In the manual of the Barcelonian culture vulture, the desire to go to the cinema much more often persists. In fact, the snobbery of our city is expressed by resorting to pompous statements, such as that the omnipresence of platforms is depriving us of the joy of watching a film on the big screen and thus capturing its infinity of nuances, to which it must always be added that Netflix is turning us into blockheads by subsuming any visual experience to television entertainment and, if we still have some breath left to finish said sentence, we will unleash the "cuñadismo" according to which "Society of the Snow must be watched in cinemas because, if not, one misses the mystical-painful relationship that good old Bayona establishes between the characters and the mountain." But sentimentality is always a form of hypocrisy: much to our chagrin, we live in hibernation, we are exhausted, and, if anything, we watch Frasier before collapsing into bed.
As you can imagine, all this petty cultural self-criticism comes to mind because tomorrow, Sunday, the Comèdia cinema will close its doors permanently, following the unstoppable trend of the Icaria, the Palau Balañá, the Méliès, or the Aribau Club. This trickle of cinematic funerals encourages the prototypical Barcelonian to practice their two favorite sports: mourning and nostalgia. Yours truly will be no less, not only because I had spent many pleasant hours of good cinema at the Comèdia, but because the Palau Marcet (conceived by our very curious architect Tiberi Sabater, author of the Casino Mercantil on Avinyó street, with that identical and nauseating Neo-Plateresque patina) was a classic meeting point for all the natives of the Eixample. For the Comèdia to die, and even more so if it ends up being converted into a lingerie shop, is equivalent to the spirit of Núñez returning from purgatory to steal another corner of the neighborhood from us.
We Barcelonians are like that. We pretend that our beloved city is a museum of intact antiquities (that paralyze the memories of our youth, in short), but we become terribly negligent when it comes to preserving the continuity of what the pretentious call "emblematic businesses" in the only existing way: namely, shelling out as much money as possible. This is how I act again myself, with all this nonsense about cinemas and Eixample corners, when in fact I can't remember the last time I went to the Comèdia; to be honest, I have serious difficulties remembering the last film I saw on the big screen. Naturally, right now there will be an avid reader of this Punyalada who, with recalcitrant militancy, will vociferate at the device on which he is reading me, remembering that he goes to the cinema every week –what the hell, every week, practically every day!– and will certify it with his Filmo card.
I can't remember the last time I went to the Comèdia; to be honest, I have serious difficulties remembering the last film I saw on the big screenCertainly, this reader exists and his tenacity should be acknowledged with resounding applause. The problem is that it's only him and he's easily identifiable; as a general rule, he's a pre-retired or rentier gentleman in his sixties, single and with only two corduroy trousers in his closet, who can recite Godard's complete filmography from memory and hasn't fornicated since the seventies. This is a Barcelonian we must save from extinction, of course, because he is one of the few specimens who will take advantage of the upcoming weekend to rush to Plaça de Salvador Seguí and devour the entire Béla Tarr cycle that begins there this Sunday. In fact, this fellow citizen has already told all his friends that he would kill his mother before missing Sátántangó, a (surely) masterpiece singularly characterized by lasting 439 minutes. At home we will watch the movie, it would be missing, since Filmin gives it to us in pause to be able to save our prostate.
Let's not fall into alarmism; the city is a necessarily predatory and changing organ. If viewing patterns continue as they seem, Barcelona and most cities will be left without many cinemas, at least as we have known them (this must be so, because libraries, civic centers, and museums have also changed in form and content). Very soon, the desire "we have to go to the cinema more, darling" will be equated with atavistic customs such as riding the Montjuïc Funicular or trying to consume a vermouth in the Gòtic without devouring a cockle surrounded by Japanese people. Filmmakers, film critics, producers, technicians, and cinema managers have every right in the world to accuse us of being cynical, comparing our theatrical or museum militancy with the total indifference that cinema produces in us when it comes to moving our butts. They are absolutely right; but reason, for now, cannot win on the sofa.
Rest in peace Cine Comèdia. We will mourn you very little because, knowing Barcelona, tomorrow we will have to celebrate another funeral or two.
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