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We went to Seville for semana santa. I was filming the first segment of a Channel Four series about gods and remembered the fervently pious parades of the early 1960s. We were living in Fuengirola when it was a dusty little village with 600 inhabitants (today, during the summer, it has a quarter of a million). Semana santa in Malaga was an intimidating celebration. The tronos on which the images of the Virgin and of Jesus were lurchingly carried by their unseen crews were preceded by the moustachioed guardia civil, carrying reversed arms; they might have been at a king’s…

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