City of Shadows

The Stone and the Flame

In the vast, sprawling architecture of crime fiction, cities are rarely just backdrops; they are co-conspirators. But in *City of Shadows* (*Ciudad de Sombras*), Barcelona is not merely a witness—it is the weapon itself. Director Jorge Torregrossa, adapting Aro Sáinz de la Maza’s novel, has crafted something that transcends the typical "Nordic Noir transported to the Mediterranean" formula. Here, the sun does not liberate; it exposes. The series, which arrived on Netflix in late 2025, serves as a grim and beautiful eulogy—not only for the victims of its gruesome plot but, tragically, for its lead actress, Verónica Echegui, whose passing last August haunts every frame she inhabits with such fierce, vibrant intelligence.



Torregrossa’s lens is surgical, dissecting the Catalan capital with a precision that strips away the tourism-board gloss. The opening image is a statement of intent: a charred corpse suspended from the undulating, bone-like façade of Gaudí’s La Pedrera. It is a grotesque violation of art, a clash between the sacred aesthetic of Modernisme and the profane brutality of modern vengeance. The cinematography doesn't shy away from this dissonance. Instead of the warm, inviting palette often associated with Spanish cinema, the series is bathed in cool blues and harsh, unforgiving whites, reflecting the internal state of Inspector Milo Malart (Isak Férriz).

Férriz delivers a performance of seismic repression. As Malart, a man suspended from the force and dragging the heavy chains of a personal trauma involving his nephew, he is a figure carved from the same rough stone as the city’s gothic quarters. He is not the charming rogue; he is a ruined vessel. But the emotional ballast of the series is undoubtedly Rebeca Garrido. Watching Echegui in her final role is a deeply moving experience. She plays Garrido not as a mere foil to Malart’s brooding masculinity, but as a sharply competent professional whose empathy is her steel. The chemistry between them is devoid of cheap romantic tension, replaced instead by the weary recognition of two people who have seen too much of the dark.



The narrative spine of *City of Shadows* is its interrogation of legacy. The killer, dubbed "Gaudí’s Shadow," turns the city’s architectural masterpieces into theatrical stages for death. But this is not done for simple shock value; the script weaves a complex tapestry involving gentrification, the commercialization of history, and the sins of the city's elite. The investigation leads Malart and Garrido into the suffocating grip of the upper class—represented by figures like the construction magnate Eduardo Pinto and the philanthropist Felix Torrens—exposing the rot beneath the gilding. The series argues that a city obsessed with preserving its stone façade often ignores the human decay crumbling behind it.

However, the series is not without its stumbling blocks. In its middle chapters, the plot occasionally buckles under the weight of its own symbolism. The reliance on Gaudí’s architecture sometimes veers dangerously close to academic exposition, slowing the narrative momentum. Yet, the show recovers in its finale, a harrowing confrontation at the Sagrada Familia that feels less like a police standoff and more like a spiritual reckoning. The revelation of the killers—damaged siblings Hector and Helena Guitart—twists the knife, transforming a hunt for a monster into a tragedy of neglected children broken by the very systems sworn to protect them.



Ultimately, *City of Shadows* is a triumph of atmosphere over adrenaline. It asks us to look at the monuments we build and question what bodies are buried in their foundations. It is a demanding watch, heavy with grief and anger, but it is also a necessary one. As the credits roll on the final episode, the silence that follows is profound—a respectful pause for a story well told, and for a brilliant actress whose light was extinguished far too soon.