Based in a house on top of a hill in Hanover, the images discussed within Tiburon Tigre (translated as Tiger Shark) were a long way from the middle-class surrounds of Brighton’s muesli mountain.
Semi-biographical in parts, deliberately vague in others, the real star of the show was the host. Immensely personable and likable, the performance started with a warm welcome and an introduction to the other seven guests. After progressing to the kitchen table with a glass of Rioja in hand, Pujol guided those present on a manicured monologue of a gay man growing up in a Fascist family in Barcelona.
Pictures of Hitler’s art and extracts from the Nazi leader’s memoirs Mein Kampf were carefully intertwined with memories, some shocking, others factually stimulating.
But being surrounded by such a calm atmosphere took something away from the performance itself: shocks failed to fully shock, bright cultural references missed the bullseye and sharp observations became blunt.
This mixture of muddled messages, clouded by a vision of red wine, meant the imprint people left with was not quite the one the host intended.
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