"We are losing our inhibitions when it comes to making films in Basque or Catalan."

BarcelonaIn the Basque Country, the cinema of Paul Urkijo (Vitoria, 1941) is a phenomenon reminiscent of Carla Simón's in Catalonia. With his debut, Herrementary (2016)He demonstrated the potential of Basque folklore with a remarkable exercise in fantasy cinema, showing a clear sympathy for the devil; and with Irati (2022) He continued exploring the folklore of his homeland to shape a medieval fantasy that broke the all-time box office record for Basque-language films. For Urkijo, filming in Basque is not only the most natural choice, but also "a declaration of intent." "As a lover of my culture, I try to promote and strengthen Basque, which needs things to be consumed in this language and for people to speak it," he affirms.

GauaThe film, which Urkijo premieres this Friday, draws inspiration from the nocturnal mythology of the Basque Country: the god of darkness Gaueko, the demon Inguma, and witches' covens form a fragile web of myths interwoven with the central story of Kattalin, who, fleeing an abusive husband, finds herself in a river. However, to join in, there's a price to pay: telling a scary story. GauaThe film, which premiered in October at the Sitges Film Festival, boasts remarkable visual ambition, quite well-executed CGI effects, a budget of 3.5 million euros, and, of course, is filmed in Basque.

"The support from the regional governments has made it possible to film in one's own language naturally; in the Basque Country, this began in the 1970s," says the director. "But we are also losing our inhibitions about making films in Basque or Catalan, and we are beginning to value what is ours." Urkijo acknowledges that he has been "tempted" to make his films in other languages: "With Herrementary They kept telling me, "Why don't we do it in Spanish or English? We'd have more money and an international cast." But the thing is, I read the story the film is based on in Basque when I was little. And language is an intrinsic part of the legend, especially because it's a story that has been passed down orally."

Son of folklore

It might be surprising that Urkijo's films are always interested in Basque folklore, but for him it's the most natural thing in the world. "When I was little, we went to the countryside a lot on Sundays, and I learned all those myths and stories there, in the places where they supposedly happened: the cave where Mari lived, the rivers where the lamias were..." he explains. "When I was older, I'd go at night with my friends; they'd all explained the stories to us." In fact, Urkijo adds, "since the origins of cinema, mythology has always inspired fantasy films," which is his other obsession.

A GauaHowever, Urkijo offers his own version of the myths, setting the stories in 17th-century rural Basque Country and blending all the nocturnal legends ("which are nothing more than tales that warn about the natural dangers of the night," he points out) with real figures from the period, including a handful of priests and inquisitors. "Ultimately, many of the stories about the devil were created by the Inquisition as an instrument of repression against certain groups; and the satanic sects, orgies, and all the iconography of the witches' sabbath were invented directly by the inquisitors," says Urkijo, who in Gaua She undertakes an exercise in reinterpretation, transforming all that repressive underpinning into a celebration of sexual and religious freedom. "I wanted to dignify, through fiction, both the myths of witchcraft and covens, as well as the real victims of the persecutions of the time," she explains. "Ultimately, myths are alive because they transform and update themselves."

Through Kattalin's story, then, Gaua It should also be understood as a vindication of all forms of love and sexuality that dissent from social norms, persecuted and punished by the church throughout history. There is a moment, in fact, when the protagonist declares that she would rather kiss a goat's anus than sleep with a priest. Later, she will be presented with the opportunity to put her words into action. "What's wrong with a rim job?" Urkijo asks about this demonic anilingus. "It's a symbol of the pact with the devil, but also of the sexual freedom that inquisitors and religions have portrayed for centuries as something repugnant," she adds.