Álex de la Iglesia signs this fourth passenger as part of a project he calls a romantic comedy for his latest film. The discussion took place yesterday at Cines Lys, presenting a Valencia-shot movie starring Alberto San Juan, Blanca Suárez, Ernesto Alterio, and Rubén Cortada. The story unfolds mostly inside a single car shared by the characters. It aims to be a rom-com because it blends laughter with affection, or at least a young man in love with a young woman. Yet, as with De la Iglesia, expectations of humor are tempered by sharp, messy contradictions, unsettling characters, and explosive finales.
Can it be called mere comedy? The director suggests that the story must attract him and avoid elements that push him away. He notes there are kisses in the film, and he appreciates ending with a twist that reveals the characters have endured misfortune yet maintained their bond .
Would reality feel bearable if everyday stories ended like his films? He replies that cinema is not reality. In fiction, intensity and drama can be crafted to satisfy the audience, whereas in real life he considers himself a peaceful person who would not want to relive any film’s ordeals.
Which road movie represents him the most: Those Crazy People in Their Crazy Pots, Two for the Road, or Devil on the Wheel? He admits loving all three and would welcome weaving their elements into a single project. He enjoys a wild, funny tone and eccentricity, like in Those Crazy Ones, while also valuing stories that move audiences emotionally. He compares the blend of sweetness and tension to a pineapple chicken—a mix that’s both comforting and exciting .
Does being the son of a television-era, genre-blending world shape him into a director without a fixed genre? He says it fully does. The eclectic TV background nurtures mood, looseness, and a lack of strict watching rules. He recalls watching John Huston alongside Marx Brothers and Amici Miei, without a prescribed cinema canon guiding his preferences. That lack of rigid structure became the cornerstone of his approach to filmmaking.
He notes that the opposite of what platforms and algorithms do is true—to order content can be polarizing. Limiting tastes can cause viewers to miss out on surprising works, and he fears people may end up ignoring films they do not yet know. He believes no one should miss out on something simply because it’s unfamiliar, a fear he carries into his own work .
Two top-billed actors in the film, Alberto San Juan and Ernesto Alterio, are seen as representing different paths in life. The director describes them as two ways people confront reality: one is steady and seeks truth, while the other embraces chaos and produces ongoing disruption, yet yields striking results. This juxtaposition mirrors the film’s tension between order and disorder.
Alterio is described as a charismatic rogue in a society that often places virtue on the table while corruption and self-interest rise. The director observes that contemporary times see a mix of middle-class conservatism and flamboyant ruling classes who enjoy power at others’ expense.
The question of whether the rogue’s ascent mirrors a social shift is answered with nuance: the rogue’s position seems to rise from above rather than from below, a reality that shapes the characters’ fates and the story’s consequences. This tension underscores why social dynamics remain central even amid humor and high-energy scenes.
Humor, the director adds, is a key learning tool. What makes people laugh and why speaks to identity. The eerie and grotesque have long fascinated the country, with mask, clowning, and satire playing roles in how audiences interpret what they see on screen.
When asked about slapstick versus fear, he notes that both have a cleansing effect. Laughter can loosen fear and fear can intensify laughter, leaving viewers with a memorable afterglow or a lingering sense of relief after perilous moments. He recalls a personal memory of an impossible math test dream that ends with wakefulness revealing the dream was false, a moment that captures cinema’s power to bend perception.
The idea of a fourth passenger extends to a warning about travel ease and social networks. Trust in strangers, car rides, or online interactions is tested as people reveal more of their inner lives. De la Iglesia acknowledges enjoying Twitter and Instagram as powerful communication tools, comparing the current digital era to Gutenberg’s invention. He emphasizes the need to choose words carefully so messages are understood precisely and not misinterpreted.
He mentions that the film was released in October, six months after his previous work Veneciafrenia. He is also wrapping up the editing of the new season of 30 Coins and pre-producing projects for HBO, including a football-centered series written with Pablo Tebar and Jorge Valdano. He notes Carolina Bang plays a crucial role in these collaborations and ideas, highlighting years of productive teamwork formed through shared creative risk.
Asked about collaboration with Carolina Bang, he describes a decade of teamwork that has yielded high levels of productivity. When questioned about whether cinema should mirror the same impulsiveness he once had for Mutant Action, he concedes that a certain unconscious drive is necessary to spark a project, but he also relies on conversation, producing others, and reigniting forgotten ideas. This requires a deep partnership with his partner and collaborator.
Whether he prefers unconscious spontaneity or accumulated experience, he responds with a shrug, suggesting a controlled form of shooting guided by a deliberate blackout—an approach that balances instinct with planning. And when someone calls his work an Olympic style shoot, he agrees it is more a claim than a fact, underscoring the artful nature of film-making rather than a straightforward declaration.
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