Some films carry an extra weight from the start: they dare to step into wounds that haven’t fully healed. Fuego operates in that fragile territory, moving between reflection on grief and the almost primal urge for revenge. It’s not a flawless film, but it is an uncomfortable and compelling attempt. At times, the movie leans into overt emotional cues. Certain scenes feel overly underscored, almost sentimental, with music and staging guiding the audience a bit too insistently. The script also tends to frame its moral positions in fairly clear-cut terms, reducing the ambiguity such a subject might demand. Still, the central conflict —the clash between consuming hatred and the possibility of redemption— carries real dramatic weight. José Coronado plays a man hollowed out by trauma, living with a fire inside that refuses to fade. It’s a role that fits him well, though his restrained performance may come across as somewhat one-note for viewers expecting deeper emotional shifts. Opposite him, Leyre Berrocal brings a quiet sensitivity that grounds the film. In many ways, her character becomes the emotional anchor, embodying the desire to escape violence rather than perpetuate it. The main weakness lies in pacing and narrative construction. The middle section stretches longer than necessary, and the final act arrives somewhat abruptly. The closing turn, though powerful in intention, feels rushed. The film seems torn between being a psychological thriller and an intimate human drama, and it doesn’t always balance those two ambitions smoothly. Visually, it has striking moments, and the Basque coastal setting adds an evocative atmosphere. Beyond its structural flaws, what lingers is the question it bluntly asks: does revenge extinguish the fire, or does it only spread it further? Not a great film, but far from the disaster some claim. Uneven, yes, but built around a recognisable human dilemma that still resonates.