Many times I find myself doing improper things about my age or my condition, such as sighing from the depths of my lungs while I mumble phrases that have been common currency in reality and in the cinema (Virgin of beautiful love, where will we go) . I say well, because reality imitates the cinema, and the films of Bardem or Berlanga are starring women who could be my mother or my aunts, when not my grandmother, matriarch of a saga that I call, for literary affinities, the house of Bernarda Alba They were skinny and rough women who used to be dressed in black, or black with white toitos and the length well below the knee. They were heavy fabrics, a lot of fall, but I am unable to specify his name. Maybe chiffon, silk, satin ...? Some of those women belonged to the universe of the grandmothers; the others, to that of the mothers. Between them there were more differences than one could imagine. In the photo albums, the model of certain mothers was repeated a lot: women with a wide and incarnate smile, a jacket with a skirt and large lapels, high heels and, most strikingly, fasciston hairdo , with the false parapet rising above the forehead. Upstairs Spain , they told the quirky hairstyle.
In the films of the 40s, women decorated with a clatter of red and black (red in the mouth, black in the girdled dresses at the waist) had a great stage presence.
I see more cinema inspired by interwar and, especially, in the Civil War. It does not depend so much on the film industry as on me and, in particular, on my tastes. Although for all intents and purposes I grew up in my 50s, in my subconscious are the battalions my mother told me while I finished dinner. The Civil War belongs to me, because the noise of the bombs belongs to me, the long way of the flight following the train track in the fog. I feel all the misfortunes without having lived them, the fear, the suffocation, the stunned looks of the grandparents whose house expropriated the General Staff. And the curiosity of my mother, who learned everything to tell me when she was born. To these women that I now have trapped in the photo albums, the war froze their smile. Then came the postwar period and, with it, scarcity and sacrifices.
All wars are half counted. I will never see all the movies I need or all the battalions my mother saved me. Here where they see me, I also have an unpublished movie inside.
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