I return hypnotized to my house from the Bernabéu by the aesthetic pleasure caused by a very unpleasant individual and exceptional player called Vinicius and a god as young as he is magical who responds to the already mythological name of Belllingham. And I prepare on my solitary sofa to live, or suffer or nod with intensity the great celebration of Spanish cinema, the eternal march of pomp and circumstance, the “we are so united, how we all love and admire each other.”
I note at the end of the gala twinning that it lasted 223 minutes. And with only three of institutional advertising from RTVE. In other words, the patriotic show, the supreme tribute to the art that governs Spanish cinema, would have lasted seven hours on other networks. A little overwhelming, I suspect. But it’s all for culture, for celebrating the permanent days of wine and roses of Spanish cinema so often misunderstood or repudiated. Heavyweights present the ceremony. That mythological lady who does everything well, she interprets, she sings, she is beautiful and I certify that she is also a good person named Ana Belén. And she is accompanied, dressed in hypermodern pajamas, by a postmodern couple who miraculously are as smart as they are disturbing (check this out with the series The Messiah) who respond to the fellow pseudonym of Los Javis.
They are supposed to distribute the awards among an unorthodox crowd of talents. And that the ceremony will be marked by the praise of empowerment and the unavoidable diatribes against the old and condemnable universe that the males set up from the false earthly paradise to oppress and humiliate women. Correct certification, although now everything could run the risk of an opportunistic and militant farce if the renewed power, always so abusive and disgusting, imposes that all of them are holy demands and unconfessed male executioners. And those who are more (let our commitment be noted, even though we have been the oppressors, they are not going to put us on the list of ancestral sinners) and those who are less, sign up with calculated discourse to what good conscience demands and to maintain the work
I get chills when I see twelve people go up to the winners’ stage a couple of times to thank them for the award. If everyone expresses their gratitude to relatives and patrons, the tiresome business will last until Christmas. It doesn’t happen like that. But my malice really enjoys when I listen to the praise and subterranean confrontations to those who thank Netfix and the platforms for being the economic saviors of their grandiose projects and to those who demand from viewers that the ideal way to watch movies is by going to the movies. rooms, its natural format, that everything else is bastard.
And I think of an old saying that stated “everyone talks about the fair according to how things go in it.” In other words, let’s talk about where the money is, the only incontestable principle since the beginning of humanity, the hyperrealistic and vulgar “what about mine?” And the awards insist on giving them almost all, the small ones and the meaty ones, to a protein winner: the very meritorious The Snow Society. The Bayonne movie. Why does everyone around him, close or more distant, insist on calling him the familiar and endearing J.? But aren’t we talking about the supreme chief? “Before learning magic, people should know and practice etiquette,” said the always lucid Leonard Cohen.
I imagine that it must have been an excessive burden for the humble Bayona to have to reciprocate all the time and not repeat himself in his gratitude to the great family by granting him the title of the most capable, the most artistic, the supreme winner in all facets. He deserves it. I find his film powerful, hard, complicated and tender. It is one of the best things I have seen this year in Spanish cinema, although my taste and heart feel very close to the admirable They know that one, A not so simple life, Andrea’s love y They shot the pianist.
Movies that alter existence
Los Javis say that Almodóvar’s cinema changed their adolescent lives. I believe it. Blessed be. It is not my case, that that is why diversity exists, so celebrated by Susi Sánchez, vice president of the Academy, or something like that, who has a shameful mistake in her speech, in her progressive speech about the abuse of power and the violence that is exerts against women by stating: “That this remains the same is not the norm, but the exception.” Woe to involuntary confessions, brain, she meant just the opposite. And let everyone look for the movies that altered their existence for the better. mine were Apartment, The hustler, The Quiet Man, Casablancaold people’s things.
Very vindictive and frontal is the argument of the sophisticated Almodóvar, now in an ardent, supportive and corporate plan, in a Spartacus plan, against a Vox politician who was in the room, guilty of baseless vile accusations about the national cinema that permanently gives us happiness. The cameras do not focus on the vilifier. They don’t lynch him either. But they have offered us shots of the smiling gesture and enthusiasm for the ceremony of those who run the Government, ancestrally in love with culture.
What surprises me for the better in this party that honors talent? The dedication of the fantastic Sigourney Weaver, class, elegance, intelligence, to the Spanish lady who has always dubbed our language. He was probably prepared, he was not spontaneous, but he was as unusual as he was generous. And the magnificent actor David Verdaguer, talking about his permanent fear that probably overwhelms us all. And what a shame not to have recognized the wonderful performance of Carolina Yuste, her partner in David Trueba’s beautiful and very sad film.