La Bola Negra is such a releasing scratch, a great heaving sigh for the stories never told, for the lovers bold and lost, their stories resurfaced. There are moments, like a stolen embrace in a darkened cell, a pinprick of light piercing the dark like a Goya painting, that will wound you. It is a work of art as soft and scalding as the snow that drifts to Los Javis’s majestically unmooring conclusion, then lingering on.
