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#el ministerio del tiempo
sinfonia-relativa · 8 months
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La muerte nos Iguala a todos
Serie: El ministerio del tiempo - RTVE
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pitofsecrets · 1 month
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The BBC's The Ministry of Time
It's clear that it's a rip-off of the Spanisht TV series "El ministerio del tiempo."
Like what do you mean the premise it's that a secret branch of the government reclutes historical figures to carry out its missions and there is romance between two of its agents?
Like,
You could have made it a little less obvious.
YOU COULD HAVE CHANGED THE BLOODY TITLE.
Did you seriously think nobody was going to notice!?
That the Spaniards don't use the internet or fucking twitter!?
Once again the British doing what they do best: Stealing from another culture.
I'm so mad I can't even type anymore.
And before any of you start, yes I checked the dates.
The book that the BBC is adapting came out or comes out this year 2024.
But the script was finished in 2023
The Spanish series came out in 2015.
Do you know what's funny?
The tweet that announced the BBC series had a community note calling out the plagiarism.
Now it's gone.
I swear to God, everytime I think that the British couldn't be worse they prove me wrong.
EVERY SINGLE TIME.
Edit: To any of you who think that it's possible that the BBC or the author may have already bought the rights of the original TV series:
They didn't.
Edit 2: So apparently the book is in Goodreads and some early readers who read it called out the obvious plagiarism of the Spanish TV series, some even saying that it was 'ridiculous'.
But it seems now that all of those reviews are 'disappearing'. Now the only evidence there is that even readers and people who have a Goodreads account knew about it are the screenshots on Twitter.
Also 'El Ministerio del Tiempo' was available for a while in Netflix UK.
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perioddramapolls · 8 days
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Period dramas dresses tournament: Orange dresses Round 1- Group C: Isabel de Castilla, El ministerio del tiempo (gifset) vs Simonetta Vespucci, Medici: the magnificent (gifset)
Propaganda for Isabel's dress:
Another pic 🧡🧡🧡
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helianthus21 · 4 months
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so real of him
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docpiplup · 1 year
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Juraría que la conozco de algo...
Isabel (2012-2014), 2×01 Desencuentros II El Ministerio del tiempo (2015-), 1×04 Una negociación a tiempo
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Amelia: Are you having another depressive episode?
Julián: A depressive episode?
Julián: I'm having a depressive series and we're just on season one.
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jaybarou · 1 month
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again?
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enterthecuttlezone · 9 months
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Time Is What It Is
Chapter I of The Ministry of Time An unofficial novelization Based on the screenplay by Javier Olivares and Pablo Olivares Adapted by me :3
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PRÓLOGO

Flanders, 1569
When the sun rose over the Belgian countryside, the battle— more accurately, the massacre— was already over. 
Something had gone horribly wrong. The Spanish army was the most advanced in the world, handsomely financed, its tercio structure decades ahead of its time. And yet hundreds of dead men, almost exclusively soldiers of the Spanish army, were lying in the earth, the colors of their uniforms, faces, hands now the color of the mud. A team of men went around picking up the bodies. As they hoisted life after wasted life into their cart, they had to wonder to themselves— Who allowed this to happen?
At the site of the Spanish army’s camp, a Belgian castle conquered and occupied, the captain Fernández summoned his direct subordinate, Alonso de Entrerríos, to testify on the disaster on the battlefield. This meeting would have been routine, mundane, even constructive under different circumstances. Before the battle occurred, Fernández had it in his mind that he would meet with Alonso afterward to discuss what worked, what didn’t, and how to improve their strategy, whether to call for reinforcements, whether to advance even further. But now he knew the meeting he’d imagined would be impossible. Instead of sending a messenger to Alonso, telling him to report at his earliest convenience, Fernández sent two soldiers, armed, with orders to bring the man to him immediately— by force, if necessary. Fernández knew someone had to take the blame for the outstanding SNAFU, and if he knew one more thing, it was that it wasn’t going to be him.
The moment Alonso’s battered, mud-stained boots made contact with the Spanish army camp grounds, they suddenly found themselves escorted by guards to the room where the anxious officer waited. His back to the door, Fernández turned as he heard the sextet of boots enter the room.
‹Thou attackedst before it was time!› accused the captain. ‹Why didst thou do it?›
Alonso was a serious, once wiry but now emaciated man. Thirty and some years old, battle-weary, muddied and bloodied, he replied, ‹Because thou didst order it so.›
‹Hast thou witnesses who can attest to what thou sayest?›
‹If the dead could speak, I would.›
‹Thou liest,› said the captain, picking up a rod from the table behind him. He turned back to Alonso and yelled, ‹Thou liest!›
He moved to strike Alonso with the stick but Alonso grabbed it mid-swing and held it firm. Quietly but threateningly, Alonso replied, ‹I never lie.›
The captain looked at him as if he were mad.
‹Arrest him!› he yelled.
But before the soldiers could, Alonso grabbed the captain and exploded into rage. ‹They all died for thee!› he yelled. ‹All of them!›
The two guards could barely restrain the tall Alonso as he elbowed and kicked and bit with all his might. He knew there was no hope for him, but he had to do everything he could to give the traitorous Fernández what he deserved. One guard stepped away, and picked up a chair by the door. While Alonso was attacking the captain, he neglected to watch his back. The guard raised the chair and hit Alonso over the head. He fell to the ground, unconscious.
One month later, Alonso was in Seville, shackled to the wall in a gloomy dungeon. His uniform had been traded out for thin, worn rags, and his face was now hidden by the long, tangled beard and hair of a prisoner. Even so, he lowered his gaze. His wife, Blanca, had come to see him. She was upset, to say the least.
‹Why didst thou attack him? He was thy superior!›
‹There are times when a man must do what he must do,› said Alonso. He knew that if he had to live that day over again, and if there was no way he could prevent the catastrophic battle from happening, the only thing he would change would be to give Fernández one extra kick in the groin. Maybe two.
‹Damned pride…› said Blanca. She took his head in her hands. ‹Because of it, tomorrow thy captain will be in his bed, and thou on the gallows.›
‹Then on the gallows will be a man with honor, and in the bed a scoundrel.›
Alonso lifted his head, composing himself. He smiled tenderly at his future widow. ‹Blanca, cry not. I’ve had a good life. I saw the world… I loved… I fought for my country. I have no regrets.›
He paused for a moment. ‹Do one thing for me.›
Blanca nodded.
‹Continue thy life,› said Alonso, ‹don’t look back.›
Blanca hesitated. Alonso didn’t notice as she brought her hand to her belly.
‹Alonso… I… ›
Before she could finish the thought, the jailer yelled from outside the cell, ‹Your time’s up! Out!›
As the jailer entered the cell, Blanca looked at Alonso, and kissed him, empty of all hope. The jailer grabbed her and pushed her towards the door.
‹Forget me, I beg of thee,› called Alonso.
‹It won’t be easy,› said Blanca.
And then Alonso was alone. His head dropped back down, and he was absorbed in his own mind, until an unknown voice brought him back to Earth.
‹Art thou Alonso de Entrerríos?›
Alonso recomposed himself. In front of him was a monk, whose face was obscured by a black hood.
‹Thou wastest time, Father,› said Alonso. ‹What I have to say to God I’ll tell Him tomorrow in person.›
The monk took off his hood, revealing a serious, middle-aged face. He was clean-shaven, with eyebrows that seemed perpetually quirked— but this of course was not what Alonso would remember most about him. ‹I’m not here for confession,› said the monk. ‹I’ve come to take thee out of this place… if thou wilt accept mine offer.›
Alonso’s eyes widened.
‹Wouldst thou like to work for a secret office of the Crown?›
‹A spy?› said Alonso, perplexed.
‹Something like that. Special assignments in strange places… Thou wilt be dead to the world, including Blanca, thy wife.›
At this, Alonso lost the smile that had creeped its way onto his face… but all the same, he offered his hands so that the monk would free them. The monk had keys, and seeing Alonso’s gesture, he opened the shackles.
‹Thou must be very powerful,› said Alonso as the chains came off. ‹Knowing how much these people like executions, it’s strange to me that they would cancel this one.›
‹It won’t be canceled: they’ll have their execution.›
The monk whistled in the direction of the door. Through it, two guards dragged in someone bound with rope and with a sack covering their head. Alonso watched, and, rubbing his reddened wrists, asked.
‹Who is it?›
The monk said, ‹For all intents and purposes, thyself.›
Alonso doubted… but finally reached down to take the sack off the prisoner’s head: there on the ground, bound and gagged, was the captain Fernández. Alonso exploded into laughter, incredulous. The captive captain looked up at him in despair.
‹Can I stay to watch the show?› Alonso asked the monk.
The monk flicked his wrist, appearing to examine the tight-fitting bracelet he wore upon it. Alonso saw that one link on the bracelet was bigger than the rest— a dull green rectangle with mysterious marks on it absorbed the monk’s interest. Alonso could have sworn one of the marks disappeared and then appeared again in an instant. The monk concluded: ‹We don’t have time.›
‹What is that?› asked Alonso, still peering at the watch. The monk, no slave to explanation, walked out the open cell door.
‹Let’s go!›
Alonso, astonished, followed him.
-
Barcelona, 1880
As the afternoon wore on, Amelia started to worry that the professor giving the lecture she was attending did not know what he was talking about. Amelia had devoured books since she was a girl, fascinated by literature and history. She was the only woman in the room— in fact, the only woman in the university’s entire student body. Her presence at the university was a testament to the vast knowledge she had accumulated even before enrolling in her first classes. Unfortunately, not everyone there fully appreciated what she had to share.
The lecture was on the Golden Age of Spanish literature, and the lecturer seemed to be having trouble with the idea that works of high art might take inspiration from the lowbrow.
‹Overall, I deny the influence of any contemporary author on Lope de Vega, glory of Spanish letters,› the lecturer declared. ‹Because the former drinks from profane sources, and our Lope from the deepest roots of our faith…›
As the other students passed notes and shuffled papers, Amelia raised her hand, polite, but determined.
‹Yes, miss?› said the professor.
Amelia spoke fast, the words firing out of her like a machine gun. ‹I’m sorry, but the influence of Orlando Furioso on Lope de Vega is obvious, especially in the theme of madness in relation to love.›
The professor dismissed this. ‹Nonsense.›
‹Characters like Rodomonte and Orlando himself are taken as a model for Lope. You can see it in works like—›
The professor cut her off, coldly. ‹Will you let me continue with the class?›
Amelia stopped and, after a moment, shrank back into her chair, though she did not lower her gaze.
‹The Golden Age demonstrates the glory of our literature,› continued the professor, again at lecturing volume and cadence, ‹represented in Calderón, Lope, or Cervantes’ grandiose Don Quixote. A literature at the height of what Spain was then: the first world power…›
A note made its way unexpectedly to Amelia’s hand. She unfolded the paper and read it silently:
Amelia, come out to the hallway: it’s urgent.
She lifted her head, and the door to the classroom closed just as she turned to look. Not unalarmed, she gathered her notes, got up and hurried out to the hall.
What she found waiting for her there took her by surprise: a thin, attractive woman of about forty years, with blonde hair and a gaudy-colored dress. She had her back to the door, and as Amelia entered, the woman turned towards her and smiled eagerly, as if she’d been looking forward to meeting her for a long time. Amelia stared for no more than an instant.
‹Pardon… who are you?›
‹Someone who knows just how important you are,› said the mysterious lady. She added, ‹Not like all those men.›
Amelia found herself blushing.
‹I’d like to get to know one of the first university women in the country,› she continued.
‹Are you a journalist?›
‹Something like that,› said the woman. She reined in her smile. ‹Tell me, what did your mother say when you said you wanted to study here?›
‹She said I’d lost my mind,› said Amelia. ‹She doesn’t think women have any use for an education.›
‹And your friends?›
‹More or less the same. With them you can only talk about husbands, children, and the fashions of Paris. It’s hard to find a woman who you can talk to about art, politics, or important things.›
‹Well, times are changing, aren’t they?›
Amelia opened up like a book. ‹Sometimes I think that women are our own worst enemies. But that has to change. I’m convinced that in some future, women will be able to do the same as any man.›
‹So am I.›
The mysterious woman removed a flask from the small purse she clutched. She unscrewed the cap and said, ‹Shall we drink to that?›
She took a big gulp and offered the flask to Amelia, who took it, with a more timid sip.
‹If my mother heard us…› Amelia began. She shook her head. ‹She’s committed to finding me a husband… so that I marry and have children.›
This particularly piqued the woman’s interest. ‹And you don’t want to…?›
‹I don’t need a man,› said Amelia proudly.
The woman looked at her for a moment.
‹You don’t know the joy that that gives me…›
She moved in fast— and suddenly her lips were on Amelia’s. Amelia, for her part, was not experiencing the joy. She went stiff as a stone. The woman noticed her apprehension, and stepped back.
Flustered, Amelia stuttered, ‹Need— I don’t need men… but the case is I do like them.›
The woman looked at her and sighed.
‹Oh well.› She picked up her little purse. ‹Let’s see if this interests you more…›
She opened the bag again, and this time removed a wholly unfamiliar artifact. A black rectangle of glass, smooth and rounded at the edges, out of which colored light and soft, strange sounds emanated in response to the woman’s touch.
‹That… what is it?› asked Amelia.
The journalist who was not really a journalist pressed the strange shiny thing to her own ear. ‹Your world is too small for you, my dear— and that we can fix.› Turning away, she said to no one Amelia could see, ‹Angustias? Pass me over to the boss, darling…›
Amelia’s eyes were wide to begin with. Now she wouldn’t shut them for anything in the world.
-
Madrid, 2015
It was a typical night at a typical neighborhood bar. The local regulars drank their drinks, shot the breeze, watched the game playing on the TV mounted to the wall. On the wall behind the counter hung a scarf branded Atleti, for one of Madrid’s many soccer clubs, and a poster of Koke, one of its many famous players.
At a table, two paramedics in their yellow SAMUR uniforms dined on snacks and beer, attempting to wind down as the end of their shift approached. One of them was Julián. Only in his early thirties, he nevertheless had deep lines etched in his face and, tonight as on most nights, very little appetite. The other was Ramón. He was a little older, a lot heavier, and where Julián had short but poofy curls and a five-o-clock shadow, Ramón had a metalhead’s long greasy locks and well-kempt beard. While Julián stared into space, hardly having touched his little dish of nuts, Ramón picked at his tortilla de patata with the contempt of a hungry man confronted with food that is just not good.
‹Tortilla de patatas is like the IBEX-35 of a bar,› declared Ramón, referencing an index of the Madrid Stock Exchange. ‹If the tortilla is good, the bar is good.›
Julián didn’t answer.
‹And this tortilla is a disgrace.›
‹Everything was better before,› Julián said nostalgically.
‹Why are you so committed to coming here?›
Before Julián could make any unenthusiastic response, the radio transmitter they had rested on the table crackled to life: ‹Fire downtown,› said the staticky voice. ‹It’s a hostel.›
Julián got up automatically. ‹Let’s go.›
Ramón, still seated, started to protest. ‹Julián, for fuck’s sake, our shift is over in ten minutes and we’ve just been drinking!›
But Julián was already outside. With another curse, Ramón grabbed a handful of tortilla and grudgingly followed Julián out the door.
Downtown, the lights of sirens and the flames in the burning building colored the light of the night. By the time Julián and Ramón arrived in their ambulance, a fire truck and another ambulance had already been parked in front of the hostel. One firefighter, covered in ash, was being treated by a paramedic with an oxygen mask on the sidewalk.
Nearby, the light of the fire illuminating his face, was Ramón and Julián’s supervisor, talking to another firefighter in front of the building. Ramón approached them. ‹Jefe, how is it?› he asked his boss.
‹Not as bad as it seems,› he replied, with the attitude of having done most of his job already. ‹Inhalation of smoke, some attacks of nerves…›
As they talked, Julián looked up at the building, which was nearly completely engulfed in flame. Behind a window on the second floor, there were two figures. 
Their characteristics were obscured by the smoke but Julián could see their silhouettes clear as day. ‹There’s still somebody inside!› he shouted.
‹Impossible,› said the firefighter. ‹Everyone has been evacuated. We’ve searched top to bottom.›
Julián pointed to the window, and the three other men looked up. But by then, the silhouettes were gone.
Nobody else was making any move to go into the building. Julián realized that if he was going to help those people in the window, he would have to do it on his own. He saw a firefighter’s smoke protection mask on the ground, grabbed it, and ran towards the building. His companions became alarmed. The firefighter yelled after him, ‹It’s about to cave in!›
But Julián didn’t turn back.
With the mask on his face, Julián entered the burning building and made for the stairs. At the top, he turned the corner into the room he saw through the window. Through the sooty mask he could see that the whole room was on fire and could collapse at any minute. Quickly his eyes searched for people in need of help. Then he saw, lying on the floor, two men— strangely, both were dressed like Napoleonic soldiers.
‹Here! I’ve found them!› Julián yelled. He went to try and revive them, but when he checked for a pulse, he couldn’t find one. He heard footsteps, and realized that someone else had entered the room. Thinking it was his partner, he yelled again. ‹Quickly! There’s no pulse!›
When he turned around, however, he saw that the new arrivals were not firefighters or SAMUR, but two other men, one uniformed like the men on the floor, and the other in civilian clothes of the same era. They stared at him, motionless, for a moment. Then there was a great cracking noise, and the three conscious men looked up. The ceiling had broken. The last thing Julián saw was the wooden beams heading right for his face.
-
For the next full day, Julián lay sedated in a hospital bed, coming in and out of consciousness. When he opened and closed his eyes, hours would pass before they opened again. Barely he perceived fragments of what was happening around him.
Open. A nurse is doing something Julián doesn’t get to observe. Close.
Open. Ramón, with he and Julián's supervisor, is at the foot of the bed. They talk in low voices.
‹This can’t go on, chief… Sooner or later something was going to happen. Nobody wants to work with him, he’s a danger, to others and to himself.›
The boss snorts.
‹After what happened with his wife…› says Ramón, ‹he’s not the same.›
‹Who would be?› The supervisor looks down at Julián. ‹Some shit luck you’ve had, kid…›
Close.
Open. Two strangers, dressed formally— a man in a suit and tie, and a woman in a blazer and skirt— are in the room. The man, next to the door, is reviewing a hospital clipboard, Julián’s medical history. The woman, seated by the bed, is looking at Julián.
Close.
-
The next day, Julián was fully awake, and the doctor told him he was free to go. Midday light entered through the window of the hospital room as Julián, now on his feet and dressed, prepared his bag to go home. He went over to the window to open it, but found that he couldn’t. It was locked.
‹Don’t bother. It won’t open.›
Julián turned around and saw his supervisor had entered the room.
‹Doctor’s orders,› said the boss.
Julián smiled. ‹They think I’m going to jump, or what?›
‹We’ve received a complaint from the Fire Department.› The supervisor was dead serious. ‹Many of their men risked their lives because you disobeyed an order from the firefighter in charge of the operation.›
‹There were people inside!›
‹There was only you, Julián,› said the boss.
He paused, to make sure Julián understood this point. Julián’s heart rate started to rise.
‹This isn’t the first time,› his supervisor continued. ‹Your colleagues say that working with you is like working with a suicide terrorist.›
‹But I know what I saw!›
‹You are out of service until further notice,› the boss said gravely. ‹You need to talk to a specialist…›
Julián sat down on the bed, crushed. The boss came over and put a hand on his shoulder.
‹Think of it as a vacation…› he said, more gently. ‹Didn’t you used to do photography? Do that.›
As his supervisor left the room, Julián replied under his breath.
‹Not anymore.›
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goldenliartrash · 9 months
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Interest check
En caso de organizarse una especie de watch party del ministerio del tiempo, semanal (con detalles a concretar más tarde), donde todos vemos la serie desde el principio simultáneamente y la comentamos como se solía hacer en twiter, participarías?
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espejoobsidiana · 1 year
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El Ministerio del Tiempo & Un Asunto Privado | Amelia Folch and Marina Quiroga and their mothers: Asunción and Mercedes
“You are obsessed, women cannot obsess over one thing only”
“But men can?”
“Yes, they have that luxury.”
For me the saddest thing is that Amelia and to a lower extend Marina think their mothers don’t like them, but I think it’s obviously they do and they recognize how talented and smart they are. But Amelia and Marina want to live a life different from what society dictates and their mothers know how unforgiving society, specially high society can be to women. 
They are afraid they die soon, or worse that they end shunned and penniless when they cannot longer protect them.
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corvidcantina · 1 year
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Reading about the Bruneri-Canella case and wondering if it was the inspiration for Julián's plotline
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isadomna · 1 year
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Elizabeth apparently told Gomez Suarez de Figueroa, Count of Feria, and one of Philip’s leading councillors, that she was aware “that when she was in prison, your majesty [Philip] had shown her favour and helped to obtain her release.” At the same meeting, Feria told Elizabeth that it was Philip who “who had procured her recent recognition as the queen’s sister and successor, and not the queen or the council, and that this was something your majesty had been trying to secure for some time.”
Mitchell Gould, Philip II of Spain: King, Consort, and Son: Tudor and Stuart Consorts, Power, Influence, and Dynasty
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marga-manso · 6 months
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[insertar guiño a la audiencia] GoldenLiar
Summary:
A Alonso le preocupa su nuevo compañero de patrulla.
(—Pareciere incapaz de percibirnos. —Insiste, con una intensidad que, sin duda, peca de excesiva. —Alonso, ¿estás celoso?)
O
Pacino rompe la cuarta pared y Alonso es el único que se da cuenta.
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koboldkatalyst · 2 years
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helianthus21 · 6 months
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me watching spanish tv shows when sb curses:
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docpiplup · 11 months
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