jueves, 2 de julio de 2026

GLEE! The Colgate Smile and the Dark Side.




The Colgate Smile and the Dark Side


The Colgate Smile and the Dark Side of the Choir: Looking Back at 'Glee'

By: Benjamín Gavarre

There are shows that the algorithm suddenly throws back at us, like a ghost from the past slipping into our Spotify playlists or through the connecting thread of an actor like Jonathan Groff (whom we recently analyzed in Looking, but who played the antagonist Jesse St. James here). Thinking about Glee today might seem like an anachronism, but looking back with perspective, distance reveals an alarming lack of sincerity that we once preferred to ignore beneath the blanket of grand choreography.

Glee (Fox, 2009-2015, 6 seasons) was born as Ryan Murphy's golden project. A series that made inclusion—racial, sexual orientation, and differing abilities—its main banner. However, viewed today, that happiness distilled a "Colgate smile": a cosmetic pretense of perfect teeth and flawless makeup where teenage suffering was always resolved by singing to the camera. Beneath that veneer of optimism, showbiz reality was far more perverse.

The 'Glee Curse': An Echo of 'Cachún cachún ra ra'

It is impossible to talk about this show without addressing the ill-fated destiny of its cast—a historical tragedy that inevitably evokes for Mexican viewers the fatidic myth of Cachún cachún ra ra, where misfortune and the HIV crisis claimed many of its young talents. In Glee, reality far surpassed fiction:

  • Cory Monteith (Finn Hudson): The unforgettable boy in the shower, that jock with a finely-tuned voice discovered by Mr. Will Schuester (Matthew Morrison) singing under the water in the pilot episode. Cory, whose chemistry with his on-screen and real-life girlfriend, Lea Michele (Rachel Berry, the "insufferable" but undeniably talented character), was the anchor of the show, tragically passed away in 2013 from an overdose at the peak of his success. His death severed the very spirit of the series.
  • Mark Salling (Puck): The actor with the tougher features who played the group's resident bad boy. His fate was the darkest of all: after being prosecuted by judicial authorities for possession of child pornography—a horrific matter that shook the industry—he committed suicide by hanging in 2018 before receiving his sentence.
  • Naya Rivera (Santana Lopez): The charismatic actress of Latina descent who gave life to a lesbian cheerleader whose storylines with Brittany (Heather Morris) broke LGBT boundaries. Naya tragically drowned in a lake in 2020 after heroically managing to save her young son's life.

Forced Inclusion and Vocal Pyrotechnics

The show relied on the genuine talent of some of its members, mixed with the nascent audio-correction technology of the era for those who couldn't quite hit the notes. It is impossible to forget the dazzling voice of Amber Riley (Mercedes Jones), the powerhouse African-American singer whose vocal range made her own castmates fan their faces in adoration.

However, the producers' insistence on selling an idealized world often shattered verisimilitude. The romance between Kurt Hummel (Chris Colfer)—the openly gay and distinctly effeminate youth—and Blaine Anderson (Darren Criss), the heartthrob from the rival elite academy, frequently felt devoid of real chemistry, sustained only by the methodical drive of the script and perfectly coordinated musical numbers.

The series pushed the diversity machine to cartoonish extremes: from Artie (Kevin McHale), the boy in the wheelchair (whose actor in real life had no disability, a choice that would be fiercely criticized today), to the late introduction of Unique Adams (Alex Newell), a trans character of extraordinary vocal talent who was often used merely as a shock-value resource.

Faced with this display of political correctness, the brilliant villain of the story, coach Sue Sylvester (Jane Lynch), became the best character on the show. An Emmy winner, she was the only one who brought things down to earth, shattering the choir's hypocrisy with uncomfortable truths that no one else dared to utter out loud.

Conclusion: The Value of Memory

In the end, Glee feels like a monument to the artificiality of the early 2010s. Behind the scenes and colorful backdrops, murky castings and internal rivalries (now confirmed by the cast themselves regarding Lea Michele's tyrannical behavior on set) proved that happy environments only existed while the music was playing. A nostalgic and disillusioned look at a production that, for better or worse, marked a milestone in network television before the absolute dominance of streaming, reminding us that the price of young talent, sometimes, is simply too high.

Do you also remember Cory's shower scene? Do you think the series aged well, or did the shadow of its tragedies ultimately darken its songs? Let's discuss in the comments below.






 

GLEE! La sonrisa Colgate y el lado oscuro.

 








La sonrisa Colgate y el lado oscuro.

Un vistazo al pasado de 'Glee'

Por: Benjamín Gavarre

Hay series que el algoritmo nos devuelve de golpe, como un fantasma del pasado que se cuela en nuestras playlists de Spotify o a través del hilo conductor de un actor como Jonathan Groff (a quien recientemente analizamos en Looking, pero que aquí jugaba a ser el antagonista Jesse St. James). Volver a pensar en Glee hoy en día puede parecer un anacronismo, pero al mirar atrás con perspectiva, la distancia nos revela una alarmante falta de sinceridad que en su momento preferimos ignorar bajo el manto de las grandes coreografías.

Glee (Fox, 2009-2015, 6 temporadas) nació como el proyecto dorado de Ryan Murphy. Una serie que hizo de la inclusión —racial, de orientación sexual y de capacidades diferentes— su bandera principal. Sin embargo, vista hoy, aquella felicidad destilaba una "sonrisa Colgate": un fingimiento cosmético de dientes perfectos y maquillaje impecable donde el sufrimiento adolescente siempre se resolvía cantando a la cámara. Debajo de ese barniz de optimismo, la telerrealidad era mucho más perversa.

La "Maldición" de Glee: Un eco de 'Cachún cachún ra ra'

Es imposible hablar de esta serie sin abordar el destino infausto de su elenco, una tragedia histórica que a los espectadores mexicanos nos evoca inevitablemente el mito fatídico de Cachún cachún ra ra, donde el infortunio y la crisis del VIH se llevaron a gran parte de sus jóvenes talentos. En Glee, la realidad superó con creces a la ficción:

  • Cory Monteith (Finn Hudson): El inolvidable muchacho de la regadera, ese atleta de voz afinada que el profesor Will Schuester (Matthew Morrison) descubre cantando bajo el agua en el episodio piloto. Cory, cuya química con su novia en la pantalla y en la vida real, Lea Michele (Rachel Berry, el personaje "insufrible" pero innegablemente talentoso), era el eje de la serie, falleció trágicamente en 2013 por una sobredosis en la cumbre del éxito. Su muerte truncó el espíritu de la serie.
  • Mark Salling (Puck): El actor de rasgos más duros que interpretaba al rudo del grupo. Su destino fue el más oscuro de todos: tras ser procesado por las autoridades judiciales por posesión de pornografía infantil —un asunto terrible que sacudió a la industria—, se suicidó ahorcándose en 2018 antes de recibir su sentencia.
  • Naya Rivera (Santana Lopez): La carismática actriz de origen latino que dio vida a una porrista lesbiana cuyas tramas con Brittany (Heather Morris) rompieron esquemas LGBT. Naya falleció ahogada en un lago en 2020 tras lograr salvar la vida de su pequeño hijo en un acto heroico pero trágico.

Inclusión forzada y pirotecnia vocal

La serie se sostenía en el talento real de algunos de sus miembros, mezclado con la incipiente tecnología de corrección de audio de la época para quienes no alcanzaban las notas. Es imposible olvidar la deslumbrante voz de Amber Riley (Mercedes Jones), la imponente cantante afroamericana cuyos registros hacían que sus propios compañeros se abanicaran la cara en señal de adoración.

Sin embargo, el empeño de los productores por vender un mundo idealizado a menudo rompía la verosimilitud. El romance entre Kurt Hummel (Chris Colfer) —el joven abiertamente gay y de ademanes sumamente afeminados— y Blaine Anderson (Darren Criss), el galán de la escuela rival de élite, a menudo se sentía carente de una química real, sostenido únicamente por el empeño metódico del guion y los números musicales perfectamente coordinados.

La serie forzó la máquina de la diversidad hasta extremos caricaturescos: desde Artie (Kevin McHale), el chico en silla de ruedas (cuyo actor en la vida real no tenía ninguna discapacidad, lo que hoy sería duramente criticado), hasta la introducción tardía de Unique Adams (Alex Newell), un personaje trans de un talento vocal extraordinario pero utilizado a menudo como un recurso de impacto.

Frente a este despliegue de corrección política, la genial villana de la historia, la entrenadora Sue Sylvester (Jane Lynch), se convirtió en el mejor personaje de la serie. Ganadora del Emmy, era la única que ponía los pies en la tierra, destrozando la hipocresía del coro con verdades incómodas que nadie más se atrevía a pronunciar en voz alta.

Conclusión: El valor del recuerdo

Al final, Glee se siente como un monumento a la artificialidad de principios de la década de 2010. Detrás de bambalinas y escenarios coloridos, los castings oscuros y las rivalidades internas (hoy confirmadas por el propio elenco sobre el comportamiento tiránico de Lea Michele en el set) demostraron que los escenarios felices solo existían mientras la música estaba encendida. Una mirada nostálgica y desencantada a una producción que, para bien o para mal, marcó un hito en la televisión abierta antes de la llegada del streaming absoluto, recordándonos que el precio del talento joven, a veces, suele ser demasiado alto.

¿Ustedes también recuerdan la escena de la regadera de Cory? ¿Creen que la serie envejeció bien o la sombra de sus tragedias terminó por oscurecer sus canciones? Nos leemos en los comentarios.

miércoles, 1 de julio de 2026

'Machos alfa'.

 

El espejismo de la deconstrucción: 'Machos alfa' y el gatopardismo televisivo.


Por: Benjamín Gavarre



¿Es posible desmantelar el heteropatriarcado a golpe de gag, o la comedia comercial está condenada a devolvernos siempre al redil del statu quo? Tras cuatro temporadas de éxito arrollador en Netflix, la creación de los hermanos Alberto y Laura Caballero (Contubernio Films) ha llegado a su fin. Lo hace dejándonos tantas risas como preguntas incómodas sobre su desenlace, en una evolución que invita a reflexionar sobre los límites de la corrección política y la deconstrucción masculina en la pantalla actual.

Al principio, la premisa fue un soplo de aire fresco altamente disfrutable. En sociedades de profunda matriz machista como la española —extrapolable sin esfuerzo a México y a gran parte del mundo hispanohablante—, ver a cuatro especímenes del "macho alfa" tradicional puestos contra las cuerdas por el avance del feminismo resultó sumamente divertido. La serie puso sobre la mesa, con un lenguaje explícito y mordaz, conceptos como el privilegio, las parejas patriarcales y las nuevas masculinidades, utilizándolos no como un sermón moralino, sino como el combustible perfecto para la sátira.

Una impecable factura técnica al servicio del humor

Más allá de sus ingeniosos libretos, uno de los grandes aciertos de Machos alfa que consolidó su éxito internacional es su impecable nivel de producción. Visualmente, la serie se aleja del formato plano de la 'sitcom' tradicional de plató. Contubernio Films despliega una factura técnica de primer nivel: una dirección de fotografía luminosa, un montaje sumamente dinámico que entrelaza con agilidad las cuatro subtramas, y una selección de locaciones urbanas y de corte aspiracional que retratan a la perfección la modernidad madrileña (y los destinos vacacionales donde el elenco solía rodar las promociones globales de la plataforma).

El diseño de producción, el vestuario y la ambientación no se quedan atrás; cada espacio refleja la psicología de sus habitantes. Desde el minimalismo estéril y lujoso de la casa de la influencer, hasta el caos cotidiano del hogar de clase media-baja de Raúl y Luz, el envoltorio visual es redondo.

A esto se suma un reparto actorale en estado de gracia que defiende con maestría el ritmo de la comedia física y el diálogo rápido:

  • Fernando Gil brilla en la piel de Pedro, el directivo caído en desgracia que pasa de macho proveedor a mantenido.
  • María Hervás compone magistralmente a Daniela, la influencer que se vuelve millonaria diciendo tonterías frente a la cámara mientras su mundo sentimental se desmorona.
  • Gorka Otxoa (Santi) humaniza maravillosamente al eterno confundido, guiado a regañadientes por la lucidez de su hija Álex (Paula Gallego), el verdadero faro de la generación Z en la serie.
  • Fele Martínez (Luis) y Raúl Tejón (Raúl) clavan sus respectivos arquetipos: el funcionario gris atrapado en la rutina del poliamor y el infiel crónico aterrado ante una relación abierta propuesta por Luz (Kira Miró). Incluso se agradecen las vueltas de tuerca metateatrales de las últimas temporadas, donde el propio Luis empieza a escribir una serie que resulta ser la que estamos viendo, un juego de espejos inteligentísimo.

La tesis final: Cambiar todo para que nada cambie

Sin embargo, el verdadero debate televisivo surge al analizar el cierre de la serie. Tras navegar por experimentos de heteroflexibilidad (como el coqueteo homoerótico de Santi con su socio, que prometía romper barreras y terminó diluyéndose), intercambios de parejas, crisis de dinero y cuestionamientos severos al anillo de bodas, la serie sufre un evidente gatopardismo narrativo.

Al final, la ficción prefiere la comodidad del statu quo y retorna al grado cero. Parece que la deconstrucción fue muy divertida mientras duró la novedad, pero la conclusión traiciona un poco la revolución planteada: casi todas las parejas regresan a su redil original bajo los viejos lemas del "amor de mi vida". Los que se atrevieron a romper las reglas terminan pagando un peaje carísimo. Daniela, la mujer empoderada por los clics, acaba sola tras una oscura y ambigua trama con un político; y Pedro, el gurú de los talleres de masculinidad, termina casándose consigo mismo en una escena final donde su llanto proclama una verdad casi cínica: en el mundo moderno, la soltería o la absoluta independencia es un anatema. Todo está diseñado para dos, y salirse del molde se castiga con el aislamiento.

La crítica especializada ha coincidido en que los hermanos Caballero supieron exprimir la ubre de esta vaca sagrada mientras el formato resistió, entregando un producto técnicamente perfecto y divertidísimo. Pero en el fondo, al igual que Santi aceptando con resignación que una mujer exitosa lo mantenga frente a las críticas de la vieja guardia, la serie nos deja una lección agridulce. Avanzamos mucho para quedar exactamente en el mismo sitio. Una misma gata revolcada que, si bien nos hizo reír a carcajadas, nos demuestra que la televisión comercial sigue teniendo miedo de dejar a sus machos alfa completamente a la deriva.

¿Qué les pareció el final de la serie? ¿Creen que los personajes realmente aprendieron algo o simplemente regresaron a la comodidad del patriarcado de siempre? Los leo en los comentarios.


'Alpha Males' and TV's Gatopardism

 


The Illusion of Deconstruction: 'Alpha Males' and TV's Gatopardism

By: Benjamín Gavarre

Is it possible to dismantle the heteropatriarchy through sketch comedy, or is commercial television doomed to always return us to the safety of the statu quo? After four seasons of massive success on Netflix, the series created by siblings Alberto and Laura Caballero (Contubernio Films) has come to an end. It leaves us with plenty of laughs, but also with uncomfortable questions about its resolution—an evolution that invites us to reflect on the boundaries of political correctness and male deconstruction on screen today.

At first, the premise was a highly enjoyable breath of fresh air. In societies with a deeply rooted machista culture like Spain—easily translatable to Mexico and much of the Spanish-speaking world—seeing four traditional "alpha males" cornered by the rise of feminism was genuinely entertaining. The show laid out on the table, with explicit and biting language, concepts like privilege, patriarchal couples, and new masculinities, using them not as a moral lecture, but as the perfect fuel for satire.

Impeccable Technical Standards at the Service of Humor

Beyond its witty scripts, one of the main triumphs that solidified the international success of Alpha Males is its impeccable production values. Visually, the series distances itself from the flat, traditional studio sitcom format. Contubernio Films delivers top-tier technical craft: bright cinematography, highly dynamic editing that smoothly weaves together the four subplots, and a selection of urban, aspirational locations that perfectly capture modern Madrid (as well as the tropical destinations where the cast shot global promotional content for Netflix).

The production design, wardrobe, and art direction are equally precise; each space reflects the psychology of its inhabitants. From the sterile, luxurious minimalism of the influencer's house to the daily chaos of Raúl and Luz's lower-middle-class home, the visual package is flawless.

This is elevated by an exceptional cast that effortlessly masters physical comedy and fast-paced dialogue:

  • Fernando Gil shines as Pedro, the disgraced executive who transitions from alpha provider to a dependent partner.
  • María Hervás brilliantly portrays Daniela, the influencer who makes millions speaking nonsense to her camera while her personal life crumbles.
  • Gorka Otxoa (Santi) wonderfully humanizes the perpetually confused father, reluctantly guided by the sharp insight of his daughter Álex (Paula Gallego), who acts as the true Gen Z moral compass of the show.
  • Fele Martínez (Luis) and Raúl Tejón (Raúl) perfectly nail their archetypes: the mundane civil servant caught in a chaotic polyamorous experiment, and the chronic cheater terrified by the open relationship proposed by Luz (Kira Miró). The metatheatrical twists of the final seasons are also a welcome addition, as Luis begins writing a fiction script that turns out to be the very show we are watching—a clever hall of mirrors.

The Final Thesis: Changing Everything So Nothing Changes

However, the real critical debate emerges when analyzing how the show closes. After exploring themes of heteroflexibility (such as Santi's homoerotic flirtation with his business partner, which promised to break barriers but ultimately faded away), partner swapping, financial disparities, and harsh critiques of the traditional wedding ring, the series suffers from a clear case of narrative Gatopardism.

In the end, the fiction opts for the comfort of the status quo and returns to square one. It seems deconstruction was a lot of fun while the novelty lasted, but the conclusion slightly betrays the revolution it set out to achieve: almost every couple retreats to their original partnership under the old banner of "the love of my life." Those who dared to break the rules pay a heavy toll. Daniela, the woman empowered by social media clicks, ends up entirely isolated after a dark, ambiguous arc involving a politician. Meanwhile, Pedro, the guru of masculinity workshops, marries himself in a final sequence where his tears proclaim a rather cynical truth: in the modern world, being single or entirely independent is treated as an anathema. Everything is built for two, and steping out of that mold is punished with isolation.

Critics agree that the Caballero siblings knew how to milk this cash cow for all it was worth while the format held up, delivering a technically flawless and highly entertaining product. Yet, much like Santi resignedly accepting being financially supported by a successful woman despite the criticism of the old guard, the show leaves us with a bittersweet lesson. We moved forward only to end up in the exact same spot. A familiar formula repackaged—one that made us laugh out loud, but ultimately proves that commercial television remains too afraid to leave its alpha males completely stranded.

What did you think of the series finale? Do you believe the characters actually learned something, or did they simply return to the comfort of the same old patriarchy? Let me know your thoughts in the comments below.

viernes, 26 de junio de 2026

Mirrors of a Wounded Community: A Review of Looking (HBO)

 






















A Review of Looking (HBO)

By: [GAVARRE BENJAMIN]
Originally published on Cine Teatro y Crítica

Technical Specs and Production Context

  • Title: Looking (TV Series, 2 seasons and a wrap-up movie)
  • Creator: Michael Lannan
  • Lead Director: Andrew Haigh
  • Original Network: HBO
  • Broadcast Years: 2014 – 2016
  • Setting: San Francisco, California (primarily the iconic Castro District)

Between Post-AIDS Nostalgia and Gentrification

Watching Looking today allows us to appreciate it not just as entertainment, but as an invaluable sociological document. Broadcast by HBO in the mid-2010s, the series sidestepped crime melodrama and sitcom tropes in favor of pure naturalism. It transports us to San Francisco, the historic capital of the LGBTQ+ movement in the U.S. after World War II, portraying a crucial generational transition: the "post-AIDS" era.

Although the protagonists are in their late twenties and thirties, the ghost of the late-20th-century crisis still floats in the air. This is masterfully shown through characters over 60 and in the neuroses of the youth themselves—such as when the main character panics over a minor skin rash.

Character Radiography: Names, Class Conflicts, and Relationships

The brilliance of the series lies in its choral mosaic structure, where classism, ethnic background, and the search for a calling constantly clash:

  • Patrick Murray (Jonathan Groff): The axis of the story. The actor—famous for the series Glee (where he paradoxically played the heterosexual Jesse St. James) and for his hilarious, campy portrayal of King George III in the Broadway phenomenon Hamilton—delivers an extraordinarily realistic performance here. Patrick is a white, well-to-do video game designer with a controlling mother. His arc is one of emotional immaturity masked by political correctness.
  • Patrick’s Romantic Dilemma (Agustín vs. Kevin):
    • First, there is Richie Donado (Raúl Castillo), a barber of Mexican descent. Through him, the series exposes the classism and elitism within the white gay bubble: Patrick's friends look down on him, and even Agustín (Frankie J. Alvarez), a Cuban artist with low height but immense intellectual arrogance, implicitly rejects him, arguing he is "not a good match" and criticizing cultural details like his scapular. Richie, maintaining his dignity, exiles himself after Patrick's subtle reluctance to take him to his sister's wedding.
    • Then comes Kevin Matheson (Russell Tovey), Patrick's British boss. Kevin represents temptation: he is successful, sophisticated, and trapped in a monotonous relationship with a hyper-athletic boyfriend who counts his calories. The sexual tension evolves from a restrained kiss into a passionate, physically fulfilling (active) affair, breaking Patrick's shyness but complicating his workplace in The Castro—a neighborhood so small that secrets do not exist.
  • Dom Basaluzzo (Murray Bartlett) and Lynn (Scott Bakula): Dom is the friend going through a midlife crisis at 40, professionally stagnant and dragging debts from the past. He tries to open a chicken restaurant (specializing in peri-peri chicken) and becomes emotionally and financially involved with Lynn, a mature floral entrepreneur. Lynn is played by Scott Bakula, the legendary 90s sci-fi television icon (Quantum Leap). His character evokes a nostalgic maturity, generosity, and the grief of an era where he saw entire circles of friends die from HIV. Their romance temporarily shifts to a trip to the Russian River region, a paradisiacal setting that evokes the free, pastoral magic of Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream.
  • Agustín and the Art Conceptual Underworld: The Cuban artist falls into a self-destructive spiral after criticizing his boss's work and losing his job. His identity crisis leads him to misuse ecstasy and involve his partner (an Afro-descendant social worker) in a murky art project. He hires Eddie (Daniel Franzese), a sex worker who charges $220 USD an hour, to film fetishes and encounters. This ethical transgression shatters his relationship and leaves him homeless, only to be rescued by the very community (Richie and Patrick) he used to look down upon.

Technical Aspects: Camera and Editing as Narrators

On a cinematographic level, Looking stands out for its subtlety. Under Andrew Haigh's direction, the handheld camera works as a voyeuristic observer: it doesn't judge; it accompanies. The lighting takes advantage of San Francisco's natural light—its foggy afternoons, its dim neon lights—steering clear of the hyper-stylized or plastic aesthetic of other productions from that era.

The editing maintains a slow, almost contemplative pace that mimics the flow of daily life. Cuts do not chase Hollywood cliffhangers, but rather the truth of an awkward silence, a deflected gaze, or a physical touch. The performances feature an overwhelming naturalism; the actors don't project to the gallery, they converse with an organic authenticity that makes the viewer feel like a roommate in that shared apartment.

Conclusion: The Value of Keeping Search

Looking was misunderstood during its original run because audiences were searching for the scandal of Queer as Folk or the glamour of Sex and the City. However, viewing it today reveals a work of emotional craftsmanship. It doesn't claim to be a grand moralizing epic, but rather an honest, bittersweet, and gripping mosaic of a community that, despite its own class and race flaws, protects and sustains one another. A television gem that lives up to its name: a constant search for identity, love, and belonging.

Rating: 4.5 / 5 stars.

Looking (HBO) (VERSIÓN EN ESPAÑOL

 













Espejos de una comunidad herida: Crítica de Looking (HBO)

Por: [BENJAMÍN GAVARRE]
Publicado originalmente en Cine Teatro y Crítica

Ficha Técnica y Contexto Duro

  • Título: Looking (Serie de TV, 2 temporadas y una película de cierre)
  • Creador: Michael Lannan
  • Dirección Principal: Andrew Haigh (reconocido director de cine queer británico)
  • Cadena Original: HBO
  • Años de Emisión: 2014 – 2016
  • Locación: San Francisco, California (principalmente el icónico distrito de The Castro)

Entre la nostalgia del post-SIDA y la gentrificación

Ver Looking hoy en día permite apreciarla no solo como un producto de entretenimiento, sino como un documento sociológico invaluable. Emitida por HBO a mediados de la década de 2010, la serie esquivó el melodrama criminal y la comedia de situación para adentrarse en el naturalismo más puro. Nos traslada a San Francisco, la capital histórica del movimiento LGBTQ+ en EE. UU. tras la Segunda Guerra Mundial, retratando una transición generacional crucial: el "post-SIDA".

Aunque los protagonistas están en sus veintitantos y treintatantos, el fantasma de la crisis de finales del siglo XX sigue flotando en el ambiente. Esto se manifiesta magistralmente a través de los personajes de más de 60 años y en las propias neurosis de la juventud, como cuando el protagonista entra en pánico ante una simple erupción cutánea.

Radiografía de Personajes: Nombres, Lazos y Conflictos de Clase

La genialidad de la serie radica en su estructura de mosaico coral, donde el clasismo, el origen étnico y la búsqueda de la vocación chocan constantemente:

  • Patrick Murray (Jonathan Groff): El eje de la historia. El actor —famoso por la serie Glee (donde paradójicamente interpretaba al heterosexual Jesse St. James) y por encarnar de forma hilarante y amanerada al Rey Jorge III en el fenómeno musical de Broadway, Hamilton— brinda aquí una actuación extraordinariamente realista. Patrick es un diseñador de videojuegos, blanco, de familia acomodada y con una madre controladora. Su arco es el de la inmadurez emocional disfrazada de corrección política.
  • El dilema amoroso de Patrick (Agustín vs. Kevin):
    • Primero está Richie Donado (Raúl Castillo), el peluquero de origen mexicano. A través de él, la serie desnuda el clasismo e integrismo de la burbuja gay blanca: los amigos de Patrick lo ningunean, e incluso Agustín (Frankie J. Alvarez), un artista cubano de baja estatura pero enorme soberbia intelectual, lo rechaza implícitamente argumentando que "no está a la altura" y criticando detalles culturales como su escapulario. Richie, digno, se autoexilia ante el sutil rechazo de Patrick de llevarlo a la boda de su hermana.
    • Luego aparece Kevin Matheson (Russell Tovey), el jefe británico de Patrick. Kevin representa la tentación: es exitoso, sofisticado y está atrapado en una relación monótona con un novio hiperatleta que le controla las calorías. La tensión sexual evoluciona de un beso contenido a una aventura apasionada y físicamente plena (activa), que rompe la timidez de Patrick pero complica su entorno laboral en The Castro, un barrio tan pequeño donde los secretos no existen.
  • Dom Basaluzzo (Murray Bartlett) y Lynn (Scott Bakula): Dom es el amigo que atraviesa la crisis de los 40, estancado laboralmente y arrastrando deudas del pasado. Intenta abrir un negocio de pollo frito (especialidad en peri-peri) y para ello se vincula afectiva y económicamente con Lynn, un empresario floral maduro. Lynn está interpretado por Scott Bakula, el legendario ícono televisivo de la ciencia ficción de los 90 (Quantum Leap / Viajeros en el tiempo). Su personaje evoca la madurez nostálgica, la generosidad y el duelo de una era donde vio morir a parejas enteras a causa del VIH. Su idilio se traslada temporalmente a un viaje a la región de los bosques del Río Ruso (Russian River), un entorno paradisíaco que evoca la magia libre y pastoral de Sueño de una noche de verano de Shakespeare.
  • Agustín y el submundo del arte conceptual: El artista cubano cae en una espiral autodestructiva tras criticar la obra de su jefa y perder el empleo. Su crisis de identidad lo lleva a consumir éxtasis desmedidamente y a involucrar a su pareja (un trabajador social afrodescendiente) en un turbio proyecto artístico. Contrata a Eddie (Daniel Franzese), un trabajador sexual que cobra $220 USD la hora, para filmar fetiches y encuentros. Esta transgresión ética rompe su relación y lo deja en la indigencia como un homeless, siendo rescatado finalmente por la misma comunidad (Richie y Patrick) a la que antes miraba por encima del hombro.

Aspectos Técnicos: La Cámara y la Edición como Narradores

A nivel cinematográfico, Looking destaca por su sutileza. Bajo la dirección de Andrew Haigh, la cámara en mano funciona como un observador voyeurista: no juzga, acompaña. La iluminación aprovecha la luz natural de San Francisco —sus tardes neblinosas, sus luces de neón tenues— huyendo de la estética hiperestilizada o plástica de otras producciones de la época.

La edición mantiene un ritmo pausado, casi contemplativo, que imita el fluir de la vida cotidiana. Los cortes no buscan el impacto del cliffhanger hollywoodense, sino la verdad del silencio incómodo, la mirada esquiva o el roce físico. Las actuaciones son de un naturalismo aplastante; los actores no proyectan hacia la galería, conversan con una autenticidad orgánica que hace que el espectador se sienta parte de ese departamento compartido.

Conclusión: El valor de seguir buscando

Looking fue una serie incomprendida en su momento porque la audiencia buscaba el escándalo de Queer as Folk o el glamour de Sex and the City. Sin embargo, su visionado actual a través del algoritmo de HBO revela una obra de orfebrería emocional. No pretende ser la gran epopeya aleccionadora, sino un mosaico honesto, agridulce y atrapante sobre las dinámicas de una comunidad que, a pesar de sus propias taras de clase y raza, se cuida y se sostiene. Una joya televisiva que hace honor a su nombre: una búsqueda constante de identidad, amor y pertenencia.

Calificación: 4.5 / 5 estrellas.

sábado, 30 de mayo de 2026

HALF MAN UPDATE SERIES FINALE EPISODE 6

  




New: (Chapter 6: Update) SERIES FINALE



Chronicle: The Roar of Fragility in Lions

The first episode of "Lions" (released in some markets as Half Man) feels like a punch wrapped in Scottish nostalgia. The narrative immediately thrusts us into a visual paradox: a man dressed in a traditional kilt—a symbol of lineage and pride—cornered by his worst nightmare on what should be the happiest day of his life.

The series uses the past not as a mere memory, but as a life sentence. What begins as a standard tale of school bullying in Glasgow—the fragile boy against the "golden boy" brutes—takes a sharp turn with the arrival of a "protector." It is here that Richard Gadd displays his mastery of discomfort: this "gorilla" who defends the weak eventually becomes the object of desire and, ultimately, the executioner.

The relationship is one of absolute dependency. The sequence depicting the protagonist’s sexual awakening is both haunting and magnetic; it is facilitated by his own roommate in a triangle where the true tension lies not with the woman, but in the almost devotional gratitude toward the protector. Jamie Bell, now far removed from the innocence of Billy Elliot, delivers a mature Niall, a man inhabited by fear, while the young Niall radiates a docile tenderness that marks him as the perfect prey.

What happened during those missing years? Why does dancing feel like a crime and proximity like a threat? The series suggests that masculinity here is not a fortress, but a hall of mirrors where the "alpha" is also a victim of his own impulses. It is a disturbing beginning that reminds us that sometimes, the person who saves us from the rest of the world is the one who can hurt us the most.




Technical Specifications & Key Data

CategoryDetails
Original TitleLions (also known as Half Man)
Creator & WriterRichard Gadd (following the success of Baby Reindeer)
StarringJamie Bell (Niall) and Richard Gadd (Ruben)
ProductionA co-production between HBO and BBC
DirectionAlexandra Brodski and Eshref Reybrouck
SettingGlasgow, Scotland
Format6-episode Miniseries
Release DateApril 24, 2026 (Global digital premiere)

Context for Discussion

  • The Meaning of the Title: While the original title is Lions, the "Half Man" moniker refers to the emotional castration of the characters. Richard Gadd has stated in interviews that he explores how the culture of "masculine toughness" leaves men incomplete, unable to process their own vulnerability.

  • Critical Reception: The series has been met with acclaim for its bravery. It is being hailed as a "spiritual sequel" to Baby Reindeer, not in plot, but in its raw dissection of human psychology. Critics emphasize that Gadd is unafraid to portray his characters as deeply flawed individuals.

  • Audience Impact: There is significant buzz surrounding Jamie Bell’s performance, which is being called both physically imposing and heartbreakingly vulnerable. The audience has responded strongly to the non-linear "time jumps," comparing the narrative to elliptical stage plays that trust the viewer's intelligence.

  • About Richard Gadd: As a creator who famously turned his own experience with stalking into the Emmy-winning Baby Reindeer, Gadd continues to explore "murky relationships" and fragile masculinities. Lions moves into a broader fictional scope while maintaining his signature visceral honesty.



NOTES IN THE INKWELL

Why that title?

Although the original title is Lions, the reference to "Half Man" (Hombre a medias) alludes to the emotional castration of the characters. Richard Gadd has mentioned in interviews that he seeks to explore how a culture of masculine "toughness" leaves men incomplete and unable to process their own vulnerability.

The critics:

The series has been received with enthusiasm for its bravery. It is being called the "spiritual sequel" to Baby Reindeer (Mi reno de peluche), not because of the plot, but due to its raw dissection of human psychology. Critics have highlighted that Gadd is unafraid to show himself (or his characters) as deeply flawed beings.

The audience:

There is great anticipation to see Jamie Bell in a role that is both physical and vulnerable at once. Audiences have responded intensely to the "time jumps," comparing the narrative to works with elliptical structures that do not underestimate the viewer's intelligence.

About Richard Gadd:

He was the creator and star of Baby Reindeer. That series originated from a one-man play and brought him a shower of awards, including Emmys, but also legal controversies with the real-life person who inspired the character of Martha. In Lions, he returns to his personal vision of harassment and "murky relationships," but within a broader fictional scope.


The Paradox of Image vs. Reality

  • Desire as a Refuge: If the child sees no suffering in that homoerotic image on the poster in his room, it is because he finds a truce there. In an environment as hostile as Glasgow in the 1980s, that image is a "safe space" of masculine beauty that does not cause pain.

  • Prison as a Catalyst: In these types of dramas, prison is often the place where hierarchy becomes completely sexualized. If Ruben was there, it is likely that his concept of "affection" has fused irredeemably with power and dominance. The dance he performs—the one that seems like a "crime"—might be his only way to release a sensuality that he only knows how to express as aggression outside the dance floor.

A Narrative Detail

That "trio" on the poster brilliantly mirrors the trio that occurs in the first episode (the young man, the bully, and the girl). It is as if the series is telling us that the protagonist has always been looking to fit into a structure of three, where desire flows in ways that his environment forbids him from verbalizing.

The series is perhaps not just about harassment, but about the tragedy of the gaze. The child looks at the poster with peace; the adult looks at his "nightmare" with panic, but in both cases, there is a fascination they cannot break.




New: (Chapter 2: Update)



Lions Chronicle – Episode 2: The Metamorphosis of the Scorpion


If we apply Jauss’s Horizon of Expectations, the second chapter of Lions (Half Man) does not merely break from the predicted path; it subverts the victim-victimizer relationship in a way that only Richard Gadd can execute: with almost unbearable discomfort.

When observing the Horizon of Expectations posed by the aesthetics of reception, many viewers might have anticipated a linear progression of trauma following the first episode. However, in this creation, the object itself dictates the rules, manipulating messages to displace the recipient.

In this second chapter, the plot confirms a painful premise: the "Gorilla" remains a gorilla. Following the fable of the frog and the scorpion, Ruben (Richard Gadd) inoculates his venom into young Niall’s (Louis Oliver) new environment. The peaceful university life in Glasgow crumbles with the arrival of the "Troglodyte," naively invited by the "Frog," who has yet to understand that psychological profiles do not change through sheer will.

The damage is total: from the physical destruction of objects—symbolized by the cup gifted by his mother, a vestige of hope shattered into pieces—to the annihilation of Niall's new relationships. The violence scales to meet the expectations of a raw, adult drama.

However, the true coup de grâce (the unexpected twist) arrives at the end. What we suspected was a repressed life transforms into something far more complex: Niall, after years of abuse from his "protector," has decided to marry the very man that Ruben beat to the point of disfigurement years ago. The persistence of evil does not just haunt; it sits at the table as a guest of honor at a wedding where no one knows where to look. The aesthetics of reception lost the bet; Gadd’s script, instead, earns an honorable mention for its capacity to disturb.




Character & Cast Guide (Episode 2)

Character

Actor

Profile in this Chapter

Niall (Adult)

Jamie Bell

A man attempting to rebuild his life, trapped in a nuptial paradox.

Ruben (Adult)

Richard Gadd

The "scorpion"; a destructive force claiming possession over Niall.

Niall (Young)

Louis Oliver

Represents docile innocence and misplaced gratitude toward Ruben.

Ruben (Young)

Joshua Ginelli

The violent youth whose "loyalty" disfigured the future of others.




Notes in the Inkwell… for the Chapter 3 Follow-up

  • The Fiancé Paradox: It is fascinating that Niall’s object of affection is Ruben’s former victim. Is this an act of expiation, rebellion, or a twisted way of keeping the trauma close?

  • The Symbolism of Remains: The broken cup marks the end of the university "normalcy" phase. In the theater of the absurd, everyday objects are often the first to die when tragedy takes hold.

  • The Recipient's Gaze: The final twist forces the viewer to re-evaluate the entire first chapter. We no longer see just a victim and a bully, but a triangle of guilt and unpaid emotional debts.

  • Closing the Cage: By marrying Ruben's other victim, Niall is not fleeing his past; he is building a monument to it. It is a desperate attempt to take control over a narrative of helplessness, but in the universe Gadd has designed, that attempt only serves to lock the cage.

In this configuration of "murky relationships," relief is not an option. A triad of suffering has formed where each man acts as both mirror and executioner for the others. It is a true "prison of masculinities" where the walls are made of secrets, guilt, and both visible and invisible scars.

Now that the trap is fully baited and the three main characters are trapped in the same space (the wedding), the tension for Chapter 3 is unbearable. We no longer ask if something will happen, but rather how devastating the explosion will be when the "firmness" of the gorilla and the "solace" of the victims finally collide.





Episode 3: The Suffocation of Authenticity

Ruben’s (Richard Gadd) power of manipulation is the dominant theme of this episode. His relationship with Niall (Jamie Bell), his "brother from another father," unfolds not as an emotional bond, but as a cult-like structure reminiscent of the terrifying atmosphere in Rosemary’s Baby. It is a slow suffocation where the environment, rather than protecting the protagonist, systematically delivers him to the predator.

In the past, Niall’s (Louis Oliver) friend becomes the essential Helper in his quest for his objective: being authentic. However, Ruben's toxicity has unexpected allies: the mothers. By pressuring Niall to lie in court, the mothers act as Opposers who sacrifice the truth to preserve a violent status quo. Not even the opportunity of Oxford, which appears as an intellectual Sender and a possible exit, manages to immediately free him from the stage of guilt.

The climax occurs during the trial. Ruben justifies his brutal attack on the Muslim boy with a narrative of defense against an alleged "sexual touch". The gaze of the victim, disfigured by Ruben’s "loyalty," forces Niall to choose. By retracting the lie, Niall regains his coherence but unleashes the fury of the "Scorpion". In the present, Ruben’s intimidating wedding toast warns us that the conflict has stopped being a reflection of the past and has firmly installed itself, with all its weight of terror, in the current reality.





FunctionActantDescription
SubjectNiall (Louis Oliver / Jamie Bell)The protagonist seeking to escape the cycle of violence.
ObjectAuthenticity / TruthNiall's ultimate goal to break the lie of the trial.
SenderConscience / OxfordWhat drives Niall toward a future beyond Ruben's reach.
ReceiverNiall himselfThe beneficiary of his own moral integrity.
HelperThe Friend / IntegrityThose who support his process of identity recognition.
OpposerRuben and the MothersThe physical force and family pressure demanding False Witness



English Version: Final Notes for Chapter 3

  • The Cynicism of Heritage: The mothers crossed ethical lines under the guise of the family’s "greater good." However, they only succeeded in branding their sons with a lack of scruples. While Niall manages to shake this off, Ruben embraces it as his identity.

  • The Mother as a Containment Dam: If Niall’s mother is the one to stop the beast, it would be a poetic closure: the very same force that permitted the evil to grow (during the trial) is the only one with the moral weight to halt it in the present.

  • Repairing the Damage: The union between Niall and the Muslim young man is more than a marriage; it is an act of resistance against the disfigurement (both physical and moral) caused by Ruben. It represents the triumph of the victim over the victimizer through genuine affection.

  • The Absence of the "Other" Mother: Ruben’s mother's battle with cancer and her subsequent death (she is indeed deceased by the time of the wedding) acts as the final catalyst for his descent. Without his sole emotional anchor, the "Scorpion" feels he has nothing left to lose.


_____________________________________________________________________


New: (Chapter 4

: Update)

English Version: Lions – Episode 4: The Inverted Mirror of Resentment

The fourth episode of Lions (Half Man) obliterates any attempt to predict the fate of its protagonists, once again shattering our horizon of expectations. Richard Gadd showcases immense talent as the driving auteur of the series (writing and starring), while Jamie Bell delivers a monumental performance, absolutely worthy of an Emmy Award.

The narrative centers on the decay of Niall (Jamie Bell). After making the moral choice to testify against his "protector" in the past, life did not reward him; it destroyed him. He lost Oxford, became a mediocre writer, lives trapped in a suffocating closet—seeking clandestine encounters in public restrooms where he ends up recorded and blackmailed—and resorts to lying and stealing. He is a lost cause. On the opposite side, the paradox is violent: Ruben (Richard Gadd) has left prison and enjoys an idyllic life with an excellent job, a wife, and a luxury car.

Accumulated envy and resentment drive Niall to seek a confrontation with Ruben. Their encounter is a climax of contained violence: Ruben mistreats him with his usual arrogance, but when Niall confesses his stint in a psychiatric hospital and his crushing debts, the "Gorilla's" armor cracks. In a moment of pure fraternal contradiction, Ruben is moved, and they lock into a breathtaking embrace.

However, the show’s true game of deception explodes within its temporal structure. We return to the wedding, to the threatening prologue, and to the brutal initial beating where everything led us to assume Ruben had murdered Niall. The police arrive, the tension cuts through a suffocating hospital atmosphere, and on the stretcher, the covered body wheeled out of the shed belongs to Ruben. Surprise. The successful, violent one is the one who falls, and the hopeless Niall remains standing. With two episodes left, Lions establishes itself as an unmissable masterpiece that punishes and rewards the viewer's assumptions with equal raw force.


Actantial & Performance Breakdown

  • Jamie Bell (Niall): The fallen "hero." Consumed by resentment, he morphs into a self-destructive profile who survives physical horror but succumbs to moral decay.

  • Richard Gadd (Ruben): The "villain" redeemed by material success. His facade collapses when faced with Niall's vulnerability, proving their bond remains his ultimate weakness.




Film Review: Lions – Episode 6 (Season Finale): The Death of the Narrator and the Closing of the Cage

The sixth and final episode of "Lions" (Half Man) functions as a structural collapse. If previous chapters played with stretching time across three decades, here the accumulation of misfortunes and confessions completely shatters the screen. Richard Gadd delivers a resolution that has deeply divided critics due to its raw, unyielding nature.

The episode delves into the physical and moral degradation of Niall (Jamie Bell). His appearance is tragic—haggard, sweating, consumed by addiction, and living his closeted homosexuality with an ingrained guilt that leads him to contract STDs during anonymous encounters. Yet, it is within that sexual health clinic that the series offers a glimpse of salvation: a surprise reencounter with Alby (Charlie de Melo), his youth romance, whose face was disfigured years ago by Ruben's brutality. This reconnection is what ultimately leads to the wedding in the present timeline.

However, Gadd's universe allows no redemption without blood. In parallel, we witness the decay of their families. Mona (Amy Manson), trapped in a begging marriage with Ruben (Richard Gadd), has a child named Baird who is biologically Niall's. When Ruben learns the truth while in prison, his infertility and wounded masculinity trigger the expected outburst of toxic rage. Added to this is the death of Maura, Ruben's mother, a murky event where a heavily drugged Niall causes a disgraceful scene before she passes. Within this climax of half-truths, Ruben delivers his most terrifying confession: the prolonged abuse he suffered at the hands of his own father, a trauma where submission and involuntary physiological pleasure blurred, defining the painful concept of being a "half man." There is here, much like in Baby Reindeer, an undeniable personal vein that Gadd utilizes to fuel the fiction.

The season's great mystery—the paradox of the stretcher and the sheet from the fourth episode—is resolved through a clever shift in perspective. In the wedding barn, the pent-up tension explodes. Ruben confronts Niall about the true nature of their codependency, triggering a savage fight. Niall, in an act of survival, pulls a small dagger (sgian-dubh) from his sock and stabs Ruben in the side. Yet, the beast does not stop; Ruben overpowers and chokes Niall to death with his bare hands, screaming a desperate "I love you, brother!" as he suffocates him.

The exact moment Niall expires, the screen abruptly cuts to black. Richard Gadd has explained in interviews that this cut represents the death of the narrator: the entire series was told through Niall's eyes; when he dies, the series turns off. Why then did the police wheel Ruben's body out under the sheet in previous episodes? Because after murdering his twin soul, Ruben stands up, looks at his own wound, and collapses, bleeding out from the stab wound inflicted by Niall. Both die in that barn, unable to live with each other, yet impossible to exist without one another.


Final Thoughts: Will There Be a Second Season?

As an HBO and BBC co-production explicitly conceived as a 6-episode miniseries, the story of Ruben and Niall is definitively concluded. The cut to black does not seek to leave the door open for a continuation, but rather to avoid the melodrama of the survivors' grief (such as Alby or Niall's mother) and to focus the impact entirely on the mutual collapse of the protagonists. Though some acting choices and generational cast transitions (such as the two actresses playing Mona) caused a certain distance in the viewer during this final stretch, LIONS OR HALF MAN stands as an unmissable, devastating masterpiece on the impossibility of escaping the trauma of masculinity.