In the movies of Spanish cinema there has always been a court of actors that annul the king himself. Pepe Isbert, Gracita Morales, those comedians for whom they had thought secondary roles and kept the main role because somehow within their utopian surrealism they represent us more than the heartthrob. Eduardo Gómez was from that pasta. Ugly and sentimental, like an old rocker who dies with the guitar on his shoulder. His face was so improbable that he would say it was a cartoon, and at the same time so real, so neoreal, that Passolini would have accepted it in a casting. He is the one without knowing why he stays with the girl. At least it was done with the public. In "There is no one here alive" and every time his face, which he knew was made to make him laugh, crossed the screen. Eduardo Gómez was still that Spaniard scoundrel and anarchist to whom everything is allowed because the rules in the empire of comedies are very different from those of the days that pass daily in which we are neither handsome nor ugly. The humorous actor is after all a philosopher who does not take photos with his fingers resting on his forehead, a pose intended for academics, journalists and wounded. Eduardo Gomez put on a leopard thong, a bright costume of a miserable mobster and did his job. He followed that saga of actors that reminds us that we somehow live in a “Mortadelo and Filemón” vignette.
. (tagsToTranslate) obituary