Anyone who has experienced St. John’s Eve in Spain knows it’s one of the rowdiest nights of the year. As the solstice sun sets on the longest day, streets and beaches across the country come alive with food, music, bonfires and fireworks that go well into the early hours. At midnight, many take a dip in the sea — a tradition said to bring good luck and ward off illness. It’s a vibrant, communal celebration rooted in history and folklore — a custom begging for deeper exploration on film.
Ion De Sosa’s second feature, Balearic (2025) — following his wild 2023 cult shocker Mamántula (about, um, a pair of lesbian detectives hunting a blood-and semen-hungry serial killer tarantula disguised as a man) — unfolds on a fictional island during one sunny St. John’s Eve afternoon. It’s a promising, terrifying setup: four working-class teens trespass on an empty property for a swim, only to find themselves trapped in the water by a pack of vicious dogs. Just as things start to go sideways as one of the teens suffers a brutal attack, the film abruptly cuts to a nearby luxury villa, where a group of wealthy adults (pijos, en español) lounge around sipping cocktails and talking nonsense over lunch by their pool (which they all seem strangely hesitant to enter), all the while ignoring a wildfire burning in the distance.
What follows is an intriguing yet meandering dive into class politics with an absurdist touch. The disconnect between the two storylines — and the ritual and lore of St. John’s Eve — becomes a commentary on class divides, generational differences and Mother Nature’s increasing hostility, though some of the film’s symbolism can be tough to untangle. Shot on 16mm, Balearic brings plenty of memorably surreal and unsettling imagery: a paella pan scorched with teenagers’ faces, a slowly melting ice sculpture shaped like an older guest, a shower running red, a balloon that whispers, “We’re all going to die.” It’s all very cool and stylish, but quickly becomes a frustrating watch, mostly due to its disjointed conversations that seemingly lead nowhere.
What resonates most is the simple contrast between the aloof adults lounging in luxury and the teens just trying to enjoy a day of freedom before college — while being hunted like animals. Two distinct realities crash into each other: the old and wealthy find shelter from danger, while the young and carefree face inevitable suffering and death. Also striking is the film’s decision to pull focus so quickly from the initial chaos. Just as the teens’ situation escalates into something truly menacing, we’re made to sit with the adults — these well-dressed, oblivious elites — and listen to them talk in circles. The film wants us to feel the distance, to shock us with something horrific and then force us to sit with the eerie stillness of privilege and detachment. Comfort becomes a blindfold and disconnection turns into its own quiet horror — a horror we’ve already seen but are left in the dark about, aside from a few repeating images of dogs baring their teeth. It’s visceral and effective, but also a little bit clumsy, and starts to feel like a one-trick pony as the brief 70 minutes wear out their welcome.
With its sprawling cast, the film rarely lands on an emotional level — there’s no clear protagonist, and the adults all start to blur together (likely by design). It’s full of ideas, but short on people we can actually connect with. Mamántula leaned into pulpy B-movie provocation and gooey body horror and announced Sosa as a truly singular voice, but Balearic feels like a bit of a disappointing misfire — a surreal, poetic allegory reaching for cultural critique; strange and ambitious but often too deliberately opaque. For all its atmosphere and striking imagery, it never builds momentum, and when it does bring the teenager’s story back into the foreground and attempts to deliver a final punch to the gut, it comes far too late. The spark is there, and so is the statement, but it flickers rather than ignites.
Editor-at-large Jared loves movies and lives with Kiki in Berlin.