Feb 11, 2026
3 min read
CutreCon, Festival Internacional de Cine Trash, ha estado en casa, Madrid, del 4 al 8 de febrero. Su decimoquinta edición...
As with every CutreCon,My adventure started at the bar closest to the cinema where the movie was showing.I'm not alone: many attendees of this popular festival wander around with beers, bald heads and bellies.I wasn't alone, I was among the magazine's great photographers.
We chatted with Garimba on hand and the photographer.And I drank all the beerIt was getting dark and we still had to wait in line at the popcorn stand to grab a few more cans and liven up the card.
CutreCon, the Trash International Film Festival, took place from February 4th to 8th in Madrid.Its f *** fifteenth edition: who will tell his important followers.
This time the program is with more than twenty titles in five days, both free and paid sessions, morning, afternoon and evening.The thematic arrow chosen for this year is a violent drum roll - the worst action movie.In the words of the organization: "Everything in these films can explode at any time and for no reason."I liked it.
In the previous edition, the festival had three regular locations.Marginal, Z and suspicious slogans: mk2 Cine Paz, mk2 Palacio de Hielo and the Faculty of Information Sciences of the Complutense University of Madrid (UCM).Happy photographer: She studied there.
"We are looking forward to the best and most balanced program in the history of CutreCon," said festival director Carlos Palencia."The level is so high or so low, depending on how you look at it - every day is a party in itself. "We carefully selected the titles that make up this fifteenth edition, so the public can't stop what's happening on the screen at any time."
People in Wick went to see it.
When we had cans and a pack of cigarettes in hand - Courtesy of the photographer on my birthday - we went looking for a place.It was a difficult task: restless men and women asked for their share of film freaks.
I don't know about you, but of course, dear reader, that was my seat.They gave us some seats in the corner of the last row.I hate sitting there with another movie;Damn, I love movies, I want to complain that they make popcorn-munching noises from the f***ing king in the middle of the room.
But this is no ordinary movie.Here no one complains about the neighbors' whispers, here they are encouraged to shout at the screen.Spectators are hooligans.The audience is another actor in the film.The audience directs the film.It appears for the first time in the credits.
-Where did you bring me?- The photographer whispered with a smile on his face.
"Damn Heaven King," I said and opened the first can and fixed a few imaginary glasses.
It looks like the movie is about to start.“Stay with that name: Ranatunga,” the presenters warn us.Everyone laughs.It reminds me of the movie "Rajatanga," you know, "And when there's no room for the soul, it starts working, and the rhythm of the rajatanga carries it," so I can't scream it very well throughout the movie.
Because, damn, yes: this is about yelling.a lot of.All sorts of sudden tweet-sized events thrown at the screen.And King f seems to be ** the smartest owner of the room.
There are movies that don't start: they explode.This is the story of Jaat, 2025 (India).It comes like an unscheduled night train loaded with incomprehensible Indian epics.I think AVE comes from a region affected by recent wars and old customs, where violence is not the story of the story, but the form of governance.Bump bureaucratic, prehmo.
The method is familiar and yet it emphasizes it.Two men discover robbery and with it a vocation: to become Indian Hitlers.At least a chocolate version that smells like gypsy cologne.Shakti soon takes on a stage dimension in the film, almost a rehearsed number, and the population learns the basic choreography of survival: lower your head, look like a submissive Indian and pray not to be next.
A stranger appears on the set, a man with a mustache and a Stallone rictus who gets off the train like he checked seven boxes of chopsticks.He doesn't speak.
The room reveres this figure with an almost liturgical devotion. He is the Chosen One. Sent by Vishnu. Anti Ranatunga/Ragatanga. A hero who does not consider violence: he rules it like an efficient official of punishment. I repeat: a blow to the bureaucracy.Cleaning up. For some reason, the chest and severed heads are probably pixelated.
The action sequences are flexible and suit the intensity of the man looking for a slow start button.At first it is impressive;then it ends;ultimately, it expresses a blind faith that more is always better.Songs of music explode like ads for soul perfume: the crowds dance to remind us that, in the midst of carnage and carnage, there is still room for celebration.And my hat is not on.
Actors also do not play on equal terms.The hero is like a muscular, hapless totem, a botox-injected silhouette that moves in the film to avoid interfering with its mythology.In contrast, the female characters – line reps and a villain with an obvious ear problem she can walk on a narrow path – can be somewhat revolutionary in terms of characters with emotional volume and antagonistic, i.e. personality.and destination.
Two and a half hours of choreographed violence that does not ask for contemplation, but provokes them to ecstasy.Between an epic of justice and an unbridled social soap opera, this film finds its place in the comfort zone where fun is confused with an overdose of Redbull.
The Photographer and I left tired.We are speaking to a large Cutrecon audience.
- That?Another beer?
- What happened.Someone should write a history of this damn king.
I'm leaving before the subway closes home.I'm getting too old with this stuff.Who hasn't said a line like that in a sports movie?
Hell hunter and scarecrow of pigeon heroes in parks.
