ONE HUNDRED YEARS OF SOLITUDE. Can magical realism be captured in a Netflix series?

I never imagined that One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez could be turned into a series. A long, perhaps three-hour feature film—sure—but not a 16-episode series. Not to diminish the great writer’s work, but what is there to film for such a long production? I only understood it after watching the Netflix premiere. My fears came true, and since magical realism has always been a beloved literary genre for me, I feel particularly disappointed as a fan of Márquez, Allende, Borges, Bulgakov, Fuentes, and other masters of this type of prose. Magical realism demands a specific rhythm, balance, and at times, literalness, but stretching the plot mercilessly destroys it. This is precisely what happened here—the spirit of Márquez is missing in the narrative. Where it vanished, I cannot say; perhaps in the excessive effort to extract everything Márquez intended to convey through his descriptions, which should have been translated into a unique, occasionally abstract, cinematic style.

The story told in One Hundred Years of Solitude is broad, long, and multi-generational, yet not sprawling—crafted by Márquez with just the right dose of conciseness. Presenting the history of six generations of the Buendía family and the cursed, utopian town of Macondo is no easy feat. It needs to be stripped of enough details to fit into 450 pages of text while still feeling full of both aesthetic, descriptive richness and events. Márquez cleverly structured the Buendía saga with monumental events—there aren’t too many of them, but they span considerable periods of time and can individually be expanded upon in readers’ imaginations. The creators of the series followed a similar path but focused heavily on precision through dialogue, battles, slow-motion scenes, cuts, and twists. As a result, the action progresses slowly from episode to episode, given that there are 16 of them, and the source material is finite. This dilutes the magical realism of the story, even though the series is visually stunning.

It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a series, apart from fantasy ones, with such meticulously designed sets, where the camera works to capture every detail of the shooting locations and the lighting highlights the most essential features of the settings. This ties into, for instance, the dialogues and how certain elements are emphasized. This has been masterfully achieved. However, when I talk about my emotional disappointment due to the underdeveloped magical realism, I mean something like rhythm, timing, the lingering of scenes, and even the linearity of the plot. Of course, the series begins with a scene that frames the story and features the red ants, which fans of the novel should appreciate. But then the action proceeds very predictably, without much disruption—which isn’t inherently a flaw, as long as the pace remains satisfying. This, of course, is a subjective feeling since everyone perceives rhythm differently.

There are many evocative scenes in One Hundred Years of Solitude, and despite the occasional faltering magic in the realism, I am still glad that this production is neither European nor American but Colombian. Moreover, it was filmed in Colombia, the homeland of Gabriel García Márquez. I also regret that he passed away a decade ago, missing the adaptation of one of his most popular books. Perhaps, had he been involved in the script consultations, some technical and narrative missteps could have been avoided. Nevertheless, I still believe that One Hundred Years of Solitude doesn’t need such a sprawling approach to adaptation. It’s a metaphorical novel that would benefit from, and even be elevated by, the brevity necessitated by a two- or three-hour feature film.

It’s somewhat true, as fans of the novel have claimed, that in a rational and technical sense, One Hundred Years of Solitude is an unfilmable literary work. Márquez himself neither insisted on nor showed much interest in an adaptation. Netflix ultimately took up the challenge, which may seem curious to many fans. Perhaps if it had been HBO, the approach might have been different. Nonetheless, Márquez’s sons sold the adaptation rights. Thus began what is undoubtedly the most ambitious television project in South America, led by Colombian director Laura Mora and Argentine Alex García López. They had to contend not only with the curses, spirits, and magic of the fictional world but also with the expectations of the audience—a daunting and often unfair challenge. While the creators’ ambition and technical mastery might not guarantee success, they seem to have succeeded here. The series is receiving excellent reviews. It’s hard to say whether this stems from admiration for the novel, which may obscure the adaptation’s shortcomings, or its actual merit. My feelings are mixed, considering my long-standing familiarity with dozens of South American novels, including those by Márquez himself.