"The problems of three little beings do not tell anything in this crazy world," Bogart told Bergman at the end of White House, propping up an ideal alien to narcissism millennial of the 21st century. The Bogart youtuber Today (the Bogartius?) would reverse the phrase: my problems are the only important thing in this crazy world. Neither Nazis, nor exiles, nor resistances are anything compared to the anger that I have because they have spoiled the end of Game of Thrones.
An example was seen the other day in Chester (Four). Risto interviewed Jesús Vázquez and both spoke of the fame that comes and goes, of the prestige, of how those who love you hate you a moment later, and vice versa. Until then, all relevant, but they came to illustrate the speech with a testimony. And appeared, from among the mists of analog television, Jorge Berrocal, contestant of the first Big Brother, known by the antipoetic hose "who puts my leg on me so I do not raise my head".
Berrocal was presented as a broken toy because he could not make a career on TV and had to find a job. Mejide and Vázquez listened to his story moved, as if attending a story by Dickens, but I think that some spectators, besides me, were left ojipláticos and asking where the tragedy was.
Before writing this column, I reviewed the Declaration of Human Rights in case the right to fame was picked up somewhere and it had happened to me, but the only one who proclaimed something like that was Andy Warhol, and restricted the right to fifteen minutes, which is democratic and reasonable.
I am in favor of the aspiration to live big doing the goose and I think it is good that there are people who live on the air, yes, without having to show any talent, because that means that we are in a liberal and un-moralistic society. But to elevate to melodrama the frustrated ambition, although legitimate, of a vague one, is of a low-imperial decadence that frightens.