This year we promised ourselves a smooth Christmas, and the virulence of the omicron has brought us a night in which, waiting for the bustle of The great family, we have ended up seeing ourselves as the lonely Theodore Twombly of Her . What has not been a surprise is that the night's programming has followed the bland and decaffeinated line to which we have become accustomed in recent years and to which we only pay attention because launching onto the platforms is not a way to honor parties like It's due.
TVE once again trusted that Telepasión that in 1990 triumphed due to its ability to surprise us by showing us an unpublished face with faces as familiar as they were unknown. Hence, when, in its first edition, Pedro Piqueras started with Cambalache we were left with the same face as Hugh Grant when his driver in Love Actually intones Good King Wenceslas with a baritone bass voice.
The best Christmas television invention worked because of the shock that was supposed to see presenters as circumspect as María Escario singing Ay, Tani, mi Tani or Elisenda Roca changing the figures and letters by Think of me . But since the genres have faded and even the news programs have their part of show, that their visible faces shake to the sound of Gloria Trevi is just as surprising, and even more so when without the label it is difficult to identify the performer and even the program it represents. Although there are always moments that justify it, such as seeing the essential Paloma del Río, to which we say goodbye this year, singing and dancing to the rhythm of Mon Amour. A moment so joyful that it almost sorry that before we have seen almost all of the 6,537 employees of the entity sing.
The common thread this year was a plane trip of those that we have done so little lately and had as masters of ceremonies Boris Izaguirre and Ana García Obregón. Pulling from trade and contagious enthusiasm, they dealt with a loose script that, caught up to some of the gags most hackneyed of Land as you can , tried to cover so much that it ended looking like an infomercial for RTVE.
After Telepasión , which after 31 editions urgently needs a step through the workshop, TVE maintained for another year the formula “they gave me two” that began with Ana Torroja singing all the hits of his career. Having the music of Mecano as content is like playing a game of tute with all the cards of the suit that he paints. The songs of the trio are milestones that transcend generations and the joy with which Ana was received on social networks made it clear that Mecano's legacy does not weigh the controversies: neither the haciendas, nor the “mariconeces”, nor the Aztec pyramids. Sailors, soldiers, singles, married couples and lovers and errands surrendered to their duets with Raphael, Malú or Alaska and their inseparable Mario Vaquerizo. If, as Debussy said, music is the space between the notes, Spanish television programming is the space between one appearance of the couple and another. Yesterday, transversal as they are, they walked through the three chains.
Aitana, another of Torroja's guests, was the second star of the night. He went from singing Woman against woman in karaokes to doing it as a duet with Ana at a time that seemed like the cañí, pacata and for all audiences version of Me Against The Music, by Madonna and Britney Spears.
If TVE didn't bother to renew itself, La 2 directly put into the player the same 240-minute TDK tape recorded in 1993 with gags by Tony Leblanc, Chiquito or Tip y Coll, their Cachitos humorous of each party to save. As predictable as it is infallible, because can someone get tired of hearing Eugenio's jokes?
Telecinco is the one that has differentiated the most from last year. He took off the training wheels that the Universe supposes Save me and, with Joaquín Prat and Lara Álvarez at the head, he recovered one of those finery that is zapping meat and in which you find Omar the same Montes than to Café Quijano or —and this was disconcerting— a ventriloquist. A proposal as surprising as seeing Sofía Cristo in Mediaset without anyone making a polideluxe or crying or bombastic confessions.
After the waste of media by Telepasión with its stunning wardrobe and a performance reminiscent of Valerio Lazarov's wildest times, the Telecinco gala seemed like a well-intentioned but humble school function like the straw house of the laziest little pig.
Antena 3, which throughout the year the audience has fought Telecinco with strategic movements that would have excited General Rommel by fitting cheap Turkish dramons and celebrity programs into his grid, gave up in advance the share on Christmas Eve and subscribed to the rehashes of the funniest moments of the year and the umpteenth comeback of Your face sounds to me. S only the hashtag on the screen reminded us of the night it was. It is surprising that Atresmedia is unable to design an original and competitive program for the date, while at home Ibai Llanos, to whom the omicron also twisted his plans at the last minute, put on a Santa hat, played some games of Clash Royale and got more than 80,000 viewers to join him on Twitch.
Following his own tradition, Cuatro opted for family cinema with Arlo's trip and Ice Age: the great cataclysm. It should be remembered that this is the same film that aired on Christmas Eve 2019 as the world as we knew it began to decompose before our eyes. We're not blaming Scrat for the slow-motion apocalypse we've experienced since then, but just in case there are doors that it would be best not to reopen. If in March we are again fighting for the last sack of sourdough and subscribing to the challenge of the 400 squats of Patry Jordán, we already know who to blame.
La Sexta also took the night like any other Friday and did not take away our portion of Gloria Serra, facing daily terrors such as false homemade croquettes with the same gravity as Oriana Fallaci to Ayatolá Jomeini.
We had to wait until dawn to find the most original and fascinating Christmas proposal. Movistar Estrenos celebrated the birthday of alcoholic Shane MacGowan, singer of The Pogues, with the broadcast of Crock of Gold: drinking with Shane MacGowan . To enjoy it it does not matter if you are not a fan of the group, or even know who MacGowan is. From the moment the Julian Temple documentary begins, it is impossible to escape the magnetism of a life marked by talent and addiction. An ode to the physical destruction and dental reconstruction of a genius who with Fairytale in New York composed an incontestable lay Christmas carol. It is available at Movistar + and at Filmin. If the proposals of the generalist televisions have known little, give them a gift, it will be the only content of this night that they will remember next year.
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