They hit Silvia Abril Y Andreu Buenafuente when you start Goya with the scene that spectators always expect when they face the television every year: the return trip home of the presenters. They were right because we, the ruthless ones with Twitter and Whatsapp, could put ourselves for a moment in the place of that marriage of comedians inside a car talking about what they did wrong, leaving a gala whose reason for being half of Spain is his thorough skinning, most of the time with reason.
This has motivated a psychosis in the presenters according to which one must not triumph in any way, but avoid shipwreck. This is how hard it is to work, but you work: what is impossible is to show off, because that is what you give up. Abril and Buenafuente appeared in the first gag as the worst presenters in history, brilliant cameo de Reyes and Sevilla through, and from there they were dedicated to overcome successfully. That's what the Goya: to overcome the previous galas, the unfortunate expectations, the prejudices and the time, especially the time. Neither Groucho Marx, as Buenafuente wished to do with intelligence, has a public delivered four hours.
The presenters went singing from the initial monologue to his hilarious streaptease (laughed even Almodóvar, whose soul seemed to be walking through a cemetery in Campo de Criptana), confirming the true curse of the Goya: when you start to shine, it has been so long that the spectator only thinks about catching fire. If they did not look like the statues that fans have made of them, at least Silvia Abril and Andreu Buenafuente were nothing else; they were true to themselves within a devilish format that recommended catenaccio (a catenaccio that extended to political and social demands, almost all muted, total so that the most risky -propalestine- ended up asking that Israel was not going to Eurovision: no, look, Israel that pringue, as we all pringamos). So successful and celebrated was the couple who could well return home with a driver, without having to drive them like in the first scene: choosing transport service this weekend and recording in it is also within the limits of humor.
There were great moments, and they do not all fit here. The most imperishable was that of Jesús Vidal, a disabled actor who told his parents, with the most important award of Spanish cinema in his hands: "I would like to have a son like me to be parents like you". The homage to Ibáñez Serrador, of course, which was much more exciting after being postponed, although it is convenient not to risk so much. Rosalía went out to do that work of his to be a goddess, a crazy job. Seeing José Coronado always invokes that verse that Borges would write today: "Thinking about José Coronado from time to time is one of the good habits that we have left." And Amaia. If these spectacles abuse something, it is to present the conflict between actors, the supposed improvisations or the fake technical errors trying to convince the spectator that it is true, that "this is not prepared" with insistent remonstrance, as if we were children of five from January. And there came out Amaia to say no, that a song had been broken and that we had to start over. We knew it was true because he did not warn us that he was not ready: we knew it was true because he did not need to clarify it. This is how things always work.