Juan Carlos has published an indescribable video to promote his memoirs. He defends his role in the transition from dictatorship to democracy and ends by asking young people to support his son, Felipe VI, in his reign. He is seen seated against a backdrop of a Spanish flag—both digital and stylized—that covers the entire screen. We haven't seen a more ridiculous use of the flag since Sonia Monroy appeared at the Oscars ceremony wrapped in one as a dress. Nor have we seen a more ludicrous use of green screen. Nor of whatever video editing software they used.
The emeritus king reads the text and delivers it as if it were his Christmas Eve speech, but the whole thing oscillates between tenderness and despair; as if a Vox YouTuber or perhaps Froilán were in charge of the communications, about to shout: "Fantastic, abu"We uploaded it to TikTok."
The Royal Household, maintaining a discreet and institutional profile, has been forced to forcefully distance itself. There's no need to read the book, as all the media outlets in Paris and Gibraltar have extracted the handful of (old) headlines it still left behind. The strategy. He lies when he says he can't return to Spain. If he regularizes his situation, pays what he owes, and keeps quiet, he's trying to renegotiate his place in the collective memory, but his time has passed. Without the splendor of the monarchy and with the shame of exile, the memory of the younger generation will (hopefully) be that of the adulterous gentleman with tax entanglements who hunted elephants with a certain Corinna, who was smarter than him.
Felipe VI's father has been accustomed to impunity for years; but he has opted for a headlong rush forward, without anticipating his irrelevance. This book is the penultimate of his mistakes.
