The 1980s will go down in history as a pink decade: a prosperous, conformist, light, made-up, and sentimental decade. A decade of pink politics like Reagan’s rosy cheeks or Gorbachev’s outstretched hand, like González’s ideas or Mitterrand’s deeds. A decade of pink economics, of bubbly growth and ostentatious money, whose popular protagonists —the Trumps and Iacoccas— moved through the world of Khashoggi, Onassis, Gucci, or Hefner with the same naturalness as our own Boyer, Mariano Rubio, or Mario Conde strolled through the satin sheen of gossip magazines. A decade of pink culture, of colorized movies and tearful fictions, of Steven Spielberg’s kind fantasies and soft, narcissistic television series, of trivial pursuits and bland aesthetics. A decade where hope was more pink than green, passions pink and muffled. Thus, in pink tones, and with the outbreak of AIDS, even fear has been pink. A decade, in short, pink and material, like Madonna...