"For this reason, my dear apricots from the jar, do not be careless, do not turn your back on anyone, or bend down if you see a coin on the ground, because we are living in an age where lame beats ostriches. So to keep working, listen to the neuron, vermouth with fries and good show! "
Small biographical fragment of Tato that can be read at
... Bracelli shared one last interview with him, in which Tato went against the show's maxim that the show must go on and regretted having missed many family moments throughout his career. Look, I'm going to confess something to you: in my life as an actor I made great blows. Not flowers of revolutions but flowers of shit. I'm not at all proud of that and I don't feel like doing it again! This that the show must go on, who invented it? It must have been invented by the patrons of the show. Macabre invention, no doubt.
E nrique Raab - La Opinion, May 7, 1974
The infinite possibilities of varying a scheme: this is how the reappearance of Tato Bores could be defined, on Sunday night the 5th. The rigor of the basic design - arrival, address, interlude, address, departure - has for years the multifaceted random possibility of a Bach fugue theme. It does not matter that the scriptwriter is now called Aldo Cammarota: it is becoming more and more evident that Tato Bores implements the ideas of his librettists, putting them at his own exclusive service.
Because, what does it matter that Stan Laurel and Oliver Ardí have had seven different screenwriters throughout their careers, if they were only used to shape a dramatic idea? Or that Chaplin has always resorted to his own scripts, except in Monsieur Verdoux, where he relied on an old French vaudeville and on the story itself? Like that of Gordo y el Flaco, like that of Chaplin, Tato's dramaturgy is not author's dramaturgy: it is an approach to popular art, an art that necessarily needs the rigidity of a fixed form.
The novelties are various, subtly derived from the stable scheme: the Brazilian waiter has disappeared and, now, Crespi and Ricutti have become maitre d and sombelier, respectively. The offer for the great final banquet is an extravagant French partridge, but the final option for Tato - and that of his entire court - is the eternal ravioli. Marilú and Siv continue with their bilingual speeches, framing an implausibly tiny Tato in the middle of two big women. The most spectacular change is in the new office: a sumptuous executive office has replaced the old dilapidated space, but from the air conditioner down, none of the gadgets work. To speak to the president, tato must lift a very heavy receiver placed on a telephone of expressionist proportions: evidently,
There is, as always, the address: delivered in the usual torrential manner, with a camera located a little further from tato than in recent years, everything works in a more institutional way, less improvised, more settled than before. It's as if Tato, transplanted into a new, more solid-looking realm, is in awe of this unexpected solidity.
Except that the office is luxurious, but not very comfortable; the girls look beautiful, but they are bodyguards; the bus driver (Luis Capdevila) has already found a job and is happy, because he can annoy everyone. "Realize", says the only commandment, stamped on a poster that hangs on the wall, as an invitation to penetrate the surface and understand the background.
Tato has returned: he has gone through Frondicism, Peperina, Onganiato, Lanussismo. He is feeling, a little perplexed, the National Reconstruction.
The pleasure of the monologue
BORES TACT MONOLOGUE
The blame for everything is the Minister of Economy, said one.
No sir! said the Minister of Economy while looking for a handle under the plinth. The evaders are to blame for everything.
Lies! the evaders said as they charged 50 percent in black and the other 50 percent also in black. It is all the fault of those who want to kill us with so much tax.
Fake! said those of the DGI while preparing a new tax on sneezing. The fault of everything is the contractor country; they took all the twine.
But please...! said a businessman from the contracting country while collecting tolls at the entrance of public schools. The fault of everything is those of the financial country.
Slander! said a banker while depositing his mother at seven days.
The fault of everything is the corrupt who have no morals.
You are wrong! said a corrupt man while selling for a hundred dollars a book called "Do Your Own Work" but which, in reality, only contained blank pages. The blame for everything is on the bureaucracy that increases public spending.
It is not true! said a public employee while scratching his cupo with one hand and his butt with the other. The blame for everything is on the politicians who promise one thing for us and do another for them.
That is pure evil! said a deputy while asking where the Congress building was. It is all the fault of the owners of the land who did not leave us anything.
Bullshit! said a landowner as he counted hectares, cows, sheep, peons and remembered old trips to France and longed for the pleasure of throwing butter on the roof. Blame it on the comunists.
You wicked! said those of the local politburo as they lowered the line to elaborate the duel. The blame for everything is on the Trotskyist guerrillas.
Verse! said a guerrilla while setting up a car bomb to save humanity. The blame for everything have the fascists.
Wicked! said a fascist as he burned a pile of books together with the bookseller. The blame for everything is on the Jews.
Racists! said a Zionist as he looked crookedly at a Korean from Eleven. The guilt of everything is the priests who always get involved in what they do not care.
Blasphemy! said a bishop as he made needle eyes for ten camels to trot by. The fault of everything is the scientists who believe in the Big Bang and not in God.
Error! said a scientist while designing a bomb capable of killing more people in less time with less noise and much cheaper. The fault of everything is the parents who do not educate their children.
Infamy! said a father as he tried to remember how many children he had exactly. The fault of everything is the thieves who do not let us live.
They offend me! said a thief as he snatched a chain from a retired woman and, incidentally, threw it under the train. It's all the fault of the cops with the easy trigger and the plentiful pizza.
Minga! said a policeman as he first shot and then asked. The fault of everything is the Justice that allows criminals to enter through one door and exit through the other.
Disrespect! said a judge as he patiently sewed a file of more than five hundred pages that later, at night, he would unstitch again.
The blame for everything lies with the military, who always believed themselves to be the owners of the truth and the saviors of the country.
Negative! said a colonel as he ordered his assistant to prepare good weather for the weekend. The blame for everything is on the young with long hair.
You are in the bogeyman! said a young man as he asked for explanations of why to enter the faculty you had to know how to read and write. The fault of everything is the elders for leaving us the country they left us.
You liars! said an older man while proclaiming that to return to the good old times there is nothing better than a good world war.
The journalists are to blame for everything because together with the news they take advantage of it to smuggle their own ideas and businesses.
Censorship! said a journalist as, with crossed fingers, he prayed for our daily rape and murder. Imperialism has the guilt of everything.
Thats not true! (That is not true!) Said an imperialist while loading into his ship a piece of territory with its subsoil, its airspace and its people included. The ones to blame are the sepoy, that allowed us to take even the cat.
Infundios! said a sepoy as he marked out the most profitable provinces on a map. Magoya is to blame for everything.
Ridiculous! Magoya said, used to these situations. Montoto is to blame for everything.
You cowards! Montoto said that he also knew a lot about this. It's all people like you to blame for writing nonsense.
Stop the hand! I said while taking cover behind a mailbox.
I know who is to blame for everything. The Other is to blame for everything.
The Other is always to blame!
That, that! they all exclaimed in chorus. The man is right: The Other is to blame for everything.
That said, after shouting for a while, breaking some windows and / or paying for some requested, and / or attending an opinion program on television (according to each style), we went home because it
was already time for dinner and because the culprit had already been discovered.
As we were leaving we couldn't stop thinking: What a guacho flower that turned out to be The Other ...!