Our Fault (2025)

Here is a film about two attractive people being stupid in expensive rooms, and it makes no apology for that. Our Fault is the third and final entry in the Culpables Saga, adapted from Mercedes Ron's novels, and it arrives with the assurance of a production that knows its audience. A wedding in Ibiza, a maid of honor paired against her will with the best man, a tattoo of her name on an arm he refuses to explain. The machinery of melodrama is well oiled and it runs without friction.

Those seeking contemporary social instruction will leave empty-handed. The cast is uniformly Spanish because the story is Spanish, and no performer's presence is framed as a statement about anything. Race is never raised. The climate goes unmentioned. Nick's position atop his family's multinational is presented as glamour and obstacle, never as indictment; the film finds corporate wealth photogenic and lets it stay that way. Noah's failure to find work after graduation is treated as bad luck and a plot hinge, not as evidence of a broken system. There is no argument about who should hold power. Only about who should hold whom, and when, and in which hotel.

The plot, meanwhile, dispenses leukemia, a shooting, a coma, a contested ultrasound, and a four month pregnancy with the calm of a pharmacist counting pills. A disgruntled employee takes revenge. A demented pair arrives to steal an infant. Everything resolves. The closest the film comes to a thesis is that grudges ought to be abandoned and love ought to prevail, a position old enough to predate cinema itself. We classify accordingly, and without disappointment. Some films carry a message. This one carries a bridesmaid's dress and a magazine cover, and trusts that nature will handle the rest.