🎭 Goya Awards

The red carpet is rolled out at the Madrid Convention Center, and the entire country holds its breath. The Goyas are about to be awarded, and with them, the thermometer of what is happening in Spanish cinema: its obsessions, its talents, and even its crises. Behind those golden statuettes, which imitate the bust of Francisco de Goya painting, there are decades of stories that range from the international success of *El laberinto del fauno* to the commercial failure of films that, despite everything, won the award for Best Film. The Spanish Academy of Cinematographic Arts and Sciences has been presenting these awards since 1987, but their true weight is measured in what they represent. It's not the same to win a Goya for a light comedy as for a social drama that shakes consciences. There's the example of *Barrio* (1998), by Fernando León de Aranoa, which portrayed marginal Spain with a crudeness that still hurts. Or *La librería* (2017), by Isabel Coixet, which used an intimate story to talk about resistance to power. The Goyas don't just reward technique; they reward the pulse of a society. The format of the gala has changed little in almost forty editions. The live broadcast by Spanish Television is a spectacle in itself: speeches that drag on, forced laughter, the occasional slip-up, and, above all, that moment when the winner of Best Film takes the stage with the entire team. That's when the truth of cinema is seen: a collective work where the director is just the tip of the iceberg. Behind them are the screenwriters who rewrote the ending twenty times, the technicians who lit a key scene in three hours of filming, and the actors who gave their all in a five-minute sequence shot. But the Goyas also have their shadows. Criticisms for lack of diversity, controversies over suspicious voting, and, in recent years, the debate over whether they should be open to productions in other languages of the State. The Academy has tried to modernize —now there are more women on the jury, categories have been created for short films and documentaries—, but Spanish cinema is still a small ecosystem where everyone knows each other. That's noticeable. There are years when the awards seem to be distributed in advance, as if the producers had made their bets before the theater lights went out. The statuette, designed by sculptor Miguel Ortiz Berrocal, represents Goya painting *La maja desnuda*, a nod to rebellion and creative freedom. It's no coincidence that the award bears his name. The painter from Fuendetodos was a master of light and shadow, of the grotesque and the sublime, just like Spanish cinema: capable of going from the most absurd comedy to a historical drama in two consecutive films. The 2023 gala made it clear. *As bestas*, by Rodrigo Sorogoyen, swept with nine awards, including Best Film and Best Director. The film, a rural thriller about violence and greed, demonstrated that Spanish cinema can be as universal as the best European cinema. But there were also surprises: *Cinco lobitos*, by Alauda Ruiz de Azúa, won the Goya for Best Original Screenplay, a recognition of an intimate and feminine story that connected with the audience. That's what's interesting about the Goyas: you never know if the jury will bet on the box office hit, on auteur cinema, or on that small film that no one expected. In the end, what is clear is that the Goyas continue to be the mirror of a cinema that doesn't give up. Although the Spanish industry may have less budget than Hollywood, fewer theaters than France, and less tradition than Italy, it's still there: fighting to tell stories that matter. And that, in the end, is the only thing that justifies an award. The Goyas are a reminder that, in cinema, it's not just about entertainment, but about reflecting society and challenging it. And in that sense, their relevance goes beyond the film industry itself.