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  • Donostia Johnny Depp Award: "The culture of cancellation is polluted air that is exhaled"

An actor is in his essence a contradiction, an oxymoron, something that he is not even.

An actor lives by being someone else.

And the more he gets rid of himself and more and more passionately it is not him, it is him more intensely and better.

Marlon Brando maintained that an actor is a person (perhaps not-person) who only participates in a conversation if it is about him.

And while it sounds like what it sounds like and what it sounds like (that is, bad), it actually makes sense.

Vanity is your way of being in the world in the best of ways.

If you look closely, an actor is a wildly extreme version of any of us in general.

We all, with or without Instagram, depend on the judgment of others.

But an actor is in his essence nothing more than that: the embodiment of a judgment.

His work is him, his body, his tone of voice, his infinite desire for attention.

It is worth the reflection to make room for what was the last film in competition at the best festival in years. Even decades.

'The eyes of Tammy Faye'

, signed by

Michael Showalter,

is from beginning to end, its protagonist. That she is not an actor but an actress.

Jessica Chastain gives life to the evangelist telepreacher

who announces the title and makes him convinced of canceling himself, of disappearing, of not being Jessica Chastain, in each of the frames. And it succeeds.

So far we had seen her lend her image to every woman who crossed her path, always willing to be so autonomously, independently and voraciously. Since barely ten years ago he began to claim his place in the world with works as diverse as

'Take Shelter

' or

'Maids and Ladies',

his evolution on the screen has consisted of growing to his most absolute and intimate extinction in films that go from '

The Darkest Night

' to each of the three versions of '

The Disappearance of Eleanor Rigby'

through an inalienable adaptation of

'Miss Julia'

by August Strindberg and the display of power that is

'Molly's Game

'.

And always unique in her ability to be anyone but Jessica Chastain.

And so on until one year, this one, in which, after taking over the role that in Bergman's original version of

'Secrets of a marriage'

towards the man, she appears converted to exasperation in the aforementioned Tammy Faye. The story is told of the one who became one of the best-known people in the United States of the 70s and 80s thanks to her Betty Boob voice, her sick optimism and her definitive and unreal makeup. She invented reality TV in the constant display of her most self-evident. The actress herself says that in her decision to embody this character there was a lot of vindication; of justice with a woman who was, like so many others, a victim of what can be generically called a sexist culture. Indeed,

she ended up paying in her flesh all the debts incurred by an egotistical, swindler and abusive husband.

And so.

And from the first to the last breath, the whole film is her in a way that is as thorough as it is persistent.

And even ribald.

Chastain does not hesitate to maintain an unstable balance between caricature, truth and simple suicide at all times.

And so she advances in a waste of herself that points to

an unrepeatable actress,

a perfect denial of herself.

And at this point, the light went out.

The director - previously known for comedies as delicately serious as '

The lovebirds

' and, above all, '

The great disease of love

' - strives to manage so much acting effort without succeeding at all.

The film advances blindly, drowned by the ballast, a script stopped at the same point, without being able to concentrate on any of the serious issues it is going through.

The relationship of political power with the evangelical churches

and its ease of handling;

the difficult reconciliation of salvation and wealth, or the most intimate disease of a capitalism condemned for its moral impossibility of justice appear as barely pointed arguments.

And without more development than its simple and quick mention.

It would seem that the entire film, probably without remedy, lives dazzled by the performance of an actress who, suddenly, is not.

That is, it is with all the consequences.

For the rest, and after contemplating that festive and very entertaining tribute to Tintin that

Alejandro Amenábar

completes in the series

'La fortuna',

everything remains pending of a record that is more complicated to elaborate than ever.

Two bets: '

Earwig

', by Lucile Hadzihalilovic, and

'Who prevents it

', by

Jonás Trueba.

We will see.

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