A decade ago, the exploits of an unknown Francisco Nicolás Gómez Iglesias hit the press. Suddenly, after his arrest, Fran (as he is known in his inner circle) became little Nicolás, and his life became the stuff of films. The young man, barely 20 years old, knew how to move among the noble youth of Madrid and between the PP's bases in the capital in order to build a legend that gave him access to influential circles and high purchasing power. But the fiction he had nurtured to unattainable limits – which led him to present himself as a government adviser, CNI agent and liaison to the royal family – exploded when he found himself as Felipe VI's emissary. spent and arranged a lunch with President Alsa, Jorge Cosmen, in a restaurant in the marina of Ribadeo (Lugo), where he arrived with a delegation of bodyguards from the local police after deceiving the city council. As he waits to see whether the 12-plus-year sentence that would send him to prison will be confirmed, Netflix is releasing a documentary about him.
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As soon as (P)ícaro begins, journalist Mateo Balín puts on the table the big question that gives meaning to this documentary. And no one can yet give a sufficiently convincing answer that dispels all doubts surrounding this figure. How is it possible that Francisco Nicolás got to where he was within five years, between the ages of 15 and 20? How is it possible that he forged his ID at a police station without the police officer who was looking after him noticing? How is it possible for a boyish teenager to date businessmen in restaurants? How is it possible that he attended the coronation of King Felipe VI? attended? How is it possible that he had the cell phone numbers of extremely important people (including Juan Carlos I)? How is it possible that he deceived so many people? How is it possible that he did it without help?
Because in reality it is the shadows that fly over it that still maintain and nourish the legend of little Nicolás today. The judiciary itself recently admitted it: “In 2014, due to circumstances that are still unclear, Gómez Iglesias maintained relationships with important businessmen, politicians and authorities,” wrote Judge Caridad Hernández in November 2022 in the verdict that sentenced him to prison for the third time. Some areas of darkness that always remain in any court case and fuel conspiracy theories (as has happened in other media cases).
Francisco Nicolás Gómez Iglesias, in the dock of the Madrid court, in one of his trials, in October 2022. EDUARDO PARRA (Europa Press)
Since the Netflix series is unable to go beyond offering conflicting versions, it's right not to go into every detail. He is right not to get lost in the insinuations that the protagonist forces on them: “No strings were pulled in Genoa. I pulled the strings in the box [Real] Madrid,” “There had to be a sting operation.” And they told me, “Read it like you know it,” or “In my life I've been: either a sugar daddy or a sugar baby,” he blurted out the chapters out like someone who has done it. “I don’t want to.” Above all, the documentary succeeds in using journalism as a weapon to dismantle much of its history. And this deconstruction of his version shows it.
Anyone who has followed the story of Gómez Iglesias in recent years will not find any major revelations in (P)ícaro. Nor is it an irresistible novelty to listen to him. Since his breakthrough in the public eye, he has given numerous interviews and has even taken part in a reality show such as “Big Brother” (which he in turn uses in the series to support the thesis of the plot: it suggests that he initially was thrown out). the broadcast so that he wouldn't say everything he knew, as if he didn't have the opportunity to do so in other media).
Little Nicolás at the coronation of Felipe VI.
The documentary initially focuses on the portrayal of Gómez Iglesias as a teenager who wanted to get closer to power from a young age. In this regard, the series' benefit is the unpublished home footage of his childhood scattered throughout the chapters (one in particular stands out: a very young boy in his pajamas, excited because he had been given a tie). Little Nicolás' version, based on the testimony of his mother and an anonymous friend, an “expert in financial markets”, then assumes excessive importance and is filled with apparent credibility. But the mirage emerges when his words are compared with the provable facts, which is mainly handled by journalist Irene Dorta, one of (P)ícaro's investigators.
So the series begins at this moment to paint the true portrait of the young twenty-year-old. He presents him as a smart, ambitious boy who socializes easily and is involved in the PP and the FAES Foundation. “Light discos weren’t my thing. “My thing was power,” he says: “I saw myself as the youngest minister of democracy.” It shows him as a fraud who tells his interlocutor what he wants to hear; that mixes truths with lies and half-truths; and that makes you think you know more than you really do. “People believe that there are shots that don’t exist, and that gives you power…” says the protagonist. When the scandal broke out in 2014 after his arrest and his person came to light, Daniel Verdú already wrote about him: “Nobody really knew where he came from or who he was friends with.” But the majority agreed, just in case that something he said should be true.†Several investigators have also identified him as a type of “long story” fraudster (a police jargon term).
Her lies, tricks and exaggerations are also evident throughout the three chapters. Gómez Iglesias compares the operation of his arrest to an anti-jihadist operation and explains: “Twelve police officers, CNI agents and the entire Internal Affairs Department were involved.” [de la PolicÃa Nacional]…†. Ironically, Irene Dorta immediately adds: “The summary shows that the arrest was made by only two police officers…” Netflix boasts of precisely this journalistic exercise in contrast: “The investigative team read in detail more than 35,000 pages, corresponding to six different procedures , all of whom have already been prosecuted.” Two journalists dedicated months exclusively to fact-checking, explains the dossier that the platform made available to the press.
The Trojan Horse
Retired Commissioner José Manuel Villarejo after his release from prison in March 2021.EFE
The most interesting exercise in the documentary takes place when, at the end, the figure of little Nicolás is left aside and used as a Trojan horse to approach other people who crossed his path (Catalina Hoffman, the businesswoman with whom he worked on the Felipe's coronation). VI comes out stumbling and her word is questioned). Of particular interest is the journey into the putrid entrails that infested the National Police under the leadership of Commissioner José Manuel Villarejo a decade ago. The now-retired agent, who was recently sentenced to 19 years in prison for his dubious espionage dealings, is another master manipulator.
It's a shame that the War of the Commissars and the corruption the Corps has experienced are only visible from the corner of our eyes. Because with it the feeling returns that the shadows cloud everything. It is this opacity that benefits Gómez Iglesias, who takes the opportunity to play his most useful card: insinuation. “Am I the problem? Or is the problem that they let me be myself?” or “And who told you that I still haven't worked with anyone?” So in the end the aftertaste is that something else is being deliberately ignored: who is lying anything else? Or rather: who lies more?
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