‘Ivan & Hadoum’ Berlinale Review: When Love Meets Labor Conflict

There are several entry points from which to approach this story—one that, in its own way, brings together questions of gender identity, immigration, and corporate abuse. The least expected, perhaps, is that of a love story. But that’s ultimately what Iván & Hadoum turns out to be: the feature directorial debut of screenwriter and TV creator Ian de la Rosa (Veneno). The comparison to that series—despite the many differences between their respective worlds—may not be so far-fetched. After all, Veneno told a story about sexual identity that gradually opened up into a much broader social landscape. In that sense, this film operates similarly: the relationship between a trans man and a woman of Moroccan descent in Almería becomes the narrative engine through which a conflicted world comes into focus.

De la Rosa sidesteps two potential pitfalls from the outset. Iván & Hadoum is not a film about gender transition, nor about the conflicts that process might entail. That bridge has long been crossed. When we meet Iván (Silver Chicón), he is already living as a trans man and is treated as such by those around him. Aside from a couple of minor incidents, it’s largely a non-issue. He works at a greenhouse owned by a relative, holding a low-level job like most of his co-workers.

Among them is Hadoum (Herminia Loh), who suffers an accident at work but is forced to carry on without even being sent for medical evaluation. Soon, Iván and Hadoum reconnect—they knew each other in passing—and a tentative romance begins to take shape, seemingly unaffected, at least at first, by either his gender identity or her immigrant background. Iván’s family appears more concerned about her working at the company because her fighting spirit, and Hadoum’s family raises no particular objections either—perhaps because they’re dealing with problems of their own.

At a certain point, however, Iván is asked to take on greater responsibilities at the factory and comes under pressure from the owners. In that context, it becomes increasingly inconvenient that Hadoum is among the workers leading labor complaints. Add to that the looming possibility that the company might be put up for sale, and another shadow falls across the horizon. Gradually, what initially feels like a contemporary love story set in a greenhouse in southern Spain begins to mirror many of the issues that complicate the lives of workers there—and elsewhere.

One of the most interesting aspects of De la Rosa’s approach lies in the fact that, at least as a starting point, these are not traditionalist or openly racist families unwilling to accept people like Iván and Hadoum. That would have made the central conflict easier to dramatize, but also more obvious and predictable. Here, the warmth and mutual affection surrounding both characters suggest that things might be different. But beneath the surface, they aren’t—not entirely. The divide between those who have and those who don’t, between employers and employees, between “Spaniards” and immigrants, becomes especially visible when money and power enter the equation. The immigrant is accepted, so long as she stays in her place. And the trans man is validated in masculine terms only insofar as he is willing to make tough, unsparing decisions.

Another smart move on the director’s part is his commitment to telling the love story itself—with all its detours and narrative fluctuations—without rushing headlong into melodrama. De la Rosa opts for a more observational mode than most social dramas of this kind, while still preserving a sense of urgency. But above all, what gives the film the dignity it needs to distinguish itself from similar portraits is the respect and humanity it extends to its characters. Even in their most difficult, abrasive, or contradictory moments, the film refrains from judging them, choosing instead to understand them and stand beside them in the struggle they are forced to endure.