It wasn't her, but the character brought to life by her editor (Gloria Muñoz), who said in The Flower of My Secret, "We have enough reality in each of our homes. Reality is for television and newspapers. And look, because of so much reality, the country is about to explode. Reality should be prohibited!". She, Leo Macías, she, Marisa Paredes, nodded. And few truths are as evident today in the early morning. Marisa Paredes, an essential figure in Transition theater and modern cinema (in the strictest sense of the word modern), and the soul of the last third of Almodóvar's filmography, of the best Pedro Almodóvar, died on Tuesday in Madrid at the age of 78.
She died while working, with an upcoming premiere in May, with a thousand projects on her agenda, with relentless activity on social media in support of all the trees that a mayor insists on cutting down, with the Lorca Honor from the Granada Film Festival received just a week ago, with the very recent memory of all the anecdotes shared at the dinner following the screening at the Academy of Cinema of Vermiglio, the film by the Italian Maura Delpero... Marisa Paredes, more committed than ever, more alive than all, died in a sudden and terribly unfair attack of reality. This reality, this reality, should be prohibited.
She mentioned that she learned to take care of her voice with cold water. She also used honey, but cold water was much more effective. When she received the Honorary Goya Award in 2018 (the only one in her career after two nominations), she appeared emotional on stage, and above each of her words, all very heartfelt, remained the evidence of a voice so deep, grave, and perfect that it seemed pure water, cold water, and, if necessary, always broken. Because Marisa Paredes thrived in the characters that, like her voice, broke. She was the melodrama. She and her voice.
She mentioned being born in Madrid's Plaza Santa Ana and from there glimpsed the path her steps would take. She watched actors, actresses, stagehands, directors, set designers, and even prompters pass by from the window. At that time, no one turned around when she spoke. She watched them all and imagined herself as a dancer, a singer, a lawyer for important causes, and even a spy. And with nothing better to do, she sighed. Madrid girls who look out the window sigh a lot. "What if I could be everything at once?" she said, looked back at the square, and saw it clearly.
Marisa Paredes made her debut in two minor films in 1960, at the age of 14, and stepped onto a stage for the first time with Conchita Montes' company in Not Tonight Either (1961). After two decades of supporting roles in film and television and being part of the University Theater Group, she was finally seen in all her glory in 1980 in Debut, by Fernando Trueba. What followed was exactly what she had dreamed of from her window. She was a dancer, a singer, a lawyer for important causes, and even a spy. She was everything and fully so.
In each of her recent interviews, Marisa Paredes refused to indulge in melancholy. She enjoyed looking back, through that window she spoke of, but did so happily, always seeing herself as different, always another, always an actress. "My career is a moving train," she said solemnly, and although the phrase sounded strange, disjointed, and somewhat emphatic, in her voice, it seemed more like an oracle. And there was no choice but to believe her (and even adore her) because what was heard was nothing more than Marisa Paredes' voice. The voice. She said that from all she had experienced, she held onto her love for the profession. And she added that experience is never abandoned, nor does it abandon anyone. "You grow with experience." And despite her penchant for emphasized gestures, for melodrama at every turn, there was no choice but to continue listening to that voice of water, of cold water. Marisa Paredes was Marisa Paredes and Huma Rojo, and Becky del Páramo, and Irene Gallardo, and Leo Macías, and Griselda, and Sister Manure. She gave her voice to all of them, which was her miracle, a miracle shared by all.
And then there was the earthly Marisa Paredes, the political one, who was deeply saddened by every tree ruthlessly cut down in her square, the square where she was born; the one who understood no other way of life and art than in common, for the benefit of all. Marisa Paredes, in case there was any doubt, was left-wing, red, and even a puppeteer. One might say she still is. And she was, and is, with an immodest pride that understood neither strategies nor ceremonies. Marisa Paredes always went as straightforwardly as, as already mentioned, her voice. When asked about feminism and all the revolutions in present cinema, she didn't hesitate: "It's a matter of right and courage, of reason and pride. It took courage to say that we are here and we will defend our self-esteem." And she continued: "Cinema and art cannot do without the gaze and voice of women. Society progresses, and with it, women."
Not in vain, Maria Paredes was the president of the Spanish Film Academy from 2000 to 2003. During that period, the 2003 Goya Awards gala took place with the theme of No to War, probably the best of them all, the only one worth remembering. And even more so now. Because of Marisa Paredes.
She recalled not without a hint of vanity that once, in Paris, a drag queen approached her and invited her to their show. There she discovered herself transfigured into the aforementioned Becky del Páramo, from the photo, the character from High Heels. "I was frozen. She was doing exactly what I do. Every movement, every gesture...". The voice was the same. Of course. And in the background, Think of Me. The last time we heard her speak just a few weeks ago, she had a bit of a cold. It was the most elegant and perfect cold imaginable. On Tuesday, she passed away. Some days reality should be prohibited.