January 24, 2021

Welcome to the museum, tunantes



I begin with a personal anecdote dated in 2009: I have become friends with an Icelandic who speaks Spanish and it has occurred to me that I might have fun, she and an American girl who is out there, see the imitation that Joaquín Reyes makes of his compatriot Björk in The chanante hour. The video lasts three minutes, but after twenty seconds I realize the failure of my good intention. Reyes says: “Bioorrrr”, with a touch of Chiquito de la Calzada that foreign girls do not even grasp, and pronounces in his own way the long last name of the singer: “Gud-mos-don-tir”, “Gus-tin -mon-dir. ” It comes to my mind sketch in which Tuesday and Thirteen imitated a María José Cantudo who struggled in vain to correctly say “metamorphosis.” The comedian continues inserting his particular terminology (“I’m half merilota ”; “In that movie I played cegarruta ”) and, by then, the American has already left, bored and uncomfortable for not understanding anything. A wave of shame invades me, both in recognizing how much I enjoy a humor that I find strongly identitarian and in verifying how unintelligible it is to them. What I felt at that time had to do with one of the essential characteristics of humor: its strong link with socially constructed communities, both territorial and generational. These parody minutes contained an accelerated course of residence in this country and of belonging to a generation.

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