With a quick memento of the Pope (EPD), we present today the last article about the Holy Weekend, which Shakespeare would have said, and we dedicated it to Francisco. Ending with the memory of the holy weeks of my childhood.
In that sense, the film sessions that the Tamanes brothers in the Cinematographer Chueca, in the Plaza del Chamberí, on the Paseo del Swne, come to mind. A jewel of the architecture of the first half of the twentieth century, true coliseum sadly dejected in times of developmentalism to build a building more offices.
At Chueca cinema, we had special programs for Holy Week, with a selection of up to three films in a row. From four in the afternoon at nine o’clock at night, we went out with reddish eyes and the head full of experiences and arguments. The films that were seen then were not Ben Hur, the ten commandments and others, which were made in more enriched times of Hollywood, in the era of the formidable biblical blockbusters. I keep the images of a film with the name Christus, which was an expression of an orthodox and sad religion, of what was the zero year of Jesus Christ.
During those holy weeks, children from eight to fourteen we had to stay all day with some seriousness. Without ostensible games, dark tie, even reading a book by Santos. And no green novels, an always threatening hobby.
The sacred time in gastronomy was also noted, due to the absence of meat in meals and prevalence of potajes, garlic soups and other vegetarian variants. Still affected as we were by the escases of rationing, which lasted so many years after the civil war, nothing less than until 1952.
So, readers, already in our time, congratulations in Easter Florida.