Bruno Oro: "I sent the proposal to have a child via WhatsApp."

BarcelonaThere was a desire for Bruno Oro and his partner in crime, Clara Segura. The premiere of Vinaigrette –series of sketches that recovers that Vinegar from the distant 2008– has been the second best of the 3Cat, only behind the return of Dragon Ball: 56,000 views on the first day alone. In this interview, the actor, musician, and writer opens up about his career, his late fatherhood, and the weight of his family roots, among other things.

Vinaigrette arrives seventeen years after VinegarWhat prompted you to come back?

— The same as always: the desire to work with Clara. Every few years we mutually crave the chance to work together again. When we went to TV3 to propose it, I had a feeling they'd get a yes, so I started writing. It took them months to respond, but I've been writing the scripts for a year and a half anyway. I'm organized like that, and I thought that if it didn't work out, I'd have material to do a play with Clara.

Are these outlandish characters based on real people or are they entirely invented?

— They always come from what we find funny, but also from what makes our blood boil, because humor must have a touch of malice. With the Montessoris, for example, we can use a lot of Kafkaesque and absurd material related to education. We also do it with the tax official. In the case of Rosalía and Morales, they are characters we played in our first play together, 25 years ago, so it comes full circle.

How did you meet Clara?

— Well, already in my first job, in The mayor of Zalamea, in Madrid. They had chosen me to be a substitute, as in first soldier, that is, a few lines. She played Chispa, the army prostitute. It was also a small role—hers, not so small—and we met often, backstage, waiting, and we got on each other's nerves. I immediately saw that this woman was a monster and suggested we do a play together, with invented characters. And, naturally, we began to divide up the roles: I focused more on writing, and she on directing.

What does it bring you?

— Clara has taught me generosity on stage, to give it your all. I was more lazy when I was starting out, while she's a beast and gives it her all even if she has a fever and has performed seven shows that week. And we understand each other very well, because we both share a common passion for musicality and playing an instrument. In the end, comedy works hard on precise timing: one second late, or too quickly, and that doesn't work anymore. We have a similar sensitivity and we laugh at the same things: whenever we walk down the street, we're always touching elbows: "Look, look at that one!" Look at that woman, what a face!

And what do you think you give her?

— Maybe the writing part: I have a lot of imagination and I imagine many situations. I'm the one who creates the plots.

The characters are a showcase of flaws. Are they all someone else's, or are there some of your own?

— There is self-criticism, wow! For example, Marçal Xuriguera, who is an actor: in the profession we are egotists, and a bunch of bores. We're too intense.

Do you recognize yourself?

— Look, I'm very different from Marçal, but I've also been very intense. When I was studying at the Institut del Teatre, I used to think that doing theater was something unique and special and that, therefore, we were different from everyone else.

Don't you feel that anymore?

— I feel like our profession is a real pain, a very difficult one, and that it's different in many ways from everyday life... but I don't think we're special. We give pleasure, we give happiness, we make people laugh, we move, we tell stories... but that whole thing about how young you are, about believing you're the only one... that's no longer the case. And it's all very well to put that through therapy. And then there's the gym trainer persona: I've also had periods of obsession with my physique and being very self-demanding.

Let's do the interview on the day you recorded a cameo for the PolandTen years after leaving, at a very high point of your popular recognition. What made you fold?

— Tiredness. I was tired of painting my face and not being able to contribute anything more to those characters. In the end, imitation is an artifice. It's very funny, but it pigeonholes you, and I was afraid they'd call me an imitator my whole life and call me only to do imitation shows. It was a huge sacrifice, because the cast and crew were hilarious; we cracked up. Today I was excited to meet them again, but I had to leave to grow. And I'm glad that the reunion happened when I'm debuting. Vinaigrette, which is exactly what I want to do, very personal, which we have built with a very small family.

Was the transition easy?

— No, it was a really tough year. No one called me. It's mind-blowing, because in our profession, a resume doesn't count: overnight, you cease to exist.

And what counts then?

— Being self-taught. It's important to keep working for yourself. If you wait for the phone to ring... it doesn't. What did I do? Well, I invented a job, started a YouTube channel, wrote a novel... I worked for myself. And this was a seed that's now bearing fruit. But I spent a really tough year and a half or two, telling myself, "Destiny is telling me I made a mistake." But destiny was telling me, "No, I'm giving you time, and they're not calling you because you're the one who should be generating your work." I always say it's very important to listen to destiny, because it stops your path in front of you, even if it comes with many obstacles.

Have you ever thought about quitting?

— I thought, "Can I be a waiter?" Because I was wondering what I could do. And I did think I'd be a good head waiter, because I have a gift for people. But then everyone would be like, "Wow, you're Bruno Oro, right? What are you doing here?" So I called Laura Jou and asked if I could teach a comedy class at her drama school. She said yes, and that made me happy because suddenly I found myself teaching 20-year-olds, really hard. I remember writing "I'm back" on Instagram, and nobody understood me. And it may not seem like much that only fifteen 20-year-olds were waiting for me, but I thought I was working, that it was fantastic, and that I could learn a lot from those kids.

During the pandemic, you started a YouTube channel. According to your page, you did it "to keep going." I don't know if that was just a way of speaking or if you really suffered during the lockdown.

— I was doing Coverage With Clara, they locked us up. So, I'd been laughing at thousands of people, and suddenly... locked up. I felt an absolute need to keep doing things. That's when I took off my mask for the first time. I don't play a social media character; I play Bruno and comment on current events with those monologues where I'm already myself. That was the seed of what came later.

Would you go back to the mask now?

— No, never. I'll never go back to the imitator mask; that would be a step backward. I mean, I'd go back to the mask with something very specific: a film in which I played Salvador Dalí, for example. Then, I'd be happy to do it, imitating something very specific and doing obsessive work, but I wouldn't paint my face again.

Did you have any favorite characters at that time?

— Acebes, because it was the perfect acting schizophrenia, which is the most fun thing, as an actor: to push and take something to the limit, not knowing how far you can go.

And is there any part of the job that is more difficult for you?

— Casting. I hate casting. And I haven't done it in a while. It would be my number one wish.

Is it the fear of rejection?

— Surely, yes. I'm very sensitive and quite fragile, and casting is a perverse test. In a casting, the actor is already losing from the moment he walks in, because you see the faces that are looking for a prototype. They're not looking for your acting quality, they're looking for an image they have in their heads. It's almost like a blind date. And the desired person never gets in, or almost never.

During the pandemic, you also boosted your career as a musician and writer. Was it difficult for you to defend these aspects of yourself in front of the public because they see you as an actor?

— Yes, I've encountered a lot. With music, especially. I've spent a lot of time and resources on it, and it's never worked for me. It hasn't worked for me at all.

What does nothing mean?

— It doesn't mean that I haven't had a gig. Because I was the one who Poland and now I will be the one VinaigretteAnd Bruno Oro... well, he's the one who makes you laugh. I take it easy now, but I've suffered through it. I've played the piano all my life; I've been more of a fan of music than acting, and I've spent many more hours playing the piano and recording albums than rehearsing pieces. But it's never worked out. Well, there it is, and it doesn't keep me up at night.

And as a writer?

— Well, I'd like to think I have a better future there. Books are a bit more distant: you're not physically on stage, so it allows the other person to distance themselves from your image. I love writing so much, and I'm so stubborn, that I'll keep writing and publishing.

You told me earlier that you were disciplined. What's your work routine?

— I get up around 8:30. I meditate and then exercise. I play a little tennis or run, and also do a little strength training, because I'm a wreck right now and if I don't watch out, I'll be skin and bones. Then I have breakfast and start writing, for about three hours. I like to get up early because I have a strong sense of guilt. I think it comes from my grandfather Ramón, who told me he never rested. I like to do my homework before eating.

Do you feel inconsequential if you don't work?

— I can take vacations, and I really enjoy traveling. I love leisure time, but it's always a bit of time to feed on new ideas. In the afternoons, I try to play the piano, or whatever. I used to play every day, but not anymore: just once a week so I wouldn't lose my fingers. And then there are the times when I have evening performances.

You mentioned you'd play Dalí. Did you meet him? Your family was connected to him.

— I was only two or three years old, when he came to our house a lot, and I don't remember him because his last years were spent in Púbol, locked away. I remember many conversations between my grandfather Ramón and my uncle Antonio about Dalí. We even had two of his paintings at home, and that had a huge impact on me.

Your origins are from an unmistakably bohemian family, but it's caught my attention that you have a brother who's fourteen years younger than you... but you consider him the oldest of the three of you. How's that going?

— Abel is very sensible, a very rational scientist. And I've always used him to give him content and let him judge whether it's grounded in the times, whether it's current, whether it's heterobasic, whether it's not too old-fashioned or tacky... He's a very refined, down-to-earth guy, and that's why I sometimes say he's my older brother. And then I have Andrea, an actress and dancer with whom I connect a lot on a level of laughter and theater.

Do you still have one of Abel's dreadlocks at home?

— Of course I still have it, yes, yes. When she was about to die, I cut it off, as a souvenir. And I dedicated a song of mine to her, called Wise man, the wise man, which is the description of what I remember in the ICU when he was in a coma and I went there to see him and experienced that sonorous atmosphere that is created there, where there is silence and some very specific noises from the machines.

I guess it changes your perspective when you have a loved one in such a difficult situation.

— And I would have changed even more if it hadn't come out. And that's the reflection I made those days, luckily it came to fruition, because otherwise life would never be the same.

Your mother got pregnant with you at nineteen, very young. And you just became a father, at 47. Here, flowerpots don't look like pots.

— I was anti-baby, and so was my partner. I don't know if it was due to contagion, but it's true that she and I have talked a lot. We've done a lot of therapy, and one day I told her that I think we'd make a big mistake if we didn't become parents, because we have something so beautiful about us, and it would be a shame not to share it. She's coming at a perfect time in my life, and in hers too. We're really enjoying the month and a half we've been together.

Did you take the first step?

— Yes, yes. She criticizes me and says I sent the proposal to have a child via WhatsApp...

Bruno Oro!

— It's true that one day I told him that I think we're wrong not to have a child, and I sent him this via WhatsApp because it felt like an immediate urgency. Sometimes certain feelings or intuitions take over, and I told him without waiting to get home.

Would you like your child to go into show business?

— I don't know...! On the one hand, I'd love it. I'd like him to go into the music world, and look, that's the hardest part of all. And even though it hasn't worked out well for me, I'd like us to do something together. But on the other hand, I think he'll do whatever tickles his fancy, of course. But it's true that he'll thrive in an artistic environment.

Is it true that you called yourself Bruno Pichot Oro and that you changed the order of your last names?

— Oro is my father's, but since my grandparents only had daughters, I found it funny that Pichot wasn't lost. But artistically, Bruno Oro sounds much better.

It depends on the branch, Pichot has a sound that would be playful.

— Hahaha, in porn, Oro doesn't sound better, of course. But since I didn't end up going with that... Now, people think Oro is a stage name!

It's that of your Italian father, whom you lost when you were young.

— I was fifteen years old, and it was a deeply felt death. Interestingly, we had our son at Can Ruti, where my father died. And this has closed another circle. It was very emotional. I hadn't returned to Can Ruti since 1993, and my memory of it was of my father dying, with a great impact on his body.

You have a strong Italian streak that I imagine is your heritage...

— Yes. When I was 26, I went to Naples for the first time because I realized I hadn't met my family—my uncles and distant cousins—yet. I fell so in love with the city that that's when I launched into singing and released my first album exclusively in Italian. That's the biggest misconception possible, marketing-wise. Naples is an important part of my theatrical and extroverted world, the Italian blood that coexists with my more disciplined Catalan blood and a lot of my family from Figueres, from Els Pitxot, who are a little crazy but hardworking.

You claim a lot, he was a hard worker.

— Being a hard worker has a bad reputation. But if you've done your homework, you can rest in peace. I understand working with Catalans very well. Madrid residents work while eating and are always busy. What's up, dude, come on, let's go eat, have a beer and such.But I don't like business lunches. I prefer to work and then go out to eat and celebrate. I don't like mixing things up because I don't work well.

Do you often find yourself having to hold back laughter because you see that it's not appropriate?

— Yes, I have a very perverse mind, and it goes off on me quickly. I always think in a humorous way.

Why do you come from the factory like this or because you have the chip to take advantage of it for work?

— No, no, the profession came after the perverse mind. I was already imagining things in class as a child.

Are you the school troublemaker?

— He was the imitator, but he didn't mess it up, because he studied and got pretty good grades. But he was the clown.