Cinema Verité: un muerto in the Rialto

I still lament the day when Ramonn Puch decided to go to the "Rialto" to watch a movie



the llargmetratge was called "Performance", where Mick Jagger and Anita Pallenberg acted unclear roles of sexy popstars from the recently deceased Swinging London.

Apparently a plot consisting of meandering and/or semi-scabrous sequences that referenced the capricious euro cinema d'auteur '70, with brusque camera angles, non-explicated sudden scenes in black & white, and topless parts without a reason.

Ramonn Puch arrived early in the evening, at 6:65 PM, bought a chocolate, a pack of caramelos, "Renomé", a frozen yogurt, and a chicloso.


He wore black shoes with rubber soles, "Rimoldi" brand, neat white socks, and a thin black suit of summer, his hair was perfectly combed a la gomina, and his mandibles correctly shaved and perfumed for the francoist Spain of 1970


my mother used to tell me "shave yourself and cut that hair, it looks terrible".

Due to the slightly hot weather into the cinema hall, his body exuded a certain aroma of the "Heno de Pravia" soap with which he took a shower a while before

I know all this because I was there in that moment.

Ramonn Puch inserted a caramelo Renomé into his jaws, and started sucking it with nervousness, because the projection of the film didn't start yet, though the critique of the newspaper recommended it fervently because of its "outlandish concept, and excellent cinematography".

Notwithstanding, the confusing scenes, and "pop" music collages, in which images and sound in stereo interacted in aggressive ways shocked Ramonn Puch's mind, affecting his neurological system.

Ramonn Puch had a severe heart attack and passed away in silence by means of violent infarct, while the actor Mike Jagger observed the eye of the camera with vitriolic and/or semi-lascivious stare, moving his exuberant lips in equivocal ways.

Ramonn Puch actually died with the silence of a sparrow, like a sparrow would die, sans noïses, como un pajarito.

A very thin line of piss was ejected by his penis in that fatidical act, staining the black impeccability of his pants, perfectly ironed by himself.


Nobody realized in the cinema hall, I didn't realize either.


When the projection ended, the people started getting out of the hall
everybody thought that Ramonn Puch was sleeping, I thought the same.
He still had a semi-consumed caramelo Renomé in his petrified mouth.

Only one hour later the usher of the cinema realized that something was wrong with Ramonn Puch: the police came, along with an ambulance and a forensic expert


Ramonn Puch had no family, and since Puch was a typist his funeral was paid by the A.M.B.: Association of Mechanographists of Barcelona.


The day 32 of August was the burial: robust arms of man moved the shovels.

From the distance I observed how the coffin of Ramonn Puch was slowly swallowed by the ground.