The Gaudí Awards red carpet foreshadowed the contrasts of the gala. The preliminary interviews with the stars navigated between the glamorous pretensions of the Liceu, the logistics of the refreshments in the Foyer, and the coat tucked under their arm.
The fact that the ceremony began with a warning about the length of acceptance speeches and the threat of loud noises if they went on too long already indicated the magnitude of the tragedy. It didn't even prompt the Academy president to enforce the rule. Judging by the repertoire of speeches, Catalan cinema has very little to say about itself.
The best thing about the gala was that, despite being bland, it was quite well done and uncomplicated. It diluted the singular figure of the master of ceremonies to embrace poetic narrative threads through five actresses and a somewhat rudimentary theory about light and color. Nora Navas, Maria Molins, Maria Arnal, Laura Weissmahr, and Carla Quílez recited a script with a certain lyricism but rather emptiness. A sound problem (which wasn't the only one) spoiled the culmination of the idea. The incorporation of white and Rosalía's music, which is already becoming overused, created false expectations amidst the mess. The introductory idea wasn't well executed. It was a recurring problem. Every time they tried to create an aspirational and sophisticated atmosphere, it would then descend into chaos, bringing them crashing back down to earth.
The idea of including anonymous female spectators as representatives of the audience was well-intentioned, but very poorly executed. Inexplicably, they were turned into a mere excuse for humor. They were infantilized and treated with a recurring, condescending sexism that was downright offensive: "What? Are you having a good time?", "Isn't he handsome in Verdaguer?", "Did you come alone? Doesn't he have a partner?" They didn't know what to say. They were used more than listened to. If this is the treatment the Academy believes Catalan film audiences deserve, if this is the image they project onto the people who buy tickets, then we're in trouble. The jokes about Joel Díaz's diarrhea, shoehorned into the party, completed the farce.
Fernando Trueba appeared on stage bundled up as if he'd just come in from the street. The succession of musical performances with avian themes was disconcerting. The black eagle; The seagull; Red rooster, black rooster and The song of the birdsLots of writing, but the metaphor never took flight. If there was any allegory to be inferred, we didn't understand it.
Despite the large screen, the images were limited to fragments of the nominated films. Once again, rhetoric prevailed over showcasing the sector's visual potential. They placed more faith in the glamour of the Liceu than in the substance of Catalan cinema. It was a significant gala, marking eighteen years. But far from being the empowering explosion of coming of age, it was a timid, aesthetically driven, and insubstantial celebration.
