards who left for northern Europe during the
1960s. In turn, audiences are invited to remember (and are reminded of) their
connections to the millions of migrants arriving to Spain today.
Prior to leaving Switzerland, Martín seeks Hanna (Isabel Blanco), former
lover and owner of the pension where he lived during his first year in Uzwil, to let
her know of his decision to return to Spain. Her one-word reply, ‘Heimat,’
addresses her deep understanding of Martín’s decision. Loosely translated from
German as “sense of place,” ‘Heimat’ is a broader concept than ‘home.’ For Peter
Blickle ‘Heimat’ is “fictionalized and idealized by the subjective forces of nostalgia
and melancholy,” “the product of alienation,” and a “wish to return to a (fictional)
place of innocence” (67).7 Hanna understands Martín’s return as a response to the
longing of what was left behind. Yet, ‘Heimat’ holds the grounds that bridge
Martín’s return to Madrid with Pablo’s departure from Uzwil, merging Carlos
Iglesias’s memories of departure from Switzerland as a child to those of his father’s
return to Spain. Carlos Iglesias himself describes Uzwil as his "kleine/small
Heimat" for which he still gets "Heimweh"; that is, the longing to return to the
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Heimat (“Das Leben”). The landscape of Switzerland serves, therefore, as the
visual expression of a shared experience of ´Heimat´ that spans generations, while
paving the family’s return to Madrid. Ultimately, Un Franco, 14 Pesetas grounds
the journey from Spain to Switzerland and back, departing from a basement in a
building in Madrid’s neighborhood of Argüelles, and concluding on the third floor
of a public housing project in the capital’s peripheral neighborhood of San Blas.
Departure #1: A Plane Flying in the Basement
At the start of the film, Martín, Pilar, Pablo and his grandparents live in the
basement of an upper-class housing unit in Madrid’s central neighborhood of
Argüelles, where Martín’s father works as doorman and caretaker. In the opening
scene, Pilar’s voice in off calls the name ‘Martín’ as the camera pans down from a
low angle shot of two small windows above to the bodies of the couple lying on the
bed of the small room they share with their son. The flashes coming into the
bedroom from the headlights of cars passing by point to the spatial constraints that
ultimately drive Martín’s decision to migrate, and highlight the contradictions in
place between Madrid’s modernity, and the lived experiences of many of its
residents. This is particularly salient, given Martín’s employment as an industrial
mechanic in Pegaso, one of Europe’s leading European industrial vehicle makers
at the time.
Hence, from the off start, the family’s home “below” one of Madrid’s
emblematic bourgeoisie neighborhoods reveals the interrelation between social
hierarchies and differential access to space. Dark extreme-low and extreme-high
angle shots within closed frames, and shots of passersby’s feet walking outside
the family’s bedroom window convey the corporeal experience of living in the
basement [See figure 2]. This is most evident in a crane shot of Martín and his
father conversing in the interior patio of their home. On the receiving end of the
dust falling from the beating of rugs on the floors above, their location in the
basement translates into coughing and the rush to seek cover. In a later scene,
Pilar learns that Martín has lost his job as the camera transitions from a low-angle
shot of her feet to a high-angle shot of a very young Pablo playing on the floor with
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a toy airplane. Thus, while the camera conveys social fragmentation as on par with
the spatial constraints of the basement, Pablo raises his toy plane above his head
anticipating imagination and possibility. The paradox of a plane in the basement
sets the grounds for the family’s journey, first to Switzerland by train, back to
Madrid by car, and, ultimately, through the city on foot.
Figure 2.
Departure #2: Trains Crossing Landscapes
Martín and his family depart Madrid’s urban setting and arrive by train in the Swiss
landscape which they experience for its striking beauty. As Pilar exclaims upon
arrival, “¡Pero qué bonito es todo! [Everything is so so beautiful!]. Tim Ingold
defines the landscape as “the taskscape made visible” (167). The shots of Uzwil,
real and imaginary, nature and culture, are the visual testimony of Carlos Iglesias’s
memories, and a means for their insertion in a larger collective history; that is, in
“the lives and works of past generations who have left there something of
themselves” (Ingold, 167). The choice of the train is key to this process.
Reati identifies the train as a “disparador de memorias individuales y/o
sociales” [trigger of individual and social memories] (13). A recurrent metaphor,
trains are a means to evoke nostalgia, and their presence is a constant in Spanish
films addressing Spain’s migration history. 8 The scenes of Martín and Marcos’
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departure at the train station in Madrid tap into the imagery of Spain’s collective
memory. Diegetic sounds of the station, flat colors and low lighting, abrupt
transitions between medium shots, close-ups and extreme close-ups of faces and
of the iconic ‘maletas de cartón’ [cardboard suitcases] enhance the anguish of the
departure while in dialogue with historical footage of immigrants at train stations
through the 1960s.
Sarah Misemer highlights the role of the train as “a vehicle to convey major
shifts in frameworks of perception from the 19th century to present” (19). Along
these lines, as Urry and others have noted, the rail flattened and subdued the
countryside, while also having a decisive role in urban processes from the 19th
century to present. By offering a visual experience of the land as landscape, train
travel changed our relationship to nature, time and space (Urry 94-102)9. These
processes are beautifully conveyed in Un Franco, 14 Pesetas, where the journey
by train marks a transition from the high, low and tilted shots and closed frames of
life in Madrid to the visual order of the Swiss landscape. Once the train takes off,
the constrained and fragmented space of life in Spain’s capital gives way to a
horizontal continuum of middle, long, crisply colored panoramic shots of the Swiss
Alps.
Yet, as a symbol of 19th century progress, the train is promise and
possibility, but also agent of pollution and danger (Smets and Kelly 123). Hence, it
mediates between modernity as progress and modernity as delusion and, it
follows, between imaginaries of tradition and progress (Reati 13). Along similar
lines, Bracamonte describes the train as a means to work through the interrelation
of the cultural and the urban, and a metaphor for the hope and destruction of socalled modern development (35). In Un Franco, 14 Pesetas, hope and fear,
possibility and loss find their expression through the immigrant bodies aboard the
train. This is particularly telling during Pilar and Pablo’s travel to reunite with Martín.
Middle and low angle shots convey the hardship of the train ride, showing Pilar
standing up through the night with Pablo lying on the suitcases at her feet. The
camera pans out to show the window behind them, lit with the colors of dawn.
Furthermore, hope and nostalgia combine in the train’s forward move as the
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camera moves to the right to reveal the source of the sonic accompaniment to
these scenes: a migrant worker intoning the popular Spanish song “Los
campanilleros”, an evocation of rural Andalucía, Spain’s southern region (See
figure 3). The overlap of the sonic allusions to rural Spain with the visual scenery
of Switzerland outside the window highlight the interrelation between memory and
hope in the migrants’ journey. Thus, rural Spain –an imagined ‘home’– serves as
backdrop to Pilar and Pablo’s arrival in the natural landscape of Switzerland, also
markedly contrasting with their actual home in Madrid’s basement.
Figure 3.
Thus, the migrants’ journey by train moves forward, albeit looking back to a
return “home” –or rather, to a place and time that never existed; as noted by
Richardson, to “a purely aesthetic dream […] of a time when space and place could
be observed and organized” (88). Carlos Iglesias sums his memory of the journey
from Madrid to Uzwil as a ride from a basement to a garden:
“Un día mi madre me cogió, me llevo al tren, pasamos muchas horas de
pie en el vagón, y…¡Llegamos a un jardín! Salí del sótano y me llevaron a
un lugar maravilloso con un río, bosques, donde podía ir con la bicicleta”
[One day my mother grabbed me by the hand, and took me to the train. We
spent many hours standing on the train car and…We arrived at a garden! I
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left the basement and they took me to a wonderful place with a river, and
woods, where I could ride my bicycle] (Coucero).
The reiteration of the topics of migration and of the rural-urban divide in Spanish
cinema must be understood, warns Richardson, as venues to address the
interrelation between people and their spaces of habitation. Through the train ride
from the basement to the garden, Un Franco, 14 Pesetas offers somewhat of a
mirror image of the rural-urban divide in Spain’s cinematic tradition, while drawing
from its aesthetics. Iglesias himself describes his memory and representation of
Switzerland as “verde, lleno de luz, como un cuento” [green, luminous, like a fairy
tale] (Iglesias, “The making”). The choice of the term ‘cuento’ (in this context, ‘fairy
tale’) confirms the film’s insertion in a genealogy of Spanish film addressing the
dynamics of global capital through the urban-rural divide. Specifically, Iglesias
draws a link to the classic film Bienvenido Mr. Marshall (Luis García Berlanga,
1952), where a voice in-off introduces the Spanish rural village of Villar del Río as
a ‘modern day fairy tale’: “Érase una vez un pueblo” [Once upon a time there was
a village]. As noted by Richardson, Berlanga lampoons the dreams of overnight
prosperity that official discourse saw in the dictator’s pact with Eisenhower in 1953
and ensuing ‘economic miracle’ (36). Along these lines, Un Franco, 14 Pesetas,
turns to Swiss idyllic landscapes to address the inequities of Madrid’s urban growth
during the same period.
Departure #3: A Car Entering the City
Madrid is the structural frame of the idyllic landscapes of Switzerland. In fact, and
as Carlos Iglesias explains, the natural landscape of Switzerland ‘opened their
eyes’ to Madrid’s built environment:
“Mi padre dice que los mejores años de su vida fueron los que pasó en
Suiza, de 1960 a 1966. Vivir allí nos abrió los ojos y fue muy difícil encajar
la vuelta” [My father says that his years in Switzerland between 1960 and
1966 were the best in his life. Living there opened our eyes, and it was very
difficult to process the return] (Coucero).
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Like Martín’s family, by the mid 1970s, most Spaniards in Central Europe were
back in Spain undergoing a second journey –one of return. Their remittances had
fueled the Spanish economy and opened opportunities for those who never had to
leave. The bulk of their earnings went to the purchase of apartments in Spain’s
urban centers, and particularly in the capital (Sorel 52). Aligned with this general
narrative, Martín and his family return to an apartment in Madrid, and they do so
by car, a symbol of consumer culture, middle-class status and transition to
adulthood.10 Yet this car, although it does mark an end to Pablo’s childhood, is in
no way an expression of upward social mobility. Hence, counter to his father’s
forward-gaze in a train to Switzerland six years earlier, Pablo looks back through
the car’s rear window as Switzerland’s landscape dissolves into the walls of
asphalt of Madrid’s crowded housing (see figures 4 and 5).
Figure 4.
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Figure 5.
The journey by car leaves behind the luminosity and panoramic views of
Switzerland and returns to the tilted and fragmented shots of their lives in Madrid
six years earlier. Pilar, standing with her family in the terrace with no view of their
newly acquired apartment, comments on the irony of such return: “En seis años
hemos subido tres pisos y encima está usado” [In six years we have moved up
three floors, and into a used apartment] (1:13:37). Their only view from this terrace
is onto other terraces and poorly water-washed walls (see figures 6 and 7). In short,
neither the family’s return by car, nor the acquisition of an apartment in Madrid
aligns with narratives of migration as upward social mobility. Rather, their move
from a basement in the centric neighborhood of Argüelles to the third floor of an
affordable housing unit on Madrid’s peripheries speaks to growing inequities in the
capital’s recent urban history; it thus challenges the celebratory discourse of
Spain’s ‘desarrollismo’ during the 1960s by turning attention to the grounded
experiences of its residents.
Following the signing of treaties between the Franco Regime and the
United States in the 1950s, and its ensuing ‘economic miracle’ of the 1960s,
Madrid continued to experience constant demographic growth fed through
alliances among the State, finance and real estate interests, and construction
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Figure 6.
Figure 7.
companies –ironically, the same formula of the financial crises of 2008, only four
years after the film’s release. Through the 1960s Madrid, “immersed in outward
and upward growth with the arrival of more bodies than the existing infrastructure
could accommodate,” showcased over four million new dwellings (Richardson 11-
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15). The voice of the narrator in the classic Spanish film La ciudad no es para mi
(Pedro Lazaga, 1966) spoke to these processes:
“Madrid, capital de España: dos millones seiscientos cuarenta y siete mil
doscientos cincuenta y tres habitantes. Crecimiento vegetativo: ciento
veintinueve personas cada día […] y casas,
casas en construcción,
montañas de casas en construcción.” [Madrid, capital of Spain: population,
two million six hundred and forty-seven thousand inhabitants. Demographic
growth: One hundred and twenty-nine persons per day […] and houses,
houses under construction, piles of houses under construction!] (2’18”-3’
53”).
Although the above reference inserts Un Franco, 14 Pesetas in the genealogy of
Spanish films addressing migration to Spain’s capital since the 1940s, the absolute
absence of Madrid’s emblematic buildings or avenues throughout the film
highlights Iglesias’s priority in presenting the city as lived over its representations.
The difficulty of gaining access to housing, an outcome of the corrupt
alliances between the Franco regime and the construction and real estate
industries, is a key force pushing the family out of Madrid, while simultaneously
impeding their social mobility. At the start of the film, desperate to leave the
basement in Argüelles, and unaware that Martín had just become unemployed,
Pilar makes the down payment on an apartment in the outskirts of Madrid. Her long
journey by bus to the construction site illustrates the extent to which the city was
spreading its reach through concessions to construction and real estate
companies. Un Franco, 14 Pesetas denounces the corruption of many of these
alliances, when Pilar finds out that they had lost one year of Martin’s remittances
to a scam. The contrasts between the shots of Pilar’s first and last arrival at the
construction site (figures 8 and 9) are a manifest critique of the contradictions
between the celebratory discourses of Spain’s economic miracle, and the reality
of millions of people trying to make a living in Spain’s capital. Thus, the billboard
advertising the dream for a home in Pilar’s first visit to the construction site is, in a
later visit, shattered at her feet, showing the cracks in the coalition between real
estate and construction industries via the only two words remaining: “promueve y
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construye” [promote and construct]. Ultimately Pilar’s absolute refusal to return to
Madrid’s underground –“Yo, al sótano, no vuelvo” [I am not returning to the
basement]– is only plausible if moving to the capital’s peripheries, and most
specifically, to the district of San Blas, formerly a rural area known as ‘Cerro de la
Vaca’ [Cow’s Hill].
Figure 8.
Figure 9.
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In fact, the territory that would become San Blas was annexed by the city in
1949 to become the focus of Madrid’s expansion to the northeast. Most tellingly,
San Blas became the showcase for the solutions of the Franco Regime to rural
migration to the capital since the 1940s. By the end of the 1960s it was the largest
working-class neighborhood in Spain, with 10,444 apartments and 52,000
inhabitants in housing units built with low-quality materials and with limited access
to services and transportation (Sánchez)11. Revealingly, San Blas also included in
its grounds the neighborhood known as ‘Ciudad Pegaso,’ a social experiment
between the Franco Regime and the leading firm ‘Pegaso,’ Martín’s employer at
the start of the film. Planned on the rubrics of harmony, autarchy, and social control
(Alpuente, Pegaso), this ‘model city’ was inaugurated in 1956 to house the factory
workers and their families. Designed along the principles of rationalism in
modernist architecture, ‘Ciudad Pegaso’ included 1,327 homes, plus schools,
sports facilities, cultural centers and cinemas, all under the name ‘Pegaso’.
Research reveals patterns of migration according to which receiving
countries are the destination for the people from those countries’ areas of influence
(Sassen 1997). This is certainly the case for Switzerland which, between 19601971, was Spain’s largest foreign investor after the United States (Sorel 119). In
fact, prior to becoming nationalized under the Franco Regime, Pegaso was a
Swiss-Spanish corporation, and a leading maker of luxury cars. By the 1960s, it
was most well-known for its trucks, but also for its ties to the three main crane
specialist Spanish firms (IASA, IBESA and LUNA), all central to Madrid’s
construction fever of the 1950s and 60s.
It goes without saying that Martín’s employment in Pegaso establishes the
Swiss presence in Madrid prior to the protagonists’ decision to head to Switzerland.
In addition, Pegaso’s branching in both the mobility and construction industries,
plus its ties to the Franco Regime through the planning and construction of ‘Ciudad
Pegaso,’ reveal the layers of complexity underlying human experiences of mobility,
while calling for more thorough approximations to transnational migrations. As
emblem of Franco’s Spain and ‘flagship’ project of the Regime´s ‘desarrollismo,’
Ciudad Pegaso and the inauguration of San Blas in 1962 received ample press
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coverage (Sánchez. Puebla). Yet, the celebratory tone of the official discourse
does not make its way into Iglesias’s film. Instead, Un Franco, 14 Pesetas focuses
exclusively on the expression of larger-scale dynamics as lived and remembered
through people’s everyday lives. Thus, official discourses surrounding San Blas –
and its constitutive Ciudad Pegaso– are replaced with the physical and emotional
expression of the family’s transition from the green and open landscapes of Uzwil
to “unos edificios en medio de un descampao” [buildings in the middle of a dirt
field], where only one small, squalid, broken tree stood (Iglesias, “The making”).
In fact, the family´s first steps upon their return to Madrid are up the narrow stairs
to Pilar’s parents’ apartment in San Blas. Contrary to the official discourses on San
Blas, Pablo’s healthy body ascends the narrow staircase of the rundown building,
while he struggles to understand the logic behind such return: “Papá, ¿por qué
hemos venido a un sitio tan feo?” [Dad, why did we come to such an ugly place?].
Arrival: One Leg for the Walk
“A ellos, a todos ellos” [to them, to all of them]
(Un Franco, 14 Pesetas, Closing dedication)
In Un Franco, 14 Pesetas the protagonists’ migration to Switzerland and
back to Madrid is a journey for bodily integrity vis-à-vis circumstances that limit
their access to space.
Borrowing from Urry, any journey always involves a
corporeal experience of pleasure and pain (Mobilities 48). Thus, the insalubrity of
their home in a basement in Madrid, crowded and dark, serves as the backdrop
for the family’s decision to move to Switzerland. Six years later, their return is
inseparable from the physical and emotional toll of migration, particularly on
Martín’s body. He shows a persistent cough from the cold, and becomes impatient
and irritable. The despair brought by Martín’s inability to arrive on time at his
father’s bedside is the final and decisive factor underlying the family’s return by car
to Madrid, a city with no views.
The return to Madrid, unlike the departure to Switzerland six years earlier,
is not moved by Martín and Pilar’s hope, but rather, by the resolve to work from
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the remains of their physical and mental health and, it follows, from their memories
as lived. In this way, their journey is not a narrative of upward social mobility, but
of the entanglement between memory, mobility and access to space in Madrid’s
recent history. Both metaphor and lived experience, Un Franco, 14 Pesetas is
“more than a trip” to remember; it is a story about the protagonists’ determination
to exercise their right to Madrid, resorting to what remains of their journey.
Following their return from Uzwil, Pilar’s determination to stay in Madrid outweighs
Martín and Pablo’s initial inability to understand themselves as part of the city.
Martín is increasingly desperate to find employment, and Pablo is an evident
outsider to a place where he did not grow up, and where society unfolds under the
moral grip of a dictatorship. Nonetheless, when Martín and Pablo suggest that they
return to Switzerland, Pilar states:
“De nuestro propio país no nos echará ni el calor, ni la Pegaso, ni los curas,
ni esta mierda de piso que se ha llevado nuestro sudor de seis años. [….]
¡Ah! Y una cosa más: tener un abuelo cojo, no es ninguna vergüenza”
[Nothing will force us out of our own country. Not the heat, not Pegaso, not
the priests, and not this shitty apartment that holds our sweat from six years
of work. […] Oh! And one more thing: a lame grandfather is nothing to be
ashamed of!].
Upon arrival in Madrid, Pablo retreated in fear at the site of his grandfather’s
missing leg, lost to a labor accident. Here, Pilar demands that Pablo move away
from the shame of what could be, or what once might have been but is no longer
there, to focus on the possibilities of what remains.
Pilar’s determined tone reframes memory, favoring action over a narrative
of loss. Henri Lefebvre, attuned to the interrelation between body, space and
memory, called for an understanding of space through the rhythms and cycles of
the human body, the struggle against time, and within time itself (Richardson 23).
Pilar’s insertion of her father’s missing leg in the above statement dialogues with
Lefebvre, unveiling the ties between Madrid’s spectacle of ‘desarrollismo’ and
increasing appeal as a tourist destination, and the erasure –and mutilation– of the
bodies that ultimately made the growth of the city possible from its peripheries and
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basements, and who barely had a right to the city. In her resolve, Pilar confirms
these bodies, including her father’s, as part and parcel of Madrid, claiming,
following Lefebvre, their right to walk its streets. Thus, in Un Franco, 14 Pesetas,
Madrid is not a ‘landscape to view,’ but rather the ongoing expression of social
processes. This is most evident in the persistent absence of any of the capital’s
emblematic streets or sites in the film. Pierre Nora explains modernity as the loss
of milieu de mémoire (environment of memory) to lieux de mémoire (sites of
memory) through the institutionalization and materialization of the past (Nora, 7).
Extending this to the urban, Henri Lefebvre and others denounce the
disassociation of space from the social processes that ultimately make it, resulting
in cities becoming “dreamscapes of visual consumption” (Zukin 221). Madrid
epitomizes these processes and yet, Un Franco, 14 Pesetas presents us with ‘a
city without a view,’ as lived and imagined through the everyday lives of its
residents. No doubt, the footage of the Pegaso factory, the street views of the
family’s basement in Argüelles, and the housing projects in the capital’s
peripheries are not the material of Madrid’s postcards.
Furthermore, in order to identify Madrid as the spatial context of the film, the
audience must rely on the dialogue between characters. Namely, there is only one
mention of each of Madrid’s most emblematic streets, the Gran Vía and the Calle
Alcalá. The Gran Vía, arguably the capital’s most emblematic venue, was already
a desire in the collective urban imagination a decade before its construction in
1910. Its initial purpose as a transport corridor was quickly overcome by its
transformation into “Madrid’s urge to architectural and cultural modernity” (Parsons
82). The Calle Alcalá is one of the capital’s oldest streets and served as one of the
entries to the city via the A-2 motorway. Thus, the Gran Vía conveys the
materialization of the imaginary of what Madrid longed to become; the Calle Alcalá
represents its entryway. Both streets hold many of the city’s monuments, notable
buildings and, not coincidentally, theatres and cinemas. Yet, in the film, neither of
these streets is addressed as a ‘site’ in itself. Instead, Martín and Pilar return to
these streets longing to walk in the company of others. Their ultimate purpose is,
in fact, to “ver gente” [see people]. Revealingly, this affirmation marks the film’s
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closure. After Pilar’s call to stay in Madrid, Martín and Pablo fall silent. Yet, briefly
after, they implicitly align with her call, when Martín offers to walk Madrid:
“¿Quieres que paseemos por la Calle Alcalá?” [Would you like to take a walk
through the Calle Alcalá?]. In the sentence that follows he jokingly contrasts the
social liveliness of the Calle Alcalá to Uzwil’s empty streets in the early evening:
“No veas como está de gente. Igualito que Uzwil a estas horas” [It is so full of
people. Just like Uzwil at this time of day]. Pilar’s reply further reiterates that
‘people’, not the site itself, are what makes the Calle Alcalá a worthwhile
destination. She asks Martín: “¿Viendo gente pasar? [to see people walking by?],
to which Martín replies yet one more time, “Sí, viendo pasar gente” [Yes, to watch
people pass by].
The final scenes gradually give way to the non-diegetic soundtrack of “Rosa
Venenosa” by the famous Manolo Caracol. This song is a telling sample of a
Spanish cuplé, the most common genre in popular dance and music films in Spain
during the 1950s and 1960s. Its inclusion confirms Iglesias’s dialogue with Spain’s
filmic tradition and his focus on the everyday lives of people. Of those who, like his
family, left and/or returned to Madrid, and by doing so, ultimately made it –that is,
became the agents for what the city would become. Addressing the interrelation
between memory, space, and human mobility, Un Franco, 14 Pesetas merges
experiences across time and space, showing immigration as rooted in space, and
inseparable from economic, political and social processes that are historically
specific. Iglesias presents us with a journey that is much more than ‘fiction’ and
‘much more than a trip’. Starting from the dreams for a better place –a plane in a
basement– Un Franco, 14 Pesetas leads back onto Madrid’s streets on foot.
Through the direct touch between their bodies and the asphalt, Martín’s family,
and by extension Iglesias’s family, and many families before and many after –ellos,
todos ellos– confirm their right to the city, and themselves as active subjects of its
making.
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1
All translations mine.
Andrés Sorel described Switzerland as one of the most hostile and dangerous destinations for
Spanish migrants in Europe (133), and Joaquín Riera Ginestar denounces Switzerland for its
legal impediments to immigrants’ reunification with their families (217).
3
See also Muñoz-Sánchez; Santos.
4
An illustrative example is the so-called Ley Castellana (1953) which offered fiscal incentives to
construction and real estate companies, including tax exemptions for up to twenty years.
5
See Richardson (2012), Rincón Díez (2013), and Balllesteros (2016). Telling examples are El
pisito (Marco Ferreri, 1958), Ha llegado un ángel (Luis Lucía, 1961), and La ciudad no es para mi
(Pedro Lazaga 1966).
6
My gratitude to Charles Rice-Davis for his guidance to Jankélevitch’s work.
7
For an analysis of ‘Heimat’ as sense of place, see also Strohschänk, Johannes and William G.
Thiel (2012).
2
8
See Masterson-Algar’s analysis of El tren de la memoria (Marta Arribas and Ana Pérez, 2005).
This imaginary was also created and reinforced through film and mass media. The box office hits
La ciudad no es para mi (Pedro Lazaga 1966) and Ha llegado un ángel (Luis Lucía, 1961) also
structure their stories of migration from rural Spain to the city via the rail. Interestingly, despite the
centrality of the train in Spain’s popular imagination of migrations to Central Europe, the majority of
migrants, because of their undocumented status, risked their lives by taking the journey on foot
and/or by bus (Sorel 22, Riera Ginestar 47).
9
On the interrelation between the railroad and the experience of space see Urry 1995, 2007; Smets
and Shannon 2010; Lauretis, Huyssen and Woodward (1980). And for the specific incidence of
these perceptions on urban planning and cities, see Chiner I Mateu (2010), López (2005), Santos
y Ganges (2007), Smets and Shannon (2010), Saus (2013) and Wais (1967).
10
For the role of the car as symbol of consumer culture and middle-class status see Sorel (1974),
Urry (Mobilities) and Smets and Shanon (2010). Revealingly, in the film, Tonino, an Italian
immigrant to Uzwil and good friend of Martín and Marcos, describes returning to Italy with his
newly purchased car, “precioso, rojo fuego, llantas blancas” [beautiful, red fire, white tires], only to
find it vandalized the next morning. This experience, he explains, is the reason for his decision to
settle permanently in Switzerland.
11
The classic Spanish film El pisito (Marco Ferreri, 1958) addresses the distance between this
area and Madrid’s urban center, as the street car opens its way through flocks of sheep. This
serves as one more example of Iglesias’s dialogue with a genealogy of Spanish films addressing
Madrid’s growth since the 1950s.
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