Beware the Flamenco

I am in love. Each night before bed I have been viewing a brief interlude of “Flamenco”, Carlos Saura’s 1995 documentary; and it has taken on the guilty-pleasure proportions of a slightly illicit assignation. Conventional wisdom undoubtedly would interpret this in a way that mirrors my initial expectation of lithe, sinewy bodies cutting staccato swaths across the floor. There are certainly those. But the performances that have captured my very being bring beauty and sensuality from unexpected places and take it to an all-new level.

The singing. I never knew singing was a part of flamenco. Singing like I’ve never heard before. Singing coming from enormous mouths with teeth that beg for dentistry and set in fleshy faces carved with scars and wrinkles of time and experience. Singing that feels and sounds more like it is ripped from their hearts and lungs and souls than merely vibrated across vocal cords. Singing in words I can barely understand but in a language of passion and pain that is universal and makes my solar plexus vibrate and my eyes tear.

As I watch and listen, I feel as though I am pulled into a vortex of sound and emotion with the impact of a high-voltage wire—so intense I can barely stand it, and so compelling I cannot let go. I put off the inevitable as long as I possibly can….

Finally and regretfully, I turn off the VCR. I adjust my pillow. And I do my best to sleep while simmering with anticipation for tomorrow’s rendezvous.