About twenty minutes into Plácido I realised my shoulders were up round my ears. Not because anything “exciting” was going on, but because the film never shuts up. People talk, shout, pray and bicker over each other until you start to feel like the poor sod driving the motocarro through it all.
It’s Franco-era Spain, and Berlanga is busy tearing into state-approved charity. The “Seat a Poor Person at Your Table” campaign is gloriously awful: local big shots audition “suitable” poor people while TV crews flap about chasing heart-warming shots. Meanwhile Cassen’s Plácido runs endless errands, fobbed off every time he tries to get the money he’s owed so he can keep his vehicle – and a bit of self-respect.
Berlanga stages the chaos beautifully: packed frames, processions, a town lit like a nativity sponsored by a bank. It’s a Christmas film where the miracle is the rich actually paying their bills, leaving you laughing and quietly furious.