We have to learn to be Juan Muñoz | Television

Juan Muñoz is better known by the cruel public in Spain as the other either The blond of cross and line, and since that otherness has raised a narrative of fascinating and guadianesca failure. If Muñoz had disappeared, like so many other figures, when the comic duo that gave him fame was broken, it would be a character without curves or peaks, but Juan Muñoz never left, his reappearance in Survivors It was a half return. Spain never took him completely his eye, with feelings that have varied between compassion, corrosive mockery, admiration, amazement or identification. He contributes a lot to that, laughing at himself, getting angry and expressing himself with overflow and a spontaneity that cannot be pretended. We know that if Juan Muñoz was a character, the actor who plays him would have won many Oscars.

Last week he had one of those human tone outputs in Telecinco, stirring against Emma García’s abuse, and in that way of protesting and accepting at the same time the blackmail of the morbidity won again the sympathy of all. Juan Muñoz is human, too human, Nietzscheanously Dionysian. The contrast with José Mota helps him. Faced with the supernatural image of the Susty comedian, of the impeccable winner and the master of white humor that always measures the jokes to the fair point of the laugh, but without bothering or shameing anyone, Juan Muñoz is wild, disheveled and sometimes brutal. We understand his anger very well when rage, and his laugh at the wrong time when he laughs.

The story of Cruz y Raya passed with him from comedy to the tragedy. The relationship between the two old friends reminds me of Stefan Zweig and Joseph Roth. The first, exemplary, neat, held in the best rooms, always egregious and senatorial. The other, marginalized, furious, shunned by his friends, Sabblazos, uncontrollable. I was able to write a literary essay about Zweig, but I wrote it about Roth, and if I was commissioned to write about José Mota I would prefer to do it a thousand times about Juan Muñoz, because success has no interest but for the idiots obsessed with him. But the success that left, his margins, the shadows of frustration, the voice a little hoarse and the bad sleeping nights are the germ of literature because they are also from life. A few simple few can aspire to be José Mota, but living consists in learning to be Juan Muñoz.