Macondo

I was kinda scared after watching Pedro Páramo, the also Netflix adaptation of the legendary Rulfo novel. The images and photography are simply beautiful there, but they fail to combine the novel's elusive narrative.

One Hundred Years of Solitude, whether you like it or not, is a story that is nourished by it, that grows and germinates on the impression that Rulfo once made on a young García Márquez. Not for nothing, when his friend lent Gabriel his copy of Pedro Páramo, he said passing it to him, "So that you learn how to write." But One Hundred Years of Solitude has managed to embody everything that the fragile adaptation of Pedro Páramo could not. From the beginning, the tone, the atmosphere, the remote and dreamlike and volatile reality is set: the images are not afraid of silence, and they are guided, in the decisive moments, by the powerful words of Gabriel.

At times it suffers a bit from being a Netflix adaptation, in the script, in certain shots, in parts of the production, but the result, the whole picture continues to prevail as a success.

That the actors with their intonation and pauses, give themselves over to subtlety instead of melodrama helps a lot. And that it is the novel's own voice that precedes the beginning and the end is probably the only way to convey the incontestable beauty of Cien años de soledad.