EL PÚBLICO NO SE MERECE LA BASURA QUE HACEN EN TELEVISA. QUÉ NOS PASA.

 

¿Qué nos pasa?: La genialidad histriónica atrapada en la televisión del rezago

Es una rareza en cinedebatecritica.com dedicar espacio a la televisión abierta mexicana del siglo pasado. Quienes venimos de una formación universitaria y pasamos el tiempo desmenuzando textos dramáticos, puestas en escena y comedias de altos vuelos, solemos mirar con justificado desdén aquellas producciones. Sin embargo, un reciente y accidental reencuentro frente a la pantalla —con una imagen distorsionada y pixeleada por las infames retransmisiones en canales de cable— obliga a reevaluar un producto televisivo específico: ¿Qué nos pasa?, protagonizado por el excepcional Héctor Suárez.

Para entender este programa, hay que situarse en su contexto. La televisión comercial mexicana estaba dominada por la filosofía de Emilio Azcárraga Milmo, quien sin pudor alguno declaraba que su obligación era hacer televisión para entretener a una clase "muy jodida". Bajo esa premisa, guionistas y productores construían barras de comedia basándose en libretos predecibles, machistas, homófobos y de una pobreza estructural incalificable. Si los dueños de la televisora justificaban su mediocridad llamando a su público "jodido", es inevitable concluir que los verdaderos dueños de una miopía intelectual insalvable eran ellos mismos, al ofrecer como único alimento el estiércol audiovisual.

El oasis en medio del desastre argumental

Es en este lodo donde brilla el enorme talento de Héctor Suárez. Sus programas intentaban ser una crítica de las maniobras cotidianas en el entonces Distrito Federal —la corrupción policial, los trámites absurdos, los índices IMECA para la contaminación o los seguros de auto—, pero los guiones caían frecuentemente en las mismas trampas que pretendían evidenciar. Abundan escenas impresentables, como aquella donde un carnicero acosa con albures a un cliente homosexual, demostrando que la intención crítica muchas veces terminaba engullida por el mismo machismo y la falta de tacto de la época.

A pesar de contar con libretos que hoy ni una inteligencia artificial básica daría por buenos sin alertar de su estupidez, la capacidad histriónica de Suárez rescataba el naufragio. La verdadera joya de ¿Qué nos pasa? no está en la solidez del texto, sino en la herramienta vital de un gran actor: la improvisación pura.

Un elenco que sostenía "el teatrito"

En pantalla, la frescura de las interacciones salvaba las fallas de origen. Ahí podemos ver a un jovencísimo Arath de la Torre haciendo sus primeros pininos —recordado por dar vida al hijo de la icónica Doña Zoila— con una gracia natural que conservó por años. Destaca también la participación de la hija del protagonista, Julieta Suárez Gomís, con quien Héctor tenía una confianza escénica absoluta, repartiendo bolsazos mientras todo el equipo de producción luchaba por contener la risa. Esa autenticidad, esas carcajadas reales a punto de tirar "el teatrito" frente a las cámaras, hacen que el rescate de estos fragmentos valga la pena.

Los invitados jugaban un rol igualmente peculiar. Desde un Eugenio Derbez vestido de Blancanieves —mucho antes de convertirse en la figura hipercomercial y deleznable en la que derivó— hasta un César Costa perpetuamente joven, intentando controlar las mareas de albures e improvisaciones del actor principal.

La rebelión, los jerarcas y el veto

Resulta fascinante, y responde a la duda histórica sobre sus productores, preguntarse cómo fue posible que Héctor Suárez lograra introducir críticas al sistema dentro de una empresa con patrones tan reacios a la reflexión. La realidad es que el comediante fue siempre una voz incómoda para los productores (como Humberto Navarro en su primera etapa de los ochenta) y, en última instancia, para la misma dinastía Azcárraga.

Suárez no se dejaba doblegar. Su constante crítica social y su exigencia creativa generaron fricciones insostenibles con los dueños de Televisa. Efectivamente, estas tensiones terminaron no solo en su salida de la televisora, sino en un sonado y prolongado veto laboral que el propio actor denunció públicamente durante muchos años, acusando a la empresa de cerrarle las puertas por atreverse a exigir una televisión inteligente, analítica y valiente.

Hoy, en 2026, los problemas que Suárez señalaba siguen intactos, si no es que agravados por la violencia y el cinismo político. ¿Qué nos pasa? sigue siendo una pregunta dolorosamente vigente. Valga este guiño para quien quiera asomarse, a pesar de la espantosa calidad de imagen de sus repeticiones, a la huella de un histrión extraordinario que logró hacer arte en medio de la peor televisión concebible.

ENGLISH VERSION. EL PÚBLICO NO SE MERECE LA BASURA QUE HACEN EN TELEVISA. QUÉ NOS PASA.

Qué nos pasa? (What’s Wrong With Us?): Histrionic Genius Trapped in Backward Television

It is a rarity at cinedebatecritica.com to dedicate space to Mexican broadcast television from the last century. Those of us who come from a university background and spend our time dissecting dramatic texts, stage productions, and high-brow comedies usually look upon those productions with justified disdain. However, a recent and accidental re-encounter in front of the screen—with an image distorted and pixelated by infamous cable network reruns—forces us to reevaluate a specific television product: ¿Qué nos pasa?, starring the exceptional Héctor Suárez.

To understand this show, one must place it in its context. Mexican commercial television was dominated by the philosophy of Emilio Azcárraga Milmo, who shamelessly declared that his obligation was to make television to entertain a "very jodida" (screwed/impoverished) lower class. Under that premise, writers and producers built comedy blocks based on predictable, sexist, homophobic scripts of an unspeakable structural poverty. If the network owners justified their mediocrity by calling their audience "jodidos," it is inevitable to conclude that the true owners of an insurmountable intellectual myopia were themselves, offering audiovisual manure as their only nourishment.

The Oasis Amidst the Plot Disaster

It is in this mud where Héctor Suárez's enormous talent shines. His shows attempted to be a critique of the daily maneuvers in the then Distrito Federal (Mexico City)—police corruption, absurd bureaucratic procedures, the IMECA index for smog, or car insurance scams—but the scripts frequently fell into the very same traps they intended to expose. Unpresentable scenes abound, such as one where a butcher sexually harasses a homosexual client with double entendres (albures), demonstrating that the critical intention was often swallowed up by the same machismo and lack of tact of the era.

Despite having scripts that today not even a basic Artificial Intelligence would approve without warning of their stupidity, Suárez's histrionic ability rescued the shipwreck. The true jewel of ¿Qué nos pasa? does not lie in the solidity of the text, but in a great actor's vital tool: pure improvisation.

A Cast That Held Up "The Little Theater"

On screen, the freshness of the interactions saved the original flaws. There we can see a very young Arath de la Torre taking his first steps—remembered for playing the son of the iconic character Doña Zoila—with a natural grace that he preserved for years. The participation of the protagonist's daughter, Julieta Suárez Gomís, also stands out. Héctor had absolute stage trust with her, taking hits from her purse while the entire production crew struggled to hold back their laughter. That authenticity, those real laughs on the verge of bringing down "the little theater" (breaking character) in front of the cameras, make rescuing these fragments worthwhile.

The guest stars played an equally peculiar role. From an Eugenio Derbez dressed as Snow White—long before he became the hyper-commercial and detestable figure he devolved into—to a perpetually young César Costa, trying to control the tides of double entendres and improvisations of the main actor.

The Rebellion, the Hierarchs, and the Blacklist

It is fascinating, and answers the historical doubt about its producers, to wonder how it was possible for Héctor Suárez to introduce critiques of the system within a company with bosses so averse to reflection. The reality is that the comedian was always an uncomfortable voice for the producers (like Humberto Navarro in his early 80s stage) and, ultimately, for the Azcárraga dynasty itself.

Suárez did not let himself be broken. His constant social critique and his creative demands generated unsustainable friction with the owners of Televisa. Indeed, these tensions culminated not only in his departure from the network but in a notorious and prolonged industry blacklist (veto) that the actor himself publicly denounced for many years, accusing the company of closing its doors to him for daring to demand intelligent, analytical, and brave television.

Today, in 2026, the problems Suárez pointed out remain intact, if not worsened by violence and political cynicism. ¿Qué nos pasa? remains a painfully relevant question. Let this be a nod to anyone who wants to take a peek, despite the horrifying image quality of its reruns, at the footprint of an extraordinary actor who managed to make art in the midst of the worst conceivable television.

 

HARRY POTTER, ENGLISH VERSION.

 

TITLE: Harry Potter: The Heresy of Not Being a Fan and the Million-Dollar Gimmick

Benjamin Gavarre

FORMAT: Video Essay / Podcast Script

TONE: Sarcastic, critical, slightly snobbish but humorous.

[SCENE START]

[VISUAL: Title card with a dark, cinematic background. The text "CINE DEBATE CRÍTICA" appears, followed by the video title.]

[AUDIO: Slightly dark, mysterious, and somewhat ironic background music begins playing at a low volume.]

NARRATOR (HOST)

Talking about the cinematic hyper-franchise of Harry Potter nowadays feels like committing absolute heresy, especially if one is not a devoted acolyte of this massive cult that has taken over several generations.

[VISUAL: Cut to a bustling Asian temple. Slowly zoom in on a book with the classic Harry Potter lightning bolt font.]

NARRATOR

Years ago, I found myself in a distant country, in what used to be the kingdom of Siam, seeking a moment of peace in a temple dedicated to Buddha. The ironies of fate crossed my path with an old friend and his companion. She was a hardcore fanatic who, upon learning that I had studied literature, proudly showed off a gigantic tome of the boy wizard as if she had just discovered literary gunpowder.

[VISUAL: Montage of classic literature books (Shakespeare, Oscar Wilde, Edgar Allan Poe) getting knocked over by a flying broomstick.]

NARRATOR

For someone educated by the pen of Oscar Wilde, the tragedies of William Shakespeare, the sharpness of Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, the psychological terror of Edgar Allan Poe, or the labyrinths of Julio Cortázar... hearing that humanity's magnum opus was about an orphan flying on broomsticks was baffling. This willful blindness of its followers, who assume there is nothing beyond the walls of their magical castle, is perhaps the saga's first great illusion trick.

[VISUAL: Cut to the Host, or a rainy window indicating being stuck inside.]

NARRATOR

Eventually, by a twist of fate and thanks to a plumbing tragedy that forced me to stay locked at home, I stumbled upon a complete marathon on HBO and faced the beast.

[VISUAL: Fast-paced montage of the first Harry Potter movie: magic spells, flying, crying children.]

NARRATOR

From the first minutes of the first feature film, it is evident that we are dealing with a highly astute commercial hodgepodge: an amalgam of stolen fairy tales, diluted Celtic mythology, self-help manual witchcraft, and extrasensory phenomena, all packaged with an emotional load of predictable, forced, and somewhat fake reactions.

[VISUAL: Close up on Daniel Radcliffe in his early movies, specifically focusing on his glasses. Then show Rupert Grint looking panicked, and Emma Watson looking smug.]

NARRATOR

Our protagonist, played by Daniel Radcliffe and his irritating, inseparable John Lennon-style round wire-rimmed glasses, isn't inherently unpleasant, but he is surrounded by archetypes that get tiring fast. By his side, we have the redhead friend, Ron Weasley, who for eight movies maintains a perpetual expression of panic, as if he had an unbearable urge to go to the bathroom. Completing the trinity is Hermione Granger, the walking stereotype of the insufferable know-it-all who, fortunately, refined her acting grace over the years while her character continued to solve all the problems of the useless males accompanying her. All this after escaping the classic adoptive parents caricatured to the extreme of cruelty, the infamous Dursleys.

[VISUAL: Sweeping, majestic shots of Hogwarts (Alnwick Castle, Oxford dining halls).]

NARRATOR

The story quickly transports us to Hogwarts, the academy of magic and sorcery. Technically, this is where even the snobbiest critic has to take their hat off. Stuart Craig's production design, using real and spectacular locations like Alnwick Castle, Gloucester Cathedral, and the dining halls of Oxford University, endows the series with an undeniably aristocratic and deeply English air. It is the wet dream of British snobbery packaged for the global masses.

[VISUAL: Show the moving portraits from the films, followed by a transition to someone scrolling through GIFs on a smartphone.]

NARRATOR

The special effects, backed by Warner Bros.' endless millions, were dazzling in their time. Those iconic animated paintings adorning the castle's hallways and stairs almost prophetically foreshadowed our current dependence on GIFs; today, those images that were once a technological shock are something familiar we all hold in the palm of our hands on our smartphones.

[VISUAL: Split screen of the villains: Alan Rickman as Snape, Jason Isaacs as Lucius Malfoy, Ralph Fiennes as Voldemort, and Imelda Staunton as Umbridge.]

NARRATOR

If there is anything that sustains this pastiche of clichés and prevents it from sinking under its own weight, it is its impeccable and legendary casting department, especially on the villains' side. We have Severus Snape, that potions professor looking like a sinister monk with slicked-back hair, who took on a fascinating, tortured, and tragic life thanks to the immense talent of the late Alan Rickman. On the side of the "pure-blood" dark aristocracy, the Malfoys fulfill their function perfectly.

[VISUAL: Zoom in on Voldemort's face, specifically highlighting the flat, CGI nose area.]

NARRATOR

But let's talk about the great antagonist: Lord Voldemort. Masterfully played by Ralph Fiennes, this psychopath who scatters his soul into seven fragments terrifies the child audience. Although on a technical level, his face in post-production sometimes looks weird. That CGI blur in the missing nose area looks more like a smudge on the director's lens than true dark magic.

[VISUAL: Show Dolores Umbridge in her pink office, followed by the centaurs dragging her away.]

NARRATOR

And of course, there is Dolores Umbridge, a bureaucrat dressed in hot pink with the passive-aggressive attitude of a demonic gossip TV host. Her method of school torture, forcing Harry to write "I must not tell lies" while the letters carve themselves into his own blood, is of a sadism that surely traumatized more than one kid in the movie theater. Watching a horde of centaurs finally drag her into the dark forest is one of the most cathartic and applauded pleasures the franchise offers. All this under the benevolent gaze of Albus Dumbledore, a sorcerer functioning as a recycled Merlin for the 20th and 21st centuries.

[VISUAL: Text on screen: "You look like your father, but you have your mother's eyes." repeating over and over.]

NARRATOR

Despite these great visual and acting successes, the script abuses formulas and catchphrases that border on nauseating. The sickly insistence that "you look like your father, but you have your mother's eyes" is repeated ad nauseam, becoming an unbearable echo. Harry is constantly treated like a messiah descended from the literary heavens, the prodigy who receives all the rewards, always saves his friends, and faces absolute evil.

[VISUAL: Briefly show a blurred or silhouetted image representing the author J.K. Rowling, with controversy headlines floating around.]

NARRATOR

It is also tremendously ironic that this series, which preaches that half-bloods are as valuable as anyone else and that blood purity is a fascist evil, comes from a writer who is currently embroiled in global controversies. The once untouchable millionaire J.K. Rowling has become an odious figure to a large part of her former devotees due to her constant and strident transphobic comments on social media.

[VISUAL: Side-by-side comparison of the trio from the first movie vs. the last movie.]

NARRATOR

Watching the actors grow on screen, in the style of a prolonged anthropological experiment through different directors, is fascinating. The physical contrast becomes comical: the easily frightened redhead gets gym muscles to compensate for his contrite attitude, while Daniel Radcliffe remains stoically thin, carrying the weight of the magical world and global fame.

[VISUAL: Show Daniel Radcliffe looking stressed, then a brief, tasteful nod to his theater work in Equus.]

NARRATOR

It is no secret that the crushing stress of the Hollywood machinery caused Radcliffe to suffer severe crises, pushing him to seek artistic redemption in theatrical projects like Equus. There, we finally got to see him liberated, showing his enormous acting talent far away from the stigma and, above all, free from those damn round glasses.

[VISUAL: Show the AI-generated image created for the blog: watermarked_img_13514464502026676475.jpg - A handsome 18-year-old wizard in modern dark magical robes, without glasses.]

NARRATOR

When we finally reach the climax in the final installments, the visual spectacle is undoubtedly momentous. The epic battle between the blurry-nosed supervillain and the scarred youth fulfills its blockbuster function. The outcome, where Harry temporarily dies to return triumphant, is nothing more than a direct recycling of the monomyth and Joseph Campbell's "The Hero with a Thousand Faces". The protagonist must transcend death to acquire divine proportions and defeat the darkness.

[VISUAL: Montage of Harry Potter merchandise: wands, cloaks, mugs, theme parks.]

NARRATOR

All this serves perfectly to feed the true magic of the series: the multi-million dollar sale of tons of paraphernalia, from overpriced plastic wands and scarves to John Williams' music and coffee mugs.

[VISUAL: Return to the Host or a concluding thematic background.]

NARRATOR

At the end of the day, it is completely understandable that serious critics and demanding cinephiles find Harry Potter full of cardboard gestures, predictable child acting, and a mishmash of myths packaged in cellophane. The saga will never reach the complex, visceral, and wonderful narrative level of great fantasy works or the Machiavellian politics of series like Game of Thrones (at least in its good seasons), where the acting quality did not rely on stereotypes and magic wands.

[VISUAL: Fade to the Cine Debate Crítica logo.]

NARRATOR

Harry Potter is not the definitive work of art that my ex-friend in Thailand swore it was, but it is a monumental milestone of industrial cinema. It is a visually exquisite fool's gold, ideal for spending a long marathon afternoon without thinking too much... especially if your house's plumbing broke down and you have no other choice.

NARRATOR

Do you agree, or are you already prepping an Avada Kedavra against me? Let me know in the comments.

[AUDIO: Outro music swells and fades out.]

[SCENE END]

HARRY POTTER: ENGLISH VERSION.

Cine Debate Crítica

CRITIQUE / FILM & TV / FRANCHISE

Harry Potter: The Heresy of Not Being a Fan and the Million-Dollar Gimmick

A caustic look at the magical franchise that took over the world (and your plumbing).

by BENJAMIN GAVARRE

Talking about the cinematic hyper-franchise of Harry Potter nowadays feels like committing absolute heresy, especially if one is not a devoted acolyte of this massive cult that has taken over several generations. Years ago, I found myself in a distant country, in what used to be the kingdom of Siam, seeking a moment of peace in a temple dedicated to Buddha. The ironies of fate crossed my path with an old friend and his companion, a hardcore fanatic who, upon learning that I had studied literature, proudly showed off a gigantic tome of the boy wizard as if she had just discovered literary gunpowder. For someone educated by the pen of Oscar Wilde, the tragedies of William Shakespeare, the sharpness of Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, the psychological terror of Edgar Allan Poe, or the labyrinths of Julio Cortázar, hearing that humanity's magnum opus was about an orphan flying on broomsticks was baffling. This willful blindness of its followers, who assume there is nothing beyond the walls of their magical castle, is perhaps the saga's first great illusion trick.

Eventually, by a twist of fate and thanks to a plumbing tragedy that forced me to stay locked at home, I stumbled upon a complete marathon on HBO and faced the beast. From the first minutes of the first feature film, it is evident that we are dealing with a highly astute commercial hodgepodge: an amalgam of stolen fairy tales, diluted Celtic mythology, self-help manual witchcraft, and extrasensory phenomena, all packaged with an emotional load of predictable, forced, and somewhat fake reactions. Our protagonist, played by Daniel Radcliffe and his irritating, inseparable John Lennon-style round wire-rimmed glasses, isn't inherently unpleasant, but he is surrounded by archetypes that get tiring fast. By his side, we have the redhead friend, Ron Weasley (Rupert Grint), who for eight movies maintains a perpetual expression of panic, as if he had an unbearable urge to go to the bathroom. Completing the trinity is Hermione Granger (Emma Watson), the walking stereotype of the insufferable know-it-all who, fortunately, refined her acting grace over the years while her character continued to solve all the problems of the useless males accompanying her. All this after escaping the classic adoptive parents caricatured to the extreme of cruelty, the infamous Dursleys.

The story quickly transports us to Hogwarts, the academy of magic and sorcery. Technically, this is where even the snobbiest critic has to take their hat off. Stuart Craig's production design, using real and spectacular locations like Alnwick Castle, Gloucester Cathedral, and the dining halls of Oxford University, endows the series with an undeniably aristocratic and deeply English air. It is the wet dream of British snobbery packaged for the global masses. The special effects, backed by Warner Bros.' endless millions, were dazzling in their time. Those iconic animated paintings adorning the castle's hallways and stairs almost prophetically foreshadowed our current dependence on GIFs; today, those images that were once a technological shock are something familiar we all hold in the palm of our hands on our smartphones.

If there is anything that sustains this pastiche of clichés and prevents it from sinking under its own weight, it is its impeccable and legendary casting department, especially on the villains' side. We have Severus Snape, that potions professor looking like a sinister monk with slicked-back hair, who took on a fascinating, tortured, and tragic life thanks to the immense talent of the late Alan Rickman. On the side of the "pure-blood" dark aristocracy, the Malfoys (led by the platinum-blonde Lucius, played by Jason Isaacs) fulfill their function perfectly. But let's talk about the great antagonist: Lord Voldemort. Masterfully played by Ralph Fiennes, this psychopath who scatters his soul into seven fragments (the famous Horcruxes) terrifies the child audience, although on a technical level, his face in post-production sometimes looks weird, with a CGI blur in the missing nose area that looks more like a smudge on the director's lens than true dark magic. And of course, there is Dolores Umbridge (Imelda Staunton), a bureaucrat dressed in hot pink with the passive-aggressive attitude of a demonic gossip TV host. Her method of school torture, forcing Harry to write "I must not tell lies" while the letters carve themselves into his own blood, is of a sadism that surely traumatized more than one kid in the movie theater. Watching a horde of centaurs finally drag her into the dark forest is one of the most cathartic and applauded pleasures the franchise offers. All this under the benevolent gaze of Albus Dumbledore, a sorcerer functioning as a recycled Merlin for the 20th and 21st centuries.

Despite these great visual and acting successes, the script abuses formulas and catchphrases that border on nauseating. The sickly insistence that "you look like your father, but you have your mother's eyes" is repeated ad nauseam, becoming an unbearable echo. Harry is constantly treated like a messiah descended from the literary heavens, the prodigy who receives all the rewards, always saves his friends, and faces absolute evil. It is also tremendously ironic that this series, which preaches that half-bloods ("mudbloods") are as valuable as anyone else and that blood purity is a fascist evil, comes from a writer who is currently embroiled in global controversies. The once untouchable millionaire J.K. Rowling has become an odious figure to a large part of her former devotees due to her constant and strident transphobic comments on social media.

Watching the actors grow on screen, in the style of a prolonged anthropological experiment through different directors (from Chris Columbus's childlike wonder, through Alfonso Cuarón's brilliant darkness, to David Yates's visual bureaucracy), is fascinating. The physical contrast becomes comical: the easily frightened redhead gets gym muscles to compensate for his contrite attitude, while Daniel Radcliffe remains stoically thin, carrying the weight of the magical world and global fame. It is no secret that the crushing stress of the Hollywood machinery caused Radcliffe to suffer severe crises, pushing him to seek artistic redemption in theatrical projects like Equus. There, we finally got to see him liberated, showing his enormous acting talent (and his full anatomy) far away from the stigma and, above all, free from those damn round glasses.

When we finally reach the climax in the final installments, the visual spectacle is undoubtedly momentous. The epic battle between the blurry-nosed supervillain and the scarred youth fulfills its blockbuster function. The outcome, where Harry temporarily dies to return triumphant, is nothing more than a direct recycling of the monomyth and Joseph Campbell's "The Hero with a Thousand Faces". The protagonist must transcend death to acquire divine proportions and defeat the darkness. All this serves perfectly to feed the true magic of the series: the multi-million dollar sale of tons of paraphernalia, from overpriced plastic wands and scarves to John Williams' music and coffee mugs.

At the end of the day, it is completely understandable that serious critics and demanding cinephiles find Harry Potter full of cardboard gestures, predictable child acting, and a mishmash of myths packaged in cellophane. The saga will never reach the complex, visceral, and wonderful narrative level of great fantasy works or the Machiavellian politics of series like Game of Thrones (at least in its good seasons), where the acting quality did not rely on stereotypes and magic wands. Harry Potter is not the definitive work of art that my ex-friend in Thailand swore it was, but it is a monumental milestone of industrial cinema. It is a visually exquisite fool's gold, ideal for spending a long marathon afternoon without thinking too much... especially if your house's plumbing broke down and you have no other choice.

HARRY POTTER . VERSIÓN EN ESPAÑOL.

 

Cine Debate Crítica

CRÍTICA / CINE Y TV / SAGA

Harry Potter: La Herejía de no ser Fan y el Engañabobos Millonario

Una mirada cáustica a la franquicia mágica que se apoderó del mundo.

Por Benjamin Gavarre 

Hablar de la hiper-franquicia cinematográfica de Harry Potter hoy en día se siente como cometer una absoluta herejía, especialmente si uno no es un acólito devoto de este culto masivo que se ha apoderado de varias generaciones. Hace años, me encontraba en un lejano país, en lo que antes era el reino de Siam, buscando un momento de paz en un templo dedicado a la adoración a Buda. Las ironías del destino me cruzaron con un viejo amigo y su acompañante, una fanática empedernida que, al enterarse de que yo había estudiado letras, me presumió un tomo gigantesco del niño mago como si acabara de descubrir la pólvora literaria. Para alguien educado con la pluma de Oscar Wilde, las tragedias de William Shakespeare, la agudeza de Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, el terror psicológico de Edgar Allan Poe o los laberintos de Julio Cortázar, escuchar que la obra magna de la humanidad trataba sobre un huérfano volando en escobas fue desconcertante. Esta ceguera voluntaria de sus seguidores, que asumen que no hay nada más allá de las paredes de su castillo mágico, es quizá el primer gran truco de ilusionismo de la saga.

Eventualmente, por azares del destino y gracias a una tragedia de plomería que me obligó a quedarme encerrado en casa, me topé con un maratón completo en HBO y me enfrenté a la bestia. Desde los primeros minutos del primer largometraje es evidente que estamos ante un revoltijo comercial sumamente astuto: una amalgama de cuentos de hadas robados, mitología celta diluida, brujería de manual de autoayuda y fenómenos extrasensoriales, todo empaquetado con una carga emocional de reacciones previsibles, forzadas y un tanto falsas. Nuestro protagonista, interpretado por Daniel Radcliffe y sus irritables e inseparables lentes de aro redondo estilo John Lennon, no es desagradable en sí, pero está rodeado de arquetipos que cansan rápido. A su lado tenemos al amigo pelirrojo, Ron Weasley (Rupert Grint), que durante ocho películas mantiene una expresión de pánico perenne, como si tuviera una inaguantable urgencia de ir al baño. Completa la trinidad Hermione Granger (Emma Watson), el estereotipo andante de la sabelotodo insufrible que, afortunadamente, con los años fue refinando su gracia actoral mientras su personaje seguía resolviendo todos los problemas de los inútiles varones que la acompañaban. Todo esto tras escapar de los clásicos padres adoptivos caricaturizados al extremo de la crueldad, los infames Dursley.

La historia nos transporta rápidamente a Hogwarts, la academia de magia y hechicería. Técnicamente, aquí es donde hasta la crítica más snob tiene que quitarse el sombrero. El diseño de producción de Stuart Craig, utilizando locaciones reales y espectaculares como el Castillo de Alnwick, la Catedral de Gloucester y los comedores de la Universidad de Oxford, dota a la serie de un aire innegablemente aristocrático y profundamente inglés. Es el sueño húmedo del esnobismo británico empaquetado para las masas globales. Los efectos especiales, respaldados por los infinitos millones de Warner Bros., fueron deslumbrantes en su época. Esas icónicas pinturas animadas que adornaban los pasillos y escaleras del castillo prefiguraron, de manera casi profética, nuestra actual dependencia de los GIFs; hoy en día, esas imágenes que alguna vez fueron una conmoción tecnológica son algo familiar que todos tenemos en la palma de la mano en nuestro smartphone.

Si hay algo que sostiene a este pastiche de lugares comunes y evita que se hunda bajo su propio peso, es su impecable y legendario departamento de casting, especialmente en el bando de los villanos. Tenemos a Severus Snape, ese profesor de pociones con aspecto de monje siniestro y cabello relamido que cobró una vida fascinante, torturada y trágica gracias al inmenso talento del fallecido Alan Rickman. Por el lado de la aristocracia oscura de "sangre pura", los Malfoy (encabezados por el rubio platinado Lucius, interpretado por Jason Isaacs) cumplen su función a la perfección. Pero hablemos del gran antagonista: Lord Voldemort. Interpretado magistralmente por Ralph Fiennes, este psicópata que esparce su alma en siete fragmentos (los famosos Horrocruxes) aterra a la audiencia infantil, aunque a nivel técnico, su rostro en post-producción a veces luce extraño, con un difuminado CGI en la zona de la nariz ausente que parece más una mancha en la lente del director que verdadera magia oscura. Y por supuesto, está Dolores Umbridge (Imelda Staunton), una burócrata vestida de rosa intenso con la actitud pasivo-agresiva de una Pati Chapoy demoníaca. Su método de tortura escolar, obligando a Harry a escribir "No debo decir mentiras" mientras las letras se graban en su propia sangre, es de un sadismo que seguramente traumó a más de un niño en la sala de cine. Ver cómo una horda de centauros finalmente se la lleva al oscuro bosque es uno de los placeres más catárticos y aplaudidos que ofrece la franquicia. Todo esto bajo la mirada benevolente de Albus Dumbledore, un hechicero que funciona como un Merlín reciclado para el siglo XX y XXI.

A pesar de estos grandes aciertos visuales y actorales, el guion abusa de fórmulas y cantinelas que rayan en lo nauseabundo. La insistencia enfermiza de que "te pareces a tu padre, pero tienes los ojos de tu madre" se repite ad nauseam, convirtiéndose en un eco insoportable. Harry es tratado constantemente como un mesías descendido del cielo literario, el prodigio que recibe todas las recompensas, salva siempre a sus amigos y se enfrenta al mal absoluto. Resulta además tremendamente irónico que esta serie, que predica que los mestizos ("sangre sucia") son tan valiosos como cualquier otro y que la pureza de sangre es un mal fascista, provenga de una escritora que hoy se encuentra envuelta en polémicas mundiales. La otrora intocable millonaria J.K. Rowling se ha convertido en una figura odiosa para gran parte de sus antiguos devotos debido a sus constantes y estridentes comentarios transfóbicos en redes sociales.

Ver a los actores crecer en pantalla, al estilo de un experimento antropológico prolongado a través de diferentes directores (desde la maravilla infantil de Chris Columbus, pasando por la oscuridad genial de Alfonso Cuarón, hasta la burocracia visual de David Yates), es fascinante. El contraste físico se vuelve cómico: el pelirrojo asustadizo saca músculos de gimnasio para compensar su actitud compungida, mientras Daniel Radcliffe se mantiene estoicamente delgado, cargando con el peso del mundo mágico y de la fama global. No es un secreto que el aplastante estrés de la maquinaria de Hollywood provocó que Radcliffe sufriera crisis severas, empujándolo a buscar la redención artística en proyectos teatrales como Equus. Allí, por fin pudimos verlo liberado, mostrando su enorme talento actoral (y su anatomía completa) muy lejos del estigma y, sobre todo, libre de esos malditos anteojos redondos.

Cuando finalmente llegamos al clímax en las últimas entregas, el espectáculo visual es indudablemente portentoso. La épica batalla entre el supervillano de la nariz difuminada y el joven de la cicatriz cumple su función de blockbúster. El desenlace, donde Harry muere temporalmente para regresar triunfante, no es otra cosa que un reciclaje directo del monomito y "El héroe de las mil caras" de Joseph Campbell. El protagonista debe trascender la muerte para adquirir proporciones divinas y derrotar a la oscuridad. Todo esto sirve perfectamente para alimentar la verdadera magia de la serie: la venta multimillonaria de toneladas de parafernalia, desde varitas de plástico sobrevaloradas y bufandas, hasta la música de John Williams y tazas de café.

Al final del día, es completamente comprensible que la crítica seria y un cinéfilo exigente encuentren a Harry Potter lleno de gestos de cartón, actuaciones infantiles predecibles y un revoltijo de mitos empaquetados en celofán. La saga jamás alcanzará el complejo, visceral y maravilloso nivel narrativo de las grandes obras de fantasía o de la política maquiavélica de series como Game of Thrones (al menos en sus buenas temporadas), donde la calidad actoral no descansaba en estereotipos y varitas mágicas. Harry Potter no es la obra de arte definitiva que mi ex amigo en Tailandia juraba que era, pero sí es un hito monumental del cine industrial. Es un entretenimiento engañabobos, visualmente exquisito e ideal para pasar una larga tarde de maratón sin pensar mucho... especialmente si el drenaje de tu casa se descompuso y no tienes otra opción.