Maspalomas stands out immediately because it centers a kind of queer protagonist who still appears far too rarely on screen: older, unapologetically sexual, messy, and fully alive. The film approaches him with humor and irritation as well as compassion, which gives the drama a bracing honesty from the beginning.
The story follows Vicente, a man in his seventies who has built his life around pleasure, freedom, and the refusal to return to a more closeted version of himself. That lifestyle is interrupted by a medical emergency that sends him back into family space, dependence, and a body he can no longer control as easily as before. The early pandemic setting sharpens everything, turning personal fragility into part of a wider social shutdown.
What makes the film effective is that it refuses to romanticize either youth or maturity. Vicente is not treated as a saintly elder, nor as a pathetic cautionary tale. He is difficult, proud, funny, selfish, vulnerable, and often painfully human. That complexity gives the film more bite than a softer inspirational version of the same story would have had.
Thematically, Maspalomas has a lot on its mind: aging, class, family estrangement, queer sexual culture, and the fear of becoming dependent after a lifetime built around autonomy. Yet it never feels like a lecture. The emotional tension grows naturally from the protagonist’s collision with a reality he has spent years trying not to imagine.
A few dramatic turns can feel slightly familiar, and the tonal balance between comedy and hurt is not flawless in every scene. Still, the film is strong enough to absorb those uneven spots. Its real achievement is giving dignity to a phase of queer life that cinema too often ignores or flattens.
In the end, Maspalomas is a rich and worthwhile queer drama about what happens when pleasure, identity, and aging can no longer be kept in separate compartments. It is funny, sad, and refreshingly adult in ways that many younger-skewing queer stories are not.
Rating: 7.5/10
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