It is logical the fascination that black film and spy literature provokes us. The good, that's a lot. It is comforting to see so much class, style, intelligence, non-transferable codes and personality in proscribed people or that transgresses the laws. It is anthological the encounter between the hunter and his prey, interpreted in a sublime way by Al Pacino and De Niro, the professionalism in its highest levels embodying both, the assurance that there can be no surrender, that one will end with the other, in that masterpiece titled Heat And what happened in the Circus, that monument that Le Carré invented, was twisted and dark, but what an unforgettable pleasure caused the eternal game of chess between Smiley, that methodical and wise brain, specialized in German romantic poets, and Karla, sinuous and relentless boss of the KGB. Both are virtuosos of blackmail and are secretly admired. And if you ignore movies and books, if you stick to that abstract thing called reality, the figure, the look, the culture, the manners and the contradictions of Kim Philby, that monarch of the spies leaves you stunned.
Let the lovers of the genre forget all those references. Here Villarejo, castizo king of the sinks of the State, Big Brother of all christ with something greedy to lose or to win, model both him and his spies of the most funny language, rude, seedy, sordid, caricature, infamous copy of the suburb, without fucking grace. What an aesthetic and expressive level is that of those who move the threads of business and the sacred homeland.
And it is fraternal with the universe of the blackmail of the hat the shamelessness or the subnormality of that army of rotten apples or frogs that came out to Aguirre (it has merit the honest lady, is going to get rid of the trullo) that mounted cover societies, that in an intellectual and futuristic show they dared to title their institutional larceny as Paquí Pallá. It is not a joke.