Spanish comic legend Francisco Ibáñez dies at 87

Francisco Ibáñez, creator of Mortadelo y Filemón, dies

Francisco Ibáñez has died in Barcelona at the age of 87. His publisher, Penguin Random House Grupo Editorial, announced the news with a brief message and a photograph, marking the loss of the most recognizable signature in Spanish comics. Born in Barcelona in 1936, the cartoonist created series such as Mortadelo y Filemón —which recently celebrated its 60th anniversary—, 13 Rue del Percebe, Rompetechos, and Pepe Gotera y Otilio, works that introduced several generations to reading. Few authors have portrayed this country with such precision and such little disguise. This is no mere obituary cliché: his panels are filled with stingy bosses, dirty sidewalks, and neighbors on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

Who was Francisco Ibáñez?

Born in Barcelona in 1936, he died at 87 after a lifetime spent at his drawing board. Some online discussions suggest his vvife since 1966, Remedios Solera, may have also passed away this year, though this remains unconfirmed: a lifelong couple departing almost at the same time. An indefatigable worker, he is also the author of 13 Rue del Percebe —an entire building depicted on a single page, including cats and mice—, Rompetechos, and Pepe Gotera y Otilio. His supporting characters have become household names: El Super, Professor Bacterio, and Doña Ofelia. Each with their own quirk, each instantly recognizable in just a few strokes.

From Sulfato Atómico to world stages: building a classic

As many readers recall these days, the first long-form Mortadelo story, El Sulfato Atómico, was more successful outside Spain than within: it was translated into several European languages under the name Clever & Smart. This peine a formula that Ibáñez exploited for decades: taking the characters out of the office and dropping them into a football World Cup, the Olympics, a beauty clinic, or any international catastrophe. The method was to reinvent the setting every time, not to repeat the joke.

From that creative wellspring came titles now cited as cultural heritage: Clínicas antibirria, En Alemania, Soborno, Contra el gang del chicharrón, El ansia de poder, El cacao espacial, La brigada bichera, and El malvado Jack Tortazo y la máquina del cambiazo. The other half of the miracle was gestural: in every panel, the characters emphasize action with their hands, and that choreography of fingers and flailing limbs is what allows a page to be understood without reading a single speech bubble.

A portrait of a Spain that no longer exists

If there is a reason this death hurts more than others, it is that his work was a blueprint of real Spain disguised as slapstick. The head of the TIA (the fictional agency) is a surly, stingy, and difficult boss; the secretary is the archetype of the era's office worker; and the 13 Rue del Percebe building functions as a residential community where everyone barely tolerates one another. The sidewalks littered with cigarette butts, the bureaucrats who never lift a finger, and red tape as the natural enemy were not inventions: they were a reflection of reality. Many readers have noted that returning to his comics years later revealed an author who had spent half a lifetime portraying the society of his time—and some of the present—without ever receiving an award for it.

When did Mortadelo stop being funny?

This is where the debate begins. The period almost everyone points to as the best runs from the late sixties to the mid-eighties: according to calculations circulating online, his peak occurred between 1968 and 1980, with many readers drawing the line at 1984. From then on, the most common thesis is that of industrial production: albums were churned out rapidly, the drawing lost its edge, and plots became recycled. Some argue that the later stories set in World Cups and Olympics lack the charm of the classics, while others defend that even a mediocre Ibáñez is superior to almost everything else published at the time.

The cultural controversy—whether this was lowbrow humor or sophisticated wit—is settled today by sheer demographic weight: everyone read him. It is striking to see the discussion reopen just as reprints are selling out.

Humor, politics, and the debate over his final era

Not all reactions are glowing. Some readers argue that the author's humor watered down when he began incorporating politics into his pages; another sector denies this entirely, attributing the change to the comics simply becoming softer over the years. This dispute mirrors the one surrounding much of Spanish popular culture from the second half of the 20th century, produced and consumed in a country changing at high estimulante ilegal. The fact that this issue is raised with such acrimony in an obituary says more about the reader than the cartoonist.

How much does a Mortadelo y Filemón omnibus cost?

The author's death has revitalized the reprint market. A collection is circulating that gathers 50 albums between 1968 and 2008, a volume weighing over 20 kilos that recipients describe as a massive and beautifully edited treasure. It does not include all of the character's long stories; it is a selection, and that is the detail that irritates collectors: there are too many installments from the post-classic era and not enough from the golden age. To track them accurately, fans rely on databases and websites rather than memory.

There are already calls for the publisher to release a true omnibus, including rarities and lost copies. It would be the definitive collection of Spanish comics and a massive commercial success. No one has confirmed if this will happen.

Why are Spanish comics no longer read?

Ibáñez himself lamented several times the decline of comics in Spain and the disappearance of loyal readers. The diagnosis is nuanced: as one forum participant summarized, the comic reader hasn't disappeared; they have just moved to a different shelf. Many who used to read Mortadelo now read manga and American comics, and the market has reorganized around those formats. Family-oriented Spanish humor comics lost their place in newsstands, newsstands lost public favor, and no one has figured out how to reposition an author who sold hundreds of thousands of copies without awards, campaigns, or much critical acclaim.

The award that never arrived

Some argue that he was not recognized with major awards during his lifetime, a complaint often repeated with bitterness: his name was requested repeatedly for certain institutional recognitions without success. Against that stands his legacy. Three names—Vázquez, Escobar, and Ibáñez—are cited as the trinity of Spanish comics, with the first two often mentioned as superior by some readers. It is the debate that in Spain never closes: whether popular humor is culture or merely entertainment.

All that remains is the work, and the fight over how to publish it. A complete omnibus with rarities remains a desire rather than a catalog item, which perfectly summarizes the paradox: the country that laughed with Ibáñez for half a century has still not decided if his work was mere industry or cultural heritage.