They still recall the lingering taste of that experience with a fondness that lingers. The Spanish title Marta Díaz, My Dear Sisterhood from 2018 lands in the comedy genre, set within the religious milieu of a fraternity in Ronda. A good comedy can emerge from almost any premise, provided there is a solid script and trustworthy direction from the performers. In this instance, those essential elements are the baseline for evaluating how the film lands with audiences.
The work titled Queen of the monastery struggles to meet the professional standards expected in cinema and ends up feeling like a stumble rather than a stride. The opening scene places Mario Vaquerizo, cast in the role of a woman, in a church where he mutters before Jesus, exclaiming a playful line about appearance: What abs! The tonal choice here triggers immediate questions about the film’s tonal discipline and its ability to sustain comedy within a sacred setting.
From there the story follows a woman who, exhausted by life with her godmother Bibiana Fernández, chooses to join a convent with the aim of marrying Jesús. The movement through the convent is stewarded by Antonia San Juan, a leading figure who signals a distinctive, flamboyant authority by wearing a pink sash that marks her as the Mother Superior. The narrative threads run through familiar comic beats, echoing earlier eras of cinema and staged humor that lean on recognizable archetypes rather than original invention. The result feels like a recollection of older comic styles more than a fresh cinematic voice.
In its framings, debutant Carmen Perona looks to modern cinematic pastiches and nods toward classic shower scenes from iconic thrillers, even as she collaborates with a cast that includes Gemma Cuervo. The moment where an unintended exposure occurs—Mario Vaquerizo’s silhouette momentarily revealed—appears in the trailer but also serves as a symbolic pivot within the sequence. The humor plays with risqué elements while attempting to balance between farce and character-driven moments, a balancing act that the finished product does not consistently master.
There are echoes of Almodóvar’s evocative mood in the way some characters navigate secrets and desire, yet the monastery setting is infused with surreal touches and occasional hallucinatory visuals. However, these ambitions are undercut by a sense of amateur execution that interrupts any sustained attempt to treat the material with seriousness. The overall effect is a film that promises more than it delivers, leaving a viewer craving sharper timing, clearer intent, and a stronger throughline to unite its disparate gags and motifs.
A curious observation stands out in the production: Vaquerizo’s makeup and transformation carry a believable resemblance to María Botto, a detail that registers as a small, if incidental, success within the broader misalignment of the project. Another puzzling note concerns the campaign materials seen around the festival circuit. The billboards blur a list of premieres that seems incongruent with the film’s status, including titles such as Palacio Estilistas, Honeymoon, Faro, and this enigmatic nun-themed narrative. The result is a visual clutter that mirrors the film’s own lack of cohesive focus, inviting viewers to consider the gap between marketing promises and on-screen reality.