A young woman walks through a field of white flowers, suspended for a moment with neither origin nor destination, seemingly fallen to earth in Carlos Saura’s Ana y los lobos (1973). Her long brown hair, reddish in the sun, hangs around her shoulders and her high, freckled cheekbones are bare of makeup. Here, in this windswept vacuum, she’s a perfect mystery, fresh and open. Her character, we will soon learn, has no past; she also has no real future. Her...

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