Juan Diego Botto: "Men have been given instructions for a reality that no longer exists."

BarcelonaIn the series I don't like driving, Borja Cobeaga showed the comic potential of Juan Diego Botto as a surly university professor who is forced to get his driver's license at the age of 45. In The aitas, which premieres this Friday, Cobeaga brings him back for the comedy role of one of four unemployed fathers in Bilbao in the late 1980s who are forced to accompany their daughters to Berlin to participate in a rhythmic gymnastics championship.

Your character is a man for whom everything in life had come easy until, suddenly, things turn around. What does Borja Cobeaga see in you, the thing that he always casts you in characters in crisis?

— Well, all four of them are in crisis, but reality has completely overwhelmed my character. He's not the most skilled of men either; he's more like the last one who gets the jokes. The way he navigated life no longer works, neither in the workplace nor in his relationships. But I was drawn to making such a comedic film; I'd never done anything like it before.

It's true that you haven't worked too extensively in the genre. Was that a thorn in your side?

— I really enjoy doing drama, but it's true that I've missed doing more comedy. I've done it with Joaquim Oristrell, and also with Víctor García León, although their comedies feature very bitter and miserable characters. The aitas It is a more tender comedy, very funny.

The aitas It portrays a generation of men who assumed that parenting wasn't for them. It still happens today, but at least it's not normalized.

— The film seeks to look to the past to better understand the present. The new space we men must occupy has yet to be written. We men are in a moment of perplexity. We've been given instructions for a reality that no longer exists. And the film's humor comes from this, from seeing these men's inability to understand their daughters and to be fathers. As if caring for their daughters, having a relationship with them, worrying about their affairs, or knowing who they are were only motherly things.

Have you not felt ready to actively act as a father either?

— Neither fathers nor mothers are completely prepared when the moment arrives. We've all felt overwhelmed. But many things have changed. The vast majority of men want to be an active part of their children's lives. We don't want to miss out on the experience of getting to know who this person is, loving them, nurturing them, and learning with them.

It has just been performed in Barcelona the work 14.4, of which you are one of the authors. What made you want to tell the story of actor Ahmed Younoussi, who arrived in Spain hidden under a truck at the age of nine?

— The driving force behind the story is Sergio Peris-Mencheta. He met Ahmed while making a short film a long time ago, and he'd been telling me for years that we had to tell his story. Finally, I sat down with Ahmed: he told me about his life with great generosity, and we created the script together. It's a relevant topic, because children who come to Spain alone have become a political weapon, as if they were the epitome of evil. We've been sold the idea that these children are the greatest danger today, and we felt it was worthwhile to tell one of these stories firsthand. Because it's one thing to watch a news report, and another to hear someone's story firsthand, with a lot of context, but from a very human perspective.

In Peris-MenchetaThe play's director was diagnosed with leukemia shortly before rehearsals began. How did he manage to pull off the project?

— Thanks to Sergio's tenacity. When I found out about the leukemia, I called Sergio and told him we had to cancel, that he should focus on the treatment and that he would be very tired, because it involves three cycles of chemotherapy and a bone marrow transplant. But he needed to stop thinking about the disease 24/7 and have something to take him out of his fear of dying. And of course, if he tells you this, you say: "Go for it." So we invented a system so he could direct from the hospital in Los Angeles, and he did it with extraordinary willpower. I mean, it was the strangest work process I've ever been involved in, but it's a work filled with love for the craft, for the theater, and for the story we're telling.

How is Sergio?

— Much better. He's doing very well from his cancer treatment now, only suffering from the side effects of the treatment, but the leukemia seems to be in remission, and he's doing much better.

It has recently been published A history of the Kronen, in which José Angel Mañas, the author ofStories of the Kronen, reflects on the generation of the 90s. What relationship do you have today with the film that launched your career?

— It seems incredible to me that 30 years have passed; everything has gone so fast. I owe a lot to the film; I have wonderful memories of it. It was the beginning of my professional career, and since then I've been able to make a living from my craft. Even today, people tell me what the film meant to them back in the day; it left a lasting impression on so many people. And José Ángel was absolutely spot on in his portrayal of a segment of society.

What do you think distinguishes that generation from the current generation?

— Well, I recently asked my 15-year-old daughter how she imagined herself at 25. And she told me she saw herself unable to work in the field she'd studied and sharing an apartment because she wouldn't have the money to pay rent. She painted a bleak picture. I would have answered that she'd have a wonderful house and would earn a lot of money. Her generation has already accepted, at 15, that their future is complex and that they won't be able to achieve many of what they desire. Their outlook on the world of work or the future is steeped in impossibilities.

Finally, if you had to tell the story of how Juan Diego Botto became a prestigious actor and National Theater Award winner, how would it begin?

— When I was six years old, my mother worked as a cook in a restaurant, and when she left work at 12:30 a.m., my sisters and I had to walk 35 minutes to the bus stop. Since we were dead tired, she would tell us a story. I remember those stories with fascination, for their ability to transform a complex reality into a thrilling adventure. I think my desire to tell stories comes from this.