Matanza En El Hotel

In the hotel lobby, she is dressed almost like a theater actress: a lively beret, a cane in her right hand, and a gaze that reads the pages of a fashion magazine better than any headlines. The bar is like a stage: behind her, a pointed duel of glances and laughter, the duchess's sofa serves as a hiding place, and a teacup flies into the climax, as if the applause were untimely. After that, the whole world seems to start dancing in silence, leaving the two on stage - ironically, nervously, and a little like in a movie.

The danger here is not frightening, it is a temptation: to pull out the bullet with a snake-like tongue, to pick it out with your teeth, to enter the frame in slow motion - as the epitome of self-irony. The voices in the background turn the chaos into a farce, and the “hotel massacre” sounds more like a compliment-verdict of the night: loud, funny, and with feeling. This whole mixture is a joke with cinematic intensity, where even violence looks elegant and slightly absurd, like the last toast before dawn.