It's unavoidable, the sense of freedom that pervades Carlos Saura's Deprisa, Deprisa. Freedom from Franco and a long Fascist death grip; freedom from law and order; freedom from poverty, hunger, sobriety, want; freedom from history. The juvenile delinquents plucked off the streets of Madrid suburb Villaverde and here transformed into poster children of lost Spanish youth negotiate deregulated democracy on their own because no one can tell them how. The method? Bank robberies, naturally. But in between the heists and petty thievery, late nights at the disco grooving to Cappuccino's "Hell Dance With Me" and snorting horse off literal horses, they are, simply, stretching their legs. Quinqui was trouble for its participants both onscreen and off, but for most of Deprisa, Deprisa, all that feels far away; you're on a dreamlike, occasionally violent romp is all. Hurry, hurry, says the title... but the landscape says, Por qué? The whole Meseta Central is here for your taking. The first time I watched holed up at home as our pandemic summer descended, I felt that — the wind off the Guadarrama, the invigorating sunshine, endless pesetas burned on paella, youth. I felt free, is what I'm saying. You might, too.