San Simón ★★★

Contributing to the growing body of Spanish cinema dealing with the unresolved legacies of the Civil War and Francoist repression, Miguel Ángel Delgado delivers a restrained, yet forceful approach to his sensitive subject. As a methodical reconstruction of memories and personal accounts of survivors, the austere black-and-white feature relates the conditions in the titular prison camp, established on the Galician island of San Simón and holding nearly 6,000 prisoners between 1936 and 1943. This historical framework is conveyed through the perspective of Lamas (Flako Estévez), a prisoner tasked with administrative duties in the punishment wing. His vantage point provides the film with its primary narrative device: a fragmented, observational account of daily life within the camp. 

This structural choice resists dramatization, positioning San Simón closer to elegy than to conventional drama. Delgado’s decision to forsake all colors and keep his settings minimalist is central to the scenario’s impact. Set against the bleak interiors of confinement, the island’s natural beauty emphasizes the duality of the setting as much as the high-contrast cinematography. Wide shots situate the prison buildings within the surrounding sea, reinforcing the isolation of the space, while the cells and narrow corridors are often rendered in deep shadow, suggesting both the ethical darkness of this inhumane place and the opacity of historical memory. Bereft of all flourishes, the design is deliberate in its sparsity. 

A precise, pared-back aesthetic communicates the severity of the subject matter. The story’s rhythm follows the meandering logic of memory rather than that of classical chronology. Long takes, silences, and repetitions convey the monotony and psychological pressure of imprisonment. Rather than building toward a climactic event, the structure is cumulative, layering fragments of testimony and experience until the viewer confronts the scale of violence and inhumane degradation. The absence of overt dramatic escalation further slows down the modest pace, but it aligns with the underlying aim to bear witness without distortion or exaggeration. Estévez’s subdued performance reinforces this sobriety by avoiding overt display of emotion. 

Around him, a mixed cast of professionals, non-professionals, and actual descendants of the camp’s former prisoners hint at the weight of intergenerational trauma while imbuing the acting with a naturalistic aura. These abstract touches, pointing towards the continuity of memory, can distract from the physical reality of the events, the operatic despair of which comes dangerously close to aestheticizing the suffering. If the stylized scenario risks tipping into rigidity, it also gains authority from this very stance. Delgado avoids sentimentality and spectacle, placing emphasis instead on silence, repetition, and the careful juxtaposition of image and testimony. Thus, his work is most effective as an intervention in cultural remembrance that prioritizes accuracy, atmosphere, and ethical appeal over action.

As one of the few films to address the Francoist prison camp system, San Simón functions less as a story in the conventional sense than as a cinematic document: a visual eulogy for lives confined and erased, and a reminder that the act of looking back at the past requires both emotional and formal discipline. Rather than closing a historic chapter with catharsis, the docu-dramatic hybrid opens it, providing a sharpened awareness of the fragility of recollection itself.