It takes a lot of effort to focus fully on any task when you can’t help but be thinking one way or another about what is “out there.” In what is supposed to not let us “leave the house” for a few days now. What we also think about when watching any fiction, past or current, on television, we see someone do something as innocent in theory as touching the mouth or nose with the hand.

The suggestion.

But yes, it can. Try to focus, try to abstract yourself from reality. And it can also be achieved. In fact, seeing ‘The invisible line’ I have succeeded. Just a few minutes after hitting the play, I had already immersed myself in that other pre-apocalyptic world, both on and off the screen: In that other world that until not long ago was also ours although not many seem (want to) remember it.

Watching the six episodes of ‘The Invisible Line’ I accomplished what I had not accomplished for several weeks, disconnecting from reality. Completely disconnect from our reality, the current one; the one of the right now to immerse myself and connect at all levels with another, also so much ours that its memory is not less hard, or less painful than the current one. Passionately hard, painful, and also passionately tragic.

‘The Invisible Line’ is one of those series that you can’t stop watching as soon as you start it. You want to continue watching it, devouring it by the pull and chapter by chapter without looking away at what we already know is an inevitable and tragic outcome, followed by an even harder epilogue of about 40 years duration. The best I have seen this year along with the third season of that wonderful Mrs. Maisel who only lets her parents down.

Also, ignorant of me, of fragile and affluent middle-class memory, who suffers the unspeakable and only for not leaving about 45 square meters with a broadband Internet connection, that even if it is by no means I belong to that sophisticated generation called ” millennial. ” It is amazing to see how it is possible to keep so much distance, both with a memory still of the present body and a reality that sculpts us in the image of its neglect and ignorance.

The memory, particularly, that regardless of what history says, or what others say about history, that everyone is (and we are) flesh and blood people who bleed if they cut us and in the end, we die . Mention shared by the elegance of a staging that surrounds you and transports you to that other naive and God-fearing Spain that could leave the house without fear of a virus, but especially of its own neighbors.

A staging coordinated by Mariano Barroso, who after his time in ‘El día de maana’ is confirmed in ‘La linea invisible’ as one of the best and most profitable friends of the original Movistar + fiction. A finish and a presence, in all senses, so robust and elegant that the statement that no series like the BBC or HBO are made here is reduced to an urban legend of dubious credibility.

Credibility, which has more than enough a series that, on the other hand, neither takes sides nor positions itself on who is good or who is bad. A series that, like good series, shapes its characters as flesh and blood beings, each with its lights and shadows and their own “truth” that humanizes them before a viewer who can, and who is invited to interpret the events beyond the bias of their creed, affiliation, interest, or religion.

Certainly, this faithful reflection is thought-provoking, but rather of history if not from a reality far from the archetype of heroes and villains to which selfish and partisan propaganda tends, little given to self-criticism and rational and human analysis. ‘The Invisible Line’ is a series more than notable not only for its stupendous audiovisual invoice, a brilliant soundtrack and a generous choral cast in its effort to add volume to this polyhedral mosaic.

It is, also for the utmost respect for the viewer, his intelligence and humanity, as well as for a story that in an organic and pious way becomes universal. In a tragic story as universal as ours that truly hurts. It hurts much. Because in reality it is not a fiction, but the memory and the representation of that damn reality determined to use our differences to hit us with saa and wicked.

By Cruz Snchez & Juan Pairet