One of the most devastating sensations that Don’t Call Me Veal leaves behind is the sight of this leathery-faced individual, cynic, limited intellectual and rhetorical resources, rude, merciless and without regard for any form of compassion other than himself. One so profound Impact on the history of Spain for so many years. Josu Urritikoetxea doesn’t like being called Ternera, but the more he talks and the more he exposes himself, the more he likes the nickname.
The main virtue of the film by Jordi Évole and Màrius Sánchez is to show us the mineral simplicity of an individual who lives in a parallel reality and has managed to prevent even a ray of light from outside from entering it. Évole initially says that they are in a place in France, and Ternera corrects him: “We are in Euskal Herria, that is not France.” And so, with everything. The world of Josu Ternera has nothing to do with yours or mine. Where murders are seen, he sees the consequences of state repression, as random and natural as a storm or an earthquake. Where you and I see a lackluster fanatic who has lived the life of a brutal mouse, he sees a heroic fighter. Not a shred of reality creeps into the airtight chamber of his skull.
Repentance requires a capacity for analysis and a moral conscience that calves do not have. They only attack until the end, even though they no longer have horns or strength and there is nothing left to attack. We must thank Évole for coming forward and showing us the silly brutality that made terror. There is no romantic alibi, there is no way to make this guy presentable. This fact alone is worth spending the hundred minutes the interview lasts. The rest hardly counts.
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