Revolution and Rebellion in Mexican Film 9781441168122, 9781628928938, 9781441128683

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Topics and Issues in National Cinema Series Editor Armida de la Garza

Volume 1 Revolution and Rebellion in Mexican Film

Revolution and Rebellion in Mexican Film Niamh Thornton

N E W Y OR K • L ON DON • N E W DE L H I • SY DN EY

Bloomsbury Academic An imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

1385 Broadway New York NY 10018 USA

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www.bloomsbury.com First published 2013 © Niamh Thornton, 2013 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. No responsibility for loss caused to any individual or organization acting on or refraining from action as a result of the material in this publication can be accepted by Bloomsbury Academic or the author. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Thornton, Niamh Revolution and Rebellion in Mexican Film/Niamh Thornton p.cm Includes bibliographic references and index. ISBN 978-1-4411-6812-2 (hardcover) 2012045678 eISBN: 978-1-4411-2868-3

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Contents Acknowledgements Introduction 1 War Stories on Film: Chaos, Confusion and Creativity 2 A Woman at War: María Félix 3 Revisiting the Revolution: Mexico’s Independents Challenge Conventions 4 Mexico 1968 on Film: Screening State Violence 5 Zapata and the (Neo)Zapatistas: Indigenous Heroes and Online Warriors 6 Romance, History and Violence: The 1990s and 2000s Conclusion Bibliography Filmography Index

vi 1 17 41 71 103 131 167 185 191 205 211

Acknowledgements This book was born of a singular obsession supported by a multitude. It took many years gestation before it finally reached this form. I am grateful to all of those (named and unnamed) who helped, guided, advised and facilitated me on the way. Although in recent years there has been a growth in research around the Revolution, when I began there were but a tiny selection of publications, there is still little about the two other subjects of this book (1968 and the Zapatistas); therefore this has been the result of much time spent in various archives and many discussions with colleagues at home and abroad. I greatly appreciate the financial support from a British Academy Small Research Grant for research in Mexico City and Guadalajara in 2007, and for the financial and practical support provided by Professor Pól O’Dochartaigh, Professor Frank Lyons and Cormac Newark in the Humanities Research Institute and Professor Martin McLoone in the Centre for Media Research, University of Ulster. While on these trips, my colleagues in Media, Film and Journalism, and Languages and Literatures stepped in to take up some of the everyday tasks, for which I am very grateful. In particular, I would like to thank Jenny Mullen and Stanley Black, who have been very supportive in this regard. The archivists and staff at the UNAM and the Cineteca in Mexico City have always been very careful and patient with my many requests. I would particularly like to thank Elides Pérez Bistrain and Genoveva García Rojas of the Centro de documentación e información at the Cineteca, who have been incredibly helpful and pleasant over the years. Nelson Carro, director of programming at the Cineteca, has also provided much needed assistance at crucial points of this project, so too did Juan Carlos Vargas of the University of Guadalajara, which was much appreciated. On all of these trips to Mexico I stayed at the Casa de los amigos in Mexico City, a space which provided me the opportunity to meet many fascinating people and to develop long-lasting friendships, a deeper understanding of the culture of Mexico, as well as building significant connections with the city. In particular I would like to thank Nick Wright for his many discussions and

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pointers on classical Mexican cinema, and to Jill Anderson, for her long chats and intellectual support. I really appreciate the great lengths the librarians at the University of Ulster went to in order to track down material for my research. Thank you to those friends and colleagues in the UK, US and Ireland who provided much needed feedback at various points of the project, which proved helpful, supportive and constructive. These include Nuala Finnegan, University College Cork, who gave invaluable advice at an early stage of the project, Chris Harris, University of Liverpool and Dr Amit Thakkar, Lancaster University, who read an early draft of my proposal, Deborah Shaw, University of Portsmouth, who provided important advice at a key moment in the process, Zuzanna M. Pick, Carleton University, who gave encouraging words and shared her work, and Catherine Leen, NUI, Maynooth, who stepped in at short notice to give feedback on a particulary knotty point. I greatly appreciate the detailed editing and suggestions at the final stages by the series editor Armida de la Garza, Xi’an Jiaotong-Liverpool University, who helped finesse the final manuscript and did so kindly, thoroughly and with great care, and the prompt, cheerful and clear guidelines given by the editor in Media Studies, Katie Gallof. I am grateful to my parents for providing childminding over the holiday periods and an occasional space to write and edit. A big thank you to Dario, who worked as research assistant on an informal basis on various parts of this project, both at home and in Mexico, for his practical assistance, as well as his bemused reflections on some of the viewing material. Another big thank you to Liz, who has provided practical, emotional and intellectual support from beginning to end. Her keen eye and precise mind has help mould my thinking and without her insights the book would not be what it is today. To both, I give all my love. Naturally, although this book was made of many encounters, it is ultimately mine and I take responsibility for the final work and for any flaws that it may contain.

Introduction

Since early cinema, film has attempted to capture the drama, excitement, terror and tragedy of conflict and has faced the challenge of condensing the often confused and chaotic events into a coherent narrative. Mexican film is no different. As a nation whose national narrative in the twentieth century is founded on a revolution, it is perhaps inevitable that Mexican filmmakers have persistently made fiction and non-fiction films with political conflict at their centre, taking different narrative trajectories and aesthetic choices, creating alternate (and sometimes competing) versions, subject to the event, the era and the political climate. Films of political conflict have been created for a variety of reasons: to entertain, to counter previous perceived erroneous or superficial representations and to create a new version of an old story, or of a past event for a new audience. Whether the filmmakers have had serious political intent or, alternatively, set out to delight the audience, there is a definite dissident strand running through Mexican war films. Political conflict is a term that I am using to refer to those violent disturbances, dramatic periods of confrontation, injury and death, which characterize particular historical events involving state and non-state actors that may have a finite duration, but have a long-lasting legacy on the nation. These conflicts have been an important component of Mexican film since its inception and their representations include studio productions, documentaries and independent films. The consideration of the range of these is the focus of this book. Taking exemplary films, in this study I examine the significant changes that have taken place in the film industry and trace the gradual development of evolving aesthetic approaches in the representation of conflict in Mexican film.

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Conflict has a particular power for nation states. Chris Hedges in War is a Force That Gives Us Meaning has suggested that [l]urking beneath the surface of every society, including ours, is the passionate yearning for a nationalist cause that exalts us, the kind that war alone is able to deliver. It reduces and at times erases the anxiety of individual consciousness. We abandon individual responsibility for a shared, unquestioned communal enterprise, however morally dubious. (2002, p. 45)

His assessment is drawn from his experiences as a war correspondent in places and conflicts as diverse as the break-up of the former Yugoslav Republic, civil war in El Salvador, the Turkish invasion of Cyprus and, more recently, the US invasion of Iraq. He excoriates nationalism and considers that it is an idea that is exploited to suggest that nations and their inhabitants need wars to define them. For him, national conflicts enable the individual to become part of a common event. This is true only for those who fit into the vision of the nation that is presented to them through the narratives employed. What is also evident in his vision, and he is not alone in extolling this view, is that war is somehow a consequence of national self-perception. Instead, given that war preceded nationalism by many centuries, it is more accurate to say that nationalism has grown out of the need to justify conflict.1 Nationalism is, in Anthony Giddens assessment, ‘a phenomenon that is primarily psychological – the affiliation of individuals to a set of symbols and beliefs emphasizing commonality among the members of a political order’ (1985, p. 116). The creation of this affiliation, or ‘imagined community’ as Benedict Anderson has labelled it, was instigated first through the printed press, and then latterly via film and other media (1996, p. 25). Michael Billig has suggested that nations are also created in the ordinary moments of life ‘for the world of nations is the everyday world, the familiar terrain of contemporary times’ (1995, p. 6). Whereas conflict is often portrayed as a series of dramatic events, it is on the whole made up of what he describes as the ‘banal’ and mundane: eating, sleeping, waiting, loving and travelling. Thus, films that represent this are not ignoring the terrors of war, but representing some integral and banal aspects of the everyday during times of conflict. When critics decry films that reduce a conflict to the everyday and supposedly trivial matters of love and relationships, they are missing the point. It is through these narratives that the nation is constructed and by using a conflict as its context it is underscoring how the ordinary is part of the national. This book will look at the tensions between these two positions: the force and power of war as a

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means to coalesce sentiments around a movement or an ideal, on the one hand, and the ordinary and mundane contexts in which war is lived and recounted in order to remember, forget, re-configure or entertain. What does it mean when a nation takes a conflict (or a series of them), as Mexico has done, to define and re-define itself? In Mexico, there has been a complicated relationship between what the different conflicts mean at a given historical juncture and how they are variously employed. There are three key events under consideration in this book: the Mexican Revolution (1910–20); the student movement in 1968 and its aftermath; and the Zapatista rebellion (1994–present). All are conflicts in which the state is one of the principle actors or antagonists and, as a consequence they came under the remit of political conflict. But, briefly, each has functioned to reconfigure and determine national narratives in significant and distinct ways. The 1910–20 Mexican Revolution was a complex and bloody struggle. There were many fronts, factions, interests and political sleights of hand. It was begun by revolutionaries attempting to overthrow a corrupt dictatorship and ended with the taking of power by a bourgeois elite who spoke the language of socialism. The Revolution has considerable resonance and reach in Mexican national culture. Yet, there is not a single grand narrative of the Revolution even within the long ruling Partido Revolucionario Institucional [Institutional Revolutionary Party] (PRI), there are many.2 Thomas Benjamin details the ‘master narrative’ of the Revolution as it was adopted by official discourse ‘that created, shaped and is the nation of Mexico’ (2000, p. 14). On the one hand, there is this everchanging ‘official’ version  – that is the versions that were put forward during the different presidential periods or sexenios [six-year rules] under the 71-year rule by different manifestations of the same governing party, the PRI – which many of the films have, often erroneously, been assumed or accused of merely conforming to, and, on the other, there are the, sometimes subtle yet consistent, manifestations of dissent that are evident in many of the Revolutionary films. The Revolution presented in upper case is a specific imagining in the Mexican context. The idea of revolution in lower case is one of radical change, uprising, class struggle and so on. I consistently refer to it in upper case to evoke and re-consider the Revolution as it has been designated by those in power, to refer particularly to the Mexican conception of the conflict and its legacy as imagined and re-imagined by the state and others. The analysis of the political and historical evolution of the Mexican Revolution has been carried out in depth elsewhere (see, for example, Benjamin, 2000). However, interspersed throughout

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the text, I address the key events and icons as they inform my readings. This is the difference between a ‘mythic reality’ and the ‘sensory reality’ of war (Hedges, 2002, p. 21). Upper case Revolution is the former; lower case revolution is the latter. Where [i]n the sensory reality we see events for what they are. Most of those who are thrust into combat soon find it impossible to maintain the mythic perception of war. [. . .] Wars that lose their mythic stature for the public . . . are doomed to failure, for war is exposed for what it is – organized murder. (Hedges, 2002, p. 21)

In Mexico, so many were killed (estimates suggest as many as two million); displaced (moving from being primarily rural dwellers to urban inhabitants) and the political life of the country was altered so dramatically that there was a need to make recourse to a mythic reality that would banish the terrible sensory reality of the bloody conflict. Film had an important role in this re-mythification. As Irene V. O’Malley (1986) and others have explored, what the Revolution means has hardened, changed, evolved and been deconstructed, only to be reinvented again. However, each era searches for its own truths in its representation. This is decided through the criteria of the day and, in this study, I consider the everevolving quest for a contemporary vision of the Revolution on film. The Revolution was more than a period of bloody warfare and political struggle, and it was also a framing device imposed by the PRI and their nationalist project. It was a useful originary point which differentiated their period of rule from that of the preceeding dictatorship under Porfirio Díaz (1876–1911). The outbreak of the Mexican Revolution coincided with the birth of photojournalism and war cinematography. As John Mraz states, ‘from the outbreak of the struggle, Mexico was flooded by photographers and filmmakers who came to document the first great conflagration accessible to modern media’ (2009, p. 8). In the light of these historical facts, examining Mexican political conflict by taking the Revolution as a starting point and constant point of return is a valuable means of studying Mexican film in the twentieth century. Out of the chaos of the Revolution was born the discourse of a nation, which Benjamin sees as integral to historical enterprise. He states that the Revolution is ‘part of an older, larger, and greater project of forjando patria forging a nation, inventing the country, imagining a community across time and space called Mexico’ (2000, p.  14). The first narratives, novelas de la revolución [Revolutionary novels], written immediately after the Revolution

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were primarily fictionalized (auto)biographies and devastating retellings of the psychic trauma caused by war. In these fictions war destroys man (in the early narratives the protagonist was almost exclusively male), demeans women, corrupts all and hands power from one elite to the next, leaving the conditions the poor have to endure, at best, unchanged, at worst, significantly diminished. This soon changed and fiction produced experimental and innovative ways of fictionalizing the conflict, but always with a pessimistic reading of both the Revolution and the post-bellicose period. Meanwhile, in film the trajectory was different. One of the first features, ¡Vámonos con Pancho Villa! [Let’s Go With Pancho Villa] (Fernando de Fuentes, 1936), was a pessimistic film, which challenged the glorification of the iconic leaders. However, soon thereafter, with the establishment of the studios there was a shift to a more positive mood. This was in no small part because for a considerable part of the twentieth century the government heavily financed the film industry in Mexico as well as often supplying army support for the big battle scenes. Despite their number and because of this perceived bias, the Revolutionary films have not received the level of critical attention that the novels have. The films have thematic commonalities and use similar tropes and iconography. Therefore, there is sufficient stylistic similarities to group them as a genre. As with the valuable research carried out on the novel, there is a need to consider these films together because of the many convergences and divergences which the coincidence in historical moment imbues the content. While the rhetoric of the Revolution had many detractors over the course of its first few decades, it was not until 1968 that its façade of free debate and openness to political change was violently upturned both for its citizenry and in front of an international press corps. The year 1968 was the start of a highly troubling time of State violence towards its own people. Against the backdrop of the preparations for the Olympic games in Mexico City, and at a time of international unrest when governments and its people were pitted against each other, Mexican students, like their peers elsewhere in Prague, Paris, London and Derry, were protesting. In October of that year the government’s response to the student movement, which resulted in a massacre and cover-up, was followed by related subsequent terror by Los Halcones, a special government force, and culminated in further bloody repression in 1971. These actions meant that the PRI could no longer lay claim to being a revolutionary party, the people (in particular a younger generation) were taking back the Revolution (upper and lower case) and recreating it on film. The films made as a consequence were

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either a return to the Revolution, sometimes using generic approaches, but more experimental in style in a deliberate move away from the studio representations, or documentaries or feature films that represented the student movement and its aftermath directly. The year 1968 sewed the seeds of unrest that would evolve over the course of the following decades into a growth in grassroots movements with a rich understanding of civil rights. Some came to the conclusion that to achieve change and reform they had to find alternate modes of engagement. From this a group of metropolitan, university-educated individuals went to Chiapas to work on behalf of indigenous peoples. There they discovered their ambitions radically altered by what they encountered and what was actually needed. As a consequence of an active engagement and dialogue between the indigenous and these outsiders the Zapatista movement was born. Taking inspiration and its name from the Revolutionary leader, Emiliano Zapata (1879–1919), the movement repeatedly evoked the ghost of the Revolution and provide it with a new gloss. This armed rebellion, through its effective use of online technologies and (sometimes playful) communications with a transnational community of disaffected people, attained significant global support. Out of this has come several documenataries, some of which are Mexican made, but many more are made by those with political or social concerns who are keen to widen the understanding of the rebellion. The Revolution continues to predominate in the representation of political conflict in Mexico because it is integral to the discourse of the foundational national narrative in the twentieth century. Therefore, threaded through my discussion will be the significance of politics and the Revolution in each decade. Likewise, each later event transforms and re-configures the significance of the Revolution. It is a central event whose representation has established a model that is challenged, changed and has evolved over the century, but also one which is impossible to ignore when discussing political conflict in Mexican cinema.

Structure I have taken a chronological approach in this book. The introductory chapter gives an overview of the key literature in the field, provides a context for the early films and considers ¡Vámonos con Pancho Villa! as an example of how the Revolutionary films, far from being conformist, conservative texts – as they are

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generally understood  – are, in fact, often challenging, dissident texts. As one of the first sound Revolutionary films to be made, ¡Vámonos con Pancho Villa! establishes a tragic and radical reading of the Revolution and portrays one of its supposed heroes, Pancho Villa (1878–1923), as a brutal and harsh leader. In Chapter 1 I also provide an overview of the evolution of political conflict films in Mexico. ¡Vámonos con Pancho Villa! was made at the beginning of what was called the Golden Age (1930s–50s) of Mexican cinema, when the films were made under the aegis of the studio system (see, for example, Mora, 1989; Paulo Antonio Paranaguá, 1995).3 During this period the Revolution became a context in which to play out anxieties about patriarchy, women’s power and place in society, and the creation of a new nation space. These films, discussed in Chapter 2, however conventional and generic, are more radical than they have been credited to be. Chapter 2 considers the films starring María Félix. Being a major screen star of the Golden Age of Mexican cinema, she is more usually associated with the films she made with the auteurist team of the director, Emilio Fernández, and the director of photography, Gabriel Figueroa, such as, Enamorada (Emilio Fernández, 1946) and Río escondido (Emilio Fernández, 1948). They established a recognizable and highly stylized aesthetic that has been the subject of much critical attention. For Mraz, they converted the traumatic struggle for social justice into a confused tangle of meaningless atrocities, melodramatic theatricality, and a stunning visual style. History was reduced to trappings and still lifes: interchangeable uniforms, statuesque magueys, baroque chapels, exotic Indians, steely charros, and the visages of celebrity stars. (2009, p. 9)

His assessment is scathing and there are many others who would disagree, for example, Julia Tuñón, (2000), Charles Ramírez Berg, (1994) and Dolores Tierney, (2007), who defend the importance of looking at those categories of films that he dismisses. However, as the visual tropes became a cliché over the years, his criticisms are worth reflecting on. In particular, for those who agree with Mraz’s judgment that the films fed into an official nationalist rhetoric and celebratory reading of the Revolution and its aftermath. To dismiss them is to take it that the popular and its tropes are always already conservative, an idea that has been challenged by theorists such as Jeanine Basinger (1993), Susan Dever (2003) and Sergio de la Mora (2006). Mraz is equally scathing of the more populist films that I consider in Chapter 2. These films have often been dismissed as shallow

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entertainment for the masses. There is, of course, nothing wrong with pure entertainment. But, given that there are many scenarios in which to place a melodrama or romantic comedy, the decision to set them during the Revolution, which has such a weighty significance in Mexican culture, cannot be assumed to be a context devoid of meaning. Consequently part of the aim of this book is to return to those films that have been largely ignored or vilified for their (mis-)use of the Revolution, and to consider what it means to use such an evocative political and cultural event as a tool to entertain. I argue, in Chapter  2, that the films, while aiming to entertain, also play with gender normative behaviours through the clever use of Félix in the light of her very public star image. In Chapter 3, I discuss what new directions the political conflict films take when a generation, free from the constraints of the studio system, turn their attention to the Revolution. They were influenced by the events in 1968 where students were massacred for holding protests during the lead up to the Olympic games. Having gone to film school many of these filmmakers were bringing a distinct visual aesthetic influenced by international cinema. They returned to a theme of national concern, but from a completely different perspective. By this time the war stories portrayed in these films had evolved to become contemporary critiques of the discourse of nationalism. They were historical narratives told to underline the distance the government had moved away from the promises of the Revolution. Chapter 3 examines their divergent, yet radical, approaches. When considering political conflict on film in Mexico and its transgressive explorations of historical reality, it is necessary to look beyond the Revolution, all the while keeping it ever present. Subsequent representations of political conflicts in Mexico more often than not use Revolutionary tropes, images and iconography. In turn, many of the later Revolutionary films reference other political conflicts when, ostensibly, they are telling the story of the Revolution. This is particularly the case with the events in 1968. It frequently appears as a sub-text in many of the Revolutionary films of the late 1960s and throughout the 1970s. As Álvaro Vázquez Mantecón states, El legado más importante se dio en la manera en que la intensa experiencia del movimiento estudiantil transformó la idea que del cine tenía un grupo definido de cineastas. El viraje hacia el cine político de los años setenta, la transformación de los equipos de producción y la consolidación de redes de distribución alterna  – elementos constitutivos del cine independiente del momento  – no podría comprenderse a plenitud sin la inclusión de esa vivencia excepcional.

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[The most important legacy [of 1968] was through the way in which the intense experience of the student movement transformed how cinema was conceived of by a particular group of filmmakers. The inclination towards political cinema in the seventies, the transformation of the film crews and the consolidation of alternative chains of distribution  – constituent elements of independent cinema of the time – couldn’t be fully understood without the inclusion of this exceptional experience]. (2007, p. 203)

Therefore, integral to understanding the Revolutionary films of the 1960s and 70s is the student movement of 1968. The year 1968 coincided with a newly mediatized representation of violence and the opening of a film school, which meant that the participants could film the protests and the state’s response to it. Out of a need to document and explore these events, several documentaries and a small number of feature films were made, which are examined in Chapter 4. Cinema, then, took on a dual function. On the one hand, it served as witness and record of the events as they happened through the cameras operated by these apprentice filmmakers. On the other, the government facilitated these same young people to create renderings of the Revolution as a reminder of the foundational narrative of the state. To overcome what Paul Virilio describes as the ‘problem of ubiquitousness, of handling simulataneous data in a global but unstable environment where the image (photographic or cinematic) is the most concentrated, but also the most stable, form of information’ (p.  89), the cultural institutions of the time supported new versions of the Revolution, not as a celebration of revolution, but as a way of diverting the audience’s attention back to the origins of the contemporary state. Many of the directors ostensibly did turn their gaze to the past, but gave an encoded digest of the present. The case for studying film at a national level is a thorny one and is an issue which comes to the fore when considering 1968. Whichever way one examines film (aesthetics, as cultural artefact, flow of capital etc.) the borders are porous. Not only north-south between Hollywood and Mexico, but also east-west, between Europe and Mexico. The year 1968 is a case in point, when there was a flow inwards and outwards of films about the conflict. The opening titles of Óscar Menéndez’s documentary Historia de un documento [History of a Document] (1971), which returns to the story of the students and others who were locked up in Lecumberri prison, acknowledge the ‘respaldo solidario’ [solidarity and support] of the French TV channel ORTF. Information flow about 1968 was

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carefully controlled by the government, and Menéndez asserts that it was difficult to get his film completed and did so only with the help of ORTF. In Historia de un documento, he claims that as a result of diplomatic intervention by the then president Luis Echeverría Álvarez, the film was not screened in France until many years after it was completed. Another example of the transnational flow of people and expertise is the Argentine director of México, la Revolución congelada [Mexico, The Frozen Revolution] (1973), Raymundo Gleyzer. He made his film in order to instigate change for workers and the indigenous and used his skills to communicate their living and working conditions to the wider world. Both of these examples speak of international solidarity and the movement of people and ideas across borders. It is about the shared skills in the interest of a political end. Of course, as Will Higbee and Song Hwee Lim suggest ‘all border-crossing activities are necessarily fraught with issues of power’ (2010, p. 18). Therefore, the decision by Gleyzer to point a camera at disenfranchized people and to create a narrative around their pain and suffering has its own implications, which I explore in Chapter 4. While this book provides an overview of political conflict in Mexican cinema for the first time, the particularities of place and political context are paramount. The national continues to be important in Mexican cinema. However, in all cinemas ‘national paradigms are shifting, and new questions are emerging which still necessitate specialized knowledge of national contexts, but now require further issues to be taken into account’ (Shaw and de la Garza, 2010, p. 3). I have been careful to broaden my view from the specifically local to the transnational. This is to ensure that the films are not seen as ‘ethnographic documents of “other” (national) cultures and therefore as representatives of national cinema’ (Ezra and Rowden, 2006, p. 3) alone. They are films which have a specific national interest and circumstances, yet carry with them influences, concerns, financial support, aesthetics and so on that are transnational to varying degrees. In Chapter 5 there is a partial return to the Revolution in the figure of Zapata. The select few films which feature Zapata as protagonist are examined in this chapter and, then, I consider how Zapata as icon is employed by the presentday Zapatistas in Chiapas. Given that it is a transnational movement, the Zapatista uprising has attracted filmmakers from both inside and outside of Mexico. For example, Nick Higgins’ A Massacre Foretold (2007) is a Scottish production considering a movement which is based in Mexico and have had a complex network online since its inception in 1994. How Higgins and others portray the struggle using multiple creative strategies is examined in Chapter 5.

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Consequently, there are many journeys across borders which are considered in this book. While Zapata was a key Revolutionary figure, he was not represented in film as frequently as Villa. Villa is a consistent presence in Revolutionary films, as has already been discussed, and as a result he was consistently re-imagined through celluloid representations. In contrast, Zapata has had few re-creations on screen (see de Orellana, 2003; Mraz, 2009; Pick, 2010; Corona, 2010). There are just three feature films about his life, Viva Zapata! (Elia Kazan, 1952), Zapata (Felipe Cazal, 1970) and Zapata: el sueño del héroe (Alfonso Arau, 2004), and a recent documentary in which the director interviews men and women who had fought alongside Zapata in Los últimos Zapatistas: heroes olvidados (Francesco Taboada Tabone, 2002), which I discuss in more detail in Chapter 6. This gap is fascinating in a figure who in many ways epitomized the people’s struggle. According to O’Malley, while he was ‘incorporated into the hagiography of the Revolution’, this ‘did not render Zapata’s image static; the government continued to remould him in its image, not itself in his’ (1986, p. 60). His was a mutable figure ripe for change. That Zapata is a living figure in Mexico speaks volumes for the place and relevance of the Revolution to Mexican national identity and brings the trajectory of this volume full circle. As I shall attest, the Revolution has been the subject of many texts and has been carved up and re-signified by each new generation of filmmakers. Although Mexico had achieved independence from Spain in 1821, and nineteenth-century leaders such as Benito Juárez (1806–72) stand among the pantheon of heroes, the Revolution is often considered to be the zero hour of the nation. This was clearly stated in 1947 by the Mexican author José Revueltas when he wrote, ‘Revolution and nationality are consubstantial’ (Benjamin, 2000, p. 165). Out of writing about the Revolution came a concept proffered by the poet and essayist, Octavio Paz, of ‘lo mexicano’ [Mexican-ness]. This is an idea of Mexican-ness epitomized by the mestizo, that is, a miscegenated combination of the conquering Europeans (primarily Spaniards) and the long disappeared Aztec (see Paz, 1997). The living, barefoot, impoverished indigenous did not figure in this imagining, for they were rendered invisible or simply relegated to the folkloric (see Zolov, 2001). Repeatedly, the indigenous have been disenfranchized by the imagined Mexico, and, more importantly, left out of the political and social organization of the country. The Zapatista rebellion has re-positioned the indigenous, so that no longer can their histories be lumped ‘into great packages of shining exoticism’ (Bartra, 2002, p. 12) whose primary value is as a tourist attraction.4 Instead, they are actors, demanding a place on

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the stage, at times, even unsettling the national economy.5 Simultaneously, with increasing globalization, the concept of national identity is itself being intensely debated both inside and outside of Mexico. Their representations on film are an integral part of this transnational engagement. This tendency to reconsider and explore what political conflict means to each generation has continued up to the present day. There has been a more recent development of the Revolutionary and political conflict films in the 1990s and 2000s which have variously returned to classical images of the Revolution for their inspiration, or have created self-referential, challenging and questioning representations of the conflict. I examine these recent developments in Chapter 6. This final chapter reflects on the interconnections between how the different conflicts have been portrayed in Mexican film and considers how filmmakers continue to negotiate their way through the complexities of representing the brutal reality of political conflict. The national and the transnational intersect in this study. The national film industry in Mexico has specific cultural and historical conditions which have determined its development, as well as being the result of government involvement and intervention. Thanks to the 2010 commemoration of the centenary of the Revolution, its representation on screen has garnered renewed attention. This is welcome after many years of comparative neglect, as, apart from a select number of supposedly exceptional films, ¡Vámonos con Pancho Villa! and the aforementioned auteurist films by Fernández, Revolutionary films had been largely overlooked. Preeminent among these are: A book by Zuzana M. Pick (2010), who provides an invaluable analysis of the iconography of Mexican Revolutionary film; an edited collection by Fernando Fabio Sánchez and Gerardo García Muñoz (2010a), which provides a productive overview of the films of the Revolution from the early newsreels and documentaries of the Revolution up to contemporary documentaries of survivors; and another collection that accompanied an exhibition and film series shown at the Cineteca in Mexico City published by the Instituto Mexicano de Cinematografía [Mexican film insitute], which considers the tropes, style and aesthetic techniques employed in the films (Garza Iturbide and Lara Chávez, 2010). Given the volume of Revolutionary films made, which run into the hundreds  – some estimates suggest more than 250 – these recent studies are the foundational texts of an area that merits further research (Vazquez Mantecón 2010, p. 17). The films of 1968 have received scant examination, and there are only a small number of chapters and essays on the subject (Velazco, 2005; Haddu, 2007).

Introduction

13

For example, Haddu’s (2007) chapter closely examines a selection of films as exemplars of what emerged during a specific socioeconomic cultural context from 1989 to 1999, a particularly important turning point for Mexican cinema with the liberalization of the marketplace and the privatization of much of what had been in government hands, including the studios and the modes of distribution. There is only one full-length monograph by Rodríguez Cruz (2000) which provides insight into the events, through her interviews with many of the filmmakers. Mraz (2009) alone brings together both the Revolution and 1968. Primarily, he examines photography alongside some key films and considers the significance of the cultural context in which they were made. Thus far, there has been only one chapter on the transnational documentaries of the Zapatistas. Therefore, this book not only expands on a field that is still understudied (Mexican cinema and the Revolution), but it also opens out into areas which are sorely lacking in critical studies (1968 and the Zapatistas). Given the unique trajectory of this book, there are a number of strands which are being brought together for the first time. There have been important studies considering the cultural significance of the Revolution by critics and historians in recent years. O’Malley, Gilbert M. Joseph, Anne Rubenstein and Eric Zolov (2001) and Benjamin have carried out influential work on unravelling the changing cultural significance of the Revolution in Mexico. Claire Brewster (2005), and Keith Brewster (2010), have examined the broader cultural landscape of 1968. Finally, with regards to the development of the Zapatista movement where, as Roger Bartra has said, there was more ink spilled than blood, there is a wide range of writing to be considered (2002, p. viii). There are those that provide the political, sociological and historical context for the Zapatista rebellion, such as, John Womack Jr (1999), Bill Weinberg (2000), John Holloway (2002) and Nicholas P. Higgins (2004), and an analysis of the Zapatistas’ Web presence can be found in Vilareal Ford and Gil (2001), Gabriela Coronado and Bob Hodge (2004) and Thea Pitman (2007). All these sources are important and inform my readings, in particular where there is an absence of critical research on the films.

Revolution, rebellions and archives When representing political conflict there is a requirement to have a certain fidelity to historical fact, however unknowable and contestable that can be. For example, while no one contests the start date of the Revolution to be 1910, the

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Revolution and Rebellion in Mexican Film

end date of the bellicose period varies from 1917 right up to the end of the Cristero rebellion in 1926 (see Sommers, 1968; Bailey, 1974; Benjamin, 2000). In addition, since historians such as Hayden White have drawn attention to history as a product of fictional technique or ‘emplotment’ as well as accurate fact finding, there is much in the accepted histories that can be queried (1993, p. 6). Film (whether documentary or fiction), with all its complicating factors of editing, points of view, aesthetic conceits and so on, can, and sometimes has to (especially in the case of 1968 where information has been suppressed), stand as a historical record of the events. Consequently, there is a troubling and problematic responsibility on the shoulders of the filmmakers. This filmic record is worth considering in the light of the aesthetic choices made in order to understand how important political events are portrayed on screen. In her examination of the Revolutionary films, Pick has written, the visual archive of the revolution is more than a historical record. Its symbolic, rhetorical, and affective power resides in the ability to represent the revolution as an event and a discourse. Integral to this power is an awareness of the role of the media in conveying the social and cultural dynamics generated by incidents and actors. (2010, p. 210)

The power that Pick refers to resides differently, because of the way the state has engaged with them, in each of the political conflicts under consideration in this book. Archival research in Mexico is a very productive activity. The various centres that I accessed in Mexico City and Guadalajara are well-run and organized facilities which catalogue a considerable range of material on Mexican and international film. Unfortunately, as with all archives there are gaps. Specifically, in Mexico, this is as a result of poor funding under Margarita López Portillo (1970–76) when some of the films were lost in a fire, due to inadequate storage (King, 1990, p. 140). Over three research trips to Mexico, one of which was funded by the British Academy, I gathered an extensive body of work, which has informed this study, as has my expertise in the novela de la Revolución (see Thornton, 2006). Given the scale of this project the search for material yielded unexpected results. There were many coincidences and unexpected perspectives on 1968 provided by films about the Revolution, important insight into the Zapatistas through considering the Revolutionary films, and so on. This is why it was important to take in key moments of political conflict beyond the Revolution. Given the number of films of political conflict that exist my analysis is, necessarily, of a

Introduction

15

representative sampling of exemplary films. Some of those are neglected and previously dismissed films, such as those starring María Félix, others are classics considered elsewhere, such as Paul Leduc’s Reed, México insurgente (1970) and still others have not been examined at all, such as the growing number of films centred on the Zapatistas. To say that a film is a product of its moment in time is perhaps commonplace, however, the historical context must be considered when looking at these films, which I do in each chapter. This is most evident in the Revolutionary films as they have evolved over the century, but is also the case with regard to the later films about 1968 and the Zapatistas, as their stories have taken on different meanings subject to when they were made, the motivations of the filmmakers and the variety of creative (or generic) means that have been used to broach these conflicts. Given the nature of Mexican film and its support and monitoring by state agencies, it is also necessary within each chapter to trace the cultural history of Mexican film. The fact that the representation of conflict on film in Mexico has been marked by controversy, yet many were given government funding and even army support for large battle scenes; there will be an engagement in the system of production of the films and how they were treated after release in some cases. Interspersed in the discussion will be the changing nature of the government involvement in the film industry from the close control and support for the studio system, its later privatization and finally the current mix of national promotion and the transnational nature of film production and distribution. Despite the ubiquity of representations of political conflict in Mexican film, this is an area that has been largely neglected by critics. Although, the recent commemoration of the centenary of the Revolution in 2010 and the 40-year anniversary of 1968 have drawn some welcome renewed attention to these conflicts. The Revolution has been mythologized and deconstructed, recreated and re-interpreted over the course of the century. Distance in time as well as its use by the former ruling party (PRI) for more than 70 years has made this evolution possible and desirable for many. By taking a look at films of political conflict as a category I am moving from having the discourse of the Revolution determine my project, to opening out the field to include the consideration of other conflicts and their representations. The year 1968 and the Chiapan conflict are both unresolved and, as a result, are still subject to exploratory and campaigning representations. This gives the films a specific emotional weight that is borne differently by the Revolutionary films. What all have in common is

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Revolution and Rebellion in Mexican Film

a distinctive contestatory thread that runs through their representation, which resonates with their powerful political significance. All three of these events are contentious: the Revolution because it was institutionalized by a state eager to co-opt rebellion and to centralize power; 1968 because a thorough judicial investigation has not yet been carried out to establish the facts and the conflict in Chiapas because it is still ongoing and few of the indigenous’ demands have been met. Therefore, all of the chapters have to contend with multiple difficulties and pitfalls when attempting to portray historical events in fiction or documentary.

Notes 1 Giddens traces the origins of nationalism to the tracing of the first boundary line in 1718 (1985, p. 90). 2 The governing party was formed in 1929 and was named the Partido Nacional Revolucionario (PNR), it was later renamed the Partido de la Revolución Mexicana (PRM) and then named the PRI. See, Tuñón Pablos (1999, p. 100). 3 I am using this time gap loosely. As Andrea Noble has pointed out ‘[t]here are possibly as many periodisations of the Golden Age as there are critics of the Mexican cinema’, the dates of this so-called Golden age differ from Mora’s 1946–52, Monsiváis’ 1935–55 and García Riera’s 1941–5 (2005, p. 15). 4 See, also, Le Bot in his introduction states that ‘El “México moderno”, que precisamente ese día [1st January 1994] celebraba su ingreso al primer mundo [NAFTA], pensaba que ya había terminado con el problema de los indígenas, al haberlos por fin reducido a meras piezas de museo o curiosidades para los turistas’ [‘Modern Mexico’,which precisely on that day celebrated its inclusion into the first world, thought that it had finished with the indigenous problem, having finally reduced them to mere museum pieces or tourist curiousities] (1997, p. 11). 5 For example, the peso devaluation in 1994, and the memorandum from the Chase Manhattan Bank demanding that they be eliminated (Villareal Ford and Gil, 2001, p. 224).

1

War Stories on Film: Chaos, Confusion and Creativity

In the late 1800s and early 1900s, similar to patterns in other Latin American countries, the first Mexican films were documentaries. Early silent films were made by travelling entertainers who recorded the inhabitants of a town or city and then projected these familiar scenes to the local audiences (see, for example, de los Reyes, 1996). Other films show prominent figures in ordinary activities, such as the dictator, Díaz, strolling through the park with his family. However, the onset of the Revolution in 1910 interrupted the trend of making easy pieces of entertainment as filmmakers began to follow the conflict. Therefore, from the inception of the national industry, films of political conflict have been central to Mexican cinema. Examples of these can be seen in the compilation films Memorias de un mexicano [Memories of a Mexican] (Carmen Toscano, 1950) and Epopeyas de la Revolución [Epic of the Revolution] (Jesús H. Abitia and Gustavo Carrero, 1961) (see Noble, 2005; Pick, 2010; Vázquez Mantecón, 2010; Fabio Sánchez and García Muñoz, 2010a). Starting with the Revolution, this is a pattern that would continue through to 1968, albeit in a contested and partly censored way, and up to the time of the Zapatistas and the international attention they have garnered. The Revolutionary film became central to Mexican cinema. So much so that early Mexican cinema formulated new and innovative methods of staging battles in the middle of the Revolution in order to create newsreels for international distribution, which were influential in the filming of later conflicts (see de Orellana, 2003; Mora, 1989). Notoriously, towards the end of the Revolution Villa, the leader of the División del norte (Northern Division) signed a contract with the Mutual Film Company whereby he fought at times that suited their

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Revolution and Rebellion in Mexican Film

needs (see de Orellana, 2003; de la Vega, 2010; Fabio Sánchez and García Muñoz, 2010b).1 Gradually, fictional representations of the Revolution evolved, providing a suitable backdrop, an ideological battlefield or a grand stage on which to play out dramatic stories. All major armies had their own ‘embedded’ filmmakers who followed them into battle resulting in popular documentaries and newsreel footage, some of which can be seen in Epopeyas de la Revolución and Memorias de un mexicano. Here, I shall consider one of these compilation films in order to reflect on the re-packaging of the early documentaries for a general audience. For Andrea Noble Memorias de un mexicano reads as ‘a prime example of the attempts to install the memory of the revolution at the centre of the processes of national “imagining”’ (2005, p.  61). It is an edited compilation of the filmmaker and agency owner Salvador Toscano’s archival footage taken between the 1890s and 1927 and told as if it were a personal reflection by Carmen Toscano on her father’s life as witness to the political events of the time. The narration over-determines Toscano’s role as witness, despite the fact that much of the footage would have been taken by his employees. Noble suggests that through the editorial techniques employed, as well as the use of voiceover and music, which serve to dramatize the events, the film can be read as a Revolutionary melodrama, as defined by Deborah E. Mistron (1984). It is evident that there is a blurring of the lines between fact and fiction in the aesthetic manipulation of the original early footage, which is something that recurs throughout many of the films concerning the different conflicts. Each of the three conflicts: The Revolution, 1968 and the Zapatista rebellion have been significant in Mexico for reasons that will be fully explored in this book. This means that their representation on film needs to be carefully contextualized in each chapter and there will be a reflection on the significance of capturing a major historical event and the facts, myths, subjective experiences, memories, memorializing and attempts to forget that surround each. To grasp the scale and trajectory of the significance of films of political conflict, this chapter will consider the eras being examined in this book, taking in some of the key literature in the field. In order to ground the parameters of the discussion, it will consider ¡Vámonos con Pancho Villa! [Let’s Go With Pancho Villa] (1935), the most prominent of Fernando de Fuentes’ trilogy set during the Revolution. Revolución (La sombra de Pancho Villa) [Revolution (the Shadow of Pancho Villa)] (Miguel Contreras Torres, 1933) was the first sound feature to be made on the topic and was a commercial flop on its release. In the 1960s

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and 1970s the Nuevo Cine [new cinema] group, a loose collective of radical and influential filmmakers and critics interested in the study of cinema as a formal activity who encouraged the dissemination of independent Mexican and international cinema and thereby attracted new audiences, reclaimed ¡Vámonos con Pancho Villa!. The film then became emblematic of iconic imaginings of the Revolution for later generations and scholars and, consequently has become a point of reference for later contestatory films of political conflict.

Revolution on screen: ¡Vámonos con Pancho Villa! Jorge Ayala Blanca, who has provided an idiosyncratic approach to Mexican cinema in his alphabetically titled chronological series (published between 1979 and 2006), dismisses the first two sound films of the Revolution, Revolución (La sombra de Pancho Villa) and Enemigos [Enemies] (Chano Urueta, 1934), as films that ‘sólo alcanzan a percibir esa guerra civil como una anécdota apta para la demagogia’ (1979, p. 18) [only managed to show that civil war as an anecdote fit for demagogy]. Dismissing these films as propoganda, he, like Emilio García Riera (author of the seventeen volume Historia documental del cine mexicano, which provides a brief summary and commentary on the films released between 1929 and 1976), is more comfortable with the Revolution as represented in de Fuentes’ trilogy, praising how ‘a de Fuentes sólo le interesa lo esencial: cómo la revolución va a trastornar la vida de sus personajes sencillos’ (1979, p. 28) [de Fuentes was only interested in the essential: how the revolution would change the lives of his simple characters]. ¡Vámonos con Pancho Villa! was followed by El prisionero 13 [Prisoner 13] (1933) and El compadre Mendoza [Godfather Mendoza] (1933). El prisionero 13 tells the story of Colonel Julián Carrasco [Alfredo del Diestro], a Huertista, who is the embodiment of the Revolutionary disillusionment with Victoriano Huerta (1850–1916), whose ‘black legend’ served ‘to “whiten” the reputations of other revolutionary leaders who were often as corrupt and not much more progressive’ (Mraz, 2009, p.  94). Thus, de Fuentes started his trilogy with a very pessimistic vision of the Revolution. El compadre Mendoza recounts the experiences of a hacendado during the Revolution, his shifting allegiances and eventual affiliation with the Zapatistas. El compadre Mendoza was ‘an explicit challenge to the ideological concoction which would soon come to dominate Mexican culture’ (Mraz, 2009, p. 98). Darker than many of the films that would

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Revolution and Rebellion in Mexican Film

become the standard fare of the studios, John Mraz compares the trilogy with José Clemente Orozco’s murals, ‘they emphasize the pain and torment, rather than the transformations; they exude a disenchantment with the revolution’s shortcomings instead of celebrating its achievements’ (2009, p. 92). While all of these films merit due attention, I shall focus on the last of this trilogy, ¡Vámonos con Pancho Villa!, which follows the story of a group of soldiers, ‘los leones’ [the lions], from a small village, who join the Revolution pledging to protect one another. This film is episodic in structure, recounting the incidents and battles which result in all but one of the men’s deaths, variously: In battles, in a game of Russian roulette and following Villa’s orders when it is discovered that he has smallpox, to prevent an epidemic. It is a tragic film, which could go some way to explaining its lack of success on its original release. The Revolution is represented as a terrible episode in Mexican history. The film’s ‘preámbulo’ [prologue] declares that Esta película es un homenaje a la lealtad y el valor que Francisco Villa, el desconcertante rebelde mexicano supo infundir en los guerrilleros que le siguieron. De la crueldad de algunas de sus escenas no debe culparse ni a un bando ni a un pueblo, pues recuerda una época trágica. [This film is an homage to the loyalty and bravery that Francisco Villa, the disconcerting Mexican rebel, knew how to inspire in the warriors who followed him. Of the cruelty of some of the scenes neither one side nor the other should be held responsible. This film recalls a tragic time.]2

This prepares the viewer to expect a brutal depiction of the conflict. The apology for the violence seems quaint to the present-day viewer who is accustomed to much greater cinematic violence than is ever shown in ¡Vámonos con Pancho Villa!. However, it may also be interpreted to act as a warning which demonstrates an understanding on the part of the filmmakers that the audience, so recently brutalized by the actual events, may not appreciate a graphic visual reminder. The film’s opening titles establish not only the greatness of the struggle and the heroism of the soldiers, but they also foreground Villa’s inspirational leadership. Yet, this is coloured by the word ‘desconcertante’ [disconcerting]. Drawing attention to Villa’s personal flaws is a puzzling choice in a film which received considerable state support and, in many ways, celebrated the armed struggle given how celebrated he was as a figure by successive governments. From the opening, the film implicitly questions the enthusiasm implied by the title and its excitable exclamation marks.

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¡Vámonos con Pancho Villa! was adapted from the eponymous novel by Rafael F. Muñoz (1931).3 Of the 20 chapters in the novel, nine were dramatized on film (see Serrano, 1978, p. 58). Max Parra describes the novel as a by-product of urban readers’ demand for blood-and-glory tales about the revolution in newspapers and magazines. The author’s narrative strategy, based on the exaggerated treatment of soldierly male bonding, was designed to appeal to the reading public’s craving for morbidly violent anecdotes. (2005, p. 10)

While the novel was a bestseller for the reasons Parra suggests, the film was a commercial failure (O’Malley, 1986, p.  110), disappearing for years until its revival by the Nuevo Cine group. O’Malley considers the reason for the original failure of the film, [i]t was cohesive, emotional, dramatic; it contained popular stereotypes of the revolution as well as some battle scenes which are even today cinematically breathtaking. The most plausible explanation of the movie’s box office failure is that it did not give the public the Villa that had proven so popular in the literary version of Muñoz’s story. (1986, p. 110)

Read in conjunction with Parra’s statement, far from what could be implied by the warning at the opening, we can conclude that the filmmakers did not visualize the violence in a way that was convincing to the audience, who confounded the filmmakers’ expectations regarding their reticence to see violence on screen. The film was shot with considerable support from Lázaro Cárdenas’ government (1934–40), who gave financial backing and ‘provided federal troops and military equipment for its impressive battle scenes’ (O’Malley, 1986, p. 104). Despite this support, the ending does not glorify the Revolution, as it portrays the poor farmer Tiburcio returning to his family disillusioned with the struggle and mourning the loss of his friends, without any change in his economic or social conditions.4 This negative ending suggests that although the battle might be exhilarating, the result will not be tangible for the ordinary soldier, thereby undermining the myth of the glorious popular Revolution put forward by the establishment. Further, as O’Malley contends, the 1930s audience were not ready for this version of Villa. She explains, [p]opular tastes wanted Villa to be thrilling, not respectable. They were enamoured of Villa the daring Robin Hood, the satyr and monster, the unpredictable deviant, the grimy guerrillero and outlaw with uncanny power over men. The public rejected the movie which showed a well-groomed,

22

Revolution and Rebellion in Mexican Film impersonal Villa who looked and acted like a professional officer from the National Military Academy. (1986, p. 111)

Such a negative portrayal of Villa, which contributed towards its failure when originally released, would get more sophisticated treatment in Leduc’s film Reed, México insurgente (1970). For the Nuevo Cine group ¡Vámonos con Pancho Villa! was an exemplary alternative to the celebratory Revolutionary studio films. They could signal it as their historical predecessor, yet reject much of its aesthetic as well as the melodramatic elements of the plot. From the first Revolutionary film Revolución (La sombra de Pancho Villa), Villa has been a recurrent character. His distinctive outsider status made him appealing as a popular leader, as O’Malley (1986), Margarita De Orellana (2003), Parra (2005) and Andrés de Luna (1984) have elucidated. O’Malley (1986) examines Villa alongside other mythologized Revolutionary heroes, such as Zapata, and compares their legacy through fiction, film and historiography. For her, Villa, alongside Zapata, became ‘prototypes of the “revolutionary/macho”, who, with cartridge belts across his chest, a huge sombrero, and a large mustache, has become one of the most prevalent symbols of the Mexican internationally and in Mexico as well’ (1986, p.  3). O’Malley also compares the almost cartoonish Villa that has emerged on celluloid with the more limited and reverential approach that has been taken towards the representations of Zapata, the troubled trajectory of which will be explored in Chapter 4. De Orellana (2003) examines Villa and his representations in US film through his contract with the Mutual company. Andrés de Luna (1984) considers the Revolution as a phenomenon that is ‘repleto de pluralidades’ [full of pluralities] (p.  15). He looks at the generic, thematic and stylistic commonalities in Revolutionary films with particular attention paid to Villa. Villa recurs as a focus of examination, not only because of the importance granted to ¡Vámonos con Pancho Villa! but also due to the number of subsequent films that had Villa as a character, or celebrated the iconography of Villismo, such as the wide-brimmed hat. In his discussion of the literary representations of Villa, Parra sums up why he is so ubiquitous, [t]he popular revolutionary leader was, indeed, regarded by all segments of Mexican society as a vivid and forceful expression of the people’s power, pride, and resilience. Even those who opposed him took delight in mythologizing his controversial life and military feats. (2005, p. 4)

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23

Similarly, Fabio Sánchez and García Muñoz discuss how Villa represents an indefineable everyman in film, ‘se rebela contra la definición del héroe posrevolucionario debido a las múltiples dimensiones de su personalidad, casi nunca en conciliación: bandido-revolucionario, asesino-caudillo, encarnación de la crueldad filántropo’ [he rebels against the definition of post-Revolutionary hero because of the multiple dimensions of his personality, which are hardly ever reconciled: bandit-revolutionary, murderer-leader, incarnation of generous cruelty] (2010b, p. 279). Villa’s representation on film (and other creative forms) has been ever-evolving. Following the development of Villa as a character functions as a useful form of understanding how the Revolution evolved cinematically. Given that he featured in more than 35 films, this is but a small sampling (de la Vega, 2010, p.  58). Many of the films, like ¡Vámonos con Pancho Villa! and the later Con los dorados de Villa (Raúl de Anda, 1939), have Villa’s army as the focus and Villa as a peripheral, yet controlling force. In other films, such as Las mujeres de mi general (Ismael Rodríguez, 1950), he is embodied in a different character, in this case the everyman general, Juan (Pedro Infante). In the figure of the star, Infante, he is the object of a female tug-of-war between the soldadera Lupe (Lilia Prado), who represents the Revolution, and the vampish Carlota (Chula Prieto), who represents the old guard porfiriato. Naturally, Lupe or the Revolution wins. However, this film, despite its celebratory tone throughout, ends on an oneiric note as Juan, Lupe and their child run towards the camera, laughing hysterically, shooting wildly and rushing headlong towards a certain death together. Alicia Vargas Amésquita (2010) has written about the difficulty in resolving this tension between the gendered roles in the public and private. The films establish a foundational couple (to borrow Doris Sommer’s (1993) term) that is most comfortably placed in a domestic sphere, within a narrative in which they meet and fight together in a public and dangerous context, which is the locale of a narrative of the formation of the nation. For the most part this meant merely domesticating the battlefield, something that made many critics uncomfortable, as will be discussed later in this chapter. The final scene of Las mujeres de mi general is an example of how many of the studio Revolutionary films, unable to resolve the tension between public and private spheres and the concurrent gendered roles satisfactorily, were tragic rather than unconditionally celebratory. Gradually, by 1958 in Pancho Villa y la Valentina (Ismael Rodríguez) Villa would become a parodic figure in the studio films. Pancho Villa y la

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Revolution and Rebellion in Mexican Film

Valentina opens and closes with a voiceover by Villa (Pedro Armendáriz) whose decapitated head is hidden away in a foreign, rat-infested warehouse. The film takes vignettes from the life of Villa to flesh out his life story. Or, as the director tells us in a contingent and qualified inter title at the beginning of the film, ‘[e]sta película es apenas un puñado de cuentos es [sic] los que el pueblo ha puesto su gratitud y su justicia para Pancho Villa. Yo he querido creerlos como si fueron la verdad. . . . Y los voy a contar a mi manera’ [This is but a handful of stories told by the people in which they show their gratitude and belief in the justice of Pancho Villa. I want to believe them as if they were true. . . . And I will tell them in my own way]. What follows are six episodes, some are very brief. For example, the first lasts just a few minutes and shows Villa’s decision not to shoot a man who called his dog Pancho Villa, because, he concludes, it proved his admiration for the General. The final two episodes take up most of the screen time. ‘El Generalito’ [The Little General] is about Villa’s tragic attempt to save both a small troop and a baby from starvation and death at enemy hands, and ‘La Valentina’ is a re-telling of the life of a soldadera who has attained mythical quality as a result of a popular Revolutionary corrido. This is Villa as romantic hero and object of affection. Interestingly, in the light of the films starring María Félix, which I consider later, La Valentina (Elsa Aguirre) is another woman who must be tamed by the macho Villa. The consolidation of this caricature of Villa is indicative of the development of the studio Revolutionary film, where he is a simplistic one-dimensional character. Yet, there are more layers of complexity in the plot in its attempt to work through evolving gender relationships, even though the ending does not succeed in resolving these tensions. Villa was to be resurrected as a significant character by the 1960s and 1970s generation in a more ‘authentic’ portrayal of Villa as a politically astute leader. I examine this characterization in Chapter 3. The figure of Villa has inspired a large number of films, most of which are celebratory and portray him as an endearing, roguish romantic hero. In ¡Vámonos con Pancho Villa! Villa is revealed as a ruthless general whose personalism drew loyalty from his troops, as is the case with the Leones in the plot. As a consequence of this representation of Villa, for Mraz, the film is an “anti-epic: it contains all the elements for an epic about the revolution but holds Villa-the-legend at bay through a constant distantiation’ (2009, p. 103). While he is portrayed as a charismatic leader, Villa is largely absent on screen with the story focusing on the smaller scale experiences of the six Leones. In turn, they

War Stories on Film: Chaos, Confusion and Creativity

25

‘encarnan a un tiempo la inocencia popular y su visión critica: su entrega es tan admirable como inútil’ [embody a time of popular innocence and in its (the film’s) critical vision: their surrender is as admirable as it is useless] (Serrano, 1978, p. 58). Their innocence and naïvete on going to war contrasts with Villa’s cunning and ability to sacrifice individuals for the sake of the Revolution. The focus on their story emphasizes the tragedy of the individual losses over Villa’s gains on the battlefield, which is a dissenting message in the face of the state’s celebration of personal sacrifice in the Revolution. At first glance it seems to be an unlikely choice of film for those such as the Nuevo Cine group to espouse. First, there is the issue of its visual and dramatic appeal: The film was the first shot by the cinematographer Gabriel Figueroa, and there is much evidence of what would become his recognizable nationalist aesthetic in the style and framing of the film. Under the guidance of his mentor Jack Draper and influenced by Western art history and Sergei Eisenstein’s ¡Que viva México! (1979) (de los Reyes, 1987), Figueroa developed a distinctive style that would be consolidated in his collaborations with Emilio Fernández (see Ramírez Berg, 1994; Figueroa, 2005 ). Secondly, in the main it represents war as glorious and the people’s struggle as brave. There are outbursts of recognizable Revolutionary popular corridos such as ‘La Adelita’ and ‘La Cucuracha’, which I discuss in Chapter 2.5 These ballads tap into a fervent outpouring of nationalism not compatible with the critical distance and musical choices evident in the films by the generation of the 1960s and 1970s. Pick explains why ¡Vámonos con Pancho Villa! was not to find favour until many years after its release. The film draws attention to the mediated features of the revolutionary leader’s cinematographic and historical person. It capitalizes on the public familiarity with charrería culture and performance (the historical hacienda traditions and values that were integrated into the nationalist tableau of identity in the 1920s) to counter the reified representations of male bravery and sacrifice promoted by post-revolutionary discourse. Thus it took almost three decades for the demystifying and antiheroic perspective of the film to be fully appreciated. (Pick, 2010, p. 7)

Therefore, the tragic, antiheroic aspect of the film did not appeal to contemporary audiences, but it was precisely this that would draw in later generations who were disillusioned with the Revolutionary rhetoric of the government and found in ¡Vámonos con Pancho Villa! an expression of this sentiment.

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The (pre)dominance of the studio films The release of these Revolutionary films by de Fuentes coincided with an incremental growth in studio films impelled by Allá en el rancho grande (Fernando de Fuentes, 1936) a comedia ranchera (a rural-based musical genre) which was ‘part of a conservative nationalist trend which attempts to integrate the charro/hacendado [cowboy/ranch owner] class into the new Revolutionary family’ (Tierney, 2007, p. 22), and was a huge national and international box office hit (see García Riera, 1995). Subsequent studio films sought to reproduce this success. These films were nostalgic for a mythical rural past which was gradually being eroded by mass migration to the city. This vision was combined with a celebration of a historic period with considerable political and social resonance. Incrementally, in the 1930s, 1940s and 1950s big-budget Revolutionary films emerged, which crossed a variety of genres including: Comedies; caberateras [cabaret-based musicals]; comedia rancheras with Revolutionary themes; films with extensive musical numbers in urban settings; others with heavy borrowings from US westerns and so on. Many of these films were shot in three weeks with similar cast and crew and thus developed overlapping styles and tropes. Popular studio films were repeatedly criticized for their representations of the Revolution and its pantheon of heroes. According to critics such as Monsiváis, the recurrent filmic imagery of the Revolution and other themes, such as indigenism  – which echoed the official state narrative  – resulted in a falsification and self-mythification which depoliticized the Revolution. In his words, ‘Mexican cinema’s cultural nationalism derives from its epic repertoire of imitations of Eisenstein and the Hollywood western [. . .] The result is the Fabricated Nation where we hide from the Real Nation’ (Monsiváis quoted in Tierney, 2007, p.  33). Here, Monsiváis simultaneously references Anderson’s (1983) concept of the ‘imagined nation’ and criticizes it for being escapist and apolitical, ultimately condemning the popular Revolutionary films, just as the other critics have. For many, the epitome of the falsified image of the Revolution is incarnated in the figure of Félix. At the height of her career she was the best paid actress in Mexico and within the studio system, she performed in a total of 47 films. Of these, nine were Revolutionary films. Largely, they conform to a model established by the aforementioned Revolutionary melodramas (Mistron, 1984), that is, narratives set during the Revolution and concerned with a woman’s

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social and amorous trajectory, with frequently negative outcomes. In Mistron’s words, ‘[t]he particular concern of the melodrama is the sentimental life of individuals, couples and families as they respond to the calamities which befall them’ (Mistron, 1984, p. 49). The downfall of the characters played by Félix in these films is generally precipitated by their inability to let go of the leadership roles they had attained in the Revolution. Mistron describes the Revolutionary melodrama as a ‘hybrid subgenre’, which is simultaneously conservative and radical, in that it must convey the dramatic social and political upheaval which was brought about by the Revolution. Three core features of the melodrama mean that while, ‘God, the Fatherland, and the Home [. . .] are frequently threatened, [. . .] they are ultimately upheld and reinforced rather than questioned’ (Mistron, 1984, p. 49). However, [a]s can be readily observed, the melodrama, with its emphasis on the individual, on social stability, and on the preservation of the status quo, is antithetical to revolution, which by definition suggests radical social and political change on a large scale. The hybrid subgenre of the revolutionary melodrama, therefore, provides some interestingly contradictory attempts to reconcile the two. (Mistron, 1984, p. 49)

Heretofore, there has been an assumption that the Revolutionary melodramas starring Félix were underpinned by primarily conservative messages, which led most critics to dismiss them. However, on close reading many are more nuanced than has been previously suggested. I argue that many of the creators of the Revolutionary melodramas were alive to the tension between a need for conformity to accepted norms and studio guidelines, on the one hand, and their own desire to play with the characterization, aesthetics and narrative in these films, on the other. That these elements cannot be ignored is precisely what makes them interesting and deserving of reconsideration. It is worth taking a step back and considering the context in which these films were made. Mexican film has experienced remarkable boom periods, including from the 1930s to the early 1950s, the so-called Golden Age of Mexican cinema. During this time, there were a considerable number of films produced with eager international and national audiences. This peaked in 1958 which had the highest output ever, when 135 features were released, of which 31 were in colour. One of these productions was La Cucuracha, the most expensive film made in Mexico at that point. According to García Riera, ‘hizo de la revolución en colores el complaciente olimpo de las mayores [estrellas] del cine nacional’ [the color

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version of the Revolution became a conformist spread of the big stars of Mexican cinema] (1994, p. 153). While the colour film stock and battle scenes with many extras would have accounted for some of the money spent, much of the budget was used to pay the big stars. As well as Félix, Dolores del Río, Fernández and Pedro Armendariz starred in a film that was considered to be flawed, even by its director.6 The film’s lack of artistic merit, despite or perhaps, because of its high cost, led many critics to lament the directions being taken by the film industry. The studios were considered to be in a bad state due to such problems as films being turned around in a very short time, poor quality scripts, lack of government leadership and powerful producers whose priority was profit not art (Mora, 1989, p. 98–9; García Riera, 1994, p. 153–8). Despite the high output, quality was judged to be low, and this perceived demise would continue into the following years. By 1960 film production was down to 114 films, 20 in colour, of which ‘Juana Gallo de Miguel Zacarías, aumentó la lista de superproducciones dedicadas al enaltecimiento en colores de una revolución protagonizada por María Félix’ [Juana Gallo by Miguel Zacarías augmented the list of superproductions in colour starring María Félix dedicated to the celebration of the Revolution] (García Riera, 1994, p. 155). The year 1961 saw a similarly low output; only 74 films were made. The types of films made in this period were: Comedias rancheras, Mexican and US Westerns, ‘aventuras rancheras’ [ranchera adventures], melodramas and an incremental growth in horror and ‘luchadores enmascarados’ [wrestling] films. (García Riera, 1994, p. 131). Writing in a special edition of the magazine Siempre! the writer, director and actor Luis Alcoriza sums up the range of themes in these films as ‘de prostitutas y encueradas, de vampiros y charros’ [from prostitutes and naked women to vampires and cowboys] (García Riera, 1994, p. 135). This was the year La Bandida by Roberto Rodríguez ‘una nueva seudoepopeya revolucionaria en torno a María Félix’ [a new Revolutionary pseudo epic starring María Félix] (García Riera, 1994, p. 131) was made. Against this backdrop, in 1960 the first meetings were held at the Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México (UNAM) in Mexico City of likeminded individuals who were opposed to how the government was managing the industry. In 1962, a year that saw a slight recovery with 81 films made (15 in colour), this dissenting, critical collective named themselves the Nuevo Cine group, and their primary aim was to encourage the production of higher quality cinema. Two significant critics emerged from this time: Emilio García Riera and Jorge Ayala Blanco. While García Riera had his biases, and wrote in an ‘affectionate, but

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critically acute idiom’ (Noble, 2005, p. 4), sustaining a serious tone throughout his Historia documental del cine mexicano, Ayala Blanco is much more scathing in his writing. In Noble’s assessment he has a ‘polemical style, which does not fight shy of vitriolic and openly hostile critical evaluations’ (2005, p. 4). Ayala Blanco was particularly dismissive of Revolutionary films. For him, ‘[l]a mujer-patria está al margen de la historia pues recuerda en cada aparición que los revolucionarios no combaten por ideales sino como caballeros andantes en busca del reposo sexista del guerrero’ [the motherland is at the margins of history because it reminds us at its every appearance that the revolutionaries didn’t fight for ideals but were knight errants in search of the repose of the sexist warrior] (Ayala Blanco, 1974, p. 83–4). He continues, looking for this motherland, thereby challenging the sexist premise of these films: Dentro de este marco folklórico-sexista se entenderá mejor por qué el cine de la Revolución de 1910 hubo de convertirse, a mediados de los años cincuenta, en un territorio poblado estelarmente y dominado ineluctablemente por hembras viriloides con fusiles y voz ronca que convertía al género en su maquillaje suplementario, en su exclusiva caja de resonancia. Y de esas mujeres que lo sojuzgaron, con todo y sentimentales machos perseguidos por la fatalidad heroicamente redentora, la triunfadora del campeonato de belleza revolucionaria fue María Félix. [Within this folkloric-sexist framework it is easier to understand why, by the 50s, films of the 1910 Revolution would become a territory populated with stars and dominated exclusively by virile women with guns and deep voices which made the genre a frivolous supplement, with its own resonance. And of all these women who are seduced by sentimental macho men pursuing them with their fatalistic heroism, the winner of the revolutionary beauty competition was María Félix]. (Ayala Blanco, 1974, p. 84)

He continues to catalogue and dismiss the parts Félix played in several films. In La Cucuracha she is ‘la machorra de sarape multicolor que ganaba batallas lanzando mentadas de trinchera a trinchera’ [the butch with a multicolour poncho who won battles throwing insults from trench to trench] (Ayala Blanco, 1974, p.  84). In the later Juana Gallo ‘cabalgaba como amazona volviéndose leyenda’ [rode like an Amazon to become a legend] (Ayala Blanco, 1974, p.  84). In sum, the faults of the later revolutionary films are: ‘[s]in modificar apenas sus bases, pero enriqueciéndose con los colores chillantes y un folklore hirsute completamente falsificado, el cine revolucionario machista se había

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prolongado como cine revolucionario hembrista’ [without changing its terms of reference, instead it dressed itself in flamboyant colours and with a completely false hirsute folklorism, the macho Revolutionary films became a female-filled revolutionary cinema] (Ayala Blanco, 1974, pp. 84–5). He labels these films as ‘las cucurachas’ (1974, p. 86). Thus, he is re-configuring the title of one of the films under consideration in chapter two by alluding to the multiple meanings of the word ‘cucuracha’ (prostitute, cockroach, something inferior, old crock), as a metonym for his disgust and revulsion for such productions. He deploys anti-sexist discourse to accuse the films of passing ‘[l]a antorcha del machismo (=revolución) [. . .] inmaculada, de una generación de cineastas industriales a la siguiente’ [the macho torch (=revolution) [. . .] intact, from one generation of studio filmmakers to another] (Ayala Blanco, 1974, p. 112), while simultaneously lamenting the emasculation of the Revolutionary films. For many critics, Félix embodied the generic studio Revolution film, ‘María Félix resucitaba en una serie de superproducciones a todo color para convertirse en la revolución misma’ (García and Aviña, 1997, p.  79) [María Félix was resurrected to work in a series of technicolour superproductions to become the Revolution itself]. Therefore, because she is often equated with Revolutionary films, her popular roles are worthy foci of study for the consideration of this genre. The female Revolutionary she performs challenges accepted and normative female behaviour, as is clear from Ayala Blanco’s reference to ‘hembras viriloides’ [virile women], ‘machorra’ [butch], ‘amazona’ [Amazon] and so on. His language is highly dubious and rooted in an understanding that there are rigid and fixed gender identities, whereas in the films there is a fluidity, which I shall discuss in relation to the films in Chapter 2. However, he does clearly signal a discomfort with the roles she plays as a transgressive woman, which is what makes these films worth re-visiting. Even Monsiváis, a fascinating and original writer who forged his reputation on a celebration of popular Mexican culture, took a potshot at these films, saying, ‘el se convierte en parodia del [US] western con María Félix en el papel doble de María Félix y John Wayne’ [the ‘Mexican Revolutionary films’ became a parody of the Western with María Félix in the double role of María Félix and John Wayne] (2000, p. 71). He is signalling, in his own ironic and ludic fashion, that while there is this play with gender roles, in all her films she (like Wayne) was always first and foremost a star. Therefore, when discussing Félix and her films I shall foreground not only Félix’s roles and the variety of performances in her Revolutionary films, but also consider Félix as a star and how this has to be read into her screen performance.

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Félix’s star status is integral to the plot. Often, she was given the highest billing in these films, which meant that all of the cinematic tools elucidated by Richard Dyer (2004) typical of star vehicles were at her disposal (lighting, camera angles, costume etc). In addition, the narrative ensured that she had a central role. Thereby, despite the often tragic outcome of the films, her performance on screen is most memorable for her embodiment of this strong woman. The tension within the ‘hybrid genre’ between the heterosexual love story and the celebration of the Revolution has meant that these films often end on a glorious note with a wide shot of Félix looking towards the future, implicitly recognizing her significant role, not as an abject, self-sacrificing woman but as a powerful actor in this moment of considerable political and social change. In the films in which she starred, Félix acts as a powerful woman who transgresses gender-normative behaviour at a time when women had little power in Mexican society. Her performances were often gender blended, that is, she assumed both male attire and military and political roles, yet, heterosexual romantic attachments remained central to the plot. This does not mean that the films were modelled on the conceit of the ‘taming of the shrew’. Instead, the story is more frequently concerned with playing out gender games on screen, with the Revolution as the ultimate suitor who wins, while the male protagonist frequently meets a tragic end. Oftentimes, this Revolution as love object is represented in a tragic light with an indefinite future, while at others it is full of glorious future promise, as will be explored in greater detail in Chapter 2.

Out with the studio, in with the young Félix’s last film, La generala, another Revolutionary melodrama, was released in 1966. This film was not a success and coincided with considerable changes in Mexican filmmaking. The studio system was coming to an end and independent productions were gaining ground. This followed international trends, in particular what was happening in Hollywood at this time. Like the US, in the late 60s and early 70s, Mexico had its first generation of film school graduates. The first Mexican film school was founded in 1963, the Centro Universitario de Estudios Cinematográficos [University Centre for the Study of Cinema]. This group of young filmmakers, given the opportunity for experimentation at university; politicized by the events in 1968 (which I shall consider later); and encouraged by a government who was eager to recover its reputation after

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the massacre at Tlatelolco and was fearful of youth unrest, created new and alternative representations of the national imaginary. While some of the films were concerned with youth culture, as was the case in other national cinemas, it is striking that many of these young filmmakers chose to return to the Revolution as a backdrop and source for their narratives, and they organized screenings of old films such as ¡Vámonos con Pancho Villa!. They were also involved in the development of new film journals which, as I have already mentioned, harshly criticized the old Revolutionary melodramas, with contributors directing much of their ire at the big studio blockbusters such as those in which Félix starred. In this context, the representation of the Revolution took a new direction, as the films were more concerned with realism. For example, the violence and its consequences are more graphic; they are less glossy, market-driven products and more personal, contained narratives and they are more influenced by transnational, art house aesthetics than Mexican or Hollywood blockbusters. Although not all of these films were successful, there is a notable change in the filmmakers’ intentions and techniques in a new social and political climate. The end of the studio film came in 1970, a demise which was long predicted. In 1965 Manuel Michel wrote that ‘Mexican cinema has been in a crisis for more than ten years. The films which we send forth from our studios belong on the lowest rung on the scale of artistic and expressive values’ (1965, p. 46). Putting aside the fact that there was a tendency among students and graduates of both the new film school in Mexico City and a new generation of directors who had received training at universities locally and abroad to be highly critical of their predecessors, the studio employees, there is some truth in his somewhat hyperbolic assertions. The disastrous La generala was representative of this low point in overblown studio filmmaking. When he was writing, Michel could claim that ‘Independent cinema is practically non-existent in our country’ (1965, p. 51), concluding that ‘while the producers’ thirst for profits was a deterrent to renovation it is also clear that the directors and writers never demanded freedom of expression and preferred to be employees of the producer rather than creators: they meekly conformed’ (emphasis original, 1965, p. 53). While I argue with the contention that all studio employees were simply pawns of the state, or perforce unable to create worthwhile films that are inevitably controlled or compromised, Michel’s criticism is echoed elsewhere by other critics and filmmakers (see, for example, Maciel, 1999) and reflects a widely held opinion that there was a need for more creative, artistic and independent filmmaking. Paul Leduc, Julio Bracho, Marcela Fernández Violante, Gonzalo Martínez Ortega and Luis Alcoriza were

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among this influential new generation, who began to make films outside of the studio system that marked a shift with previous films of the Revolution, and a group I shall consider in Chapter 3. The student protests and their oppression by the government in 1968 were important formative experiences for many of these filmmakers. Not only did it create a new political and social climate in Mexico, where fundamental questions were being asked about the dominant political regime, it also provided a new taste of guerrilla filmmaking through such films as El grito (Leobardo López Aretche, 1968), a documentary of the events as they unfolded. It was a period of considerable social unrest internationally and was witness to the growing transnational civil rights and revolutionary movements from Czechoslovakia to the United States and France to Northern Ireland (see Pensado, 2008; Varon et al. 2008). The unrest was witnessed firsthand by many of the filmmakers who trained and worked abroad, returning to Mexico with fresh eyes. Notwithstanding the growing political radicalism, the story of 1968 was not told in feature films until much later. More immediately, it became imbricated into the fabric of plots which ostensibly dealt with the Revolution, while it returned as a source and context for narratives at another time of crisis. Out of 1968 there were two distinct strands of filmmaking. One consisted of the documentaries and fiction films which addressed the events and its aftermath. The evolution of these has been gradual, with documentaries appearing shortly after the events and fiction film only emerging in the late-1980s. The other strand was comprised of those filmmakers who were influenced by this period of turmoil and made a return to the master narrative of the Revolution, which the PRI had institutionalized, as if through this return to source there could be a re-negotiation of the nation’s originary story, and, perhaps, the possibility to open spaces for new interpretations. The subject of Chapter 3 is films which were made during the 1960s and 1970s and a consideration of the evolution in the specularization of violence on screen. Much as the North American director Sam Peckinpah created increasingly violent spectacles of nihilism, largely in response to the horrific images relayed from the Vietnam War and the experiences of police and army brutality against civil rights campaigners in the United States (see Seydor, 1980; Carroll, 1998), Mexican filmmakers created a new aesthetics of violence consistent with transnational developments and local experiences. Noble discusses the cultural value of the Mexican Revolution as ‘a moment of profound rupture that set the agenda of national development throughout the twentieth century’ (2005, p.  9), with the governing party taking a very

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interventionist lead through their use of financial and political support for those cultural products that reflected their aims. However, despite this, it is ‘important not to over-exaggerate the notion that culture is a top-down hegemonic construct imposed on the masses from above. Instead [. . .] these relationships must be understood in terms of accommodations and negotiations between the various sectors in society’ (Noble, 2005, p. 12). These accommodations and negotiations are manifest in the industrial films of the 1930s right up to the films of 1968 and beyond. In the earlier studio films, such as those examined in the previous chapter, the Revolution was a convenient backdrop for dramatic fight scenes and glorious tales of war, thereby they glossed over the complexities of the politics of national formation. By the late 1960s, the mood in the country was undergoing considerable changes, politically and culturally. As I have already mentioned, much of the literature in the archives that was written at this time, and in subsequent years, about Revolutionary films was by many of the practitioners who were formed by the specific educational, cultural and political circumstances that were in place in the 1960s and 1970s. What must be borne in mind in the analysis of this period is that although there has been an active, ongoing, critical dialogue by Mexican writers on film since the early days of silent cinema, scholarly writings flourished and became more established as a discipline after 1963 with the creation of the first Film School. As a result, young filmmakers, critics and academics were being formally trained, and, as with many new generations, they were eager to establish their voices and individuality through criticism of the old guard, who they signaled to be the employees of the studio system. Mexican filmmaking was an art form that had received considerable state support and, as was the case with other state-controlled industries, it was tightly controlled by strong unions which many found hard to join (see, for example, Rodríguez Cruz, 2000). Therefore, this new generation of men and women used their critiques of the status quo to express their frustrations at being excluded from the director’s union. This is not to say that all their criticisms are purely reactive and to be ignored as a consequence; however, it is important to bear in mind the context in which they were written. Much of the literature which considers the transition from studio-based productions to independent filmmaking is coloured by the younger, university educated writers’ eagerness to bring in sweeping changes to a system that many argued was in need of renovation and new energies.

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Many of the critics and the most vocal and articulate voices from this time were members of this Nuevo Cine group (for more details on this period see Mora, 1989; Ramírez Berg, 1992; Noble, 2005). Therefore, in their critical writings the studio productions were derided as government propaganda, with melodramatic plotlines and star performers. They were criticizing studio films which were not the challenging, daring politically engaged films, which they felt Mexican cinema should be making. Films approved by the Nuevo Cine group included La sombra del caudillo (Julio Bracho, 1960) which was banned on its release, and Reed, México Insurgente. Subsequently, this bias against the popular, studio Revolutionary films, which grew from the dynamics of a small group of influential and important critics, has continued to be a significant strand in Mexican criticism and has largely gone unquestioned in later writings. There are also critics outside of Mexico who have echoed this analysis. In what is an important examination of contemporary Mexican cinema by David R. Maciel in Mexico’s Cinema: A Century of Film and Filmmakers, his views are reflective of this consensus. He states that the films that emerged from this generation from 1970 to 1978 was a ‘brief flowering of Mexican cinema’ (1999, p. 194). In his opinion, ‘[t]he films of this new generation broke all rules and conventions in terms of themes, archetypes, and issues addressed’ (Maciel, 1999, p. 194). These [i]ndependent and state-sponsored films tended to be artistic, more carefully crafted, and employed better talent, while private-sector films were generic formulas produced with commercial success as the overriding goal. Many of the movies in the second category were degrading, sexist, and ultra-violent; they have accelerated and deepened the ongoing crisis of Mexican cinema. (Maciel, 1999, p. 194)

Maciel may be over-stating the lack of creativity, artistry and originality in the private sector and studio films, however, what is inarguable is that by the late 1960s there was a gradual dismantling of the studios, a shift in the state control over filmmakers and a change in the type of Revolutionary films that were made. He places the independent and state-sponsored films in the same group, since the term independent is a knotty one in Mexico. Independent is generally taken to mean (but not always) independent of the studio system, but rarely independent of state funding. The privately funded films, while often B-movies destined for second-tier distribution, were actually more properly independent, as the term could be understood elsewhere in the world. Therefore, independent, here,

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should be interpreted as a category that describes a particular aesthetic (and sometimes political) style by a selection of auteurs. It is Maciel’s contention that violence and sexism were exclusive to privately funded films but many non-commercial films were also both violent and sexist, sometimes in ways that are not very different from what went on before. I shall consider the violence and sexism in some of these independent films in Chapter 3. The legacy of this attitude to the 1960s and 1970s generation of filmmakers is to be found in the catalogue accompanying a film series on the Revolution in 1985 shown at the Instituto Nacional de Bellas Artes. Alongside ¡Vámonos con Pancho Villa!, early documentaries by Salvador Toscano, the Alva brothers, Fernando Martínez Alvarez and Gustavo Carrero, and Viva Zapata! (Elia Kazan, 1952), three films from the 1970s were chosen for the film series: Reed, México insurgente, El principio [The Beginning] (Gonzalo Martínez Ortega, 1972) and Emiliano Zapata (Felipe Cazals, 1970) (Cine Club, 1985). This signals the early canonization of these films and also reveals a decision to ignore any films that emerged during the Golden Age. This new university-educated and often politically aware generation are worthy of study because they were breaking new ground in Mexican cinema, in particular in relation to their representation of conflict on screen, as will be further elucidated in Chapter 3. Under the stewardships of the then presidents Carlos Salinas de Gotari (1988–94) and Ernesto Zedillo (1994–2000) the 1990s saw a renewed rhetorical interest in the Revolution. Official, government discourse employed the Revolution as a device to ease the way for the implementation of the NAFTA agreement and the dismantling of article 27 of the constitution that had been fundamental in enshrining the promises of the Revolution (land and freedom) in the constitution. In tandem with this new rhetoric, and, it has been argued, in response to it, the Revolutionary figure Zapata was claimed by an indigenous Rebellion which has attained considerable local and international attention. By the 1990s, film evolved from an art form heavily supported and partfinanced by the government and its institutions to a privatized enterprise. This conforms to developments elsewhere. The specific circumstances which brought this about were the negotiations leading up to NAFTA. The US insisted on a liberalization of the funding structures of film, in part, to allow for more US investment, which has led to a steady increase in US films being shot on Mexican soil, as a cheaper location (Gutiérrez, 2008). Since the 1990s a film is more likely to be funded by a group of transnational interests, rather than purely Mexican

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money, as had been the situation in the past. In addition, some successful filmmakers, such as Alejandro González Iñarritú, Alfonso Cuarón and Guillermo del Toro, have moved abroad to make films. Naturally, just as there is a move outwards there are also moves inwards. As a consequence of this transnational flow of talent and finance, political conflicts are no longer the sole purview of local filmmakers. How recent filmmakers have brought the representation up to date in the context of a more privatized model will be examined in Chapter 6.

Documentary, fiction and conflict Documentaries covering political conflict in Mexico have had different peaks. Due to the nature of documentary a first phase of films is released in the immediate aftermath. These are then followed by others which, given the temporal distance from the event, take different approaches, including: The use of original footage re-edited to explore the event further; edited archival footage from previously discarded material; interviews with survivors or witnesses of the events; interviews with experts; re-enactments; computer generated reconstructions or a mixture of all of these elements. As has already been discussed, the first films of the Revolution were documentaries. Given the level of attention they have already garnered, this book will not focus on these early films. However, Chapters 4, 5 and 6 will consider documentaries alongside fiction films made since 1968 of all of these conflicts. Considerable changes in national filmmaking were instigated by 1968 and events surrounding the student protests and massacre. Not only did this period influence the filmmakers who had witnessed and taken part in the events and result in the creation of a new aesthetics of conflict in the representation of the Revolution, it also became a new conflict to be represented and reconsidered on film. Many of documentaries produced in the immediate aftermath of 1968 were by students involved in the protests who were witnesses to the brutality of the security forces. Some, such as the lesser known Dos de octubre, aquí México [Second of October, Here Mexico] (Óscar Menéndez, 1968), feature a highly aestheticized portrayal of the events and the aftershock. In this film and others, there was a particular concentration on the use of music and sound effects to conjure up the moment, evoke empathy and to inspire fear. Chapter 4 deals with some of these issues in relation to a selection of the documentaries which were

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made at this time. There is a definite line of dissident and radical filmmaking as a direct result of the shocking nature of the events. Government censorship and control over production and distribution meant that fictionalizations of the events were monitored carefully. The first docudrama, Canoa (Felipe Cazals), was released in 1976, and the first fictional feature Rojo amanecer [Red Dawn] (Jorge Fons) in 1989. Since then, few projects have addressed the event. In part, this has been because of government opposition, censorship and controls over even the partial release of facts until the turn of the century, and also due to the lack of a coherent, national narrative of the events. In 1994, the Chiapan rebel spokesperson, Subcomandante Insurgente Marcos, re-appropriated the myth of Zapata in a timely fashion, rendering it new. Through this re-mythification, in his many declarations and writings, Marcos takes on a figure key to nation formation in Mexico, challenges its legitimacy and demands a place for the marginalized indigenous both in the imaginary and in the ‘real’.7 Later, his words and message resonated with a wider community who felt the need to reach out to the indigenous and tell their story on film. Both 1968 and the Zapatista uprising are described by Alan Knight as ‘deviations from the norm, failures of an otherwise successful “stick and carrot” system’ (1999, p.  118). What ostensibly was an uprising by a small group of poorly armed indigenous and their supporters in an isolated part of Mexico, managed to achieve global reach through the Internet, assisted in no small part by the anti-globaliszation movement. The rebellion has deployed figures from the Revolution as well as others from popular, indigenous and world culture to create a narrative which has had transnational appeal. As a consequence, several of the films which have emerged have been sponsored and made by international filmmakers, in many cases financed by Non Governmental Organizations (NGOs). Fiction films draw from the historical moments whether that is to borrow tropes and setting, or to explore the events at a deeper level. Documentary aims at portraying truths (however nebulous, biased or impossible these may be) about the conflicts. Both are complicated by the impossibility of absolute fidelity in either mode. The intertwining of the two is not simple, but is an integral part of my study.

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Conclusion Political conflict in Mexico does not have a strict pattern of representation. It does not conform to the rules of a single genre, but crosses many of them from romance to melodrama, thriller to biopic, to documentary. This volume traces the trajectory of these films and considers how the representation of political conflict has evolved. Aside from a brief period of reprieve in the 1960s and 1970s, Mexican Revolutionary films have erroneously been dismissed as conservative texts. This reading ignores the nuances and subtleties that are evident even in the studio films. Films which represent later political conflicts have continued to draw on this long history of filmmaking.

Notes 1 This has been fictionalized in the HBO film, And Starring Pancho Villa as Himself (Bruce Beresford, 2003). 2 The novel is prefaced with an assertion of the truth of the events recounted and words of praise to the men whose life inspired a novel ‘de audacia, heroísmo, altivez, sacrificio, crueldad y sangre, alrededor de la figure imponente de Francisco Villa’ [audacity, heroism, pride, sacrifice, cruelty and blood, around the imposing figure of Francisco Villa] (Muñoz, 1999, p. 8). Less is made of the violence on the battlefield. 3 The eponymous novel was first serialized in 1928 in El Universal and published in novel form in 1931. 4 An alternative ending is available on the DVD extras. The original was censored. For a discussion of the censorship see, Serrano (1978, p. 59). 5 This is a popular ballad that was sung telling tales of prowess in battle. They are accounts of extraordinary individuals and their bravery in battle. Monsiváis (2006) discusses these corridos and their celebration of female protagonists of the Revolution. 6 There is an oft-quoted statement by the director on how the difficulties of working with so many stars on the shoot resulted in an inferior film. This can be found in most articles on the film including that of García Riera (1969–78) and Taibo I (2004), as well as the DVD extra. 7 See Slavoj Žižek (1999) and (2008) for a discussion of the real.

2

A Woman at War: María Félix

The Mexican actress and star, María Félix, described herself as ‘una mujer con corazón de hombre. Una mujer de guerra’ [a woman with the heart of a man. A woman of war] (Félix, 2003, p. 33). This statement is revelatory of a cultural perception that women and men have manifestly distinct roles in war, and that she is clearly transgressing hers. In this chapter I examine a selection of Revolutionary films in which she starred and consider the gender games that are being played out. Félix starred in two distinct categories of Revolutionary films. The first kind is those by the auteurist collaboration between the director, Emilio Fernández, and the director of photography, Gabriel Figueroa: Enamorada (Emilio Fernández, 1946)  and Río Escondido (Emilio Fernández, 1947). These were made during the so-called Golden Age of Mexican film and have been considered in detail by Tierney (2007), Tuñón (1995 & 2000), Ramírez Berg (1994) and Pick (2010). The second are her later films made in the 1950s and early 1960s. With the arrival of colour film stock to Mexico in the previous decade, the Revolution had become ‘uno de los ámbitos más saqueados y adulterados’ [one of the most exploited and adulterated sites] (Gustavo García, 1979, p. 110). Due to its high cost colour stock was largely reserved for spectacular studio productions and, in the latter half of the century, the Revolution was used as a suitable context in which to showcase stars in high-budget films. Many of these were made during the period which would see the decline of the studio system in Mexico. The subject of this chapter, Félix, was a star who acted in 47 films, while many of these were Hollywood-style dramas and melodramas, she became synonymous with these often overlooked and oft-derided revolutionary films. Examining four of the films, La Cucuracha [The Cockroach] (Ismael Rodríguez, 1958), Juana

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Gallo (Miguel Zacarías, 1960), La Bandida [The Bandit] (Roberto Rodríguez, 1962) and Café Colón (Benito Alzaraki, 1958), I shall consider the radical codeswitching and gender synergy (see Kramer, 1997) which takes place within the confines of ostensibly highly conservative texts.1 It is commonplace to state that stars are more than their performance on-screen suggests. They are ‘also presented to us through [. . .] a multitude of media texts. The polysemic construct fabricated by all these texts is what we call a “star image”. Thus, the acting/performing text is one among many that construct the star image’ (Butler, 1991, p. 11). Félix’s presence on screen was but a small part of her public image. As star studies suggest, her off-screen persona has a bearing on how her on-screen characters are interpreted. Therefore, I shall consider her offscreen persona in brief. From her early days, she caused scandal, was celebrated, much photographed and written about, and appeared on television talk shows long after her film career had ended. Thus, she maintained a consistent presence in the national imaginary, not simply for the films she acted in, but also for the other public persona she performed. Félix acted in many films representing the Mexican Revolution which were conventional and even conservative readings of the Revolution, but which radically challenged traditional Mexican gender codes. To get an understanding of the level of interest in Félix, the star, a quick look at the volume and variety of books that have been published about her underlines her continued popularity.2 She has not only published two books, one an autobiography Todas mis guerras [All my wars] (2003), and another Una raya en el agua [A ray in the water] (2000) a selection of photographs primarily taken by her son, she has also spawned a small publishing industry with several books written about her (see, for example, Samper, 2004; Philippe, 2006 ).3 Most of these are star biographies with the exception of Paco Ignacio Taibo I’s, which briefly examines her films. The opening chapter of one of the star biographies, María Félix: Grandes mexicanos ilustres, entitled ‘El nacimiento de un vamp’ [the birth of a vamp], Helena R. Olmo begins: México se agitaba bajo la convulsión de su Revolución cuando los cómplices designios de los viejos dioses mitológicos Venus y Marte se aliaron para auspiciar la llegada al mundo de los mortales de una de las vampiresas latinas más despiadadas y arrogantes de mediados del siglo XX. [While Mexico was shaking up under the convulsions of the Revolution, when the old accomplices of the mythical gods Venus and Mars aligned themselves,

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signalled the arrival to the mortal world of one of the most arrogant and irrepressible Latin vampires of the middle of the 20th century]. (2003, p. 7)

This is representative of the books written about Félix in both style and substance and alludes to the reception of her star image. In the opening paragraph Félix goes from sweet to splendid (the word is repeated twice), to insatiable, ostentatious and a man-eater. The adjectives increase in fervour as the author builds on the description. These adjectives redolent of wanton excess are typical of those used by others when writing about Félix. It is also noteworthy that, according to Olmo, she was not just the protagonist of many films, but of Mexican history itself. Similarly, in her autobiography Todas mis guerras, Félix presents herself simultaneously as a femme fatale, a product for consumption and a national figure. In her opinion, Mexican men ‘ve en mí algo muy suyo, su mujer de lujo, su mujer ideal. Se siente orgulloso de ser mexicano cuando puede mostrarme como un producto de su pueblo, y yo estoy orgulloso de serlo’ [see in me something that’s very much theirs, their glamorous woman, their ideal woman. They feel proud to be Mexican so that they can show me off as one of their own, and I’m proud of that] (Félix, 2003, p. 32). This statement is loaded with national pride, and a curious mix of the knowledge that others claim ownership over her and haughty arrogance at the measure of her own worth. She plays with preconceived notions around her star persona and lays claim to her power over the situation through this knowledge of how to use it for her own ends. To add to the aura and myth that surrounds her, she gave many different dates of birth. According to Taibo I, María Félix ‘ha nacido en muchas fechas, pero siempre en el mismo lugar’ [was born on many dates, but always in the same place] (2004, p. 13). Most reliable sources say that she was born in a small town in Sonora in 1914. She lived a full life. Of the films she made most of them were shot in Mexico, but others were made in France, Argentina, Spain and Italy. Many of her European films did not prove successful, but established her as an international star. Her public persona was always carefully cultivated. As she travelled she lived her life constantly in the limelight, subject to the (complicit) gaze of the paparazzi and gossip sheets. Her private life was the subject of much interest and was complicated and varied. She had many lovers, some famous and others less so, and was married four times. Two of her husbands were the film star Jorge Negrete and the musician and composer Agustín Lara. She was embroiled in various dramatic incidents, which brought the attention of the gossip sheets, including an accusation of the kidnap of her son, being implicated

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in the murder of her personal assistant and the robbery of jewels. After her career in film ended, she maintained a public presence in the media up to her death in 2002 in Polanco, Mexico City. Even after her death, there have been annual gatherings to commemorate her life, often with public intellectuals, such as Carlos Monsivais, in attendance, outside her house in Mexico City. Her film career spanned from 1942 with El peñon de las ánimas and ended with La Generala in 1966.4 The latter was her final film set in the Revolution. Her breakthrough film was her third, an adaptation of Romulo Gallegos’s novel Doña Bárbara in 1943. As a result she was nicknamed ‘la Doña’ throughout the rest of her career. It is worth pausing a moment on Doña Bárbara. In this film her performance is much more muted than that of the films I shall examine here; there is less blurring of gender lines, her attire is more that of a ranchera than the cross-dressing soldier of later films. Significantly, she is also less glamorous in this film. Her star persona became more highly developed in later roles. However, she does establish an on-screen persona in Doña Bárbara which was to be repeated throughout her career. In García and Aviña’s words, Félix in Doña Bárbara ‘matizaba y enriquecía al personaje de la mujer fatal, que asume los atributos masculinos y ejerece el poder de su sensualidad como una venganza contra la autoridad masculina’ [nuanced and enriched the character of the femme fatale, who assumes masculine attributes and uses the power of her sexuality as a form of revenge against masculine authority] (1997, p. 29). It is an early version of a synergistic gender performance which she would repeat in various roles throughout her career. In addition to imbuing conventional representations of the femme fatale with new meaning, for Joanne Hershfield, ‘Doña Bárbara reveals how the ambiguity of sexual difference is foregrounded through the strategy of masquerade’ (Hershfield, 1996, p. 11). Here Hershfield draws attention to the performative side of gender as embodied in the character of Doña Bárbara, a defining film in Félix’s career. According to Taibo I, her arrival on screen was well-timed. Mexican cinema was in need of a strong woman, who could challenge traditional values and preconceptions. He lists her predecessors: Isabela Corona era la gran actriz Gloria Marín la belleza mexicana María Elena Marqués la juventud ingenua e inexperta Dolores del Río la mexicana que había aceptado, por patriotismo, abandonar Hollywood.

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Andrea Palma, ese cierto misterio que los directores no acababan de descifrar. [Isabela Corona the great actress/ Gloria Marín the Mexican beauty/ María Elena Marqués the naive and inexperienced young woman/ Dolores del Río the Mexican who had decided out of patriotism to abandon Hollywood/ Andrea Palma who had a certain mysterious quality that directors didn’t manage to pin down]. (Taibo I, 2004, pp. 16–17)

Then, he concludes: Faltaba la mujer que negara la servidumbre tradicional y folklórica de la hembra de México, faltaba la belleza agresiva, la acción desprejuiciada. El hueco era tan manifiesto que parecía estar llamando a una nueva presencia que no se vislumbraba. María se fue haciendo, rápidamente, a la idea de que esa ausencia sólo podía ser cubierta por una sola persona: ella misma. [What was missing was the woman who would turn her back on the traditional and folkloric servitude of the Mexican woman, also missing was the aggressive beauty who acted impetuously. The gap was so clear that it seemed to demand to be filled. Maria soon realised that she was the only one who could fill that gap]. (Taibo I, 2004, pp. 16–17)

He describes Félix using adjectives which express movement, action and dynamism. She is not the traditional, ‘abnegada mujercita mexicana’ which Poniatowska posited as commonplace in Mexican texts (1984, p. 159). She also transcends the list of archetypes noted by the French critic, Georges Sadoul, writing a contemporary review of Mexican cinema: [l]as madres solteras, las prostitutas de gran corazón, las esposas traicionadas en el umbral de la cámara nupcial, las pecadoras perdonadas, la cruz de una madre obsesionan al cine mexicano de 1960,como a los melodramas o a las novelas ‘populares’ francesas del siglo XIX. [single mothers, big-hearted prostitutes, traditional newly married wives, the forgiven fallen women, the cross of a mother obsessed Mexican cinema in 1960, as much they did the melodramas or the popular French novels of the 19th century]. (García Riera, 1969–78, 160)

Although he is writing of his viewing experience in 1960, this list could equally apply to the years 1958–62 (and beyond) when La Cucuracha, Juana Gallo and La Bandida were made.

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Reducing stars to types (as Taibo I does) is somewhat simplistic, but not altogether erroneous. What must be remembered is that at this period, when Félix was at the height of her career  – as was the case with the other actors listed – she was part of a de facto studio system (or ‘cine industrial’ [industrial cinema] as it is called in Mexico) that was happy to produce, and re-produce, genre films and characters which would appeal to a popular audience. The idea of typicality is a potent one with relation to stars and has been taken up by Richard Dyer. In his words, ‘stars represent typical ways of behaving, feeling and thinking in contemporary society, ways that have been socially, culturally, historically constructed’ (Dyer, 2004, p. 15). That stars are metonymic representations of society at a given time is a theory that has long had currency. Although it is a somewhat limited concept, it can carry weight when informed by readings of other elements related to the text. Therefore, following on from Dyer, Félix is both typical (conforming to type, because she is a star) and, as Taibo I suggests, resolutely atypical. This is not to say that many of the films are not archly conservative texts. However, the films are more nuanced than critics have credited them with thus far. I am not an apologist. As Taibo has stated, writing with specific reference to La Cucuracha: Posiblemente ningún país tenga un cine revolucionario tan conservador y contrario a los valores profundos de su Revolución como México. Con el paso del tiempo la Revolución fue a convertirse en un excelente pretexto para interpretar canciones junto a la hoguera, para exhibir partidas de jinetes bajo un cielo colmado de nubes estéticamente perfectas o para modelar la belleza o la elegancia de nuestras estrellas máximas. [It’s likely that no other country has as conservative and profoundly antirevolutionary Revolutionary cinema as Mexico. Over time the Revolution became an excellent pretext to sing songs by the campfire, to show horse riding skills under a sky with perfectly arranged clouds or to show off the beauty and elegance of our great stars]. (Taibo I, 2004, p. 363)

Also, for the film critic, José de la Colina the Revolution came to be: una gran fiesta folklórica, pretexto para que María Félix o Dolores del Río luzcan vistosos sarapes y se disputen a un ‘macho sombrío’ [. . .] Así vinieron La Cucuracha o Juana Gallo, o los múltiples filmes sobre Pancho Villa, que guardan con la Revolución una relación tan estrecha como los filmes de Tarzán con el África negra.

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[a great folkloric festival giving María Félix or Dolores del Río the pretext to wear brightly coloured shawls as they fight over a ‘real man’ . . . from there came such films as La Cucuracha, Juana Gallo, or the many films about Pancho Villa which have about as much relationship with the Revolution as Tarzan does with Black Africa]. (Taibo I, 2004, p. 364)

Taibo I and de la Colina are lamenting the end of truly revolutionary ideals that these films represent. The Revolution does not just serve as a backdrop, but also as an ideological concept, and an arena in which gender games could be played out. These films are not about documentary authenticity or an engaged oppositional political stance; their primary aim is to reach the widest possible audience and entertain them. Within this, as big budget films they were also compromised by the ruling PRI who dictated what stories were acceptable and how they could be told. However, even within these limitations there were opportunities to create narratives and characters that could push against the boundaries of the possible and challenge conventional gender representations. The Revolution was the ideal context in which to do this. As Jean Franco described it, the Revolution was a ‘parenthesis of freedom’, for Mexican women. However, it is also shown as a space where gender roles were heightened and therefore possible to explore, challenge and even reverse, albeit temporarily. In the three films I am analysing here, there is a constant negotiation within the film text of what a woman is, how she should perform and how Félix deviates from and conforms to these (for analysis of gender categories see Sifuentes-Jáuregui, 2002; Butler, 2004). This self-consciousness is radical for Mexican cinema of this period, in particular, and is carried out in a number of ways in the films. These three films have many commonalities and overlaps. They are worth more than a passing glance, not only for the sometimes high campness of La Bandida; or a reflection on the terrible misogyny of the entire premise of La Cucaracha; or the dramatic set-pieces shot by Figueroa in both La Cucaracha and Juana Gallo, but, also because they radically renegotiate gender representations in Mexican film, while simultaneously being deeply circumscribed by them. I shall take each film in chronological order.

La Cucaracha The opening sequence of La Cucaracha (Ismael Rodríguez, 1958) follows a grand mass of people moving through the mountains, the music is reminiscent of that of a US Western. Over this movement of people is written: ‘. . . Y abandonaron

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Revolution and Rebellion in Mexican Film

sus casas y cruzaron los desiertos, llevando a sus hijos sobre sus espaldas. . . . y con sus hombres hicieron La Revolución mexicana’ [. . . and they abandoned their houses and crossed the deserts, carrying their children on their backs. . . . and with their men they fought the Mexican Revolution] (elipsis in original). Consequently, from the outset women are the chief characters of this film. The narrative then moves to focus on the stories of individual characters, in particular, La Cucaracha (Félix), who we are told has slept with many of the soldiers, particularly high-ranking officers. She is dressed in combat clothing, traditionally seen as male attire, and has fought in battle. For her, the Revolution is ‘los avances y el trago’ [the battle charges and booze]. Early on in the film she refers to herself as a ‘soldado’ [soldier]. She uses the masculine noun, by which she means that she is a combatant, rather than the feminine noun, ‘soldadera’. The word soldadera has a complicated history. Recent feminist historians have re-evaluated women’s roles during the Revolution concluding that it was more complex than what is normally assumed (lover, cook, nurse) and how it is used in this film (see Mendieta Alatorre, 1961; Soto, 1979; Thornton, 2006). In La Cucaracha, the word refers to the women who follow behind their men, to carry their guns and extra ammunition. The soldaderas are their sexual partners, feed and nurse them and mind the children they bear. The transition between these roles, perceived as either end of the spectrum of masculinity and femininity, is witnessed in the evolution of Félix’s character in this film. La Cucaracha and Isabel (Dolores del Río) fight over the love of Colonel Zeta (Emilio ‘el Indio’ Fernández). The two characters are highly differentiated: ‘La Cucaracha, tan vigorosa como embrutecida, y la delicada Isabel’ [La Cucaracha, so vigorous and rough, and the delicate Isabel] (Olmo, 2003, p. 182). From the outset, ‘veremos cómo ella [La Cucuracha] bebe y se comporta en una cantina como un hombre duro, agresivo y capaz de tomarse coñac y de retar a cualquier macho’ [we see how she [La Cucuracha] drinks and behaves in the bar like a hard, aggresive man capable of drinking cognac and challenging any man] (Taibo I, 2004, p. 359). While the evolution of Isabel’s character is summarized by Eli Bartra as, ‘pasa de ser una feliz ama de casa a un alma buena vestida de negro que se desliza como sombra y finalmente acaba de soldadera; se arrejunta y enviuda nuevamente’ [goes from being a happy housewife to a good soul dressed in black who slips by like a shadow and ends up as a soldadera; she gets going and ends up a widow again] (Bartra, 1999, p. 19). Interestingly, it is the seemingly ‘good’ Isabel who steals Zeta from La Cucaracha. La Cucaracha’s tools of seduction are unusual. She belittles Zeta, laughs at him, mock his military skill

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and resists his advances. In the film, La Cucaracha’s performative style switches from ‘masculine’ to ‘feminine’, while Isabel’s is always to be read as ‘feminine’. Cunning and deceit are repeatedly shown to be normal female characteristics. After La Cucaracha is seduced by Zeta, she dresses in ‘feminine’ apparel. However, despite her attempts at performing femininity, La Cucaracha cannot win Zeta’s love and keep him from seducing Isabel. La Cucaracha may temporarily wear female garments, but, the implicit message of the film is, since she never completely submits to Zeta’s powers, she can never be the object of his affections. Meanwhile, Isabel joins the ranks and learns to fight with the men, in soldadera attire, wearing a dress, a visual contrast with La Cucaracha’s riding trousers and shirt. La Cucaracha’s inability to convince as a feminine woman is shown when Isabel does submit to Zeta’s advances and they become an established couple, much to La Cucaracha’s chagrin. This happens despite an earlier scene where both the camera and the other characters draw attention to La Cucaracha’s transformation into a markedly ‘feminine’ woman. The camera lingers over her bare ankles, neck, décolletage and long flowing hair. But this is shown merely to be an act when she returns to fight in her usual attire, much to Zeta’s disappointment. As an apparent punishment for her misdeeds, La Cucaracha realizes that she is pregnant with Zeta’s child, and, consequently, without the protection of a man and, since now she is vulnerable as a pregnant woman, she leaves her battalion. Her pregnancy speaks as a reminder to the audience that she may drink, fight and swear like a man, but that there is no escaping biology, thereby bringing us from what is a radical gender performance to essentialism. The scene in which she gives birth has elements of the surreal in its oneiric tone, and it is obviously supposed to suggest at parallels with the Revolution and the birth of a new nation (see García Riera, 1994a, pp. 289–90). The film ends with Colonel Zeta dead, and both women (and the child) joining forces to fight for the Revolution. What is interesting about this film is the idea of code switching. Félix can move between ‘male’ and ‘female’ clothing, without it altering her essential self. She is not altering her gender, but how she may be perceived and her performative role. She does not become a man or a woman through her clothing. She switches between being a soldado or a soldadera. As a soldado she is feisty, gets drunk with the men, fights in battle and, we are told, has multiple sexual partners. As a soldadera, she is faithful to Zeta and walks and works alongside the other women.

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In a key scene, which I shall examine here, she becomes ‘feminizada en honor a Zeta’ [feminized in honour of Zeta] (García Riera, 1994a, p. 288). Her moment of transition from soldado and rebirth (as it is referred to in the film) to soldadera is a display of the power play between Zeta and herself. From the early scenes when Zeta takes charge of the battalion, it is clear that La Cucaracha is interested in him. She makes several attempts to impress him: Through returning arms stolen by another, bringing him expensive brandy and talking up her military prowess. These are all related to the ‘masculine’ theatre of war. At first, he dismisses her. Gradually, he starts to appreciate her charms and tries to seduce her as he would other women. He attempts to give her flowers and buy her a sarape [shawl] at a market. She rebuffs him. Later that same night he comes to her door. She is sitting on her bed. He knocks; she refuses him entry. Nonetheless, he enters, carrying the sarape, flowers and a bottle of brandy. She throws both the flowers and the brandy to the ground, and reaches out for the sarape to throw that aside as well. She slaps him in the face, whereby he grabs her wrist, and non-diegetic music starts to play a romantic string piece. He lets go of her and she stands as if in anticipation. He switches off the lights and says, ‘Nunca le pegue a un hombre. ¡Nunca!’ [Never hit a man. Never!]. This is an unusual statement. It is a convention in many melodramatic films for the woman to hit a man, while the reverse is always frowned upon. It is a reversal of the norm for Zeta to challenge her. He then grabs her hair and pushes her to her knees. She looks at him, as if to challenge him to go further. He tells her to undress, ‘desnúdese. ‘ora va a ser mujer’ [undress. Now you’ll be a woman]. The implication in his statement is that in undressing and displaying her body, beneath the masculine riding boots, shirt and trousers, she will reveal her femininity. Again, it is underscored that biology determines her gender. She does not react immediately, he repeats his demand that she undress. She smiles as she unbuttons her shirt. The camera moves from his to her face moving from medium to close shots. When she removes her shirt, we see her naked back and then a close shot of his face and a reverse shot of hers. Both of their looks are given equal power in this scene. Bartra considers that the camera angles in this scene are all important (Bartra, 1999, pp. 20–1). However, the gaze and the fact that she voluntarily undresses means that she retains a lot of the power in this scene. The aggression in the scene is not purely Zeta’s, although it could be read as a rape scene. However, a close-up on La Cucaracha/Félix shows her looking at him haughtily, and when told to undress she does so willingly. Her return of the gaze

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is significant as here La Cucaracha/Félix disrupts the ‘active/male and passive/ female’ binary that Laura Mulvey has written about (1992, p. 27). Here, and in later scenes, attention is drawn to her looking as a display of her desire for Zeta. A reverse shot taken from behind her shows her naked back and his surprised face. She stands up, which suggests that she is in control of the situation and engaging in it voluntarily. She then embraces him. Another close shot of her face shows her smiling. This then cuts to the room the next morning where the camera pans over the evidence of their struggle, but holds on a flower in the brandy bottle, as if to suggest at romance. Both the flower and the bottle, which had been violently discarded earlier and are symbols of Zeta’s desire, are now at one. The flower is an archetypically female synecdoche, and a classic male gift to women; while much was made earlier of La Cucaracha giving Zeta a bottle of brandy in an attempt to seduce him. Therefore, the flower in the bottle suggest that order has been restored. La Cucaracha, as the flower, has been put in her place by the controlling male. This scene was described by one of the scriptwriters Ricardo Garibay as ‘la secuencia de la entrega’ (García Riera, 1994a, p. 288). Thereby, he is underlining the willingness of her submission. Notwithstanding, the violence employed is troubling. Slaughter suggests that ‘parece justificar la violencia sexual hacia las mujeres y la hace parecer una parte natural del cortejo’ [it seems to justify sexual violence against women and makes it seem like a natural part of seduction] (2010, p. 447). Given the history of screen violence against women this is an issue that is not fully resolved. The next cut brings us outdoors, with La Cucaracha dressed in a colourful skirt and blouse, hand in hand with Zeta. In her other hand she has the flower from the earlier scene. They exchange a few pleasantries with some other soldiers, it is market day and there is an air of festivities. They go for a ‘raspado’ [sorbet]. The message appears to be that she has now been tamed and is a ‘real’ woman. However, there are hints that she is still in control. While having their dessert she plays with the flower, pulling its petals out one by one. She then complements his eyes, ‘me gustan tus ojos coronel. Cuando miraste a Zúñiga eran negros. Y cuando le hablaste a Ventra parecían dos perros. Y anoche brillaban y brillaban. Y ahora están echaditos. Se están riendo’. [I like your eyes colonel. When you looked at Zúñiga they were black. And when you spoke to Ventra they were like two dogs. Last night they shined brightly. Now they are timid. They’re smiling.] He looks down shyly, while she continues to tear the flower apart. The dialogue shows her as the powerful one. The gaze is directed at him not her, reversing the conventional look of the camera. Surprisingly, given the

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obvious unease others have towards her affairs, she draws attention to her past, saying ‘aunque he estado lleno de hombres, ahora voy naciendo’ [eventhough I have been full of men, I am born again]. His only response is, ‘sí, pues, ahora tomase su nieve de flores’ [right so, eat up your sorbet]. It is a clear display of his loss of power, as he is shown in the next scene to be capable of giving Isabel a complement. It could be read as an embarrassed utterance in the face of La Cucaracha’s flattery, or his discomfort at her amorous history. Soon after we see La Cucaracha go down to the river to wash clothes with the other women. They sing a mocking chorus ‘Ya murió La Cucaracha’ [La Cucaracha has died]. To which, she replies, ‘¡Al contrario mi mulada! ¡Ahora es cuando nace! Y más soldadera que ustedes’ [Quite the opposite, girl! I have just been born! And more soldadera than the rest of you]. The idea of rebirth is repeated and suggests that with it a positive change has occurred. There is something oddly masculine in her statement that she is more soldadera than the other women. In particular, how it is performed in this film, as verbalized competitiveness acted upon through violence is represented as a masculine trait. Therefore, La Cucaracha is professing her femininity in a masculine way. The implication is that the feminine La Cucaracha should be read as better, or at least more acceptable to the rest of the troop, than the masculine version. However, Isabel’s femininity is also questionable. La Cucaracha tells her passivity is not of any use to the troop, ‘aquí se pelea o se ayuda a pelear’ [either you fight or you help to fight]. It is an interesting alternative to the masculine/feminine dichotomy. You are either a fighter (soldado) or helper (soldadera), and, until she becomes Zeta’s companion, Isabel is neither. Therefore, Isabel as idealized woman, admired by many of the men, is actually shown to be a burden for the other women. However, La Cucaracha’s new look is short lived; she soon returns to her previous vestments. This happens when Zeta meets an old lover of hers, Valentín Razo, who insults her and demands that Zeta fights him. At first, Zeta refuses and then he is challenged out in the street and feels obliged to defend his own honour, not hers, which he is ambivalent about. She denies knowing Razo. Zeta doubts her, and, as a result of this, and because he feels bad he has killed someone for reasons unconnected to the battlefield, they fight and the relationship falls apart. Before it comes to a definite close, La Cucaracha has returned to her masculine soldado clothes. It is impossible, then, to fix a meaning to this constantly changing attire. If Zeta tamed her in the aforementioned scene, then why does she not remain

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tamed? She is still in love, which should be motivation enough for her to continue to impress him, particularly since it is evident that he is favouring the more ‘feminine’ Isabel. But, she decides to return to soldiering. There are similarities with another cross-dressing film, Queen Christina (Rouben Mamoulian, 1933), in which Greta Garbo plays the eponymous queen. In the beginning of the film Garbo/Queen Christina struts and strides in masculine clothing, taking care of the business of state. To escape the confines of the palace she disguises herself as a gentleman and stays in a country tavern. There she meets the Spanish ambassador, with whom she falls in love. Thereafter, she dresses in feminine clothing; love having softened her. Interestingly, in her autobiography Félix claimed that Garbo was the only actress she really admired, and much of her masculine posturing is reminiscent of Garbo’s (Félix, 2003, pp.  223–4). However, unlike Queen Christina/Garbo, La Cucaracha/Félix returns to her previous riding trousers and shirt, only going back to wearing a dress when she is pregnant. Between the 1930s and 1950s such cross-dressing roles were frequent, not only in Mexico but also elsewhere, as can be seen from Queen Christina. Félix’s career took off after Doña Bárbara where she plays a character who blurs gender binaries by taking on what are understood within the narrative as masculine duties and performativity, such as her violent behaviour towards others. She also played an earlier role as Catalina/Don Alonso in the Spanish film, La monja alférez [the sub-lieutenant nun] (Emilio Gómez Muriel, 1944), where she crossdresses in order to escape a convent and marry her true love. She spends most of the film as Don Alonso as she flees Spain to recover her father’s testament in Peru and thus to provide herself with economic independence before she can marry her childhood sweetheart, Don Juan (José Cibrián). However, the film does not just play with physical appearance for much of the drama, it also challenges essentialist notions of gender. From childhood her ‘naturaleza’ [nature] to ‘hacer machorradas’ [do boys things] is encouraged by her father who teaches her to ride horses and to fence, both are skills that stand to her in her later adventures in Peru. Félix’s cross-dressing roles are not unique nor were they reserved for those set during the Revolution. They were part of a larger anxiety over women’s changing roles in society. Clothes in La Cucaracha signify shifting roles. La Cucuracha is variously: A soldier/prostitute, lover, soldier again and mother. While there are allusions to her performing male and female roles, her sexuality and gender are not proscribed by these clothes. According to Marjorie Garber, ‘[i]f transvestism

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offers a critique of binary sex and gender distinctions, it is not because it simply makes such distinctions reversible but because it denaturalizes, destabilizes, and defamiliarizes sex and gender signs’ (1992, p. 147, emphasis hers). Clothing is the external expression of gender. In La Cucaracha the changes in clothing challenge normative and essentialist gender assumptions, and simultaneously draw attention to them. Wardrobe, used as a visual cue to character development, is shown as a means of achieving greater freedoms for both La Cucaracha and Isabel. Voice is another marker of femininity and masculinity that is crucial to the film. Changes were made to voice in a way that is not evident to the audience. Emilio ‘el indio’ Fernández, a reknowned director and actor who plays Zeta, had his voice dubbed. This dubbing was common as, according to Dolores Tierney, ‘Fernández’s own, high voice was in some way incommensurate not just with his public persona but also with the redefinition of masculinity in the postRevolution era’ (2007, p. 104). Many of his films, in particular his collaborations with Figueroa, have a distinctive aesthetic and tackle narratives of national resonance. In addition, he was infamous off-screen for his hypermasculine behaviour as a womanizer, drinker and brawler. When imagining her child’s future, La Cucaracha wishes that her child will have a voice like that of his/her father’s, emphasizing its masculine qualities. This could be a playful, knowing in-joke by the scriptwriters, however, it coheres with the ideas about masculinity that are presented on screen in the dialogue. In addition, Félix has a low timbre voice. Therefore, in order to set up an opposition between her and the male star, his voice must be considerably deeper. Fernández’s voice was dubbed to correspond to his appearance and to ensure that there was sufficient contrast with his hypermasculine presence onscreen as well as Félix’s sometimes ‘masculine’ performance. Voice and how it is perceived are dependent on a multiplicity of factors including performance, audience expectations, directorial style, technical decisions (such as miking, post-production mixes and so on), the star persona, class, gender and the physical make-up of individuals (see McCallion, 1988; Chion, 1999; Van Leeuwen, 2009). Both Félix and Fernández had high profile star texts outside of the cinema. Fernández was a volatile person who had many troubled relationships and was known for his heavy drinking, womanizing and violence (see Taibo I, 1986). This contributed to his presentation as a hypermasculine individual. Yet, his voice, as can be heard in an interview with him in 1976, was soft, markedly northern Mexican in its inflections,

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and working class.5 In film, he was dubbed by an (uncredited) actor who had a deep, resonant, neutral accent unmarked by regionality. The dubbing of Fernández is invisible. The contemporary audience are unlikely to have been aware of his actual voice, because television was only just gaining ground at this time, and his cinema voice was consistent at this point. He was equipped with a voice that was ‘appropriate’ (Chion, 1999, p. 132) to his physique and one that asserted his masculinity through aural dominance when acting alongside Félix. For Eduardo de la Vega Alfaro, after La Cucaracha Félix ‘became the new symbol of the revolutionary soldier, which was exploited to the point of satiation in several films portraying the starlet during this time’ (Hershfield and Maciel, 1999, p. 185). Again, this is another critic eager to dismiss Félix’s performances as merely disposable populism. As discussed in Chapter 1, La Cucaracha became a by word for Revolutionary melodramas and, despite the considerable losses at the box office for the studios due to the expense of the production, it has had enduring value as one of the notable roles performed by Félix.

Juana Gallo (Miguel Zacarías, 1960) Juana Gallo is another film which plays with role reversals. The protagonist, Ángela Ramos’ (a heroine of the Revolution played by Félix) father and fianceé are killed by the Federal army. In revenge she changes her name to Juana Gallo, takes up arms and leads an army. In the first act, and nearly single-handedly, she defeats and rounds up the federal army and, in a rousing speech she convinces all but Captain Guillermo Velarde (Jorge Mistral) to join her in battle to fight for Mexico, concluding, ‘somos todos mexicanos’ [we are all Mexican], repeatedly, thereby making national identity co-terminous with the subsequent winning side. After several illegal moves by the federalists, and a key battle, Velarde decides to join Juana’s side. In a raid Juana is seriously wounded, and Velarde tends to her wounds, helping her to hide from the enemy. He tells her, ‘aguantarse como macho’ [suck it up like a man], when he is removing the bullet, which she does by not shouting out when in pain. He nurses her back to health, which is, as I have previously mentioned, a role normally associated with soldaderas in the war. She evolves from peasant to soldier, and he from soldier to the role of soldadera. While they are in hiding it provides them with the opportunity to get romantically involved.

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Her army joins that of another alongside Arturo Ceballos Rico (Luis Aguilar). On first meeting her, Ceballos mocks her batallion, ‘[u]n tajo de machos dejandose mandar por unas naguas’ [a bunch of men letting themselves be ordered around by a petticoat] and, soon after, ‘¿Qué clase de hombres serán que se dejan de mandar por unas naguas?’ [what sort of men let themselves be ordered around by a set of petticoats?]. The humour in this scene is understood to be directed at Ceballos’s foolish insistence that as a female she cannot fight or lead a troop in battle. For the audience, Juana has already shown her prowess in battle, and soon demonstrates to Ceballos that she has good strategic skills, thereby winning his respect. Although, he is articulating a typical macho attitude and in many ways is an archetypal macho character (proud of his sexual and military conquests), his mockery rings hollow in the face of Juana’s superior skills. Later, he is happy to serve under her in battle. Therefore, his evolving relationship with her, and recognition of her skills deliberately deconstructs stereotypical macho attitudes to women. Ceballos also develops feelings for Juana. Interestingly, then, the film is clearly critiquing Mexican macho posturing and celebrating a strong female role. Juana’s power over men is shown in her romantic relationship. Velarde is moved to join another batallion, and she demands that he be returned. At this, rather than express happiness to be alongside the woman he loves, Velarde feels emasculated and repeats the taunts of the others that he is ‘protegida de una mujer [. . .] el mayor gallina’ [protected by a woman [. . .] mayor chicken]. Rather than upheld, his wallowing self-pity is represented as negative and selfdefeating. He turns his attentions to a French prostitute, Ninón (Christiane Martel). This move radically suggests that ideal womanhood can be found in the usually much maligned figure of the prostitute, rather than one of the women fighting loyally in the Revolution. Consequently, Juana goes to the bordello, Le Chat Noir to have it out with Ninón. Juana asks her about Velarde. To which Ninón replies, ‘yo tengo cientos de enamorados’ [I have hundreds of lovers]. This statement leaves us in no doubt that she is a prostitute. Juana replies, ‘y, ¿no tiene verguenza?’ [and, are you not ashamed?]. Ninón’s response is quite a radical statement and equates both women’s choices as equally valid, ‘no es cuestión de verguenza sino oficio. El oficio de usted es matar hombres lo mío es hacerlos felices’ [it’s not a question of shame, but of occupation. Your job is to kill men, mine is to please them]. This is a considerable departure in the context of a film industry which produced numerous caberateras, films about dancers and prostitutes, whose protagonists entertained the viewer with spectacular

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dance sequences, but invariably ended in tragedy and punishment. The film is equating fighting in the Revolution with prostitution and suggests that both are positive roles for women. Ninón then tells Juana, ‘que ojos tan bellos . . . pone obstáculos a la naturaleza en vez de ayudarla’ [what beautiful eyes you have . . . you put obstacles in the way of nature instead of helping it out]. From this, Juana concludes that she is lacking in feminine guiles. Ninón’s essentialist declaration explicitly states that Juana is behaving and dressing against nature, which is then followed by a comic sequence where Juana is dressed up and attempts are made to teach her to walk in heels. These fail. She laughs, ‘hijo, que trabajo cuesta ser catrina’ [man, what a lot of work it takes to be elegant]. She gets frustrated with trying to walk on the boots. Rather than suggest that Juana’s inability to walk in heels is her failing, the film appears to suggest that such activities are more difficult and mysterious than the masculine world of warfare. All this is also playing with Félix’s offscreen persona. She was reknowned for her glamour both off-screen and on (see de la Garza, 2011). Some of the humour in the scene is the absurdity of Félix not being able to walk in high heels. This scene cuts to another where Ceballos is speaking to the generals, with whom Juana is due to meet. One says, ‘[d]icen que es una mujer extraordinaria’ [they say that she is an extraordinary woman]. To which Ceballos replies, ‘mujer, esta no es una mujer es una cabra serrante’ [woman, that’s no woman it’s a mountain goat]. They laugh. Then, ominous music is heard suggesting her arrival at the door. The generals appear startled. Ceballos, with his back to the door continues to chuckle. He sees their faces and turns around. He stands up, visibly does a double take, then moves his head up and down as if taking in the sight of her. As this is a three shot, his surprise contrasts with the other two men’s obvious arousal. Then, cut to Juana in the doorway wearing an elaborate white ballgown. She stands for a moment and we, like the men on screen, are given a beat to contemplate her. In a nod to the earlier scene, she pulls up her dress to reveal her riding boots beneath. As if to emphasize the point, Ceballos stares down at the boots. She then sits down, legs wide and discusses strategy with the generals. The clothing has not changed her role nor her negotiation skills in the meeting. Through her movements, it is evident that she is uncomfortable in the gown. In conventional filmic narratives this moment should be one in which the character realizes that she must assume proper feminine vestiges. According to Barbara Creed ‘[t]he liminal journey of the tomboy  – one of the few rites of passage stories available to women in the cinema – is a narrative about the

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forging of the proper female identity’ (Creed, 1995, p. 96) where she must reject ‘virile’ ways in order to become a woman otherwise she is in danger of becoming a lesbian. This is not the case in this film. Juana’s sexuality is never in doubt in Juana Gallo, despite her never satisfactorily resolving her gender ambiguous behaviour. She is not seen in the ‘feminine’ clothes again. Interestingly, she does not try to win Velarde back through this ‘feminine’ form of cross-dressing. He is not in attendance at the meeting. In fact, it is the moment in which she asks for him to be returned to her battalion. Therefore, he is emasculated when she is dressed in the most feminine attire. The dressing up in highly feminine clothing can be compared to a sort of cross-dressing. Taibo I has said of Juana Gallo ‘Los guionistas no resisten la tentación de disfrazar a María de hombre’ [the scriptwriters couldn’t resist dressing María as a man] (Taibo I, 2004, p.  399). They also could not resist putting her in female drag for comic effect. The final act is concerned with the battle at Zacatecas, presented in a factual style with intertitles informing us of events and duration. It is described as ‘el combate decisivo entre la libertad y la tiranía’ [the decisive battle between freedom and tyranny]. All the while the principal concern is with the relationship between Juana and Velarde. They are side-by-side in battle. Ceballos is shot down, and asks for a kiss, Juana consents, Velarde sees this and runs into battle and, almost immediately, is killed in an explosion. The final sequence mixes Juana’s sorrow at his graveside, with a repeat of a speech delivered by Velarde earlier on the aims of the Revolution, intercut with images of contemporary Mexico City: The UNAM, murals, the Olympic stadium, panoramic views of the city and so on; and others of Juana riding off, head held high, but in mourning. The ending is a lament at the losses in the Revolution and a celebration of its achievements through a priista lens. As de la Colina, in a review of the film on its release, stated: en el final de Juana Gallo se nos muestran algunas fotografías de los resultados de la Revolución: enormes presas, soleadas carreteras, ciudades universitarias, etcétera. Algunos inconformes notaron la ausencia de braceros abandonando los campos, de manifestaciones agredidas por los ganaderos, de presos políticos, de ferrocarrileros despedidos de su trabajo y de concentraciones promovidas por el clero político. ¡Oh, bueno, por muchos deseos que se tengan, no es posible darle gusto a todos! [at the end of Juana Gallo we are shown a few photographs of the results of the Revolution: enormous resevoirs, sunny highways, university campuses,

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etc. Some picky types noted the absence of migrants leaving the countryside, disgruntled protests by farmers, political prisoners, train workers fired from their jobs and meetings organised by the political organisers. Oh well, however much you try, you cannot please everyone!]. (García Riera, 1994b, p. 207)

His criticism lies with the film’s alliance with contemporary PRI politics and its failure to challenge these. As with other films starring Félix, la revolución podía ser para el cine mexicano un llamativo espectáculo en colores con María Félix en el centro y todo lo demás girando en torno de ella, Miguel Zacarías resolvió llevar el hallazgo a sus últimas consecuencias: la ‘estrella’ sería ya de una vez el símbolo de la revolución misma. [The Revolution could be for Mexican cinema a full colour spectacle with María Félix at the centre of it all, Zacarias decided to take his discovery to its ultimate consequences: the star would become the very symbol of the revolution]. (García Riera, 1994b, p. 204)

It is usual in Revolutionary films, for the woman to be equated with the Revolution. Most usually she is a capable combatant, but not a leader. For example, in Pancho Villa y La Valentina (Ismael Rodríguez, 1958), which tells the story of the relationship between Villa and La Valentina in the final episode in the film. La Valentina is a good shot, an able horsewoman, and attractive. In the dialogue attention is drawn to how unusual this combination is. However, once she becomes romantically involved with Villa, she no longer gets involved in armed combat. She is the Revolution as a seductive and feisty figure and associated with danger. In contrast, Juana is both leader of men and only very problematically a symbol of the Revolution. She has many of the characteristics of other women equated with the Revolution, hence the curious mix in others of hypermasculine and hyperfeminine elements. But, as protagonist, this is her story therefore she must represent more than just the Revolution and, as evidenced in his lucid and rousing speech on the Revolution, Velarde takes up the role as representative of the Revolution in Juana Gallo. The source of the story was that of a real individual. However, on seeing the film, the real ‘Juana’ (Angela) said to Félix: La película que usted hizo fue una cosa sucia. Yo no tomaba ni una gota de licor y no bailaba con los soldados. Yo era una generala, señora. Además, yo no chupaba puros. Ahora la gente ya no me tiene estima por causa de esa película tan llena de mentiras.

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The ‘original’ Juana asserts herself as a ‘good’ woman, who did not indulge in masculine behaviour such as drinking and smoking, and felt affronted by this ‘sucia’ [dirty] version of her life story. Curiously, in the film Juana doesn’t smoke cigars nor dance with soldiers. Perhaps, both are shorthand for the complex mixture of masculine posturing and multiple male suitors that she has in the film. Her romantic entanglements are limited to Velarde, who rejects her not because she is powerful, but because she is over-protective and breaks a promise not to have him moved. Velarde and Juana have a bitter fight in which he tells her that when she became Juana Gallo, thus leaving behind her original name Ángela Ramos, ‘dejo de ser mujer’ [stopped being a woman]. At this, she slaps him in the face, he turns away and leaves. His words appear intended to hurt her, in order to express his wounded pride, rather than a reflection of how she is perceived by others. For example, her right hand man, Pioquinto (Ignacio López Tarso), continues to gaze at her longingly and pays a band to serenade her. In the end, evidently out of jealousy, both Pioquinto and Velarde race into battle in a suicide bid, when they see her kiss Ceballos as he is on death’s door. Juana is, like La Cucaracha, a synergistic character, blending power plays normally associated with masculinity with feminine attractiveness, more usually aligned with passivity. A recurrent song in the film, ‘Eres buena o eres mala’ [you are good or bad], linked to Juana, suggests that there is greater polarization than there is in her character, ‘tu lo mismo das un beso que das una puñalada/no tienes términos medios/eres buena o eres mala’ [you can either kiss or punch/ there is no middle ground/you are good or bad]. This either or position is never evident in her character. She is neither fixedly masculine nor feminine, good nor bad, violent nor passive. Just as her clothing is a mixture of masculine elements (holster, riding boots, shirt) and feminine (skirt, watch on a chain worn as a necklace), so too is her character. Like La Cucaracha, there is greater ambiguity and nuance in Juana Gallo than it is normally credited with. Both La Cucaracha and Juana Gallo have their origins in corridos, Mexican folk ballads. Like the characters in the corridos, the two women are shown to be exceptional rather than typical. María Herrera-Sobek gives the reason for this in relation to corridos, which rings true for their transferral onto film,

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‘[a] patriarchal society such as Mexico’s could not readily accept the fighting woman as reality was presenting her. She was therefore rarely if ever the subject of heroic corridos’ (1993, p. 103). When this was the case, [t]wo alternatives were presented to the balladeer aside from completely ignoring women’s involvement in the conflict: to neutralize the woman by making her a love object and thus presenting her in a less threatening manner or to transform the soldadera in a mythic figure. (Herrera-Sobek, 1993, pp. 103–4)

La Cucaracha and Juana Gallo are mythic figures in both the corridos and the films. However, in the case of La Cucaracha, rather than continue her fight, she becomes tamed by motherhood. In contrast, Juana Gallo retains her position as a leader. The last scene shows her riding off accompanied by a few soldiers, presumably into another battle. Just as with the ballad, the film ‘no longer bases its narrative on actual verifiable events but on the deification and glorification of the soldadera as legend, as a human being, larger than life’ (Herrera-Sobek, 1993, p. 110). This is where the problem lies, as, by emphasizing her exceptionality, it dissembles and hides the fact that there were many other female combatants in the Revolution.

La Bandida La Bandida (Roberto Rodríguez, 1962)  contrasts with La Cucaracha and Juana Gallo in its gender representation. It takes up the other side of the model proposed by Herrera-Sobek, that of woman as love object. Whereas, the woman as love object in corridos is typified by the figure of La Adelita, a romanticized, ‘good’ woman, who cares and tends to her soldier companion, and for whom he is fighting, in this film Félix plays a prostitute, María/La Bandida, represented as a ‘bad’ woman.6 The film focuses on a love triangle, which, at times, dwells more on the homosocial relationship between the two men (see Kosofsky Sedgwick, 1985). The film opens with two Revolutionary generals: Roberto Herrero (Pedro Armendáriz), a Villista and Epigmenio Gómez (Emilio ‘Indio’ Fernández) a Zapatista, fighting one another, only to have their battle interrupted with the news that Madero has called for peace. They then lay down arms against each other. Over the course of the narrative, cockfights ensue, and the two opponents confront each other srepeatedly, but with an evident mutual respect.

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On being found in bed with another, La Bandida is abandoned by Roberto and she goes to work in a brothel. She leads a rebellion against the Spanish-born madam of the brothel ‘La Gallega’, and takes charge of it herself. This takeover is accompanied by ‘La marcha de Zacatecas’ [the Zacatecas march], a celebratory song which was also used in the final battle scene in Juana Gallo, a battle which marked a major victory for the Villistas. Taibo I suggests that the director/ scriptwriter of this film is asking the audience to celebrate her patriotic move to nationalize prostitution (2004, p. 412). The fight to organize the prostitutes is accompanied by taunts aimed at La Gallega’s Spanish nationality. This is reflective of an underlying theme of nationalism interspersed throughout the film. Roberto visits the brothel, paying attention to other women to make La Bandida jealous and hurt her feelings. María/La Bandida repeatedly provokes Roberto and flirts with Epigmenio in an attempt to make Roberto jealous so that he will take her back. The sparring continues between the two men and, in turn, between La Bandida and Roberto. There are three cockfights in La Bandida, where Epigmenio and Roberto spar their competing birds and the fights serve to reveal their evolving relationship. These cockfights have many layers of meaning. In part, they are another opportunity to indulge in a moment of nationalistic pride. Epigmenio’s treasured bird, which he carries everywhere and is the winner of the first bout, is ‘del país’ [Mexican], while Roberto’s is foreign bred. The cocks are also significant for what they represent in the symbolic field. In Revolutionary corridos the cock was used as a metaphor for a ‘fighter, someone who is brave and aggressive in the face of danger’ (Herrera-Sobek, 1993, p. 111). Therefore, the two men literally fight each other as well as doing so metaphorically through their birds. The origin of the cock has obvious resonances and is a heightened display of their masculinity and valour. La Bandida arrives at the fight amid many whistles and catcalls, such as ‘¡Ésta sí es hembra! No como la que tengo en mi casa’ [there’s a real woman! Not like the one I have at home], which she delights in. This excessive show of male attention denotes her status as a hyperfeminized woman. That she is more woman than the rest is also denoted through her wardrobe, which stands out as full of a wide range of brightly coloured, sequined dresses which reflect the light and sparkle. Sequined ballgowns are associated with a stylized form of dressing that is often employed by drag queens to create a hyperfeminine performative style. This deliberate use of costume in La Bandida is another way Félix shines out as a glamorous, feminine star.

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At this cockfight, La Bandida meets Epigmenio for the first time and backs his cock in order to rile Roberto. Under the spotlight of all in attendance at the arena, the well-known corrido, ‘La Bandida’ is sung to her. This corrido draws attention to her physical attributes and her reputation as a cruel seductress. The camera pulls in to soft focus and extreme close-ups at key moments in the song to highlight her beauty, her emotions or the interrelationship between the two. For example, the lines, ‘Su pelo sedoso refleja la muerte/Y en sus labios rojos, hay una mentira/Con ella se gana o se pierde la vida/por algo le llaman María La Bandida’ [her silky hair reflects death/and in her red lips there is a lie/with her you win or lose your life/there’s a reason she’s called María La Bandida], are accompanied by a close-up of her face. This not only draws the viewer in and invites him/her to consider her attractiveness, but also to reflect on whether her face actually reveal these damning statements. There are signs that contradict and undermine the lyrics, such as her trembling lips and tears in her eyes, which implies that she has more emotional depth than the song allows. In turn, this suggests a wider message, that there are multiple truths to what is knowable about another. In the next cockfight, someone cheats, and feeds Epigmenio’s cock pellets, weighing him down and causing him to lose. This is not his most prized rooster, but there is a falling out between the two men as Epigmenio wrongly accuses Roberto of cheating. This fight is preceded by another song, ‘Dos hombres bragados’ [Two indomitable men]. The lines ‘[s]on dos hombres bragados/ hombres iguales/y el cielo los puso de rivals/Herrero el norteño/Gómez el suriano/se juegan sus amores estilo mexicano’ [they are two indomitable men/ men who are alike/and the heavens have made them rivals/Herrero from the north/Gómez from the south/they play their loves the Mexican way] establish the two as powerful men, pitched against one another in love and war. The last line, ‘son como sus gallos dispuestos a morir’ [they are like two cocks prepared to die], draws out the connection between the birds and their owners. It can be interpreted as a play on the word ‘gallo’ [cocks] meaning both the literal bird and the metaphorical warrior in the tradition of the corrido. This song also acts as a retelling of the intertitle after the credits, which stated, ‘[e]ra el año de 1912 época en que los hombres sabían morir por un ideal o por el amor de una mujer . . .’ [It was the year 1912, a time when men knew how to die for an ideal or for the love of a woman . . .], evidently, the Revolution is now an either/or situation. Idealism and love are interchangeable, and both are key to the Revolution.

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It is this concept, rather than its setting or any grand battle scenes, that makes La Bandida a Revolutionary film. It is set during a small period of reprieve in battle, when Francisco I. Madero (1873–1913), as president, called for a stay on war which continued up to the time he was assassinated, when there was a return to fighting. This is the Revolution as a hard fought battle for the love of a woman. Interestingly, this time woman as symbol of the Revolution is a prostitute, who, from the corrido has a reputation as a cruel heart breaker. Although, as we see from her suffering and emotional turmoil as she tries to win Roberto back, this reputation is clearly not to be believed. La Bandida is a remake, and, like Juana Gallo, based on the life story of a real person, María Gracía, who was ‘una prostituta convertida por el pueblo mexicano en mito y ejemplo. Autora de canciones y figura pendenciera, ha pasado al folklorismo nacional hasta terminar irremediablemente, en el cine’ [a prostitute turned by the Mexican people into myth and example. She was author of many songs and a penitentiary figure, who passed into national folklore until she inevitably ended up on screen] (Taibo I, 2004, p. 410). He continues: La Bandida permite a los argumentistas de nuestro cine vengarse de la mujer que ha venido riéndose del machismo nacional; de nuevo el macho que escribe guiones del cine llama a María para que lo libre de tanto complejo arrastrado a lo largo de la vida. [In the figure of La Bandida our scriptwriters could revenge themselves on women who laughed at Mexican machismo; again the macho who wrote scripts called on María so that he could be freed from all of the complexes he carried around all of his life]. (Taibo I, 2004, p. 410)

For Taibo I, the film turns the Revolution into ‘un siniestro juego de borrachos, asesinos y prostitutas’ (2004, p. 413) [a sinister collection of drunks, murderers and prostitutes]. While, in Salvador Elizondo’s opinion, La Bandida follows a moralizing tradition, citing Federico Gamboa’s Santa and Émile Zola’s writing as antecedents, where the life of a prostitute is represented as ‘la vida de burdel a través de sus iniciaciones precarias, sus momentos de Gloria, y su final agrio’ [the life in a bordello through its precarious beginnings, its moments of glory and its bitter end] (Taibo I, 2004, p. 414). In the film, La Bandida is a glamorous, dangerous, attractive woman, in contrast with her two suitors who are honest, macho warriors. There are heightened gendered performances and divisions between the sexes in La Bandida, which means that the Revolution becomes

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a play of hypermasculinities (the two men) contrasted with La Bandida’s hyperfemininity. The final cockfight is a more sombre affair with no musical interlude and is a rematch of the two roosters from the first. Epigmenio interrupts the fight to save his cock from death and thereby declares himself the loser. With the parallels drawn between the action in the fights and the men’s fates this would suggest that his life is now at risk. The fight is used as a commentary on the rest of the narrative, but also a mode of building tension. The musical interludes comment on the narrative and preface the events to come. However, the songs do not act as omniscient narrator, as the lyrics are often more a reflection of public opinion and do not recount the individualized story. Therefore, the film, which takes its title and inspiration from a corrido, implies that there are more nuanced truths to an individual’s life story (in this case La Bandida’s) than a corrido can fully explore. Critic Francisco Piña, writing in 1963, believes that the film demonstrates ‘El machismo, el chovinismo, la irresponsabilidad, el retraso mental y otras lacras se acusan fuertemente en los fantochescos personajes de esta película lamentable que nos ofrece una falsa imagen de México’ (Taibo I, 2004, p. 415) [machismo, chauvinism, irresponsibility, mental backwardness and other flaws make up the ghostly characters of this pitiful film which gives a false image of Mexico]. This may be a false image of Mexico, for Piña, however, it is a playing out of an extreme form of machismo, which is revealed to be destructive and, ultimately, doomed. In the end, after many attempts, including an amicable round of Russian roulette, the men decide they must have a duel. Roberto, the most impetuous, fiery and violent of the two men, dies, leaving La Bandida alone and heartbroken. The film which, for the most part, celebrates this macho culture of cockfights, brawling and Revolutionary battles, represents it as a destructive force with no future. In this vein there is a particularly disturbing seduction sequence where La Bandida goes to Roberto to ask him to forget his stubborn behaviour and pride, and request that he rekindle their relationship. He refuses to countenance her suggestion, despite the fact that he drinks, gambles and carouses, we are told, in order to forget her, and has just been listening to their song, ‘llegando a ti’ [coming to you]. There are similarities with the earlier scene from La Cucaracha, although the violence is more brutal here. They argue, he slaps her with his hand and then beats her with a whip. They then embrace, the camera pans right to a window, the light outside changes from night to day and the camera pans left to find the two in bed. This is a representation of Lawrence Kramer’s theory

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that ‘[b]oth men and women alike are enjoined to construct heterosexual gender identities based on a mercurial love-hate relationship to whatever is understood as femininity. Violence simply transcribes this attitude as action’ (1997, p.  1). Violence is represented as a normalized means of controlling a woman who has transgressed social norms. Her acceptance, shown in a close up on her face, which shows no anger, just sorrow, reinforces this normalization. Roberto then tells her that it is the last time they can be together, saying, ‘[c]ada vez que te acaricio siento que no soy yo, que soy los otros y ya no lo aguanto’ [every time I touch you I feel that I am not me, that I’m one of the others and I cannot stand it]. His statement is an interesting displacement of the self. He is projecting himself onto this multitude of other men, who he imagines have touched her, and disappears into this jealousy. In this scene there is a build up of tension in their fight, and then a violent explosion, which is its release. Félix’s specularized body and glamorous star presence exonerate the violence performed upon her. Through the use of three point lighting, costume, framing and visual spectacle (such as some song and dance set pieces) she is established as a glamorous figure and can be read as high femme. Much is made of her physical attributes, and the costumes she wears are a form of reverse crossdressing. Félix as La Bandida is hyperfeminine, which serves to contrast with the hypermasculinity of the male leads. This film was made towards the end of what was a long career in which cross-dressing was common, such as in Juana Gallo and La Cucuracha. To parallel the scene in which she cannot walk in high heels in Juana Gallo with her performance in La Bandida, (and indeed her glamorous public persona) serves to illustrate the self-consciousness of any gender signs assumed by Félix. La Bandida can also be contrasted with another Revolutionary film, Café Colón (Benito Alazraki, 1958), starring Félix as Mónica, a nightclub singer and Armendáriz as a Zaptatista General, Sebastián Robles. This time the tension in the film lies between the pull of the pleasures and relative comfort of the city, on the one hand, and the more noble cause of fighting in the Revolution, on the other. Where first Mónica seduces Robles and wants him to stay in the city, she soon realizes that the Revolution is more important and exchanges her glamorous dresses and jewels for arms. By the end of the film she happily takes on the role of the soldadera, as an active combatant and companion to the general. Café Colón fits more neatly into the caberatera genre, with its moralizing tone and inevitable message that all of these riches acquired through satisfying her and others desires are ill-gotten, and therefore must be met with punishment or

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at least disavowed. This is a more muted representation of her life as a nightclub singer, compared to the glamour and bawdiness of life as a prostitute in La Bandida, and Mónica never assumes the masculine attire evident in Juana Gallo and La Cucaracha. Café Colón contrasts with the three films discussed in this chapter, if not because it is more realist, but as one which does not push the limits of gender performativity as the others do.

Conclusion All three films discussed in detail here draw on corridos as a source and powerful referent. Music is used as an easy shorthand to conjure popular representations of the Revolution. The symbols, figures and archetypes of the corridos are well known to a wide audience and are both played with and expanded upon in each of the films. The audience is interpolated into the plot through the use of such a popular form. The films are making use of an imagined Revolution to create an alternative version, exploring what the Revolution means in the contemporary context. Meaning is also further loaded with the use of stars, in particular Félix, who through the films came to embody the Revolution itself and became shorthand for a particular style of studio film of the Revolution both for the audience and critics. Félix, like many stars, is never simply just what can be seen on screen, she must be read in the context of her star status, which includes her past work. Félix’s star status; her public persona, where she was read as a high femme and her portrayal in the films with mixed gender codes or conflicting gender bending outward displays, suggest other readings than what may, at first, seem obvious, in what have been dismissed as conventional, archly conservative popular melodramas. Félix’s Revolutionary films cross many boundaries of gender and genre. The independent women she portrays may be represented as exceptional, but it shows that an alternative to the compliant, self-sacrificing woman is possible, and challenges the notion that sexual independence must necessarily lead to a woman’s downfall.7 The ending of all the films suggests some sort of punishment or restitution of Félix’s character to her conventional role in society. However, this is an instance of where ‘identification between character and star persona was so marked in her films [that it] continuously invited the audience to draw from their extradiegetic knowledge to undermine the narrative’ (de la Garza, 2011). The

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narrative may be resolved so that ‘society didn’t feel threatened’ while for most of the duration of the film text the story had engaged in a kind of ‘paradox. It both held women in social bondage and released them into a dream of potency and freedom’ allowing them to explore the possibilities and potentialities of a powerful woman on screen (Basinger, 1993, p.  6). Félix was the star who embodied this transgressive woman most often during this period. Michael Nelson Miller celebrates Félix as ‘breaking new ground beyond the confines of the traditional home. In everything she did, she communicated to a fascinated public that women could also live free from the existing social conventions’ (1998, p.  164). Many critics have condemned the Revolutionary films in which she starred, dismissing them as poor representations of Mexico. However, they contain new ways of representing Mexican women in what was a very popular form. This visibility is important as it reaches a wider audience, thereby increasing its sphere of influence. The popularity of films with such transgressive gender roles was part of what irked the critics of the time, which has resulted in their subsequent neglect. The gender synergies evident in the film draw attention to and denaturalize gender roles. As, according to Dyer, ‘crossdressing and play on sexual roles can be seen as a way of heightening the fact that the sex roles are only roles and not innate or instinctual personal features’ (2004, pp. 58–9, emphasis his). Félix, through what are anti-essentialist performances, has helped challenge normative gender behaviour in Mexico. Number three in Paulo Antonio Paranaguá’s ‘Ten Reasons to Love or Hate Mexican Cinema’, is ‘[t]he figure of the mother and the whore haunt the dreams of Latin Americans with a Mexican accent’(1995, p. 4). For him, the exception is Félix, ‘a woman whose personality was so strong that she was able to appropriate generic mechanisms and to turn traditional roles upside down’ (Paranaguá, 1995, p.  6). It is easy to dismiss the roles she performed as non-realistic and inauthentic, as many critics have done, but that would be to judge films under terms of reference that are not relevant to the genre. Her last Revolutionary film, La Generala (Juan Ibáñez, 1966), was a disaster on a lot of fronts, particularly financially and aesthetically. The plot is absurd. It includes an incestuous relationship, a love triangle representing the class struggle, a bizarre surrealistic dream sequence and Félix dressed in late 1960sstyle leather outfits. Other characters include a screaming madwoman and a mute dwarf sidekick, all set amidst brutally violent plot elements. Unlike her other films discussed in this chapter, which are about a heightened, more glamorous representation of reality, La Generala brought realism into a genre

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removed from the brutal, bloody and oppositional reality of war in the films made by the generation of filmmakers I shall consider in the next chapter. The war Félix fought in her Revolutionary melodramas was one that played out the tensions between the genders as well as challenging the very rigid definitional categories of what it means to be a man or a woman in Mexico.

Notes 1 Gender synergy is defined by Kramer (1997) as the displacement of power and reconfiguring of gender performances. 2 For more on her current popularity see, Thornton (2010). 3 Philippe’s is a book of photographs of Félix taken from the screen and her private life, copies of paintings of her and photographs of one of her houses. While Samper’s is a précis of Félix’s autobiography, with an extra chapter which gives a brief summary of her life after 1975, where the autobiography ends, and up to her death. 4 She also had a role in the TV series ‘La Constitución’ in 1969. 5 The interview took place with him while he was in jail for six months for murder: ‘Entrevista al Indio Fernández en la carcel por Guillermo Perez Verduzco’, GPerezVerduzcoTV http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0BuWHRWsc4k, last accessed 3 July 2012. 6 For an analysis of the ‘La Adelita’ corrido, see Herrera-Sobek, 1993, 104–8. 7 Examples of such narratives are extensive in Mexican film, La mujer del Puerto (Arcady Boytler, 1934), Remolino (Gilberto Gazcón, 1961) and El callejón de los milagros (Jorge Fons, 1995) are three that fit within this genre.

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Star-studded films may have brought the Revolution to a general audience eager for light entertainment, but, towards the end of the 1960s, a new Revolution was being shown on screen. One of the first of this new style was La soldadera (José Bolaños, 1966), which follows the experiences of Lazara (Silvia Pinal) during the Revolution. She is a soldadera, as it is conventionally understood: She follows her partner into war and stays on after he dies to cook, nurse, carry arms and, when needed, to fight as a foot soldier. Bolaños had been one of the scriptwriters of La Cucaracha and had adapted La soldadera from an eponymous segment of Eisenstein’s ¡Que viva México! (1933) that was never filmed (Slaughter, 2010, p. 450). In contrast to María Félix’s various embodiments of a powerful female in the Revolution, Lazara’s lot is subject to forces outside of her control, that is, her partner(s) and the conflict. If the women fight, as one character comments, ‘porque estos [hombres] se pelean’ [because these [men] do], men do so out of hunger. War is not glorious. Lazara suffers in misery, and there is little solidarity among the women as they all struggle to survive. This film uses a variety of techniques to suggest at the futility of the Revolution: It has a sparse style; the camera is at eye-level, generally avoiding the celebratory low level shots often used in earlier films; travelling shots reveal dusty, war torn, ragged human beings and has a circular form, beginning at the same point as it ends observing a train move through the landscape. The narrative shows the losses endured as Lazara sees her home town destroyed and she loses two men in battle. It is evident from La soldadera that the violent Revolution was no longer to be celebrated, and that women’s roles in it were more complicated than those represented in the films starring Félix where she was shown leading men into battle amid glorious songs

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of success on the battlefield. La soldadera was an early example of new ways of seeing the Revolution which moved towards an experimental, questioning, challenging style that would be part of a dramatic shift in filmmaking in Mexico. As examined in the previous chapter, the big budget Revolutionary films reached their peak in 1958 with the star vehicle La Cucaracha (Ismael Rodríguez) and had declined with La Generala (Juan Ibáñez, 1966). The former was the most expensive film made up to that date and was the beginning of the end of the studio-made Revolutionary film. La Generala was to mark its end. Subsequent to the downturn in the film industry, the studios were no longer interested in backing big budget films set during the Revolution. Partly in reaction to these expensive, often celebratory films, and, also, lacking the strong financial leverage of the studios, independent films set during the Revolution in the 1960s and 1970s were smaller, had stories which were more focused on individuals rather than having the popular army as key characters and, interestingly, were critical rather than supportive of both the current regime and the Revolution itself. There were two factors which had left a considerable imprimatur on the new generation to emerge in the 1960s and 1970s: The film school and the student movement of 1968. Whereas previous generations had received their training through an apprenticeship model regulated by a closed union system, this new generation of filmmakers had trained at university, not only in Mexico but also in France, the USSR and elsewhere. University training focuses on intellectual and theoretical knowledge as much as technical skills and encourages students to consider filmmaking outside of the national scope. This meant that the filmmakers had a strong awareness of current international trends and movements and had the opportunity to forge strong relationships with their peers as artists at a key moment both politically and culturally. As it was internationally, in Mexico, 1968 was a moment of fervent political activity and cultural change. It was a time for active student engagement in politics. They held frequent protests, which resulted in a terrible response by the government: The massacre of students on the second of October 1968 in Tlatelolco square. I shall examine the events and their representation in more detail in Chapter 4. The year 1968 had a considerable impact on this generation and indicated a definite shift in how Revolutionary films were made. Many of this new generation of independent, and often politically radical, filmmakers returned to the theme of the Revolution to reconsider what this key historical period meant to a new generation disillusioned with how it had

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been envisioned. They set their films in the period just before, during or in the immediate aftermath of the armed conflict. This chapter will focus on key films made in the 1960s and 1970s: Reed, México insurgente (Paul Leduc, 1970), set in the early days of the Revolution and La sombra del caudillo [the shadow of the leader] (Julio Bracho, 1960)  set in a fictionalized, yet identifiable, postRevolutionary, political sphere and compare these to other Revolutionary films, Las fuerzas vivas [Vital Forces] (Luis Alcoriza, 1975), a satiric representation of the struggle for power during the bellicose years, El prinicipio [the beginning] (Gonzalo Martínez Ortega, 1972), which is as its title suggests, an examination of the lead up to 1910, and Cananea (Marcela Fernández Violante, 1977) a loosely fictionalized account of the genesis of the Revolution focusing on a formative event in the life of the anarchist leader, Ricardo Flores Magón. These films are important and disturbing portraits of an armed conflict, previously represented as glorious and exciting. I shall examine the evolution of the Revolutionary film, which had transformed from glamorous, high budget star vehicle, and had, superficially, gloried in the successes of the Revolution, to become a more complex and experimental series of films, variously edgy, disturbing, farcical, more violent, and which, in the light of recent events, had a new political sensibility. This chapter will consider the multiple approaches that were taken by a generation newly able to creatively push outside the boundaries of generic formulaic representations. As I have considered in Chapter 2, the Revolution was more than a conflict that determined the balance of power, with every new presidential period, sexenio [six year rule]. It was co-opted and redefined at an official level to meet the needs of that regime. O’Malley states that ‘[t]he revolutionary motif that pervades it [Mexican culture] is not mere curiosity or fluke of style. The Revolution has a fundamental ideological role’ (1986, p. 3). The state influenced how and what films were made in Mexico through its political appointees, who held key positions in production and funding, and, up the chain of command, through the value individual presidents gave to cultural activities, such as cinema. Of course, politics was not the only factor which effected the rise and fall of the film industry. Other factors such as: International economic conditions; the overwhelming hegemonic hold that Hollywood has always had on the neighbouring Mexican film industry; local viewing trends and the quality of the films made, are but a small selection of such reasons (see Maciel, 1999). However, due to the significant role that the government has played in the Mexican film

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industry, its influence has had a determining effect and is worth considering in brief with regard to this particular period. In the 1970s, coinciding with disastrous box office reception for flamboyant, star-vehicle films set during the Revolution such as La Generala, there was a new president, Luis Echeverría Alvarez, who would lend his support to the flagging film industry. His sexenio, with his brother Rodolfo, a former actor, as head of the Banco Cinematográfico [Cinema Bank] and, therefore, in control of the purse strings, was marked by an increased support for film. On 22 April 1974, President Echeverría held a meeting with filmmakers in the presidential palace of Los Pinos. In his speech he stated, ‘I formally invite all workers now to unite with the state, to produce [films on] the great human themes of the Mexican Revolution; to undertake social criticism, to initiate self-criticism’ (Treviño, 1979, p.  26). This came just six years after the terrible massacre at Tlatelolco months before the Olympics in 1968, when the army shot at and killed hundreds of protestors (a period I shall consider later in Chapter 4). Therefore, such talk of self-criticism, while presenting a high-minded front, had another agenda. His reference to the Revolution was to elide the government with the old revolutionary ideals and suggested at future changes, while, simultaneously, being a return to the old-fashioned rhetoric, and conjured a distant, idealized time that the bellicose period of the Revolution represented. In critic Salvador Velazco’s words, the Echeverría period was ‘una apertura gradual con la finalidad de restaurar el dominio del regimen bajo los esquemas del Estado corporativista e interventor’ [a gradual opening up with the aim of restoring the dominion of the regime by conforming to the plans of a corporatist and interventionist state] (2005, p. 68). Although Velazco is suggesting that many of the decisions regarding the funding and distribution of films made by the then government were cynical moves by a regime keen to maintain power, that is not to say that the consequences were entirely negative. Many of the developments made during this period helped to establish a different model of filmmaking that would move film production away from the tight control of the studio system. While Echeverría was in office there was a loosening of censorship and an improvement in conditions for filmmakers. According to the director Jorge Fons, Rodolfo Echeverría gave a new direction on all cinematographic fronts. He opened up the traditionally strict censorship of themes, promoted new directors, encouraged co-productions with the state, he created a new promotion department to the

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film industry, and began to concentrate on improving the distribution and exhibition of Mexican films. (quoted in Treviño, 1979, p. 28)

It was a tight balancing act for filmmakers to produce films that challenged the status quo, itself a consequence of the same party having power since the Revolution. In turn, the Revolution was the very event which had become a foundational narrative of the PRI that the ruling elite had moulded to suit their aims and had developed its own mythology and generic structures on celluloid. In this context the new independent filmmakers made Revolutionary films that were varied in style, structure and aesthetic choices. The innovation of this generation was the multiplicity of approaches. Where the studio system had mass produced generic Revolutionary films, the younger generation was going on personal journeys, using the Revolution as a way of exploring larger questions about its changed significance in the 1960s and 1970s. While Leduc made Reed, México insurgente (1970) prior to Echeverría coming to power, ‘fortunately, [according to Treviño] once produced it was bought by the state, and widely promoted as an example of the new kind of filmmaking’ (Treviño, 1979, p. 28). Treviño makes a benevolent reading of the state’s involvement in Reed, México insurgente, however Leduc himself claims that the facts were less straightforward, [m]y film was made in 1969, before Rodolfo came into power, and though he did not influence its filming, he certainly had a great deal to say about it afterwards. Public pressure and pressure from film critics had virtually forced Echeverría to legalize the film, but thereafter, to his surprise, it was very popularly received. (Treviño, 1979, p. 28)

Elsewhere, Reed, México insurgente has been described as the ‘clearest early example of the promotional mileage the state wanted to get from its cinematic endeavours’ (Ramírez Berg, 1992, p. 29). So, contrary to his rhetoric, Echeverría was a pragmatic rather than enthusiastic supporter of experimental, independent filmmaking. Born in Mexico City in 1942, Paul Leduc studied architecture and theatre in Mexico, working for a time as a film critic before moving to France for three years to study cinema at the Institut des Hautes Études Cinématographiques in Paris (1963–6). When he returned, he participated actively in the promotion and dissemination of independent Mexican film through his membership of the Nuevo Cine group. This was an association affiliated to the Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México (the largest university in Mexico) in Mexico City made up

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of academics, filmmakers and critics who, in order to support new and emerging filmmakers, and, as a means of exchanging ideas, organized screenings of national and international films, established festivals and film series, published journals and created film awards. Or, as Carl J. Mora describes them, the Nuevo Cine group were ‘an assemblage of young, generally leftist, critics, scholars and aspirant cineastes’ (1989, p. 105). They saw the studio system, and the films which came out of it, as a closed shop interested in making money over creativity. In this context, they saw their role as giving support for each other, forging outlets and providing multiple fora for filmmakers and critics eager to view and critically engage with films from around the world, as well as closely considering and promoting each other’s work. The year 1968 played a particularly interesting and contentious role in Leduc’s formation. Jorge Ayala Blanco dismissively describes Leduc as the ‘cortometrajista olímpico’ [Olympic short filmmaker] (1974, p. 97). This is a reference to the fact that Leduc made several short films during the build-up to the Olympics and also worked on a government-sponsored film in exchange for money for a film camera (León Hoyos, 1981, p.  15). He is also credited on the radical student documentary El grito (Leobardo López Aretche, 1968) (examined in Chapter 4), which indicates that while one film represented income the other was a reflection of his political commitment. In all, Leduc has made eight feature length films; Reed, México insurgente was his first. In contrast to how studio Revolutionary films have been received by critics, Reed, México insurgente was acclaimed for its authenticity. For the film historian, Emilio García Riera Reed, México insurgente ‘[r]ecupera la vieja plástica original de la Revolución Mexicana que había sido bastante adocenada por el cine convencional de México, por las películas en colores con María Félix’ [recovers the old, original, plasticity of the Mexican Revolution that had been rendered banal by conventional Mexican cinema in the colour films starring María Félix] (1994, p.  21). García Riera states that Reed, México insurgente is a film that evokes the old documentary films from the Revolution, found in the Casasola archive (García Riera, 1994f, p. 21). In order to achieve this effect it was filmed in black and white on 16mm, then blown up to 35mm and sepia tinted. The result of these choices is that the final print is grainier, which, alongside the sepia tones, evokes a distant past. In his introduction to the film, García Riera continues to reinforce not just Reed, México insurgente’s aesthetic merits but also its realism, ‘la película es muy bella; tiene escenas de gran fuerza dramática, y es una película en su momento muy moderna. Acude a ciertos procedimientos

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de desdramatización que actúan en favor de su fuerza realista’ [the film is very beautiful; it has scenes of great dramatic force, and it’s a film that was very modern for its time. It uses certain antidramatic techniques which work to reinforce its realist power] (García Riera, 1985, p.  21). Highly evocative of a distant past, sepia is also frequently associated with nostalgia (see Sontag, 2008). This is not nostalgia that attends to a ‘kind of transcendental longing’, but one that is concerned with ‘perceptible everyday things’ rooted in a specific time and space (Chow, 2007, p. 65). Interestingly, Leduc has said that the sepia tint was the result of a technical problem, rather than an aesthetic plan from the outset. He points out that they had aimed to imitate the style of the original Toscano films, which are not sepia tinted, by shooting in black and white. But, when they looked at the dailies Leduc and the crew found that the black and white turned out too grey. Therefore, they experimented with other tints and decided that sepia gave the most satisfactory look (León Hoyos, 1981, p. 22). The effect that the sepia tint has given the film has led many critics, such as García Riera, to praise Reed, México insurgente’s authenticity, which, ironically, only has the effect of authenticity. This draws on a documentary aesthetic that references the Revolutionary compilation films and thereby both taps into a visual field that recorded the Revolution as eye-witness reportage and distances itself from the glossy, high budget studio films. As well as using the sepia tint, the filmmakers also made evocative and self-conscious references to the archive and early film through the use of other techniques, such as iris wipes, intertitles and a knowing, deliberate slowing down of the action, which gives the film further effects of appearing authentic and suggests comparison with early documentaries. Truth claims are not the only reasons why Reed, México insurgente was much celebrated. The film also had symbolic value. Leduc explains that its popularity among critics, no fue por razones temáticas, ni por causas políticas que se convirtió en un ejemplo importante. Ya he dicho que políticamente es anodina. Temáticamente es la revolución mexicana. Pero el asunto es que Reed costó en aquella época menos de medio millón de pesos cuando otra película de tema similar costó catorce millones en la misma época. Y eso era demostrar que los presupuestos del cine industrial estaban demasiado inflados y que el cine independiente era una gran tentación. [it wasn’t just for thematic or political reasons that it became such an important example. I have already said that it was politically anodine. Thematically it is

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Revolution and Rebellion in Mexican Film the Mexican Revolution. But the thing is that Reed back then cost less than half a million pesos to make when other films which dealt with similar themes cost fourteen million during the same period. And that showed that the budgets of the studio films were over-inflated and that independent cinema was very tempting]. (León Hoyos, 1981, p. 49)

Leduc’s remarks are a deliberate swipe at the high cost biopic Emiliano Zapata (Felipe Cazals, 1970, considered in Chapter  5), but also those earlier films considered in Chapter 2. All the while he is extolling the virtues of independent film. It sets up a very defined dichotomy between independents and studio films which, as will be considered in this chapter, was not as clear cut. Some of his contemporaries declared themselves independents yet had received considerable funding and/or support from the government. There are few directors who would turn down the opportunity to have hefty financing for their project if they were allowed complete creative control. However, big budgets often mean loss of independence and directorial (and by implication artistic) control over a film. Reed, México insurgente has more enduring value than simply having a tight budget. Although Leduc is a harsh critic of his own film and although he suggests that it is politically anodine, I argue that this is a political film. Leduc, in making such a low budget film, did show not only that this was possible, but also demonstrated that there could be different ways of filming the Revolution. However, Reed, México insurgente was criticized by Ayala Blanco for not going far enough politically. He says, ‘[e]l caos “realista” de la lucha desorganizada, la exterioridad de los hechos y su intranscendencia analítica, impiden que la viñeta animada alcance jamás el nivel de un cuestionamiento político’ [the ‘realist’ chaos of the disorganized battles, the exteriority of the events and its lack of analytical transcendence, impede this lively vignette from ever getting to the level of political critique.] (Ayala Blanco, 1974, p.  103). Unlike Ayala Blanco, I believe that it is this distancing, disordered representation of war which is Reed, México insurgente’s strength. Not only does the film use a knowing documentary style, it also includes self-referential techniques which undercut truth claims. These include wipes and self-consciously stylized sound effects. In addition, Leduc does not use any non-diegetic music in the film thus both reinforcing the documentary feel and revealing his affinity to the Third Cinema filmmakers of New Latin American cinema, such as Fernando E. Solanas and Octavio Getino, who aimed to represent an authentic and politically engaged vision of Latin America.1 Reed, México insurgente was shot using black and white

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stock, which implicitly references early Mexican Revolution films and, thereby, is simultaneously self-referential and builds in an air of authenticity. These aesthetic choices also contrast with those of the big budget (often colour) studio features. Reed, México insurgente is based on the book, Insurgent Mexico, by the US journalist John Reed, who was a war correspondent and committed socialist until his early death at the age of 33. His most famous book, Ten Days That Shook the World (1919), is an eyewitness account of events in Petrograd in November 1917 during the Russian Revolution. Set in late 1913 and 1914, Insurgent Mexico is an episodic account of Reed’s experiences during the Mexican Revolution. He describes his journey across the US-Mexican border territory into Mexico; his adventures and experiences accompanying Villa’s army as they prepare for and fight in a decisive battle in Torreón; the funeral of Abraham González, a Villista leader; the notorious case of a British citizen William S. Benton who was killed in the Revolution; his interview with Villa; an account of the short lived presidency of Venustiano Carranza (1917–20) and the nightlife and his gambling escapades in Mexican casinos. His is an energetic, subjective account of battle, which revels in the adventure of war. In the text it is evident that he is eager to get to the frontline of attack as witness and comrade to the men. His irrepressible character and spirit of adventure is stressed by others who knew him and is evident in Insurgent Mexico, as too is his youth.2 Born in 1887, he was only 27 when he wrote Insurgent Mexico. Another characteristic highlighted by a contemporary, Walter Lippman, and others, is the blurred line between fact and fiction in his life and writing.3 This poetic tendency contrasts with the attested reality and a notional documentary truth that is, on the one hand, firmly established, yet, on the other, is challenged in Leduc’s adaptation. In Reed, México insurgente the camera is observational, telling the story of Reed’s coming of age as a revolutionary, not from his point of view but as a participant/observer. This is one of the obvious departures from the book, which is dominated by Reed’s personality. There are other significant changes. The Mexican actor Claudio Obregón bears a physical resemblance to Reed. However, at 35, when he appeared in this film, Obregón was older and, evidently, speaks fluent Spanish, unlike Reed’s professed linguistic weaknesses (Reed, 2006, p. 48). These differences are noteworthy. For Zuzana M. Pick, Reed’s linguistic proficiency is a significant choice which is integral to the minimalist style of the film performances, ‘Reed is Mexicanized through language and acting wherein local inflections and vernacular idioms are delivered effortlessly, and minimalist

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actions and gestures project a sense of spontaneity’ (2010, pp.  184–5). While much of the dialogue indicates that he is foreign and an outsider at the beginning of the film, this too is elided through the choice of actor and, over the course of the narrative, he is endearingly referred to as ‘Juanito’ and, ultimately, by the end of the film, becomes an active participant in the armed struggle.4 Reed is made both stranger and local. His eye-witness account is emphasized as that of sympathetic outsider and, because his foreignness is less marked, it makes it easier for the audience to identify with his point of view. The film (Mexican) is structured around the battle of Torreón, the funeral of Abraham González and Reed’s meetings with Villa and Álvaro Obregón (1880– 1928). Thereby the narrative sticks to the details related to the conflict and attendant politics. Interestingly, Leduc chose to omit Reed’s youthful exuberance and touristic detail evident in many sections of the book, in particular, those set in the borderland casinos, which take away from the immediacy of war. Leduc explains the reasons for this in an interview. In his opinion Insurgent Mexico es escrito un poco por un turista de la revolución y de hecho son páginas, por otra parte muy bellas, pero describiendo el paisaje mexicano, rasgos folclóricos que le llamban la atención [. . .] un libro si tu quieres no tan politizado como sería después ‘Diez días que conmovieron al mundo’, que ya es un ensayo político ciento por ciento. [is written, to an extent, by a tourist of the revolution and, in fact, there are pages which, while beautiful, describe the Mexican landscape celebrating the folkloric aspects that appealed to him [. . .] it is a book that you could say isn’t as politicised as it would be after ‘Ten Days That Changed the World’, which is one hundred per cent a political essay]. (León Hoyos, 1981, p. 21)

By not including the folkloric, tourist impressions that Reed portrays in his book, Leduc and the scriptwriter, Juan Tovar, are deliberately refining the narrative to focus on politics, and, most specifically, Reed’s experience of the Revolution as a people’s struggle. Leduc eschews conventions of Revolutionary films, such as the establishing shots of soldiers and/or peasants set against dramatic landscapes typical of those shot by the cinematographer Figueroa. Figueroa’s style was characterized by deep focus and low angle photography, curvilinear perspective, framing with figures in the foreground, dialectical composition, oblique perspective, depth of field and emphasis on dramatic, clouded skies (Ramírez Berg, 1994, pp. 16–19). In contrast, in Reed, México insurgente, the camera follows the action at ground

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level or eye level using mostly wide, often static shots in which a figure moves towards the camera or is observed in the middle distance. The reasons for the static camera and wide shots were primarily aesthetic, but also budgetary. Leduc has explained that they had to limit the number of set ups and takes in order to save money (León Hoyos, 1981, pp. 18–20). Conscious of these constraints, Leduc and his crew planned the shoot carefully in order to incorporate longer shots, which resulted in fewer cuts in the edit and, concurrently, less money spent on developing the film. The effect of this is that it functions as a further tool to distance the audience from the action and to de-dramatize the conflict. These long and medium shots are used to observe Reed and others travelling through several different spaces on screen. For example, one early shot follows Reed as he travels in a rickety cart driven by a smuggler, being bounced around as a result of the uneven surface of the ground they are travelling over. This scene is long, slow and difficult to watch as the movement of the cart is dizzying, and gives the impression that we are travellers following his journey as observers, thus creating a sense of separation between him and us. Through such scenes Leduc underlines the difficulty of the journey and the chaos of war by re-creating the flat, simple, documentary aesthetic of the early Revolutionary films. Consequently, Leduc re-frames the visual field long established by Figueroa and ‘desmitificar toda una imagen muy cimentada por el mismo cine mexicano’ [demythifies an image that has been well established by Mexican cinema] (León Hoyos, 1981, p. 22), that is, he re-configures how the Mexican landscape has been represented on screen and, therefore, he challenges the cultural nationalism associated with it. Reed, México insurgente is unlike those films by his predecessors on a visual, narrative and stylistic level. Leduc does not adhere to a conventional narrative arc. Like the novel, it is episodic. The film follows Reed’s adventures uncritically. Yet, through the distantiation techniques mentioned earlier, which draw attention to its artistry, it leaves space for the audience to critically engage with the characters, subject and events in the film. No specific judgement is passed on the Revolution, although the characters do discuss their reasons for taking part (or in the case of Reed his struggle with his role as witness). However, its very episodic nature and its refusal to conform to the linear development evident in many of the earlier films led Monsiváis to conclude that in Reed, México insurgente ‘the Revolution is a man’s voyage through a chaos where motives are shipwrecked and cruelty provides the only rationale’ (1995, p. 119). Using a largely static camera Leduc conveys the chaos of war rather than showing it

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as a stylized alluring visual pleasure; draws attention to the dangers inherent for the ordinary soldier and, during the battle scenes, places the audience in the position of participant/observer in the events. Not all earlier films were unconditionally celebratory of the Revolution. The very first Revolutionary drama, ¡Vámonos con Pancho Villa!, (discussed in Chapter 1), was highly critical of the armed conflict, and of one of its most abiding figures, Villa, who elsewhere was repeatedly represented as a roguish, hypermasculine figure. The mise en scène is also very important to note here. Leduc does nod to those archetypal elements of the representation of Villa established in ¡Vámonos con Pancho Villa!, by showing him in the theatre of war: Among the troops or beside the railways. But, Reed, México insurgente shows Villa in a different light. Leduc’s Villa is sympathetic. In a key scene, where he is being interviewed by Reed, Villa is represented as an intelligent, reflective individual, who, while not using the discourse of political science, has an evident understanding of the complexities of the power struggle and international diplomacy. Villa is wearing a simple, yet official looking uniform and is interviewed while eating his lunch in a dining room. This is unlike the spaces in other Revolutionary films which give the leaders an air of authority, such as the office in Juana Gallo where Juana sits behind a desk in an improvized and temporary space close to the battleground. In Reed, México insurgente Villa is represented as an everyman, who, nonetheless, is in control. Lighting and camera are used very deliberately to portray him positively. The lighting has the effect of being natural light with Villa apparently sitting near a window. The room is flooded with light, with all of its positive connotations. When Villa is speaking the camera is fixed on him using a medium shot, at the level as if we are a third party seated at the table. The other person at the table is Reed, at whom the camera points only when he speaks to ask concise questions. There are none of the reverse shots that are typical of such interviews. The camera is positioned in the same place throughout, again, this reinforces our placing at the table in between the two men. The lack of movement from Villa, when he talks, fluidly, in response to Reed’s questions, focuses our attention on Villa as both a common man and hero. He is visually at our level, but given the authority of the full focus of the camera he is clearly worthy of our attention. This is Villa the politician, strategist and thinker. He also articulates and is capable of using rhetorical devices, such as metaphor, to convey his message, unlike the more plain spoken man evident in other films.

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The performance of Villa by the poet Heraclio Zepeda was deliberately naturalistic, in line with the documentary feel of the film. Zepeda was given outlines of the content of his lengthy responses, inspired by Martín Luis Guzmán’s large tome, El águila y la serpiente (1928) [The Eagle and the Serpent], which recounts Guzmán’s experiences of accompanying Villa and his troops into battle. Using this source material as a guide, Zepeda improvized his lines, thus allowing for a more spontaneous performance (León Hoyos, 1981, p. 20). Pick writes that Zepeda’s acting reveals the constructed nature of Villa’s persona: the self-conscious body language and easy-going delivery, the down-to-earth charm and shrewd personality he cultivated[. . .]What the director highlights are Villa’s pragmatism and lack of personal ambition, in other words, the qualities Reed recognized but others ignored in favor of folktale embellishment. (2010, p. 188)

Through Zepeda’s performance Leduc is trying to get to a more complex, nuanced and insightful representation of Villa than either Reed wrote about in his book or the studio films had shown up to this point. Leduc’s reconfiguration of Villa has a striking effect. In Reed, México insurgente Villa is an able general, intelligent tactician and a man capable of strong connections with the cause for which he is fighting. This is a far cry from the stereotypical bandolero familiar in such films as Cuando ¡Viva Villa . . .! es la muerte (Ismael Rodríguez, 1960) [Pancho Villa] and Pancho Villa y La Valentina (Ismael Rodríguez, 1960)  [Pancho Villa and Valentina]. Through the use of lighting, editing, camera and performance, Leduc creates a realistic character and moves Villa from the clichéd representations of previous films to that of a historical figure worthy of reconsideration. Another important commonality with ¡Vámonos con Pancho Villa! is the episodic nature of both films. The way a story is told, in particular when considering a historical reality, determines its reception and understanding. There is a blend of influences and aesthetic choices in Reed, México insurgente, which Pick articulates in her discussion of the film, Reed: Insurgent Mexico appropriated production and stylistic approaches aimed at altering existing patterns of cinematic culture. Through the interplay of documentary and fiction, the film generated new forms of address and spectator investment, managing to recuperate the historical legacy and international projection of the revolution. (2010, p. 183)

When a complex historical event such as the Revolution with its many factions, sides, changing loyalties, disparate theatres of war and aims had been retold in

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filmic form in the earlier studio productions, the events recounted had been simplified, or the focal point reduced to a key battle, where the characters work out their personal emotional journey against a momentous historical event. These versions of the events conformed to the conventional three-act structure. Leduc has succeeded in pushing out the boundaries of the formulaic representations of the Revolution in Reed, México insurgente. Mexican fiction has had a long history of conveying the chaos of war through non-linear storytelling. The most notable are those told by individuals who were witnesses or soldiers. There are several examples stretching from Mariano Azuela’s Los de abajo (1915) to Elena Poniatowska’s Hasta no verte Jesús mío (1969), and beyond. Filmmakers have chosen to represent the Revolution as a linear narrative, which gives it a coherence and accessibility that no real lived experience of battle (or life) has. The critic Zygmunt Bauman rather poetically suggests that an individual’s life is lived ‘as a story yet to be told, but the way the story hoping to be told is to be woven decides the technique by which the yarn of life is to be spun’ (2001, p. 8). It is his contention that life is framed by storytelling, whether in the present, through future expectations or reflections on the past. These stories and methods are determined by the society and culture we inhabit. Conventions on ways of reading and telling a story of given situations will determine how the experiences are understood. On an individual level the ‘[a]rticulation of life stories is the activity through which meaning and purpose are inserted into life’ (Bauman, 2001, p. 13), and this can be understood on a societal level as well. When the ever-evolving narrative of the Revolution is the nation’s story, a re-articulation, which counters the current official version of this is radical, challenges self-perception and determines how the events are understood. Therefore, in Leduc’s re-framing of the narrative as episodic, full of random acts of violence, sudden flurries of movement followed by hours of boredom, he is moving away from the neat three-act structure presented by earlier filmmakers and challenges the very notion of a foundational narrative based on Revolution as a break with the old and an account of a dramatic, progressive, onward development into modernity.

Las fuerzas vivas Las fuerzas vivas [Vital Forces] (Luis Alcoriza, 1975)  is another film which suggests that randomness was integral to the Revolution. That is where the

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similarities to Reed, México insurgente end. It is a satirical film where serious themes are mixed with farce and absurd humour. Shot in colour, it is set in a peripheral village at the onset of the Revolution. The narrative follows the abuses of power, and the bumbling and incompetence on both sides as control shifts from one grouping to another as the Revolution evolves. The men of the town are avaricious and stupid; the women are horny and outspoken. Attention is drawn to how the women are excluded from decisions by the foolish men in power. For example, an old woman questions the men’s absurd revolutionary discourse revealing it to be empty rhetoric. She asks ‘¿Y nosotras las mujeres, no somos pueblo? ¿o qué?’ [And are we women not one of the people too?]. To which one of the leaders of the Revolution says ‘claro que sí’ [of course], but shows no evidence of this in his actions. Thereby evidencing a self-consciousness on the part of the director and scriptwriter that women are being sidelined in the action and, like La soldadera, draws attention to how women’s involvement in the Revolution has been silenced or ignored. The camera takes multiple points of view through which we are to observe the absurdity of the townsfolk. Las fuerzas vivas holds the rhetoric of the Revolution up to ridicule. This is a radical act in itself. While comedy had been used in films set in a Revolutionary context, such as the cross-dressing romantic film Las coronelas (Rafael Baledón, 1959), this is a rare example where the Revolution itself, rather than some screwball scenario, is the subject of the humour (see Thornton, 2011). The style and the sexual politics, while professing liberalism is often exploitative and are typical of international films of the time and is now somewhat dated. Sexual liberty is espoused while the love scenes that proceed provide ample opportunity for the objectification of women. In Las fuerzas vivas, power, both secular and religious, social mores and violence are all ridiculed. The title ambiguously and ironically alludes to the power of the people, the basic energy of life and the army as a lively force. The result is an unrealistic world in which [n]o cabe creer en ningún momento que lo mostrado tenga algo que ver con la revolución verdadera, a menos de que se tenga por tal un tumulto provocado por pícaros pobres antes la pasividad de unos campesinos ‘indiferentes y amenazantes a la vez,’ según los definió Alcoriza ante Pérez Turrent. [It is not possible to believe at any moment that what is being represented has anything to do with the real Revolution, unless you are to believe that it was caused by a few poor rogues in the face of the passivity of a few peasants who are

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There is an attempt to evoke the chaos of war and, while there are some skirmishes, the town is represented as far removed from the violent conflict. Most of the action takes place in or around the telegraph office, where the inhabitants await delayed delivery of newspapers and news of the changes in centrally controlled power. The changing news influences which group of men in the village has power. These shifts draw attention to the absurdity both of centralized government and of how governance of the town changes hands. It is clear that the news has to travel far and is often days old by the time it reaches the town, therefore, local control is subject to the vagaries of news reporting, poor transport links and the progress of either side. The plot soon becomes farcical. With its broad satire, Las fuerzas vivas falls short of political critique. Where violence in many earlier Revolutionary films is represented with little blood and guts, these later films started to represent violence as spectacle. Susan Sontag has written about the evolution of visual representations of violence, ‘in a culture radically revamped by the ascendancy of mercantile values, to ask that images be jarring, clamorous, eye-opening seems like elementary realism as well as good business sense’ (2003, p. 20). Sontag is referring to contemporary images where 24-hour news, the tabloid press, television dramas and film display graphic and often disturbing representations of violence. Prior to the current cultural acceptance of violence on screen, the 1960s and the 1970s represented a dramatic shift in the popular imaginings of war. The widespread dissemination of live and graphic images of Vietnam, and the horrors that were witnessed by photographers and cameramen and women there, is often credited with a massive sea change in the representations of violence on screen (see Virilio, 1989, p. 104). In US cinema, Peckinpah’s influential films are the manifestation of what has been called ‘brutality cinema’ (2005, p. 7). This era was the beginning of the move towards more shocking and graphic images of suffering which have now become familiar. While Alcoriza showed violence as ridiculous, arbitrary and pointless, Leduc avoided a dramatic representation of violence in favour of a confusing, disorienting and a slow moving camera, which emphasized boredom and the randomness of violence rather than dwelling on it as spectacle. Alcoriza and others were conforming to the aesthetic of violence that the studio films had recently embraced, which has been critiqued by Maciel and others. For example,

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the violence in La Generala is also ugly and gratuitous. There is a central defining episode in La Generala where naked men and children bathing in the river are shot in cold blood by Federales. This is witnessed by La Generala (Félix) and impels her to fight in the Revolution in order to avenge her brother (Carlos Bracho), one of the victims. In this bloody scene the action is slowed down and the camera lingers on their bodies. The nudity has an erotic quality, which not only implicates the audience in this gaze, but also, combined with La Generala’s horrified voyeuristic gaze, suggests at the implied incestuous relationship between her and her brother whose death she is witnessing. Graphic and specularized violence is a feature of studio films of this era, which contrasts with the coy and apologetic violence of ¡Vámonos con Pancho Villa!, and was an aesthetic some independent filmmakers were happy to employ.

El principio One particularly disturbing example of this specularization of violence is the gang rape of a woman looking for her husband in El principio (Gonzalo Martínez Ortega, 1972). This opening scene is ugly and disturbing and underlines the horrors of war. The film, as the title suggests, examines the lead up to the Revolution in a series of flashbacks from the perspective of David Domínguez Solís (Fernando Balzaretti), a member of a wealthy local family. He has recently returned home after nine years in Paris to a town traumatized by the Revolution with few inhabitants able to provide him with detail on what they have suffered. These silences are an important theme in the film. So too is the trauma inflicted by the savagery of war as is established from the opening sequence. In this scene the unnamed woman (Aurora Clavel) arrives with her son at a large ranch house looking for her husband, a Federal soldier. The soldiers are lying around drunk and leer at her when she arrives. She speaks to the Captain asking if he knows the whereabouts of her husband. He behaves threateningly and forces her to drink alcohol and then rapes her, while her son is given food in another room among the drunken, gambling soldiers. As the mother is being raped, to underline the horror, the scene cuts back and forth between the spaces where the mother and the child are. The child, hearing her scream, realizes that his mother is in danger and runs in to stop the captain who then shoots him, his mother and another soldier. The woman, not yet dead, is raped by another soldier who enters the room. At this point, for a few seconds everything on the soundtrack

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is silenced except for the woman’s breathing and her gasps while she is serially raped. Aurally the scene takes her point of view while the camera cuts between the woman shot from behind, and the soldiers fighting for their place in the queue to rape her. The sound changes and there are sounds of hooves from outside of the approaching Villistas on horseback, then the camera cuts to a dust road where we see them approach. Meanwhile, apparently oblivious to this imminent threat, the Federal soldiers continue to fight over the chance to rape the dying woman. The camera moves from a close-up of her face, to a medium shot of the dead child, outside to a wide shot of the approaching cavalry and then returns to the men piled on top of her. We are given the date and location as Chihuahua, 1914. This sequence suggests that the old guard, represented by the Federal soldiers, who declared allegiance to Victoriano Huerta (1850–1916), are to be swept away by the popular Revolution led by Villa. The Revolution was brutal, but the implicit message is that the old regime was to blame for it. The rest of the film sits uncomfortably between being a nostalgic coming of age story of a wealthy young man interrupted by the trauma of war, and an account of what could have been and how the Revolution could have been avoided through political means. The opening sequence is disturbing not only because of the violence and savagery of the attack but also because of what women and children represent in Mexican Revolutionary films. Writing about the Revolutionary melodrama, the genre popular in the 1940s, Mistron stated that ‘the revolution is seen as the painful birth of a new generation of families who are able to live in the more just and equitable society envisioned and created by those who came before’ (1984, p. 52). She continues, ‘[s]ince the female is usually portrayed as the repository of these traditional values, this conflict between Tradition and Revolution is usually reflected in the conflicts between the female and the male characters’ (Mistron, 1984, p. 55). Rape, or the threat of rape, is a constant in these films. However, it is usually a function of the hero – husband or suitor – to protect the woman against this threat, whether this comes in the guise of droit de seignuer or from violent enemy soldiers. A film which begins, as El principio does, with the missing husband whose absence suggests the implicit collapse of the patriarchal family, the subsequent violent rape and murder of the remaining members of the family, reinforces the power and value of that family structure. El principio is mourning the loss of this patriarchal family through the terrible representation of the violence of its demise. Thereby, Martínez Ortega is also upholding the patriarchal family as an ideal. There are obvious difficulties in watching a violent

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rape scene, but the awfulness is reinforced by its symbolic message that we, the audience, are asked to mourn the loss of patriarchy. Woman here is defenceless, the young son is not yet either old or strong enough to fight, and men, unchecked by what we are to believe is the correct ideological framework and social cohesion of an ordered society, will resort to such animal acts of savagery. The late arrival of the Villista saviours has echoes in the closing scene in which David, up to this point resistant to the armed struggle, realizes the inevitability of war and joins up. Dmitri Shostakovich’s 11th Symphony in G, a celebration of the opening days of the Russian Revolution, is played over this closing scene of David and the Villistas riding off to the battlefield. Gonzalo Martínez studied film in the USSR and was heavily influenced by Russian culture. He also considered classical music as universal culture. In an interview he explained this position, [l]o que pasa es que los pueblos y lo que producen los pueblos está muy cerca de los demás pueblos de la tierra, la prueba es que tú ves todas las secuencias de Tomóchic con la música de Brahms y nada brinca [. . .] al menos a mí no me brinca, ni Shostakovich en el final de El principio. En el cine tienes que manejar elementos culturales de todos los pueblos. [it is the case that all peoples and what they produce are very close to that of other peoples on earth, the proof is in Tomóchic which uses the music of Brahms and nothing stands out . . . at least it doesn’t jar for me, and that is the case with Shostakovich at the end of El principio. In film you have to manage cultural elements from all over the world]. (Martínez Ortega, 1985, p. 10)

Unlike previous generations, these filmmakers were looking beyond the boundaries of the Mexican nation and took their influences from international culture. Gonzalo Martínez’s choice of Shostakovich’s music to accompany a battle scene over the more conventional use of corridos, such as ‘La Adelita’ or ‘La Cucuracha’ discussed in Chapter 2, more typically used in such scenes, marks a radical shift in Revolutionary films. Implicitly, through the sonic link, it elides two very separate Revolutions: The Russian and the Mexican. That the music carries deliberate political resonance is reinforced when the title comes up before the credit sequence. Over the credits military drumbeats are played. This ominous sound is cut before the final credits when there is only silence on the soundtrack. The development from the sweeping orchestral piece, to more sparse drumbeats and then silence suggest a negative trajectory, which underlines the protagonist’s ambivalence at joining the Revolution. He does so out of necessity, and the silence suggests either his or the Revolution’s death (or

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both). This is a pessimistic film, which reinforces the value of a strong patriarchal family in the opening scene, yet challenges this through David’s own struggle with his oppressive, corrupt and conservative father. These contradictory positions weaken El principio, yet  also challenge the image of the glorious Revolution presented by earlier films.

Cananea Another film set in the time preceding the Revolution is Marcela Fernández Violante’s Cananea (1977). She studied in the Centro Universitario de Estudios Cinematográfico, was its director from 1984 to 1988 and, for a time, she was the only female member of the film director’s union. She was in the unusual situation of being both inside the structures of the studio system and coming from outside because of her gender and educational background. In her words, Cananea is an attempt to portray anarchists as the conscience of society, but not as the solution to society’s problems. [The character, Esteban] Baca Calderón, the intellectual anarchist, is really an emblem for Ricardo Flores Magón, often regarded as the principal ideologue of the Mexican Revolution. (Burton, 1986, p. 200)

Her aim was to move away from a particular visual style epitomized by Figueroa and Fernández, who, in her opinion, were indebted to Sergei Eisenstein whose ‘emphasis is on still composition within the frame [. . . ] I think this kind of ‘visual nationalism’, this hypostatization of one particular visual style, is a thing of the past’ (Burton, 1986, p. 203). Here, she is referring to films such as Flor silvestre (1943) directed by Fernández, with Figueroa as director of photography, which had numerous, highly aestheticized, lingering shots of people, whether individuals or multitudes, against the backdrop of the Mexican landscape and privileged the nobility of the struggle (see Tierney, 2007). Set against such a millenarian, ahistorical landscape gave such Mexican films a sense of timelessness. Interestingly, despite her claim to deliberately cleave from the past, stylistically, Figueroa was her director of photography and this is credited as a film employing workers from one of the film unions. As a consequence, Fernández Violante is delicately positioned between the independent and studio filmmakers. Her narrative, with its primary focus on the US capitalist as a complicated and nuanced character and by setting Cananea in the years

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immediately before the Revolution, goes against what was heretofore expected of studio films, which had conventional generic depictions of the struggle. Cananea is set in a clearly defined historical moment. The final titles tell us that the Revolution begins 4 years and 5 months after the events portrayed in the film. Cananea represents the experiences which moulded Baca Calderón’s (Carlos Bracho) political beliefs. The central axis of the plot is the business interests of the US citizen, Colonel William Greene (Steve Wilensky), who, although he has an understanding of and some sympathy for Mexicans, is happy to exploit them for his enrichment.5 The mining company he establishes with the help of rich friends and the full support of the government of Porfirio Díaz makes him a wealthy man at the cost of the Mexican workers’ health and welfare. Greene is the first character we meet as he walks through the desert with his fellow prospector and later investor, Ted Nolan (Roger Cudney). In the first act, we follow his rise to become a millionaire mine owner and his journey to acquaint himself with the rudiments of Mexican culture, largely from his first wife, Priscilla (Beatriz Sheridan). From this, and as a result of his own humble beginnings he learns how to communicate with the workers and gains their trust and, thus, manages to manipulate them to tolerate their poor working conditions. Baca Calderón is employed as an office worker and, at first, appears to be an uneasy witness to the exploitation of his countrymen and women. He tries to organize a strike, but initially fails. Gradually, with the help of a miner who operates as a type of native interlocutor he learns to speak to the men following Greene’s example (as it is explained to us in the film) rather than, like the dictator, Díaz and his high blown political rhetoric. Baca Calderón learns to hone his skills and is able to communicate his complex ideas in a more digestible form. Gradually, it becomes evident that there are parallels between the two men, not just in their deliberately simple rhetorical tricks, but also because Baca Calderón, like Greene, is using the men to further his own aims: Greene to become wealthier, Baca Calderón to create the conditions of civil unrest that impel a revolution. To compare a foreign industrialist, who is portrayed largely sympathetically with a character representing one of the founding members of the Revolution is a radical act. Cananea’s originality also lies in its return to the foundational ideas of the Revolution, those that are normally ignored in favour of the drama of the battlefield. Cananea contrasts with El principio in that it stays within a specific timeframe prior to the Revolution but it does not feel the need to indulge in the same violent excesses. There is also a balance in the characterization presented which shifts it

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away from the good guy/bad guy style of the Revolutionary melodrama. Although Greene develops from humble beginnings to become an exploitative capitalist, he is represented quite sympathetically, in particular, through his relationship with his two wives. We see his human side as he mourns the loss of Priscilla and gets an insight into his present domestic circumstances through his relationship with his second wife, Mary (Yolanda Ciani). Therefore, he is not a demonized evil, bad guy, gringo, but a portrayal of greed and its human consequences. Equally, although he is the putative hero of the film, Baca Calderón is a flawed character. This is particularly evident in his struggle to understand the workers’ daily lives and opinions, that he finds easier to understand in the abstract political tracts in which he is well versed, and also in his decision to exploit their vulnerability for his own political ends. Cinematically, Baca Calderón’s possible sinister side is also underlined with his arrival into town. This moment, which resonates with Western motifs and styling, is presaged with ominous music as we see a figure dressed in black walk down a poorly lit street. Such darkness in wardrobe and lighting usually suggests either that this character is bad or has some terrible secret. The camera is positioned looking down from the top of a building, from a bird’s eye point of view and uses an oblique angle, which was employed by Figueroa to varying effect throughout his career (Ramírez Berg, 1992). These aesthetic choices denote our superiority over the character or imply that he is morally suspect. Through camera, music, wardrobe and lighting Fernández Violante is trying to complicate the official history, which has, heretofore, painted Revolutionary leaders as heroes, and foreign investors as bad and dangerous. Fernández Violante’s move away from the melodrama or the emphasis on violence in some of her contemporaries’ films towards an analysis of the root economic causes of the outbreak of the Revolution is innovative. It also serves as a reminder of more authentic originary ideals. Cananea’s implicit message is that one of the Revolution’s primary aims was for better conditions for workers and improved living conditions for all, something that the subsequent governments have failed to achieve. She is suggesting that the PRI may claim the Revolution for its own political ends, reinterpreting its aims to conform to the needs of each presidential sexenio, but this is all rhetoric when real practical changes to workers’ conditions have not been made yet. These truth claims in her filmmaking, reminiscent of those in Reed, México insurgente, are integral to Fernández Violante’s belief in the role of the artist in society. She has said, ‘I don’t believe in the Mexican Revolution as our historians present it to us. I

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have more faith in the artist’s conception than in the historian’s’ (Burton, 1986, pp. 198–9). This is a bold assertion. As is evident from her critique of Figueroa and Fernández, controversially, here she is not including their collaboration in those she considers to be artists, unlike her and her contemporaries. Although they are quite different stylistically, Cananea has much in common with Reed, México insurgente in that it moves attention to the more specific stories of the witnesses to the Revolution and shows its protagonists (Flores Magón in the former, Villa in the latter) as flawed human beings rather than the, at times, token love interest, overblown hero or vilified characters of the studio films. They are also both primarily shot on location rather than on studio lots, which gives a more authentic look to both. In the case of Cananea, Figueroa makes full use of the contrast between the wide-open wilderness spaces of the desert landscape and the more claustrophobic town and mine spaces to create tension, and to contrast the freedom implicit in the sense of adventure in Greene’s journey at the beginning of the story and the oppressive industrialist he becomes. He also uses light to contrast the comfortable, airy house Greene inhabits and the dark, seedy hotel that Baca Calderón lives in. Fernández Violante carefully moves between the literally and visually rendered representations of both characters, on the one hand, and the metaphorical light and dark, on the other, to create an uncomfortable representation of the build-up to the Revolution.

La sombra del caudillo In order to understand the breakthroughs that were achieved by the new generation, it is worthwhile to first take a step back to consider a film that was, in many ways, a precursor to those examined in this chapter. La sombra del caudillo (Julio Bracho, 1960)  pushed out the boundaries of the politically acceptable. It was made by a director who belonged to a dynasty of filmmakers who had, like him, worked in the studio system (see Ibarra, 2006). Before it could go on general release, it was shelved by government censorship, only to receive a limited release in the 1990s. It is, in many ways, a transitional film, which was not fully in line with the politically tame studio films made by Bracho’s contemporaries, nor released late enough to benefit from the new opening up that happened in the 1970s. La sombra del caudillo has had a troubled history. Shot in black and white, La sombra del caudillo was made prior to the new wave of independent Revolutionary films. However, because it was ‘enlatada’ [canned] for 30 years it is in a curious position, chronologically, in relation to the

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other films discussed in this chapter. Made with full backing from government agencies, it nonetheless was effectively shelved for many years so did not reach its intended audience. Velazco described this Mexican form of indirect censorship, ‘[l]os tradicionales mecanismos de censura del gobierno se han ejercido a través del procedimiento que pintorescamente se conoce como ‘enlatamiento’, mediante el cual las películas pasan a un limbo burocrático en espera del permiso de exhibición’ [the traditional mechanisms of government censorship were exercised using a method described as ‘canning’, through which films fall into a bureaucratic limbo while they wait for permission to be exhibited] (2005, p. 67). The timing of the film is key. Unlike the other films examined in this chapter it was made before 1968. As I have already mentioned, post-1968, as a direct result of the student and worker protests and the fear of the development of violent revolutionary movements, the government took action to be seen to open up, on its own terms, ‘cuando se intenta modernizar al país por vía del neoliberalismo, a través de la apertura y participación en los mercados internacionales’ [when they tried to modernize the country via neoliberalism, through the opening up to and participation in international markets] (2005, p. 68). Velazco sees this as happening in two phases: 1968–1982 and 1982–2000. For him, ‘[e]l 2 de julio de 2000 México culmina el proceso de una ardua, lenta y accidentada transición democrática’ [the 2nd of July 2000 in Mexico ended the slow, arduous and faltering democratic transition] (2005, p. 69). The nineties, when the film was finally released was an important turning point in this development. La sombra del caudillo is a difficult film to place chronologically as, despite its distinctive style and unique generic crossover into thriller, it would not have been seen by many contemporaries. It had a limited release in 1990 with only a poor copy available, as it is believed that the original 35mm film was destroyed and, as a consequence, has not been widely seen. Therefore, not only was it dated on its release, largely in the generic choice and usage of music, but also it has had a limited audience. The film is an adaptation of the eponymously titled novel by Martín Luis Guzmán originally published in 1929. La sombra del caudillo, both the film and the novel, are episodic in nature recreating the post-bellicose period of the Revolution. Eduardo de la Vega Alfaro described the film as ‘an impeccable screen version’ of the novel, which ‘had the merit of revealing the genesis of the Mexican political system, characterized by fierce authoritarianism and a profoundly antidemocratic structure’ (de la Vega Alfaro, 1999, p.  187). Both the novel and film recount the events surrounding the succession to General

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Obregón’s (1920–4) presidency. His choice of successor was General Plutarco Elías Calles, Minister of State, while his opponent, General Francisco R. Serrano, Minister of War, was killed alongside some of his supporters in Huitzilar on their way from Cuernavaca to Mexico City (Leal, 1979, p. x). In the narrative these two men are renamed Hilario Jiménez (Ignacio López Tarso) and Ignacio Aguirre (Tito Junco), respectively. Shadows are a recurrent image and idea in both the novel and the critical discussions surrounding the novel. It is not just the shadow of the caudillo evident from the title of the novel whose ‘sombra es inmensa: se proyecta sobre toda la acción de la novela’ [shadow is immense: it looms large over all of the action in the novel] (Leal, 1979, pp. xi–xii). There are also others as detailed by Lanin Gyurko, Guzmán concentrates on the somber world of an era of extreme instability, rampant opportunism, corruption, and explosive conflict. This novel is replete with shadows  – shadowy political forces, shady dealings, shadow characters, shadow candidacies, and perhaps the greatest shadow of all, of the entire Mexican Revolution of 1910, the shadow of Pancho Villa, advocate of the oppressed, that contrasts with a polarized Mexico in which the masses are still dispossessed [. . .] It is a nebulous world of incessantly shifting allegiances and alliances that form and dissolve and coalesce again, a chronicle of the treacherous forces that engulf and finally destroy the protagonist, Ignacio Aguirre, evoked as a hero-victim from the very start of this highly fatalistic work. (1994, p. 256)

Chiaroscuro lighting evokes this shadowy world in the film. In the novel, Aguirre is very clearly the hero, however this status is not so evident in the film for a variety of reasons. When considering La sombra del caudillo it is useful to return to the novel, as the choices made in the adaptation process significantly transform the audience’s sympathies for the characters. The novel has been described as ‘both a political novel and a spy thriller. His narrative is carefully orchestrated toward a crescendo of intrigue, betrayal, violence and mass murder’ (Gyurko, 1994, p. 256). It follows the reluctant Aguirre from the moments he is first invited to put his name forward to be candidate through the political intrigue that takes place to precipitate his acceptance up to the point of his and his followers’ deaths. Although Aguirre can be said to be the principal character around which the events coalesce, politics is the protagonist. All of the characters and their motives are given attention, although Guzmán, a journalist by profession, does not dwell on psychological reflection, and the

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reader is invited to observe the events as they unfold. The narrator limits himself to providing physical descriptions of the characters and their political roles and relationships to one another. It is clear from early on in the novel that we are to sympathize with Aguirre over the caudillo’s choice, Jiménez, who, in turn, remains as shadowy as the president. In contrast, in the film there are frequent close shots of both Aguirre and Jiménez, which, combined with the chiaroscuro lighting, gives a greater degree of interiority and reflection in the characters and suggests at psychological depth. From being men of action, knowable only through their speeches and behaviour in the novel, Aguirre and Jiménez are seen to be more self-aware, reflective and capable of self-doubt in the film. There are many key episodes in the novel that also appear in the film, including: A meeting with the caudillo and another with Jiménez; a rally organized by Catarino Ibáñez (José Elías Moreno), the corrupt governor of Toluca; an assassination in parliament; the kidnapping and attempted murder of Aguirre’s right hand man, Axkaná González; up to the final dramatic denouement and Aguirre’s involvement in the transfer of land deeds.6 Aguirre is not above reproach in either. There is a clear incident of dodgy land dealings when he signs over rights to land, that rightly belongs to the army retirement fund, to the foreign owned ‘Maybe’ petrol company, thereby violating one of the primary Revolutionary aims of ‘land and freedom’, whereby land would be redistributed among the smallholders and farmers. This is more shocking in the novel, where he is a more heroic figure, than in the film, which uses lighting and camera to establish the mood and to create ambiguity from the outset. There is greater sympathy for Jiménez in the film than in the novel. Instead of creating an ensemble piece, such as this film would have been if it were more faithful to the original novel, the film unfolds as a power play between Jiménez and Aguirre, with the shadowy caudillo seen to manipulate the action. Moving away from representing Aguirre as the none too innocent victim of political manoeuvrings and setting the men against each other in this way move the dynamics of the story from being an exploration of a deceitful web of intrigue and refocuses the action onto political corruption. Played by Ignacio López Tarso, an actor better known for his supporting roles in other Revolutionary films (e.g. he played a comic foil to Félix in films such as La Cucuracha and Juana Gallo), Jiménez is imbued with psychological depth that supersedes that of the novel. The camera frequently pauses on a headshot, observing his careful meditation on his actions against Aguirre who is played as a hot-headed man of action. The power of the novel is in Guzmán’s external descriptions, witness

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information and what Luis Leal has described as ‘la acumulación de detalles bien observados, captados de la realidad’ [the accumulation of well-observed details taken from reality] (1979, p. xv). The film builds suspense through a gradual unfolding of the plot, playing up the negative and threatening qualities of the bad guys who resemble the absolutes of the Mexican melodrama, and through the, sometimes heavy-handed, use of suspenseful orchestral music. The consequence of this different telling of the story in each medium results in different assessments of the Revolution. For Monsiváis, in the film ‘the Revolution is but a power struggle without ideals’ (Monsiváis, 1995, p. 119). This analysis contrasts with that of Gyurko for whom the novel is a ‘bold and fascinating narrative of the labyrinthine world of Mexican politics in the twenties’ (1994, p. 256). The fact that both film and novel were banned suggests that both were too close to the bone. The book is a very thinly veiled retelling of actual events as experienced by a witness. Guzmán was also a renowned journalist and politician whose previous work El águila y la serpiente was an edited collection of articles that he had written while he was a member of Villa’s army. Therefore, he was visible as an actor in the events. As a result, his novel, with its sharp critique of the ruling generals and their political intrigue, could only be scandalous. The novel, while having the artifice of a thriller with its suspenseful style, reads in many ways like reportage. The narrative voice is evident in its frequent reflections on the characters’ personalities and physiques. The author’s proximity to the real events and the immediacy of the style have a political power that the film does not convey. The film, emptied of this context and authority, becomes, as Monsiváis suggests, an account of a Revolution taken over by corrupt leadership and therein lies the contemporary resonance. Not only does the film, like the novel, suggest that the foundation of the Mexican state was mired in corruption, but it also suggests that the political system itself is inherently corrupt. At a time when Félix and others were still starring in big budget films celebrating the glorious Revolution, this film went against the grain. As the decision of those who censored the film has never emerged, it is impossible to know on what grounds it was suppressed. It does not present the army in a favourable light, and some of the individuals’ depicted were still alive then. Irrespective of the reasons, ‘[l]a censura impone una ficción de lo nacional’ [censorship imposes a fictionalised version of the national] (Domínguez Ruvalcaba, 2010, p.  529), by suppressing those versions that draw attention to corruption at its origins. Although, it is possible to speculate that if this film had been made only 8 years

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later in a changing political climate the film would have been released without censorship. The novel is described by Anne T. Doremus as ‘a deconstruction of power and a denunciation of the caudillismo of the 1920s’ (2001, p.  36). The date is important. The novel was written when the events were part of recent lived experience, while the expectation was that enough time had passed which would make the film a period piece. Ariel Zúñiga has said that Julio Bracho did not expect that the film would be controversial (1995, p. 195). Yet, it was banned, which suggests that the time had not yet come for critiques of the Revolution on film, and, furthermore, that power had not changed hands significantly since the immediate post-Revolutionary period. This is explained by Zúñiga, [s]ince many of the political figures who participated in the events of the novel were still politically active and quite powerful when the film was made, the most expedient solution was to silence the film. The case of Rosa Blanca [1961] was similar. Even today [1995], both films are still semi-clandestine: they are exhibited surreptitiously and in obscure locations and have not, therefore, received the attention they deserve. (1995, p. 195)7

Ironically, by censoring La sombra del caudillo the state was not only objecting to the story being told, it was also drawing attention to the stagnancy of Mexican politics. Comparing ¡Vámonos con Pancho Villa!, another film which ‘transgressed official discourses’ (de Luna 1995, 176), Andrés de Luna describes La sombra del caudillo as ‘interesting because it attempts to make sense of the official party [. . .] It describes, step by step, the betrayals and excesses that characterised the postRevolutionary period in Mexico’ (1995, p. 177). Little had changed in 40 years. It is also a film of its time. Both in the sense that technically and stylistically it reflects particular noir aesthetics evident in both US and Mexican films of the 1960s, and also because its censorship was a direct result of being made at a particular historical moment. The lifting of censorship on La sombra del caudillo and other films in the 1990s was a gesture of freedom of artistic expression and a demonstration of civil authority over the military . . . By exhibiting such controversial artistic productions, the Mexican state gained not only political legitimacy but also began to rescue a lost audience. (Maciel, 1999, p. 219)

Maciel, unlike many other critics, suggests that the film on its final release was given wide distribution, and therefore is perhaps overly optimistic in his assessment of the influence of this film. However, releasing the film was an

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important ‘gesture’ as Maciel suggests, which helped open up Mexican film. Notwithstanding this opening up, there have been other more recent films critical of the political status quo, such as La ley de Herodes (Luis Estrada, 1999), which have suffered similar forms of state censorship (see Velazco, 2005). La sombra del caudillo brings the story of the Revolution forward, from the early days shown in El principio, Cananea and Reed, México insurgente to the postRevolutionary era, thereby drawing attention to the inherent violence of the state in the supposedly post-bellicose years and ‘revealing the genesis of the Mexican political system, characterized by fierce authoritarianism and a profoundly antidemocratic structure’ (de la Vega Alfaro, 1999, p. 187). The implicit message of La sombra del caudillo is that the battles may be over but the war continues.

Conclusion With war as an integral thematic or contextual feature, Revolutionary films all contain violent acts. El principio has violence foregrounded in a devastating fashion, and thereby firmly establishes its dehumanizing effects. Las fuerzas vivas has casual murders, which are shocking when set against the humorous tone of the film. Cananea’s shooting of workers by US rangers happens off-screen, and La sombra del caudillo’s final explosive violence is a result of the gradually unfolding events. In both Reed, México insurgente and La sombra del caudillo the narratives are built around the futility and destructive force of violence. Reed, México insurgente’s brief, tumultuous and disorganized battles are deliberately confusing to follow, exhilarating for Reed, yet devastating in the loss of life of friends and companions. Like the patterns that can be discerned in some US films of this era, with the excessive, heavily stylized violence of Peckinpah’s The Wild Bunch (1969) or the murder spree portrayed in Bonnie and Clyde (Arthur Penn, 1967), there is an escalation in violence on the Mexican screen, but it is not integral to the style common to all of the new independent filmmakers of the Nuevo Cine group.8 However, there is an attempt among all of the filmmakers to create more realistic cinematic violence. That is why even in Las fuerzas vivas, the violence is shocking and intended to take the audience out of the satirical humour and into a disturbing realism. The viewer is being reminded that this is based on historical reality with a present significance, not some fantastic, distant or imagined past. In a statement which has much resonance in a Mexican context, J. David Slocum has written,

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contemporary films appropriate styles and references freely from throughout film and media history producing historically ‘depthless’ movies whose simulation of and nostalgia for the past are based in existing representations rather than any attempt to re-create a ‘real’ past. (2001, p. 21)

He is referring to postmodern violent films of the late twentieth century, however, this could be a description of Mexican Revolutionary studio films and their creation of a fictional historical reality that had little bearing on reality. The independent filmmakers in Mexico opted for a return to an authentic past, which resulted in heterogeneous representations of the Revolution and the violence perpetrated during the conflict. There is a deliberate attempt by the filmmakers to represent violence differently to earlier films. That there is much variation in how this is done in each film is part of a new exploration of how violence should be screened. Slocum has observed this quest for greater authenticity through the representation of more realistic violence on screen as a pattern evident in Third Cinema, ‘[f]ilmmakers thus became allied with revolutionary movements, and violence in this cinema affirmed the potentially transformative violence of the people’ (2001, p. 17). For a generation who had experienced state violence first hand the carefully choreographed, spectacular generic form of violence, which ultimately celebrated the official discourse of the Revolution, did not speak to their experiences. The variations in how violence was portrayed reflect this new exploration of the possibilities that lay outside of conventions as well as a new political intent and a changing filmic aesthetics on an international scale. The development of independent cinema had parallels among their contemporaries in Hollywood, Europe and elsewhere at the time. Studios were losing ground and film school graduates were making films. In Mexico, they supported each other through such endeavours as critical writing in new journals (often short lived), the creation of awards and the formation of film clubs. Much of this was in the face of closed and corrupt unions, and the younger generation was debating the hegemony of the old guard in their discussions of the status quo. As a result, there was an interesting turn in Revolutionary films. They changed from being heavily financed features to generally smaller budget films prepared to dispute the mythical Revolution that had been presented on screen, and they were interested in engaging with contemporary politics through the creation of challenging new representations of the Revolution. As I have considered in this

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chapter, rather than create a coherent homogenous aesthetic, the Revolutionary films of the 1960s and 1970s were experimental, diverse and varied in tone and style. The 1960s and 1970s resulted in considerable changes for Revolutionary films. After the events of 1968, state violence was again a reality, with revolution and its consequences once more on the political agenda. The year 1968 was to be a year in which the government could showcase a new modern state in the hosting of the Olympics. Instead, it became a year of upheaval. In Mexico, it is the year that signalled the beginning of the creation of a civil society and new political movements, which eventually led to power being wrestled from the PRI in the 2000 elections. This was to be a slow process, born of the 1960s, heavily resisted and, for many, still incomplete. The next chapter will look at 1968, a key year in Mexican history and consider its representations.

Notes 1 Much has been written on the question of Third Cinema in particular in Latin America. A good starting point is Pines and Willemen (1989). 2 A contemporary, writing in The New Republic in 1914, described Reed as follows, ‘[b]y temperament he is not a professional writer or reporter. He is a person who enjoys himself. Revolution, literature, poetry, they are only things which hold him at times, incidents merely of his living. Now and then he finds adventure by imagining it, oftener he transforms his own experience. He is one of those people who treat as serious possibilities such stock fantasies as shipping before the mast, rescuing women, hunting lions, or trying to fly around the world in an aeroplane. He is the only fellow I know who gets himself pursued by men with revolvers, who is always once more just about to ruin himself ’ (Walter Lippman, quoted in Rosenstone, 1990, p. 4). Another said of him, ‘he went his way blithely, surely, reckless of safety, reputation, comfort, possessions’ (Robert Hallowell in Rosenstone, 1990, p. 5). 3 According to Lippman ‘[t]here is no line between the play of his fancy and his responsibility to fact; he is for the time the person he imagines himself to be’ (Walter Lippman, quoted in Rosenstone, 1990, p. 4) 4 See Pick (2010) for a detailed analysis of this final scene. 5 He deliberately adopts the title ‘colonel’ as an affectation to garner respect.

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6 According to Doremus Axkaná is an autobiographical representation of the author, and, curiously is the only character to survive the ambush albeit very bloodied and bruised. 7 According to Zúñiga ‘Rosa Blanca caused [its director Roberto] Gavaldón’s fall from grace, and he was abandoned to his own devices in a country where film production was fundamentally linked to the state and where to oppose the government was synonymous to an auto-da-fé’ (1995, pp. 196–7). 8 Marsha Kinder described Peckinpah as the ‘filmmaker who came to epitomize American excess in cinematic violence’ (Kinder, 2001, p. 64) and, for Slocum, the 1960s and 1970s were the ‘golden age of American Film violence’ (2001, p. 7).

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Mexico 1968 on Film: Screening State Violence

Mexico hosted the Olympic Games in 1968. Internationally, this event is best remembered for the infamous Black Panther salute by two African American athletes, Tommie Smith and John Carlos, an act which could be read as the performance of what was generalized unrest by civil society movements in many countries on a transnational stage (see Henderson, 2010). Often forgotten outside of Mexico is the student protest movement, which culminated in the massacre of a still unidentified number of students on the second of October of that year, 10 days before the opening ceremony. The event was subject to censorship in the local press and was sparsely covered abroad. Although the protests and violent army reactions were well documented by student filmmakers from the recently established film school, the first feature film to get local distribution was not made until 1989. This film, Rojo amanecer (Jorge Fons) [Red Dawn], while a powerful evocation of the massacre, was itself subject to government controls, which, in turn, discouraged other filmmakers. However, there are other films, both documentary and fiction, which are often overlooked by scholars in the consideration of 1968 on film. I shall consider the significance of these films in the context of the national imaginary of 1968 and its aftermath. For the Mexican government, as evidenced in a recent exhibition in summer 2008 at the Museo de arte moderno [Museum of Modern Art] in Mexico City Diseñando México 68: una identidad olímpica, the Olympics was its moment to show that it was a modern, developed nation. As the first Latin American and Spanish-speaking country to host the Games, this was to be the opportunity to put lie to the Hollywood (and indeed self-styled) myths of the fiery Mexicans, with a holster and a sombrero, eager to fly off the handle at the slightest provocation. Fashion, architecture and design employed modern design rather

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than deploying traditional or folkloric elements. In this context, the student movement was seen to be a blot on what had been a smooth preparation and a massive building project. The president, Gustavo Díaz Ordaz (1964–70), was firm in his decision that the student protests would be contained and the students would be silenced. There have been long-term consequences of the heavy hand of the government forces’ actions. The year 1968 was the beginning of a brave, new, modern Mexico, but not in the ways that the government had envisioned it. Instead, as Claire Brewster writes ‘[t]he Student Movement of 1968 marked the beginning of the slow, faltering, and yet to be completed path toward democratization’ (2005, p. 6). This has been a difficult journey and one with many deaths on the way. Here, I shall give some of the context and then consider the subsequent representations.

Context The conditions under which this movement developed were not only local but also part of a global youth movement. This movement was spurred on, in part, by the apparent success of socialism in Cuba as a potential example of a new direction for change; a growing civil rights movement, as witnessed in places as disparate as the US and Northern Ireland and international protests against the US war in Vietnam. The increased globalization of mass media brought images of war and its consequences to an international audience. In addition, there were specific conditions in Mexico which brought about general unrest and organized protest. Brewster explains, In Mexico, student numbers increased from 76,000 in 1960 to 247,000 in 1970. There were insufficient jobs for graduates, and universities became politicized as students demanded social justice, employment, and improved living standards. A youth culture developed, fostering a spirit of political activity that was not viable in other parts of Mexican society. Although the protestors were responding mainly to national issues, many showed awareness of wider concerns, as in their support for the Cuban Revolution and objection to the U.S. presence in Vietnam. (2005, pp. 35–6)

As well as looking abroad for examples of a new youth movement as a potential force for change, these national issues were to provide an impetus for the protestors. The students were not operating in isolation. However,

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the government emphasized that this was a student movement, rather than a movement which was also supported by sectors of labour, in order to deny the validity of their demands for structural and political change. Depicted as an idle, burgeoning middle class, young people garnered little sympathy across the country. This sentiment is reflected in films that did not touch upon the events but revealed a certain anxiety about youth culture and portrayed it as dangerous and subversive, such as Los Caifanes [The Outsiders] (Juan Ibáñez, 1967) (see Zolov, 1999). As a result, the association of young people with the events in 1968, to the exclusion of other actors, de-politicized their demands and reduced their protests to a product of youthful excess. In addition, it has been memorialized as a student movement because most of the filmmakers were students. The footage they shot was of fellow students printing, socializing, debating and preparing for the marches. In most films there are a few shots to remind the viewer that it was also a movement which included workers. Nonetheless, the emphasis in film is on student actions. As Brewster emphasizes, the student movement was part of a continuum which had begun 10  years earlier with protests by railway workers (1958–9), followed the next year with demands for wage increases by teachers and oil workers, then, in 1962 by strikes by telephone operators and in 1965 by doctors. The year 1966 saw the resignation of the Rector of the UNAM, Ignacio Chávez, following strikes and marches at the university. He was not seen to be capable of controlling the students and was made to be a fall guy. The protests, therefore, had begun long before international movements had created an impetus for change. The year 1968, seen in isolation may look like youthful rebellion sparked by an international fervour, whereas it was a logical step given the specific local and global conditions. I shall briefly sketch out the events as they happened in 1968. On the 22nd of July, students from the Politécnico Nacional and the UNAM clashed. A special police force, the granaderos, were brought in to contain the student violence, using extreme force to subdue the skirmishes. As Rodolfo Alcaraz describes it with some irony in Historia de un documento [History of a document] (Óscar Menéndez, 1971), ‘[t]odo empezó con un simple pleito entre estudiantes de dos escuelas’ [it all began with a simple fight between the students from two schools]. On July 26th, the anniversary of the Cuban Revolution, students occupied the UNAM buildings in protest against the granaderos, and the newly formed Consejo nacional de huelga [national strike council] made demands which included the disbandment of the granaderos. On the 30th of July, the

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UNAM buildings were attacked by the army. This was seen to be a violation of the integrity of the university grounds. However, this space was also important as the location of some of the sporting events in the upcoming Olympic games. For the government, it could not be seen to be a place outside of their control. There were further protests, with another march by more than 200,000 students on the Zócalo, on the 13th of August. This culminated in the raising of an anarchist flag in front of government buildings. This act was interpreted as highly provocative. However, there is much debate as to who was responsible, whether it was the students, or the army providing an excuse to harshly repress the students. There were further marches including a silent protest to highlight government control of the media on 13th September. The army invaded the university again in mid-September, resulting in the death of several students, and withdrew at the end of September. These events culminated in a demonstration in Tlatelolco. This is a highly symbolic space, also called the Plaza de las tres culturas [the square of the three cultures], where a central square is surrounded by three edifices: Aztec ruins, a colonial church and modern government buildings. These are all bounded by tall residential tower blocks. On the day of the protest, some student leaders occupied floors of some of these tower blocks, many of which are named after key dates or leaders in the Revolution, to give speeches. Thousands of students gathered at the square and were soon encircled by army tanks with low flying helicopters overhead. Among the protestors were a secret batallion of the army identifiable to one another by white gloves on one hand. The events thereafter are highly contested. It has been suggested that the existence of this group was unknown to the rest of the army gathered to maintain order. Much of the testimony suggests that the secret group provoked the army which led them to attack the students, most of whom attempted to flee. The numbers killed have not yet been satisfactorily confirmed and vary from the official government number of 44 to more than 200. For some, the number could be as high as 400. This figure is claimed in México, la Revolución congelada [Mexico, the Frozen Revolution] (Raymundo Gleyzer, 1973)  and is repeated within the film by the folk singer and civil rights campaigner, Óscar Chávez, who sings ‘mandó matar el gobierno/cuatrocientos camaradas’ [the government sent them to kill/four hundred comrades]. Over 2,000 were imprisoned for indefinite periods of detention. The consequences were to be longlasting. As Brewster sums up, ‘[t]he massacre brought an abrupt end to the student movement and left a generation devastated by death imprisonment, exile and terror’ (2005,

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p. 38). Many among this generation created the films analysed in Chapter 3. In the immediate aftermath documentaries were the first to appear, with the first feature only appearing in 1989. I shall discuss these and subsequent films in this chapter.

Filmmaking and film school The 1960s saw considerable change in Mexican film. In 1963 the first film school opened. This coincided with the end of the Golden Age of Mexican film, which, had been dominated by the studios. The result was an increase in independent filmmaking. This was not an easy transition, nor, initially, entirely successful. Mora explains the difficulties that arose between the new filmmakers and the old guard, The tension in Mexican film circles in the late 1960s was generated by the conflict between the entrenched bureaucratic/business groups in the official agencies and the leftist, intellectual, restless ‘outsiders’ being shaped by the universities. Aware of their country’s problems and inequalities, concerned by the cultural influence being exerted by Hollywood, these young cineastes and scholar-critics longed for a cinema that would deal honestly with Mexican reality. (Mora, 1989, p. 111)

Evidently aware of the politics that shaped many of these new filmmakers, Mora’s assessment is highly contingent. This ‘Mexican reality’ was, in part shaped by their first-hand experience of protests and the subsequent massacre in Tlatelolco. Some of the work of these restless outsiders was rewarded in the 1965 experimental film festival, a short-lived event that was to mark the shift from the studio mode of filmmaking to the independent privatized form of production.1 The other major change was to come in the form of the documentaries that emerged from 1968. In the 1960s and 70s in Mexico, as with elsewhere in Latin America, documentary had a very particular role as both witness to dramatic events and political tool. Michael Chanan articulates this role, Latin American documentary became involved in the creation of an alternative audiovisual public sphere at the level of community and its popular organisations, and sharing the same preoccupation to give voice to people normally excluded from public speech and outside the political power structures. (2007, p. 203)

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This is apparent in what has become known as Third Cinema. It is a cinema not defined by aesthetics, but which ‘addresses the issue of social power from a critical-but-committed position [. . .] to achieve socialist ideals’ (Willemen, 1989, p. 28) and ‘to develop the means for grasping history as process, change, contradiction and conflict: in short the dialectics of history’ (Wayne, 2001, p. 14). While there were filmmakers who considered their projects to be political and presented their films at festivals which supported the work of those who are defined as Third Cinema makers, such as the Chilean Patricio Guzman or Argentine Octavio Gettino, Mexican filmmakers are never defined in this way. However, the films they were making were part of a widespread new engagement with politics through documentary. The emphasis in Mexico at this time was of bearing witness and being present at a key moment in history that had significant political resonance. This is evident in the testimonies gathered by Olga Rodríguez Cruz (2000) of those who made the early documentaries about 1968. As will be explored further in Chapter 5, there cannot be assumed to be a straightforward relationship between document and documentary (Rosen, 2001, p. 261), although, some of the films that were made in 1968 are studied carefully for their indexical quality. John Corner has described documentary as a ‘loose’ label (1996, p. 4), which has a ‘definitional problem’ (Corner, 1986, p. viii). Given the multiple debates that surround documentary, I shall take Corner’s definition as a working model to refer to those films ‘which reflect and report on the [sic] “the real” through the use of the recorded images and sounds of actuality’ (1996, p. 2). Corner is very aware of how readily this real can be altered by the multiple processes involved, and how the manipulation of these images and sounds immediately problematize his definition. This chapter will consider some films which push at the boundaries of the label and consider how the real can be represented though fiction and documentary. Joanna Page (2009) has considered this definitional conundrum with regard to the blurring of lines between fact and fiction in Latin American film. She sees the forays across the boundaries between fiction and documentary [to] have taken on specific resonances here, in models for cinema; at physical frontiers and in networks of cultural exchange; to represent the gaps and contradictions of post-Revolution or post-dictatorship memory; to acknowledge the alreadymediatized nature of the reality of poverty and violence; or in critique of the illusions of modernity. (2009, pp. 12–13)

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This elaboration in her introduction to a collection of essays which consider a range of films that can be categorized as somewhere along the fiction-documentary spectrum is useful here. It points to the motivations and consequences of such forays. This chapter will consider how Mexican films have engaged with the idea of revolution when a conservative establishment has co-opted the term for its own political ends.

Documentaries The first films to emerge from 1968 were documentaries. There is an official, government sponsored film, Olimpiada en México [Olympics in Mexico] (1969) by Albert Isaac, which represents the sporting and cultural events surrounding the occasion. This has been seldom re-screened and is of interest as a text which supresses more than it shows. It does not make reference to the student protests and massacre. In contrast, a documentary which has had considerable reach and is acknowledged as important eye-witness reportage is El grito [the shout] (Leobardo López Arretche, 1968–70). It was shot in black and white on 16mm (mostly Bolex and Arriflex cameras) borrowed from the basement of the film school by students of the UNAM, some of whom were untrained (see Rodríguez Cruz, 2000, p.  27; Vázquez Mantecón, 2007, p.  195). From the eight hours of footage taken, it was later edited down to 102 minutes. For the most part, the voice over is taken from the eye witness account of the Italian photographer, Oriana Fallaci and other testimonies, mixed into a track with speeches by student leaders, others by the rector of the UNAM and the president, Díaz Ordaz, as well as ambient crowd sounds and music by Chávez. With the exception of the music, the sound is largely non-synchronous. This is typical of films shot at this time in a protest movement with spontaneous action. The Bolex and Arriflex cameras used are lightweight with no recording equipment attached. Therefore, the sound recordists would have been recording wild tracks of crowds and speeches without necessarily synching these to the visuals (see Rodríguez Cruz, 2000, p. 32). It is rare in any of the documentaries of 1968 where there is a speech made directly to camera or where orators are shown while we hear their voices. This was a consequence of the scramble to capture visuals of the events frequently by untrained camera operators. In those moments when a speech is heard over images of crowds moving or being shot

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at and attacked by the army and police it provides a sense of coherence to the protestors’ ideological intent. They are, as it were, speaking with the one voice. The film follows the student movement from early July up to the tragic events of the 2nd of October. The footage from this film is used and re-used in documentaries and fiction films both as an invaluable contemporary source and to designate period authenticity and political affiliation, as is evidenced in many of the films that are discussed here. At 56 minutes, Dos de octubre, aquí México [2nd of October, Here Mexico] (1968) is a short documentary by Óscar Menéndez which is less well known and poorly preserved. More experimental in form and content than El grito, it is a film that can be usefully compared to La fórmula secreta [The Secret Formula] (Ruben Gámez, 1965), a film which won the Experimental film festival in 1966 and is inspired by Soviet montage and sound theory. Also known as Coca-cola en la sangre [Coca-cola in the blood], it considers how economic and historic conditions have resulted in poverty and hardship for Mexicans. By way of example of the techniques employed, it opens on a mineral bottle which is revealed to be attached to a drip on an unidentified person’s arm with dissonant, slow-paced music, then cuts to a bird’s point of view of the Zócalo [main square] in Mexico City, where the bird swoops and moves around the space not allowing the viewer to fix on any single object or person. This is accompanied by an orchestral score that determines the pace and tone of the scene. Similarly, Dos de octubre, aquí México is meditative in tone and uses aesthetic elements to heighten the mood. For example, a metronome sound always accompanies the soldiers’ presence on screen, and music is used in an ironic fashion to accompany images of institutional figures and monuments, such as Díaz Ordaz and the landmark Torre Latinoamericana. The film primarily focuses on the aftermath of Tlatelolco, with considerable screen space given over to footage from Lecumberri prison. The soundtrack (voiceover, music and sound effects) produces an experimental film, which has been largely ignored by critics, but whose aesthetic choices for an overtly political film bear comparison with many international films such as Memorias del subdesarrollo [Memories of Underdevelopment] (1968, released in 1973) by Tomás Gutiérrez Alea and La Battaglia di Algeri [Battle of Algiers] (Gillo Pontecorvo, 1966). The neglect of the film can partially be attributed to the fact that there are few copies in circulation and it is not well preserved. Dos de octubre, aquí México is a highly subjective work and can also be compared to city symphony films, in which an attempt is made to evoke a time and place (see MacDonald, 2001).

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The account is told of how the filmmakers got footage of Lecumberri for Dos de octubre, aquí México in the follow-up documentary, Historia de un documento [History of a Document], also by Menéndez, made in 1971, edited in France, but not released until 2004 (see Rodríguez Cruz, 2000, pp.  46–7). This later film is made up of edited footage from the original as well as supplementary still photography taken by the director and others (uncredited). The voiceover in French gives background information of the events and the process of smuggling the cameras and film in and out of the prison. The music used is modernist in style except for two folk songs, one ‘Corrido 2 de octubre’ [2nd of October ballad] performed by a group called Tzotzil de Chiapas over the opening credits and establishing shots, which commemorates the events in Tlatelolco and, therefore, places 1968 firmly at the centre of the film. During this period the corrido form was re-appropriated by singers as a mode of narrating and recording the events in much the same way as documentary was. It was drawing on the history of the corrido as ‘an archive of popular history that provides insights into the opinions, values, grievances and heroes of common people’ (Marsh, 2010, p. 147). It thereby moved from being a form of nostalgia for past heroic times or supplementary to the action within the narrative (as in the films considered in Chapter 2), to being an extra source of historical record that reinforces the images on screen. Historia de un documento is, in many ways, a re-visiting of the original content told with a different narrative, in the same political tone, with no new evidence put forward. It presents itself as an historical document recovered from 33 years ‘de cadena’ [in chains], claiming to have been prevented from distribution for this long. The implication is that, like the prisoners, this film now too can be free and memory can be liberated, as underlined in the sentence ‘¡2 de octubre, no se olvida!’ [2 of October will never be forgotten], cited at the opening. The film’s conclusion is that post-1968 Mexico could no longer trust its political institutions and the narrator claims that, as a consequence, Mexicans were politicized. Menéndez returns to the same era with México, 68 (1992). The voice over opens with a meditation on the importance of remembering the past. As well as footage used in the previous two films, this time he speaks to protagonists and intellectuals who participated in 1968, including Chavez, José Luis Cuevas, Sergio de Alba, Alfredo Joskowicz and María Teresa Revueltas. In addition he interviews young students and gathers their opinions of the consequences of 1968 on their lives. They view themselves as ‘hijos del 68’ [children of 68], who believe that Mexico has changed for the better as a result of the student actions.

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This film intercuts the interviews in colour with the archive black and white footage, still images of student posters and banners and images from around the world (Vietnam, the Czech Republic, France) to advance the thesis that this was part of a transnational movement as well as having specific local factors. Viewed side by side the three documentaries illuminate the event from the perspective of eye-witness reportage, which give them an air of authenticity. Compared to El grito they are more viewer-friendly as there are more nods to aesthetic technique. For example, the editing is more deliberate; the voiceover is written in a way that is evident that the audience may not be aware of the events nor the context; and music is used so that it acts to underline a political point, with discordant sounds used over images of poverty and death. Naturally, all choices made in direction and editing are deliberate and involve aesthetic decisions. Those of El grito are more raw and immediate, and are directed at a more knowing audience. This means that while El grito can be read as a more dispassionate document, Dos de octubre, aquí México, Historia de un documento and México, 68 are evidently campaigning films. Ironically, the techniques that they employ make them more aesthetically appealing. The continual re-working of the same footage into new films suggests that Menéndez is constantly trying to re-create the event for a new generation and to work through new ways of reflecting on a moment in history that has obvious personal as well as political significance. Raymundo Gleyzer’s México, La Revolución congelada briefly deals with 1968 and the student movement. He was an Argentine filmmaker who travelled around Latin America filming injustices. Gleyzer was killed because of his political beliefs during the Dirty War in Argentina while in detention, as we are told at the beginning of the film. México, La Revolución congelada takes the imminent election of Luis Echeverría (1970–6) as a framing device in order to explore the consequences of the broken promises of the Revolution on the Mexican workers. The filmmaker’s primary concern is the failure to distribute land among the people, and the subsequent poverty endured by agricultural workers in Yucatán and Chiapas. It begins with a brief history of the Revolution using both interviews with former combatants in Zapata’s army and archival footage, and interviews with landowners and farmworkers. In this context, 1968 is presented as further proof of a failed Revolution. The voiceover, in English, expresses it in the following terms,

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[t]he student movement of 1968 revealed the rot in the frozen Revolution. The PRI reached a new low in suppression. The students with a conscience of a tortured people [sic]. The image of the regime as a stable democracy was destroyed by the bazookas, tanks and bayonettes.

The multiple images of 1968 shown in the film are stills. The protestors, army, police and fallen are frozen in time as photographs. These images tap into a long history of death in photography. As Sontag expresses it, ‘[e]ver since cameras were invented in 1839, photography has kept company with death’ (2003, p. 21). In her text, which is an extended meditation on the representation of war, Sontag underlines the function of the photograph to draw attention to moments of terror and conflict. She writes, ‘Look, the photographs say, this is what it’s like. This is what war does. And that, that is what it does too. War tears, rends. War rips open, eviscerates. War scorches. War dismembers. War ruins’ (Sontag, 2003, p. 7, italics in original). Here she emphasizes motion, action, pausing and looking. The viewer is stopped by the drama and horror of the image, which demands their attention. Therefore, the layering of multiple photographs of the dead and the violence meted upon them underlines the great wrongs that have been done to the victims. As moving images on screen there is less of a pause, whereas filming the photographs necessitates a pause, even for a few short beats to record the image accurately. This gives the impression of stasis, and, when contrasted with the footage on film of interviews with old men who had fought alongside Zapata, it suggests that a whole generation of young people who were embroiled in 1968 was destroyed and silenced by state repression, with no spokesperson available or willing to speak out. In more recent times, and subsequent to the release of papers by the Vicente Fox government (2000–6) relating to the massacre, Carlos Mendoza has made two documentaries for Canal 6 de Julio televisión, Operación Galeana [Operation Galeana] (2000) and Tlatelolco, las claves de la masacre [Tlatelolco, keys to a massacre] (2002). They are pieces of investigative journalism using images from the UNAM, that is footage from El grito as well as some of the unedited footage, computer graphics, interviews, talking heads, still photography, army footage in 2002 and news reports from 1993 (Doyle, 2003, n.p.). It is evidently made on a small budget and is a campaigning film aimed at a local audience in an attempt to highlight the events and their consequences. Documentaries of 1968 have gone beyond pure reportage and have involved considerable engagement by the filmmakers. The first, El grito circulated among

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political organizations as an underground film, much like the later Batalla en Chile [Battle of Chile] (Patricio Guzmán, 1975) did in order to garner support for the fallen and to seek justice. El grito’s primary function was to educate and keep alive the memory of the struggle. Despite its aestheticization of the event, Dos de octubre, aquí México had a limited release. Few documentaries were seen widely. However, the recent anniversary in 2008 saw the re-release of both El grito and those of Gleyzer on DVD with a wider potential audience and distribution. The 2000 change in the ruling party has resulted in greater openness and created the conditions where the first tentative steps towards examining the past can take place. This has led to new investigations of the past and a re-newed interest in the documentaries which told the story contemporaneously.

Feature films There are a number of feature films which have addressed the massacre from different perspectives and narrative styles. Based on a true story, the first was Canoa (Felipe Cazals, 1976). It tells the story of four young University of Puebla employees who go out to a small town called San Miguel de Canoa on a hiking trip. They are caught out in bad weather and have to find somewhere to stay in the village. Due to their age, they are mistaken for students and are thereby accused of being seditious by the parish priest, who incites the fearful locals to banish the workers in order to protect the village from Communism. The hikers are given refuge by one of the villagers only for his house to be attacked, and then he, and the four men, are badly beaten. Told in a documentary style fashion, there are re-enactments and talking head interviews with villagers. The film opens with black and white footage, showing images of police brutality against the students. Despite the opening sequence, in the rest of the narrative danger comes not from the police or army but from ordinary, country folk easily mislead by the power of the church. This was the first feature to tackle the events, albeit from a locus somewhat removed from the urban centre, with which it is normally associated. This could be interpreted as an important step and draws attention to the national hysteria and wider context which surrounded the student movement. Canoa also moves responsibility for the violence against the young workers from the government or the security forces onto the people and the church. In his text examining Mexico City on film, David William Foster emphasized how 1968 was one of the key

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events which re-configured how the city was imagined, irrespective of whether it was the subject of the film (2002). Therefore, he is suggesting that 1968 is closely associated with a crisis in a modern, urban Mexican imaginary. However, Canoa takes the events away from an urban setting into the countryside, thereby displacing this modern, urban clash and moving it so that it takes place against a backward rural space. This was a break with a traditional representation of the countryside on screen. As Miriam Haddu concisely states, Moving away from idealized visions of the bucolic landscape, in the 1970s, Felipe Cazals’ Canoa (1975) defined a change in direction in Mexican cinematic representations of the rural countryside. Furthermore, Cazals’ film changed archetypal perception of the provinces as the paradise lost of the Mexican cinematic landscape, inhabited by a simple, virtuous folk. (2007, p. 213)

If the classic cinema of the Golden Age had idealized the countryside, Cazals changed direction and showed a corrupt, backward countryside. It could be argued that he went too far. His is a vision fearful of the countryside as a space tied to the past, as represented by the church, inhabited by gullible and ignorant labourers. Laying the blame for the violence at the hands of the people and their willingness to be impelled into action by the priest’s anti-communist rhetoric is just the negative flipside to the previous romanticized vision. The police and army come on the scene as saviours, stopping an all-out massacre. This does not fit well within the historical context of 1968 and the armed forces’ implication in the massacre at Tlatelolco. With its use of techniques and tropes of both fiction and documentary film, Canoa is a transitional work, between the documentaries, which emerged in the immediate aftermath, to the feature representations that have subsequently been made. A film which is often taken as the first to properly engage with the massacre is Rojo amanecer (Jorge Fons, 1989). Based on a play by Xavier Robles, this film was the first to allude to the events directly. Set in Mexico City, in an apartment overlooking Tlatelolco, it represents the events from the point of view of the family who live there: a stay at home mother, civil servant father, conservative grandfather, two radical university student sons, and a boy and girl who are of primary-school age. In sum, they are a representative cross-section of lower middle-class Mexican society. The action stays inside the apartment and captures the events as they unfold within the four walls. There is only one exterior shot. This creates a claustrophobic atmosphere reinforced by many close shots. The family members leave and return to the apartment over the course of a single day.

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Gunshots are heard and bullets enter the house, followed later by students who come in to hide, and finally, the secret police who break into the apartment. The dramatic (melodramatic) ending concludes with the death of all but the young son who had hidden under one of the beds. Rojo amanecer was compromised by government censorship, which would not let the filmmakers shoot any outside scenes, and, initially, attempted to ‘enlatar’ [can] the film, a procedure considered in relation to La sombra del caudillo in Chapter 3 (see Velazco, 2005). This attempt to censor the film was unsuccessful as a result of a public campaign by writers, filmmakers and critics and Rojo amanecer, despite its low budget, was seen by millions (Davalos, 1990, n.p.). The topic was sufficient to attract a considerable audience, evidently eager to understand 1968. The spaces employed in the film are very important. In part, because it was a play, which had been set in an apartment over the course of one day, there was considerable logic to keeping that same location. The apartment is also significant for other reasons. According to Velazco, it ‘es un microcosmos de la familia mexicana de clase media de los sesenta’ [a microcosm of the Mexican middle class family of the sixties], in Rojo Amanecer, ‘se vincula la atroz masacre del 68 con la “sacrosanta familia” de la que se dice baluarte el Estado mexicano’ [the terrible massacre of 68 is linked to the ‘sacrosanct family’ which is a cornerstone of the Mexican state] (Velazco, 2005, p. 71). This synecdoche of the nation state under siege is reinforced by the tight space in which it was shot. On the day of the massacre, these were private spaces overlooking the square which were occupied by students ready to give speeches and were later invaded by special forces to detain and kill protestors. Another reason for only shooting interior scenes was budget (Velazco, 2005, p.  71). Few locations, and, in particular, highly controllable inside spaces are cheaper and quicker to shoot in. The scriptwriters, also, interestingly, claim to have been influenced by the Alien (Ridley Scott, 1979) film, ‘El monstruo era más terrible en cuanto nunca se definía su aparencia física’ [the monster was more terrible when its physical appearance wasn’t fully defined] (Velazco, 2005, p. 70). They imagined the state forces as a monster. A single, small space with few shots looking outwards at the square populated with students, whose presence is only indicated by sound, works to create an atmosphere of foreboding. Velazco underlines the power of the heard but unseen in the film, La estrategia de Fons consistirá en crear un contraste entre la calma y el silencio llenos de angustia que se respira en el interior del apartamento y el sonido

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intermitente de las balas, las voces, los gritos, los ruidos, los quejidos, los murmullos, las sirenas, la caída suave de la lluvia. [Fons strategy consisted of creating a contrast between the tangible atmosphere calm and silence, which was full of anxiety, in the interior of the apartment and the intermittent sound of the bullets, voices, shouts, noises, moans, murmurs, sirens, the soft fall of the rain]. (Velazco, 2005, p. 70)

Velazco’s list gives an insight into how suggestive and evocative sound can be. The threat that is heard (sounds of bullets, screams and shouts of the crowds below and so on) and not seen reinforces the sense of fear in the film. The film was a turning point in Mexican film. Haddu explains, ‘[t]he release of Rojo amanecer therefore, signalled a new era in terms of politics and political representation in Mexican cinema, paving the way for future explorations of the same’ (2007, p.  13). However, although its release and reception were groundbreaking, it was a flawed representation of the events. According to Maciel, the film can certainly be viewed as a daring and critical cinematic interpretation of one of the most seminal events in the contemporary history of Mexico. However, a more in-depth reading reveals that the film is not entirely the heralded breakthrough or the complete demise of state political censorship. (1999, p. 216)

He gives examples of the significant scenes that were cut and how they compromise the final film. In particular, he emphasizes the representation of the army, [i]n the released film, the army is largely portrayed as orderly and peacekeeping. By denouncing and focusing on atrocities carried out by the secret police, the film is fully in keeping with the current political climate and suits the state’s purposes [. . .] it could be argued that by allowing the exhibition of Rojo amanecer, the state not only appears to be moving towards political democratization but also is sensitive to the national concern for human rights. Thus, the state seems to be on the verge of controlling a problematic rogue agency, the secret police, that seems to operate in defiance of even executive directives. (Maciel, 1999, p. 218)

He also criticizes the violence as ‘sensationalist and exaggerated’ and some of the dialogue as ‘not altogether convincing’ (Maciel, 1999, p. 218). By this he seems to mean that it is didactic and over-explanatory. Therefore, while most critics recognize the considerable contribution this film has made to the representation of 1968, the compromises that were made have led to the film being severely

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criticized by Maciel and others. It is still an important film, not just because it was the first to represent 1968 from an urban perspective, it also conveys the chaos and confusion that the event conjures for many. It is imprecise in its details, but it is the touchstone for any future representations of 1968. A lesser known and little examined film, ¿Y si platicamos de agosto? [Can we talk about August?] (1981) by Maryse Sistach is short, lasting 35 minutes. Sistach is one of a generation of women directors in Mexico who studied film at the Centro de Capacitación Cinematográfica (CCC). This was her final year student project and her first film. She subsequently made her name with films such as Anoche soñé contigo [I Dreamt About You Last Night] (1992), Nadie te oye: Perfume de violetas [Violet Perfume: Nobody Hears You] (2001) and La niña en la piedra [The Girl on the Stone] (2006) (see Rashkin, 2001). The film revolves around the story of an adolescent boy and his relationship with a teenage girl who comes to stay in the family home. Their tentative love story is set against increasing tension in the city. The camera lingers on slogans painted on the wall, television news reports of student demonstrations, radio reports, students preparing and painting banners, and teachers and parents discussing the students’ activities. All this happens in the background as the young boy puzzles over how to negotiate an incipient adult world through what is still a child’s point of view. As well as the excitement and fear of the unknown, there is a build up of tension as the older girl gets involved in the student protests. The final scene shows the boy scramble across the rooftops in an attempt to follow the girl as she leaves the city in disgrace having been found in bed with him. These visual images of the boy chasing his innocent love are accompanied by the now infamous speech by president Díaz Ordaz given on the first of October 1968 saying, ‘hemos sido tolerante [. . .] pero todo tiene su límite’ [We have been tolerant [. . .] but there is a limit to everything]. The message is clear, after the second of October Mexico began a long process of change, and revolution was no longer the purview of the ruling elite. This is a film which keeps away from the mass protests, but highlights them through individual involvements in the events. While the family is important to the film, the parents are largely figures of control and caring in the background. ¿Y si platicamos de agosto? is told from the young boy’s perspective, but not his point of view. That is, we witness the story as if accompanying him, with many over the shoulder shots.2 Motivated by his crush and a desire to belong among the older teenagers he attempts to make sense of the political events and the activities. Not old enough to be allowed out to rallies, he merely acts as witness

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to what takes place behind the scenes, and happenings and shared stories he sees in his neighbourhood (as, for example, when we see him among a crowd who are drawn into a piece of political theatre).3 The time period remains that of the run up to the 2nd of October. There is considerable tension and sense of foreboding in the final sequence: in the child’s hopeless chase after his dream of love coupled with the president’s ominous words. The power of having Díaz Ordaz’s words heard over the visuals in this way can be compared to how the speeches given by the students are mixed with the visuals in El grito and other documentaries. In the documentaries, any speeches by officials, such as that given at the opening ceremony for the Olympics are contained within a particular space. At times, this is because it is taken from official footage, and others, because it is recorded from the television. By having his speech audible while the child moves through a public space gives the impression that it is part of the urban landscape and suggests that the president is omniscient. Where the speeches earlier suggested unity among the crowd, this speech works as a threat as it contrasts with the wishes of the characters in the film and coincides with a moment of loss for the boy. ¿Y si platicamos de agosto? more than any other film which addresses the period leading up to the protests, gives an insight into how the ‘1968 Tlatelolco massacre dramatically showed the intolerant, autocratic character of the political system, and increased income inequality undermined the notion of a perpetual Revolution that brought “social justice”’ (Schmidt, 2001, p. 27). The film is an attempt to explore the effect of the massacre on the everyday life of a family at the periphery of events, who mostly witness them at a distance. Juxtaposing dramatic historical events and the routine of family life rejects the myth that conflict and violence happens elsewhere, away from home, and contests the allegations that the participants were outsiders. The narrative role of the family in the film draws attention to what Michael Billig called ‘banal nationalism’ (1995). He argues that ‘crises do not create nation states as nation-states’ (1995, 6), by which he means crises such as war with other nations or internal conflicts. Instead, [d]aily, they are reproduced as nations and their citizenry as nationals [. . .] For such daily reproduction to occur, one might hypothesize that a whole complex of beliefs, assumptions, habits, representations and practices must also be reproduced. Moreover, this complex must be reproduced in a banally mundane way, for the world of nations is the everyday world, the familiar terrain of contemporary times. (Billig, 1995, p. 6)

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Conflict may result in transformations of the spaces that are contained with the nation-state, but it is in the ordinary that they are formulated. What could be more banal and mundane than the family, While also being heavily weighted throughout history as a unit which represents the nation in microcosm. The tension between the oft repeated role of the family as representative of the nation and the family in counterpoint to the events that take place is a compelling element of ¿Y si platicamos de agosto? The manner in which the film is shot refuses the elision of family and nation, and in this respect a comparison with Rojo amanecer is useful. In Rojo amanecer there is an almost tick box approach to showing an archetypal middle class family. In contrast to Velazco’s microcosm of the Mexican family in Rojo amanecer, in ¿Y si platicamos de agosto?, because of the decision to adopt a point of view observing the events witnessed by the boy from over his shoulder, we are not given any real sense of who his family are apart from what they mean to him. They are restricted to moving figures in what appears to be a stable family environment, but of little interest to him. By having the narrative and the camera follow the boy’s story the film moves away from the family as a unit of national struggle to emphasize the personal and devastating consequences of state actions on individual happiness. As in Rojo amanecer, events in ¿Y si platicamos de agosto? take place largely within the apartment, but there are also several scenes of outside spaces to help establish locale. This locale is not defined in terms of its historical importance. There are no major monumental spaces nor landmark features in the mise en scène. It is an urban location, but an anonymous one. It is evident that the film is set in Mexico City more through the girls’ discussions of their involvement in the protests than through any easily identifiable markers, as the film narrates the boy’s individual personal experience of his first love, his relationship within a family and community and the external influence of the state on their lives. The all-pervasiveness of Díaz Ordaz’s speech unifies the space aurally. Meanwhile, the boy is connected to others through his interactions with his family and his meanderings through his neighbourhood on his bike, playing with friends, attending school and going to local shops. The juxtaposition of these worlds in the film places side by side what Henri Lefebvre called the ‘near order’ and the ‘far order’. He explains that the conceptualization of the contemporary city is situated at an interface half-way between what is called the near order (relations of individuals in groups of variable size, more or less organized and structured

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and the relations of these groups among themselves), and the far order, that of society, regulated by large and powerful institutions (church and state), by a legal code formalized or not, by a ‘culture’ and significant ensembles endowed with powers, by which the far order projects itself at this ‘higher’ level and imposes itself. (Lefebvre, 2004, p. 101, italics in original)

For Lefebvre the city exists as an imaginary projection of itself, since no one can fully experience it all at once. This is particularly true of the large megalopolis that is Mexico City, even if it was on a smaller scale in the 1960s. The city therefore becomes a ‘mediation among mediations’ (Lefebvre, 2004, p.  101, italics in original). An individual must negotiate their way through the near order, which, in turn, must mediate with the far order. The choice of a child as a protagonist emphasizes the lack of power of the individual when faced with state brutality and adds a further layer of mediation. This is a child’s life rendered significant through his moment of sexual awakening set against a grand historical backdrop in which the state imposed terrible sanctions on those who transgressed the status quo. Family and friends represent a future into which the protagonist does not want to move in El bulto [The Lump] (1992) by Gabriel Retes. It is set in the aftermath of the events of the 10th of June 1971, Jueves de Corpus [Corpus Cristi Thursday] when 80,000 students staged a demonstration at the Monument of the Revolution. It was estimated that 30–50 people were killed by Halcones [falcons], a secret police force. The protagonist of El bulto, Lauro (Gabriel Retes), goes into a coma after being brutally beaten at the march. He wakes up 20 years later in a very changed Mexico. His old comrades are now either rising high on the tide of the capitalist success that Mexico briefly enjoyed in the early nineties, or others are part of the political establishment. This is a bittersweet comedy that turns into a family melodrama in the final third. There are many mood changes in the film. It moves from the serious documentary-style footage at the opening in which the police are shown attacking demonstrators; then to the middle section when Lauro awakes and has to adjust to the changes in his life; until, later, he gets angry and frustrated with his family and friends; in the end, he reconciles with them and, what are, in his eyes, the compromises they have had to make. It is a film that starts with serious intent only to slide into silliness and excessive sentimentality. Nonetheless, it was the first film to address the incident of Jueves de Corpus, a period still largely ignored in the collective imaginary.

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Cinemexicano, a website dedicated to cataloguing and highlighting canonical Mexican film, describes the film as an optimistic assessment of recent Mexican history, Retes atribuye a Lauro las características de muchos idealistas de los setenta que se quedaron ‘dormidos’ viviendo en un México propio. Así, ante la sorpresa de El bulto desfilan los eventos del México contemporáneo: La primera visita del Papa, la Miss Universo, el Nintendo, el terremoto de 1985, el Premio Nobel, la apertura comercial y el Tratado de Libre Comercio. Al principio es un México insoportable y difícil de creer. Al final, es un México aceptable, abierto y franco. Un México esperanzado en el futuro que puede que haya aprendido algo de los errores de la historia. Retes attributes to Lauro the characteristics of many who Mexicans who were idealistic in the 1970s and stayed ‘asleep’ whilst living in their own country. Therefore, a surprised El bulto sees events from contemporary Mexican history take place before him: the first visit of the Pope, Miss Universe, [the arrival of] Nintendo, the 1985 earthquake, the Nobel Prize, the opening up of markets and NAFTA. In the beginning it’s a Mexico that he finds impossible and difficult to believe. In the end it becomes acceptable, open and frank. It is a Mexico with hope for the future and that could have learnt something from history’s mistakes. (n.d., n.p.)

Haddu, in contrast, is critical of the film. She writes, ‘[i]n El Bulto, the events of the past, such as the massacre at Tlatelolco in 1968 and the 1971 Corpus Christi killings, aside from their symbolic qualities, are revealed as having little significance for present day Mexico’ (2007, p. 23). She continues, ‘[i]t seems as though Lauro is stranded in an ideological time warp where rules of conduct, expectancy and morality are blurred’ (2007, p. 24). This film strays from the ideals of 1968 so far as to become a celebration of Mexican modernity, progress and capitalism. This deliberate erasure of the past through relegating it so completely to history is an offence to the memory of those whose deaths have not been completely recorded, and a period which has not been yet laid to rest. A later film, Jueves de Corpus (Marcos Almada, 1998), as the title suggests, has the events in 1971 as the nexus of the plot. It is a police thriller set in 1992, which follows the investigation by detective Juan Tapia (Luis Reynoso) of a serial killer who is murdering wealthy and influential men with no obvious connection to one another. It gradually emerges that the murderer is the son of a man who

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was killed by the Halcones and is avenging his father’s death by killing them. The Halcones were set up by a government paranoid about the possibility of violent reaction to the events of 1968, and spied upon, interrogated and killed those they suspected of subversion. It is clear from the plot that the detective is unaware of this incident in recent history, although his superior, comandante Pineda (Mario Almada), has had direct experience of them. His own son was also killed by the Halcones. Reminiscent of a Paco Ignacio Taibo II plot in which the whodunit becomes subordinate to the historical and political context being explored, the story is an evident opportunity to explain the events and circumstances surrounding Jueves de Corpus to a wide audience (see Thornton, 2008). Shot on video, often over lit, with soap opera style acting and reacting, static wide shots of people walking towards camera and so on is evidence of its low budget. However, it does broach the subject from a novel point of view. The film nuances the role of the police in society in a way that is not seen elsewhere in this period. In other films the police are a constant threat, often archetypal bad guys who are happy to comply with the mandates from above. In contrast, Tapia and Pineda are seen to work within a system that they and the film acknowledge is corrupt. They are idealistic and have to struggle against corruption to get their job done. However, they are not renegades, as the film shows that there are many others who are eager to see justice done. In Jueves de Corpus the police force is not efficient, nor is equipped with much investigative know how or technical support. These are common men (and a few women) trying to get the job done. The film shows that the police are part of rather than set apart from the general population. At one point Pineda baldly states, ‘el sistema mató a mi hijo’ [the system killed my son]. This statement chimes with student protestors rather than the discourse usually associated with police chiefs. It is evidently a system he and others want to see changed. Jueves de Corpus brings the aftermath of 1968 to a different audience and places the events into the thriller genre. It is easy to criticize genre films when they address serious topics in what is seen to be an entertainment package. The attempt to entertain is seen to undermine the serious content (Grant, 2007, p. 5). Yet, genre films attract audiences because of the familiarity of their ‘common elements’ (Grant, 2007, p.  2) and it is, therefore, the political message which differentiates this film from other similar police thrillers. The difference between this film and the inclusion of melodrama in El Bulto is that there is a shift in mood and tone in El Bulto which is jarring, whereas Jueves de Corpus is consistent

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in its generic approach. However, the latter has received little critical attention, perhaps because of the quality of its execution, but more probably because of the lack of artistic intention. A feature film from the same period which deals with the aftermath of 1968 is Francisca, ¿De qué lado estás? (2002) directed by Eva López Sánchez. (For more on López Sánchez see Arredondo (2001).) In keeping with contemporary trends in film production in Mexico, the film is a Mexico/Spain/Germany co-production. Consequently, while dealing with local concerns it does so using an international cast and crew. It was shot in Mexico City and Veracruz with support from the UNAM. Although set in 1971, the film opens with stills and moving images from student protests in 1968 and, on the DVD extras of the version released in Mexico, the director describes it as ‘una película en el marco político del 68’ [a film set in the political context of 68]. Other extras include a quotation from an historical account of the events by Rubén Aréchiga Robles Asalto al cielo: lo que no se ha dicho del 68 [Assault on the sky, what hasn’t been said about 68]: ‘[l]os estudiantes mexicanos del 68 fueron los primeros en vivir su adolescencia y juventud en un país que ya no era básicamente rural’ [the Mexican students of 68 were the first generation to grow up in a country that was no longer rural]. These extras are there to establish that the historical context is Mexico in transition. Interestingly, in the international DVD release none of these extras were included, the Mexican version provided an historical context that was not available to a transnational audience. This absence neutralizes the political message and the specificity of the historical backdrop to the story and feeds into an image of Mexico as a violent country. Like Jueves de Corpus, Francisca, ¿De qué lado estás? is a thriller with a very sombre mood throughout. The story revolves around Bruno (Ulrich Noethen), a Spanish-born, German national, who was a former communist party member but turned from that when his comrades chose to take up armed struggle, hence his decision to move, now reluctantly turned police informant on his arrival in Mexico to take up a post as a lecturer at the UNAM. The other characters are his politically engaged students who are involved in a radical, direct action cell that he is charged with spying on. Inevitably, he sympathizes with their cause; he then falls in love with one of them, Adela (Fabiola Campomanes), becomes involved in their cause and is wrongly accused of murder. As a consequence, he goes on the run and later into hiding in the jungles of Veracruz with the aim of escaping with Adela to the US, where they hope to reinvent themselves. The thriller and melodramatic elements of the film serve to heighten the mood

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and give considerable urgency to the narrative. However, these aspects also undermine the seriousness of the subject matter. History becomes primarily a tense, narrative backdrop after the obligatory badge of authenticity in the opening. Notwithstanding this, there is a welcome move away from a focus on family and on the domestic (although the film retains elements of this) to a wider political and social context. The title comes from a scene in the film when Bruno is asked ’¿de qué lado estás?’ [which side are you on?] by José, one of the students after the two watch El grito with other students at a secret screening. Bruno’s reply is ‘las cosas no son tan blanco y negro’ [things aren’t so black and white]. The rest of the film explores this taking of sides and, through Bruno and Adela’s relationship, it portrays Bruno as someone who has become compromised by his actions and is, therefore, unable to make any significant changes in society. For the hero of a thriller, Bruno is strangely passive. He reveals himself to be the product of international turmoil and thereby, a tragic victim of world historical forces. Born during the Spanish Civil War to German and Spanish communist parents, he was sent to the USSR as an evacuee. After the war he was reunited with his mother in Berlin, where he studied history and joined the communist party. He later entered the security services and spied on behalf of the communists. This resulted in his best friend’s death. Disillusioned with communism he fled to Paris, deciding thereafter to reinvent himself and move to Mexico. This backstory, which he recounts to Adela, signals him as someone who has been both subject and object of the drama of history and, on a narrative level, explains why he is so reluctant to get involved in the armed struggle that Adela and the other students feel they must embrace. As protagonist, he bears the burden of imbuing some meaning into the indecision over taking up arms. This is done through evocations of his troubled past. Drawing on a transcultural historical context in this way suggests that violence and conflict move in waves around the world, but also that they have severe personal consequences on individuals such as Bruno caught in their wake. In this film the configuration of space differs from that in ¿Y si placticamos de agosto?. Where ¿Y si placticamos de agosto? is located exclusively in the city, Francisca, ¿De qué lado estás? moves between the city and the countryside. The city is controlled by an all-seeing secret police force who are aware of Bruno’s movements and monitor when he transgresses their agreed rules. As representatives of the state, they are the far order who control the rebel’s movements. They are also a constant, if more distant, threat in the countryside.

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This is the difference between the city and the countryside. The city is controlled absolutely by the far order, whereas the countryside provides an opportunity to escape from government and police control. However, in the absence of the far order, there is another hierarchy which is corrupt and potentially more oppressive. Bruno realizes this when he finds that his only source of income is trafficking illegal goods and he sees his boss murder poor innocent people under suspicion for robbery. It is clear that he is taking out his anger on people who are essentially his indentured slaves. The rural spaces are not represented as a real alternative to the city, just another site of repression and danger. Emily Hind has explored the representation of the countryside in recent Mexican film. She uses the term provincia [province] to describe ‘national landscapes outside of Mexico City’ (Hind, 2004, p.  26). Films such as Y tu mamá también (Alfonso Cuarón, 2001) ‘conceive(s) of provincia as the obliging fulfilment of Mexico City residents’ desires’ (Hind, 2004, p.  41).4 Usually, the provincia signifies a space where the characters can escape their humdrum existence and the constraints of city life to be free to indulge in sensory pleasures. In contrast, in Francisca, ¿De qué lado estás? the countryside has similar constraints and limitations to the city, which prove more terrifying because the rules are unknown to the outsider. Meanwhile for Bruno, the near order does not provide much support. Adela chooses to leave him and he is killed by Gabriel, the now teenage son of the man he was accused of murdering. Family is corrupted by conflict. Bruno’s own background was marred by his parent’s involvement in violent struggle and now the next generation is brutalized by a legacy of violence. In this pessimistic ending, Gabriel is destined to continue the cycle of violence, which Bruno’s life has demonstrated is negative. Violence connects the man and boy across cultures and experiences. López Sánchez portrays violence, irrespective of the context, as damaging on an individual and a societal level. The message is that through the end of childhood innocence, society is corrupted—an idea explored in ¿Y si placticamos de agosto? also, albeit in different ways.

Conclusion The year 1968 continues to have a considerable influence on film in unexpected ways. For example, it is part of the backstory for one of the characters in the film that signaled a return for Mexican film to an international stage, Amores

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perros [Love’s a Bitch] (2000) by Alejandro González Iñárritu.5 The period 1968–71 is referenced through the character ‘el Chivo’, a former lecturer and radical who is jailed for his activities, and, as a result, loses contact with his wife and daughter. His name, el Chivo, conjures up references to the term ‘chivo expiatorio’ [scapegoat] which was used to refer to the student movement of 1968. This activist turned assassin aims to reconcile himself with his upper middle class daughter after the recent death of his wife. This hope for a return to the family and his final decision to leave her a substantial amount of money earned from his work as a hitman is an interesting judgement on the inheritance of the period. Similar to El bulto, radicalism is converted into a very harsh form of capitalism. However, he is the only character in the film to achieve his aim, and to escape what is represented as a troubled, violent city. Thereby, implicitly he leaves behind the burden of history to escape into the provincia and has the possibility of reinventing himself anew. As evidenced in Amores perros, family continues to be an important metaphor for the nation. It is the locus in which national dramas and politics are played out. As 1968 is an historical moment which has not yet been resolved, none of the perpetrators has been jailed and much of the truth is yet to be uncovered; many of the films are still concerned with seeking out the facts. In addition, it was a topic which was subject to much censorship up to relatively recently; therefore, the filmmakers have been pushing at the edges in order to have the story told at all. In documentary, there were two definite periods in which circumstances and history impelled filmmakers to create. The first wave was during and in the immediate aftermath of the protests and subsequent massacre. There was a need to get the story out to the public, albeit one limited to political and social movements, and for the first time there were the facilities to do so with the recent creation of the film school. The second wave was the campaign for the release of the material from the archive. This was facilitated by the change from the more than 70  years of single party dominance by the PRI to new political power under PAN, in whose interest it was to discredit the past and by extension the PRI. In fiction films, the representation of the army and police has evolved from the image of them as saviours in Canoa to the secret police in Rojo amanecer, the police as pawns of the system in Jueves de Corpus, up to the most recent depiction of a brutal, pervasive and sinister police force in Francisca, ¿De qué lado estás?. The evolution in the representation of the security forces reflects

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that there is less censorship over content and again there is a political agenda where it does serve the interests of some to represent the past as corrupt against a liberal present which can be free to analyse it. However, there are interesting temporal leaps in Francisca, ¿De qué lado estás?. While the earlier part set in Mexico City is firmly established in terms of time and place, in the later section when they flee to Veracruz time is less stable or identifiable. It is clear from the age of a character from young child to teenager that it must be at least the late 1970s however, the costume and the mise-en-scène do not clearly identify it as a distant past. It could be set in the present day. Therefore, the criticism levelled at the state could be understood to be directed at the contemporary government. Brewster underlines the importance of this evolving representation of the security forces after 1968. For her, ‘[t]he scale of the brutality used by the police and army decisively ended the myth, begun after the Mexican Revolution, of the benevolent, paternal state’ (2005, p. 7). The disillusionment with the police and army is not evident from early features; however, it has gradually evolved in recent representations. There is an urban rural divide in the films about 1968. Canoa broke with previous idealized representations of the country and created a grotesque image of country inhabitants as compliant followers of a corrupt and brutal church. This over-simplification exonerated the government, police and army of responsibility and laid the blame on others. This was particularly significant as it was the first film to represent 1968 and bore a considerable burden of representation. Despite the fact that there was considerable rural activism, which provided the historical context for the student movement, such as those led by Rubén Jaramillo, these have not been represented in any significant way in feature films.6 Although, as mentioned earlier, many of the documentaries are eager to place the student movement in its wider context and include mention of this rural unrest, fiction filmmaking has largely failed to do so. Apart from Canoa, the city is another protagonist in the films about 1968. Even though it is set inside an apartment, the significance of that particular building resonates in Rojo amanecer. The characters make reference to their daily routine, the student protests and outside spaces that are never seen by the audience. Thus, it is firmly established where and when the events transpire. While there are outside spaces in ¿Y si platicamos de agosto? and El bulto, these serve as generic city spaces which evoke class, lower middle class in the former, upper middle class in the latter, rather than use monuments to establish setting,

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or referencing important city landmarks and their significance in the nation space. In contrast, in Francisca, ¿De qué lado estás?, perhaps with an eye to its international audience the camera moves through spaces familiar from the documentaries. The student activists are in university buildings, public spaces and smaller apartments evoking the earlier eye-witness accounts and giving the film a veneer of authenticity. For the filmmakers, even in documentary films, there are considerable challenges to representing a terrible event that is not yet properly catalogued by historians. For Carlos Monsiváis, Elena Poniatowska’s La noche de Tlatelolco was the best and only true account of 68, ‘[p]ero después de eso nada. Es que la matanza es hasta tal punto monstruosa que no hay modo de llegar’ [Since that there has been nothing. The massacre is so monstruous that there is no way to approach it] (Gliemmo, 1994, p. 22). Interestingly, his monster is a reminder of those from the Alien film that the makers of Rojo amanecer alluded to. The monsters are not just the perpetrators of the murders, but they are also in the horror of the events themselves. Poniatowska’s text is a polyphonic collection of the eye-witness accounts of those who had experienced the events first hand. Although many were contemporaneous to the events, the documentaries produced did not quite succeed in conveying their full horror. Neither documentary nor feature films have created a full and complete portrayal of the events. Perhaps, this is because the complete picture of what happened is still not known. Unlike the Revolution, 1968 does not have a sufficient body of work to map a pathway into the historical moment. There is a need for wider explorations of the events, which can never be achieved through one film, but through a multitude of different visions.

Notes 1 See the interview with Marcela Fernández Violante ‘Inside the Mexican Film Industry: A Woman’s Perspective’, who gives a personal overview of this period (Burton, 1986) and Lash (1966) who reviews the first experimental film competition. 2 For more on the particularities of a child’s point of view see, for example, Messenger Davies (2005). 3 This is a enactment of what Augusto Boal called ‘invisible theatre’, where performers act out real-life scenarios in public spaces to inspire people to react and create

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potential for debate and real change. For more on this see ‘International Theater of the Oppressed Organisation’. 4 Interestingly, this film was distributed under its Spanish title. 5 This is a film that has been dealt with in detail elsewhere. See, for example, Shaw (2003) and Smith (2003). 6 For example, Historia de un documento refers to Jaramillo and the significance of his death.

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Zapata and the (Neo)Zapatistas: Indigenous Heroes and Online Warriors

The year 1968 produced a dramatic change in the representation of conflict in Mexico whose effects can be seen in the films of the rebellion by the Ejército Zapatista de Liberación Nacional (EZLN) [Zapatista Army of National Liberation] in Chiapas. With the preponderance of films about 1968 being documentaries and the scarcity of other archival sources to act as witness to the events, the ‘indexical capacity of the medium’ was privileged (see Rosen, 2001, p. 233). Just as with other Latin American countries in the 1960s and 70s, documentary also ‘became involved in the creation of an audiovisual public sphere at the level of the community and its popular organisations’ (Chanan, 2007, p. 203). It had a dual function then, as archive and to build solidarity. However, documentary can never be read as a pure document given the aesthetic and political choices made in its production as well as the impossibility of completely capturing any event in its totality. Contemporary documentary makers are very conscious of this, which is why they often deploy all of the aesthetic tools at hand in order to exploit the medium’s perceived indexical capacity. In addition, the documentary makers are operating within a visual and aural field employed by the rebels in Chiapas that is already overdetermined by reference to historical and fictional texts and figures that complicates their representation considerably. This chapter will consider the interplay between history and its representations of the EZLN and the Revolutionary leader, Zapata, from whom they derive their name. To pause for a moment on terminology, I shall refer to them interchangeably as the EZLN and Zapatistas, as they are commonly referred to elsewhere, although, they can also be spoken about as neo-Zapatistas to differentiate them from those who fought alongside Zapata in the Revolution. The blurring of

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period and affinity in the use of a common nomenclature is noteworthy given the temporal and geographic differences between the groups. In Chiapas, southern Mexico, a region rich in natural resources and a unique eco-system, the indigenous have lived in terrible conditions of extreme poverty with little access to any of the wealth of the area (see Womack, 1999; Weinberg, 2000; Higgins, 2004). Frequently, they have been either airbrushed out of official national discourse or appropriated as part of a folkloric imaginary full of colourful tapestries and exotic dances (see Zolov, 2001, pp. 241–5). This simplistic notion was to change when in the 1990s, the EZLN, an indigenous grass-roots movement, came online and addressed themselves to an international public. The year 1968 and the Revolution continue to resonate today the aftermath of through the rhetoric and actions of the Zapatistas. The government action in 1968 led to a growth in underground movements and increased grass-root activities. By the 1990s the Mexico City based activities that developed from the fallout from 1968 resulted in an organized rebellion by indigenous people hundreds of miles away. In their name lies a clue to their other source of inspiration, Zapata, an indigenous man, who was a powerful peasant leader in the Revolution. Although he has rarely been represented on screen, his symbolic currency is alive in present day Mexico. His name was adopted by the Zapatistas for multiple reasons: They were aware of his historical significance and how he was being exploited by the then regime; he was always closely tied to the indigenous struggle and the call for improved conditions; and because, unlike Villa, who had become an increasingly tawdry character onscreen and off, Zapata’s image remained relatively unscathed. This chapter looks at the representations of both Zapata and the Zapatistas as potent explorations of the indigenous in Mexico by both Mexicans and outsiders. From the outset this was a transnational struggle and chimed with the antiglobalization movement which was gaining momentum in the late nineties. The rebellion came to public attention in 1994, on the eve of the coming into effect of the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA) with a small group of poorly armed rebels taking a handful of towns in Chiapas (see Poniatowska, 1995; Womack, 1999; Weinberg, 2000; Hayden, 2002; Higgins, 2004). These rebels were soon forced to retreat by the army and went into hiding. Gradually, it became clear that this rag tag group were not warriors but community activists eager to effect change locally and nationally. The taking of the towns appeared to be an organized event carried out by a small rebel army, who aimed to draw attention to their movement and spoil the NAFTA celebrations. This was the only time the rebels were to use arms for an offensive action. Very soon, they made

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their aims clear and their battle became political and educational, and a quest for improved rights and conditions for the indigenous peoples. To this end they, with the help of Internet activists across the globe, launched their rebellion online at a time when web warfare, or cyberwar as it is called, grew from something that still was only found in theoretical research papers and the Internet to a force that was growing exponentially (see Collier, 1999; Yúdice, 2003). Through the declarations, issued primarily by the masked, elusive Subcomandante Insurgente Marcos, the Zapatistas challenged the very notion of a hermetically sealed local culture, and Marcos’ writings, which borrowed from both Western and indigenous sources, are challenging, cogent and, sometimes, playful and attracted considerable international attention (see Pellicer, 1996; Vanden Berghe, 2001; Vanden Berghe and Maddens, 2004). This blending of the local and the global has been emblematic of the Zapatistas. Therefore, given the transnational emphasis of their struggle, this chapter considers a selection of films which were made by Mexican filmmakers and others by international filmmakers. With the Zapatista movement there was a reminder of the ideals of the Revolution through the return to an important and highly charged historical figure, Zapata. Zapata (1879–1919) was born in Morelos, a state with high dependency on agriculture, located south of Mexico City, but considerably to the north of Chiapas.1 He was an indigenous, peasant farmer whose battle cry was ‘tierra y libertad’ [land and freedom]. This simple, but resonant call would become the slogan for the later rebellion in Chiapas. Zapata was the leader of what was called the Southern Army, allied for a time with Pancho Villa’s Northern Army. During the war Zapata and Villa took power in Mexico City for a few days. But neither were interested in becoming professional politicians and they soon withdrew. Zapata, in particular, entered the foray in order to attain land rights for peasants, that is, win back their right to farm their ejidos (small communal landholdings) and in order to put an end to latifundios (indentured slavery to large landowners). To this end, they began their campaign by seizing estates  – a move which would be imitated 70  years later by the EZLN  – and divided them among local campesinos who organized them into cooperatives and communes. Zapata’s army were difficult to defeat because they were decentralized. This strategy was successful because it suited the rugged terrain of Morelos which ‘was a barrier to large-scale movements of men and supplies’, and secondly, ‘it centred decision making on the self-interest of pueblos that already had been

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allocated land’ (Mason Hart, 2000, p.  462). After the Revolution, Zapata’s popularity among the poor was seen to be a threat by the new government. On 10 April 1919 President Venustiano Carranza ordered the assassination of Zapata, thus making him a martyr and enshrining him as a popular hero. Yet, one who was not as celebrated in film and literature as Villa was. Although his early death meant that Zapata was not embroiled in post-Revolutionary politics, he did play an important role in the formation of the new constitution. Arguably, Zapata’s most important legacy was in his appeal that land rights for campesinos be enshrined in the 1917 constitution, which it was in the form of article 27. Neither Zapata’s army, nor indeed any of the other principal players of the Revolution, entered Chiapas. Therefore, this southern, impoverished state was an unlikely place to (re)appropriate Zapata.2 The reasons for him being central to the symbolic imaginary of the present-day rebellion are multiple and various. First, easy identification can be made between Zapata’s call for land and freedom and the needs of the indigenous. Secondly, his battle strategies suit the difficult jungle terrain and the poorly armed rebels and another was his lack of personal political ambition. Territories occupied by his army were organized according to traditional communitarian values. Also, he was one of the few Revolutionary leaders to have died with his aims still clean of the muddy post-revolutionary compromises. Lastly, President Carlos Salinas de Gortari (1988–94), a fan of the myth of Zapata  – to the extent that he named his son Emiliano and his government jet Zapata – was behind the reform of article 27 of the constitution in 1992, which effectively ended historical land rights for the indigenous (Collier, 1999, pp. 28–46). Therefore, it was time to take back Zapata as the people’s hero, rather than allow him to remain as the façade behind which a conservative, neoliberal regime conducted business. Subcomandante Insurgente Marcos has spoken about the Zapatista use of national symbols as an integral part of the indigenous struggle to occupy a place within the nation. He says: ‘[e]n este caso, en el de los símbolos históricos, el Estado mexicano tiene un manejo de ellos que había que disputarle’ [in this case, with reference to historical symbols, the Mexican state’s use of them must be disputed] (Le Bot, 1997, p. 348). For Marcos, not only are the Zapatistas inventing a new way of conflict, with what was a novel way of dialoguing with the world online, but also he is drawing on a highly symbolic figure from the past which has resonance for the present day struggle (Le Bot, 1997, pp. 348–50). In their writing there is a direct engagement with Mexican discourse in the manner in which the official government narrative has presented itself over the

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previous 70 years, that is through the re-appropriation of national symbols and tropes, for example, Zapata. The Zapatistas at the margins are not attempting to take over the centre, they are employing the same tropes and symbolism as the hierarchy, (re)claiming them as their own and investing them with new meaning. In Marcos’s words: ‘[e]l EZLN replantee el lenguaje político en otros terminos. No inventar un nuevo lenguaje, sino resemantizar o darle un nuevo significante y un nuevo significado a la palabra en la política y sobre todo a la historia en la política’. [The EZLN re-configures political language in other terms. We are not inventing a new language, instead we are re-signifying or giving a new meaning and a new definition to the word in politics and above all to history in politics] (Le Bot, 1997, p.  348). Through re-configuring the past, the Zapatistas have hoped to change the future for the indigenous as well as for all Mexicans. As is evident in this quotation, creativity and imagination is key to the Zapatista agenda. For Gabriela Coronado and Bob Hodge, ‘la creatividad es la clave de la sobrevivencia en la era del caos’ [creativity is key to survival in times of chaos] (2004, p. 22). It is a necessary strategy and one that needs to be negotiated in a non-linear fashion, ‘sólo si se libera de la ansiedad y rigidez que son parte de la autoinflingida linealidad’ [only if you are liberated from the anxiety and rigidity which are part of self-inflicted linearity] (Coronado and Hodge, 2004, p. 22). In order to negotiate this nonlinear world Coronado and Hodges see hypertexts as a valuable resource. They define these as ‘un nuevo orden de textualidad formado por vínculos entre textos previos’ [a new order of text formed through connections with previous texts] (Coronado and Hodge, 2004, p.  53). Marcos’ declarations, others’ journalistic reportage of what they witnessed in Chiapas, the vast array of organizations which supported them online, as well as the books published by and about the Zapatistas all form part of this networked debate. However, often solely associated with the Internet, Coronado and Hodges’ definition opens up the possibility of considering other sources and media under the rubric of hypertext. Taking this as a working definition for this chapter, I shall consider the Zapatistas as remediated hypertext.3 That is, I shall reflect upon the multiple polyphonic voices which contribute to creating the Zapatistas as they are currently constituted and imagined. In order to do this I shall consider the films as a specific media output, which have represented Zapata and contributed to his myth, before analysing a selection of local and internationally made films about the Zapatistas. Given the few representations of Zapata on film and how important he is as a figure for the Zapatistas, it is

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useful to consider these documentaries in the light of previous representations of him in fiction films.

Zapata on film Films about Zapata have a particularly international beginning. Hollywood was the first to represent Zapata on film. Elia Kazan’s Viva Zapata! (1952) starred a browned up Marlon Brando as an illiterate, tempestuous man riled by the injustices meted out to the peasant farmers by the ranch owners and the army. Written by John Steinbeck, Viva Zapata! is at pains to emphasize the simplicity of the ordinary people for whom Zapata is fighting. It opens in the same place that many screen representations about Zapata begin, Zapata and a group of fellow labourers go to the presidential palace in 1909 to demand that their land is returned to them. They carry proof of ownership in a casket. This same document is fetishized differently in each film. In Kazan’s version, all but Zapata are happy with the paternalistic promises of the dictator, Díaz (Fay Roope), that the law will take care of them if their petition is true. He tells them, ‘my children, I’m your father, your president, your protector’. It is evident that Zapata does not believe this to be so and he speaks out accordingly, only to be met by more paternalism on the part of Diaz. With some reticence he is gradually convinced that he must lead the others into battle. The film has two competing strands. On the one hand, Zapata is represented as a romantic figure eager to woo Josefa’s (Jean Peters) hand and settle into domesticity, and, on the other, he is portrayed as a noble warrior, and tragic hero, who ultimately dies for the cause. While Villa (Alan Reed) is represented in the film as corrupt and interested only in getting rich, Zapata is tormented and self-sacrificing. There is a rich variety of Mexican, faux Mexican and US accents, which, alongside a rather very heavy-handed script and some inaccuracies, coloured by the censorious McCarthy era in which it was made, Viva Zapata! largely fails to move beyond a clichéd Hollywood representation of Mexico (see Biskind, 1975). Zapata as simple man of the people in Viva Zapata! resonates with early homages to him by the government in 1922, as examined by Irene V. O’Malley. In her words, the government ‘cast him as a patient, self-sacrificing, Christ-like man who had long endured physical abuse and insult to his manly honor before taking up arms’ (1986, p. 46). It appears that Kazan had adopted this characterization which suggests that Zapata was reactive, rather than being someone who had a

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political understanding of the conditions of the people. In Viva Zapata! we are shown Zapata living in domestic bliss on his plot of land with a happy wife. In his conformity to normative expectations of the time, he is ‘fulfilling the patriarchal values appropriate for his various roles’ (1986, p. 62) and contrasts with the real Zapata that O’Malley portrays who fathered nine children, ‘when drunk he could be sexually aggressive’ (1986, p. 42) and, according to Martín Luis Guzmán was ‘bloody and barbarous [. . .], sunk up to his neck in the horrible atmosphere in which he was raised, but identified in the end with a great truth’ (O’ Malley, 1986, p. 47). As discussed in Chapter 3, Guzmán was a well known supporter of Villa, therefore he would be naturally sceptical of Zapata, a sometime ally but not friend of Villa. Nonetheless, O’Malley’s assessment of Zapata was that he was far from the romantic, monogamous, hero, who it pained to kill his fellow man. However, it is testimony to his life’s struggle that his ‘great truth’ continues to resonate throughout later films and onwards into the Zapatista rebellion. The first Mexican film about Zapata was directed by Felipe Cazals. Emiliano Zapata (1970) starred, was co-written and produced by Antonio Aguilar. As evidenced in the packaging of the re-released DVD, Aguilar was known as ‘El charro de Mexico’, as he made his name in Mexican cowboy films. Emiliano Zapata provides a moody sketch of Zapata’s involvement in the Revolution up to his death. The film was Cazals’ first studio feature, having already established a strong reputation as an award-winning director of shorts and with an independently produced film behind him (see Garza Iturbide, 2006). This was a personal project for Aguilar, who financed the film; chose Cazals to direct; organized that the film was distributed widely in Mexico and the US; lost weight to ensure that he was a better likeness and saw to it that the film was the first in Mexican history to be blown up to 70mms (García Riera, 1994g, p. 24). Due to the complexity and scale of the sets, costumes, equipment spend and so on, the cost of the film escalated from the original budget of 5 million pesos to 15, thus making it the most expensive Mexican film up to that point (see García Riera, 1994g, p. 24). As befits the time in which it was made, examined in Chapter 3, the battle scenes are represented as chaotic and bloody. Meanwhile, Zapata recurrently reflects on the responsibility of so much blood being shed and the ethical dilemmas of warfare. One of the key moments in the film revolves around the formulation of the Plan de Ayala, an important document which set out the aims of the Zapatistas in the Revolution. The cornerstone of which was the return of land to the people who work it. Zapata’s reflection starts in response to an

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erroneous newspaper headline, with a question to his right hand man, ‘¿Qué diferencia hay entre un hombre que pelea por lo suyo y un bandido?’ [what difference is there between a man who fights for his people and a bandit?]. This question is to be resolved by a journey into the hills ‘vamos a buscar esa diferencia allá arriba en la tierra y no bajaremos hasta encontrar la respuesta’ [let’s look for that difference up there on the land and we won’t come down until we find our answer]. This quasi-pilgrimage up the dusty hillside accompanied by his troop leads to a resolution of his problem. Theirs is a slow climb on foot and horseback shown in a wideshot, accompanied by swelling orchestral music prefacing the moment of realization. Zapata speaks in what appears to be a monologue. But, what gradually becomes evident is that we are hearing and seeing him dictate his key political ideas. He answers his own earlier question, es que el bandido tiene que robar y matar, pero pa’nada, nomás porque es bandido. Pa’qué lo otro no. El otro trae un pensamiento muy grande y no es que quiere robar o matar es que tiene que para resolver esa necesidad tan grande que trae. [it’s that the bandit has to rob and kill, for nothing, because he’s a bandit. The other doesn’t. The other has a big idea and it isn’t because he wants to rob or kill, it’s because he has to sort out a great need that he has].

The need he alludes to is land, as is oft repeated in Emiliano Zapata. In a film with little dialogue this speech is notable in its length. Zapata is shown in a medium shot pacing among the trees, his scribe is close by and the troop are in the background relaxing and tending to their animals. His language is simple. It is characterized by elisions and the pronunication of a peasant, which emphasizes that he is not a man of complex ideas nor duplicity. The fact that he needed to meditate on what is just a repetition of the same conclusions he has presented earlier shows him as someone who needs to get away from the sullied towns and heartland to escape to nature. This is an instinctual moment, as Ignacio Corona states, ‘la escena dramatiza la creación del importante documento como resultado intelectual básico del héroe’ [the scene dramatizes the creation of the document as a result of the core intellect of the hero] (2010, 628). There he can return to a pure state again, formulate his defence against those who accuse him of banditry and, most importantly, put together the Plan de Ayala. This has some features of a hippy, back-tonature idealism in the scriptwriter and director’s decision to have him return to

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mother nature to seek the truth, mixed in with a Christian idea of pilgrimage to make amends and seek inner peace. Zapata concludes his speech stating, ‘diga también que no nos gusta estar peleando, que quisieramos que todo acabara ya pa’ poder volver a trabajar en paz’ [say that we don’t like to fight, we want it all to be over so that we can return to work in peace]. Thus, it is underlined that he is a farmer, eager to return to the land, and not a natural soldier. Again, this is Zapata as reluctant warrior. This message that Mexicans, and more particularly the indigenous, are workers not fighters is also taken up by the Zapatistas in Chiapas, as I shall consider later. Emiliano Zapata is a tragic portrait of Zapata, as a noble hero and idealist. There is little dialogue, much of the screen time is taken up showing him as a man of action, a great deal of which is violent and brutal or shows him endorsing the brutality of others. His character is made more empathetic through his relationship with Josefa (Patricia Aspíllaga), whose presence is always accompanied by a soft, romantic violin motif. In contrast with Villa, who is often shown to be over-sexed, and brimming over with macho excess, Zapata is often accorded this role as romantic hero. As I have previously mentioned, in O’Malley’s assessment this is an erroneous view of the already highly contested real Zapata’s life and multiple conquests, but one which has persisted. In Emiliano Zapata it appears to be a way of showing his humanity and vulnerability against the backdrop of the bloody battles. Importantly, the film also portrays Zapata not as ideologically opposed to the Mexican state in its contemporary incarnation, but as a ‘precursor’ [precursor] to it (Corona, 2010, p. 616). The violence in this film is more explicit, similar to those considered in Chapter  3. The camera pauses to focus on blood spilled, sometimes in slow motion. In the aftermath of battles there are multiple bodies strewn with gruesome wounds, alongside dead animals and burning ruined buildings. Attention is drawn to cruelty meted out to young boys, with one flung against a wall by a federal soldier as punishment for trying to escape. As is the case in the films of 1968, there is an implied tragedy to the loss of innocence of children brought about by their exposure to violence and the physical pain meted out to them. Many of these scenes are accompanied by the screams of women and the men’s shouts of pain. Over the course of the film, the countryside slowly begins to take on the look of an apocalyptic landscape. Emiliano Zapata ends on a pessimistic note with the shooting of Zapata. This happens with an air of inevitability. Zapata walks into a fort knowing that he will probably be assassinated. The music is tragic and sombre as he rides alone

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on a white horse towards his death. When inside he is shot at by what appears to be an entire batallion, with the camera focusing for the most part on his increasingly bloody body. The final shot is a reproduction of the infamous photo of his corpse against a crescendo of dramatic orchestral music. This music, now associated with his tragic death, continues over the credits which roll against a backdrop of hills, a reminder of those he climbed earlier to formulate the Plan de Ayala. This ending counters the celebratory tone of the voiceover at the opening of the film which states that ‘la rebelión de Emiliano Zapata no fue en vano’ [Emiliano Zapata’s rebellion wasn’t in vain] because, we are told, of the more than 70 million hectares of land returned to the people and ‘profunda reforma agraria’ [extensive agrarian reform]. Conventionally, such messages usually go at the end of Revolutionary films, as if to counter the negative portrait of the Revolution that has gone on before, as is done in Juana Gallo. By placing this message at the beginning rather than at the end, the viewer is left not with the positive legacy of the Revolution, but with the negative tragedy of Zapata’s death. Cazals, as one of the Nuevo cine group, was a director whose recent experience of 1968 was moving away from the optimistic representation of the studio films and towards a more critical and disillusioned version of the Revolution. Emiliano Zapata was not a critical or commercial success (Corona, 2010, pp.  613–7). Which is perhaps another reason why some time passed before the next Zapata biopic. Then, in 2004, after a gap of many years, Zapata was represented on screen in two different projects. The first, a TV series, entitled Zapata: Amor en Rebeldía (Walter Doehner), configures the Revolution as a tug of love between Zapata (Demián Bichir), the soldadera, Josefa (Giovanna Zacarías), and the hacendado’s daughter, Rosa María (Lorena Rojas). It follows the typical trajectory of Zapata’s story, from the opening scene reminiscent of that of Viva Zapata! and Emiliano Zapata, where Emiliano stands out among a group of indigenous who go to meet Díaz to demand the return of their land. This then progresses through his selection as a leader; the organization and arming of the people; up to his ultimate untimely death in an ambush in Chinameca in 1919. As romance is to the fore in the series, much screen time is expended on brooding pauses, coy glances and passionate embraces. The story is reminiscent of the mid-twentieth century studio films where the Revolution was, frequently, a convenient and dramatic backdrop to a romantic plot. The second biopic to be released in 2004 was Zapata: el sueño del héroe [Zapata: the hero’s dream] (Alfonso Arau). When it was made, at a cost of $10 million, it was the most expensive film made in Mexico to date. It was written and directed

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by Arau, who had made his name as a director with the international success of another film set during the Revolution, Como agua para chocolate [Like Water for Chocolate] (1992). With the acclaimed Italian cinematographer, Vittorio Storaro, and starring the well-known Mariachi singer and TV personality, Alejandro Fernández as Zapata, the film was expected to be a success. Nonetheless, it was a disaster. By way of illustration, one of the two awards it was nominated for was a Mexican MTV award for most bizarre sex. The film attempts to turn Zapata into more than just a military leader. According to Arau, [m]y film is the story of a mythic hero, a predestined leader who passes through a series of tests that end with death that is his passage to eternal life [. . .] I found out that Zapata was a sacred warrior for his own people and that he was a shaman, a real shaman. (Tuckman, 2003, n.p.)

This is based on Arau’s belief, which he gets one of the characters in the film, Juana Lucio (Soledad Ruiz) to articulate, ‘[a]side from the reality that we see, smell and touch, there are other parallel realities, and that’s the one I am telling in this movie. I expect the historians are going to object’ (Tucker, 2003, n.p.). The Guardian’s Jo Tucker found that John Womack Jr., Zapata’s biographer, did object, ‘[t]he idea that Zapata was a spiritual leader is a complete misconception’ (2003, n.p.). To take Zapata’s story out of the gritty reality of poverty, the horrors of warfare and the complexities of politics and into this mystical realm nullifies his political significance, removes him from the reasons he resonates in the current imaginary and why he is such a live figure for the Zapatistas to adopt. Like his earlier film set during the Revotution, Arau panders to an international audience and its (mis)conception of Mexican reality, ‘la estética por la que se opta continua la caracterización de las realidades latinoamericanas, la mexicana en este caso, como ocurriendo en una zona intermedia entre la realidad y la magia’ [the aesthetics employed continues the characterization of Latin American realities, or Mexican in this case, as taking place in an intermediate zone between reality and magic] (Corona, 2010, p. 640). Arau uses multiple devices to indicate that the story we are watching is, in fact, Zapata’s dream. The opening sequence shows a man looking out over the countryside where he watches a troop heading into the sunset. The denouément of the film reveals this man to be Zapata watching his own march into an ambush. This opening sequence is soon followed by Zapata’s birth, watched over by many in the village as he is celebrated as the chosen one, which is designated by a

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birthmark on his chest. Among the group watching his birth is the adult Zapata, who turns and walks away. The air of mystery is further hinted at through the presence of the bruja [witch/healer], Juana. She appears as a guide to push him along in his quest and encourage him when he gets downhearted. This is an interesting, if rather flawed, device. Her role is as a medium between this world and the next. Instead, her rather hysterical characterization weakens her function in the plot. Despite its flaws, Zapata: el sueño del héroe does demonstrate an attempt to bring Zapata’s story in a new direction. The narrative follows a different trajectory to those other biopics discussed above. The meeting with Díaz (Justo Martínez) is not as an outspoken indigenous man in the presidential palace; it is backstage in a theatre in the presence of Huerta (Jesús Ochoa), as an impudent member of the presidential guards, and the unnamed US ambassador (Julian Sedwick). In contrast to Viva Zapata!, which represented him as an illiterate man who was taught how to read by his wife using the bible, thus melding education and religion, literacy is never an issue, and religion is dismissed at his birth when the priest (José María Negri) (mis)reads his birthmark as a sign of the devil, and is immediately belittled by Juana. There are elements of Zapata’s character which are consistent across the different films. For example, he is an excellent horseman, irresistible to women and dies on a white horse. The latter is a neat metaphorical device as well as an historical reality. Zapata: el sueño del héroe marks a return to the bloodless death typical of the pre-1960s films. Violence and war is not specularized as it is in Emiliano Zapata. This is out of synch with a time when violence and shocking images of death and torture have become normalized in mainstream film (see, for example, Slocum, 2001). This may be because he has been de-politicized and de-territorialized into a nowhere space of global capital outside of any grounding in reality and into a figure whose only function is ‘al servicio de la nostalgia’ [at the service of nostalgia] (Corona, 2010, p.  644). Therefore, the lack of blood and gore is compatible with the ersatz spirituality and dreamscape that Arau creates. In Zapata: el sueño del héroe considerable effort is put into linking Zapata with an indigenous past and present. His birthmark is indicated as the mark of the Aztec god Quetzalcoatl, and he is, repeatedly, referred to as the descendant of the Aztec leader Cuauhtémoc. Furthermore, Juana puts him through tests and tells him that these are part of an ancestral tradition. More controversially, Zapata speaks Náhuatl to other villagers. Although he was indigenous it was

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not believed that he spoke any Náhuatl. However, this and the other exotic tribal practices (dance, dress, wedding ceremony) that are in the film, bring the story to a different level, curiously away from any ‘check that “reality” might place on the filmmaking’ (Rosen, 2001, p. 233). Zapata, in Zapata: el sueño del héroe, becomes a way of approximating the other through a national hero. The idea, however erroneous, that he engaged in practices unfamiliar to the average Mexican, has the potential to normalize this difference. However, this reaching out to the other is undermined by the fact that the film is presented as a dream, with dream sequences within this dream. Therefore, the implicit message of the film is that the indigenous belong to this realm of fantasy and is associated with a new age-style spirit world rather than to the here and now. It is this ongoing exoticism of the indigenous that the present day Zapatistas have had to struggle with. Their aim has been to draw attention to the real indigenous rather than the fanciful imaginary that Arau and others have created. Zapata, as a figure in the dramas examined in this chapter, and as he has been appropriated by the Zapatistas, has constantly developed over the past hundred years. As hypertext he has evolved. Arau’s film, despite its departure from reality, in its aerial shots of jungle mountainsides (albeit shot in Quintana Roo), evokes similar images of lush vegetation and comparable panoramic shots in films that are about the present day Zapatistas. However, there is little evidence of any other engagement or dialogue with the other in the Zapata: el sueño del héroe. If anything, his celebration of the indigenous is comparable to the paternalistic representation by Kazan in his Hollywood version. There are two core strands to Zapata on film: The historical figure and those of the movement that were inspired by him. Such is his hypertext. His legacy has endured in part because the historical Zapata was a polysemous synecdoche for the underdog whose image had not been rendered into cliché as was the case with the multiple appearances of Villa on film. The key contrasting feature between these two figures is that Villa is frequently treated as an apolitical figure (one of the exceptions is in Reed, México insurgente examined in Chapter 3), whereas Zapata represents the government’s broken promises of land and freedom. Despite, or, perhaps, because of, the political weight and reminders of broken promises associated with Zapata his story has not been easy to depict. Kazan’s vision was as a quaint Mexican peasant fighting for the underdog. Cazal’s bloody depiction of warfare brought complexity to the character, but, in the context of a disillusioned Mexico in the aftermath of 1968, rendered many of his speeches tragic and laden with impossible dreams. Despite many scenes of injustice and

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bloody losses, Arau took politics out of the frame by turning Mexican history and Zapata’s role in it into a dream. Zapata was deployed by the Zapatistas precisely because he has an important contemporary resonance that Arau was not sensitive to in his film. Writing in 1986 O’Malley stated that ‘[d]espite the long effort to make Zapata a part of the official hagiography, he is still a vital and unfixed political symbol. It remains to be seen whether he will finally be a symbol of the Revolution or of revolution’ (p. 70). In the Zaptatistas he has become a significant imaginary source for their rebellion and for the many films made about them.

Zapatistas on film In order to best understand the documentaries made about the Zapatistas there is a need to consider who they are. The Zapatistas are made up, in part, of outsiders from elsewhere in Mexico, who originally moved to Chiapas in the hope of leading an uprising. On arrival, these outside intellectuals and revolutionaries realized that the situation was more complex than they originally thought and that the indigenous were already organized. Thus, the Zapatistas were born of the coming together of outsiders and locals (see, for example, Weinberg, 2000). It is important not to fall into the trap of assuming that the indigenous have been passively waiting, all the while over-worked and under-paid, in the expectation that some urban ideologues would come and save them. They are no more a homogenous grouping than any other and have a long tradition of revolt.4 The divisions among indigenous as how to best gain improved rights can be seen in the divide between Zapatista activities in eastern Chiapas where they are active and have considerable, if not universal, support from the local community and in the west where they have yet to gain a strong foothold. The reasons for the success of the Zapatistas are a combination of local needs being met by outsiders, who are, in turn, willing to listen and engage with them on their own terms. All this has come together with historical circumstance (logging, hydro-electric plants, fall in coffee prices, multinationals patenting plants the indigenous have traditionally employed, the discovery of oil and gas, pressures from eco-tourism, etc.) and has meant that the indigenous were again willing to engage in armed rebellion. Warfare in Chiapas generally evades dramatic hand-to-hand combat. Different tactics are used by either side. On the one hand, the government forces

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have deployed forms of attack that rely on conventional warfare: Heavy and often random use of military hardware; high level of troop deployment; funding paramilitaries who often have their own vendettas or interests; low-intensity techniques; torture, and rape. On the other, the Zapatistas are engaging in, what has been described as, ‘postmodern warfare’ or ‘netwar’.5 Postmodern war is about decentralized decision-making (just as Zapata had in place); privileging local knowledge of the ‘theatre’ over blanket attacks; and most importantly, information. As war historian, Chris Hables Gray, has stated: As a weapon, as a myth, as a metaphor, as a force multiplier, as an edge, as a trope, as a factor, and as an asset, information (and its hand-maidens  – computers to process it, multimedia to spread it, systems to represent it) has become the central sign of postmodernity. (1997, p. 22)

The postmodernism employed here by Hables Gray may not appear to differ drastically from literary critics’ use of the term: As heteroglossia, as an eternally fluctuating, mutable term, and can be characterized as being subject to the vagaries of lack of definition. The ‘post’ in postmodernism is temporal and refers to the next phase of combat after modern warfare. Another set of terminology which specifically emphasizes the information aspect of this type of new combat was written about in 1993, a year before the Zapatista rebellion, the US military thinktank, RAND, devised the terms ‘netwar’ and ‘cyberwar’. Cyberwar is information warfare combined with heavy, targeted (mostly aerial) military strikes carried out by governments.6 The writers see the first Iraqi Gulf War as the zenith (up to the time of writing) of cyberwar. In contrast, ‘netwar’ ‘applies to societal struggles most often associated with low intensity conflict by non-state actors’, which are fought by ‘networks’ not ‘hierarchies’ (Arquilla and Ronfeldt, 1993, n.p.).7 These definitions could obviously be applied to the Al Qaeda network. But this is where the parallel ends. The Zapatista rebellion is a non-combatant army: The only strikes they made were in the first 12 days and they carry a small, somewhat primitive, arsenal for protection. They have fought through information, the use of ‘media-savvy spokespeople’ and the intelligent use of the Internet.8 The other key factor, which is of relevance to the national-global debate, is that they are not trying to take power. This is not a rebellion aimed at civil war or staging a coup. Its activities have their origins in the civil disobedience of Martin Luther King Jr., as Naomi Klein has suggested, or, more appropriate to the Mexican context, the 1968 student movement (2002, p.  208). For John

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Holloway, who has written extensively about Chiapas, ‘[t]he Zapatista call to make the world anew without taking power has found a remarkable resource’ in international solidarity (2002, p. 20). Holloway sees the taking of power as an integral part of a traditional form of revolutionary thinking which saw its demise in the twentieth century with the fall of the Berlin Wall. Power corrupted (absolutely) and undermined the aims of the revolution. In the new configuration of revolution, exemplified by the Zapatistas, what is at issue in the revolutionary transformation of the world is not whose power but the very existence of power. What is at issue is not who exercises power, but how to create a world based on the mutual recognition of human dignity, on the formation of social relations which are not power relations. (2002, pp. 17–18, emphasis in original)

In sum, for Holloway the Zapatistas’ mode of combat and resistance stems from a realization that ‘the world cannot be changed through the state’ (2002, p. 19).9 Readers of Michel Foucault may query Holloway’s direct challenge to the concept that power is integral to all human relations. Holloway engages with Foucault and acknowledges the existence of power in human associations. But, what is important in the new form of revolution is what he calls power-to-do, that is, the right to personal self-fulfilment as opposed to power-over, which is dominance over another. He suggests that, what is central to the Zapatista struggle is that it is not the direct aim of the revolution to gain power-over. Instead, they call for mutual respect and, it bears repeating, dignity. In keeping with this desire for a new world order, Marcos has declared that whoever is in power must ‘mandar obedeciendo’ [rule obeying] (Le Bot, 1997, p. 333). From the outset Zapatistas conveyed their messages through thousands of Internet sites (some estimates have suggested that at the peak of their activities in the late 1990s the figure exceeded 45,000). Although the movement at different times has sustained its own sites, that is a core site, and connected sites which relate to specific activities, there are many others to whom information is sent or who picked up on the news which is being relayed around the world within seconds of it going live. Thus it is impossible to analyse every site nor even assess the ramifications each of these have on the members or hosts. What I shall explore, in brief, is the consequence of the use of the Internet on the movement. According to Marcos, technology was employed by the Zapatistas because it was a space free of controls (by this I think he means the editorial and corporate

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strictures of conventional media) and one which no one expected a guerrilla army to employ (Le Bot, 1997, p. 349). The Internet had considerable advantage over other media for the Zapatistas: It is cheap, instantaneous, has global reach, is interactive and has allowed for them to add links to other media, such as radio and film. The disadvantages are (unjustly or otherwise) that web pages are not ascribed the same authority as other media, and that the Internet is promiscuous in its spread; the sheer volume of pages and sites can dilute the message as well as propagate it. The Zapatistas have overcome these difficulties by using other media in conjunction with the Internet. When they were breaking news they targeted specific media organizations and granted access to Marcos on a piecemeal basis, so as not to saturate coverage. These same papers, such as the French Le Monde Diplomatique, the Spanish El País and the Mexican La Jornada became the paper of record for many declarations and communiqués (see Villareal Ford and Gil, 2001).10 This has been a mutually beneficial exercise for both parties: The newspapers provide the gloss of respectability and authenticity to the words of the rebels, and for the papers they had a ready readership for their early online editions. The online community who have become involved with the Zapatistas have also carried out radical campaigns on their behalf. An example is entitled ‘Electronic Disturbance Theater’, which has a base in New York City and crashed Mexican government websites through the use of ‘virtual sit-ins’, by flooding them with hits (McGirk, 1999, n.p.). The potential of such activities is only limited by the imagination and the skills of the net community. As is evident from this example, the Zapatistas themselves were not carrying out the ‘hactivism’, as such activities are called, but, as Thea Pitman (2007) clearly argues, they had others do it for them. With such widespread support and having captured the imagination with slogans, characters and media manipulation the Zapatistas have been in a strong position to continue to exploit the net to their benefit. Not only did the rebels get online first, they also had in Marcos and his cast of characters a significant weapon. He (they) have had wide appeal. A deliberate artifice was created in Marcos. He is the green-eyed, big-nosed, pipe-smoking, masked rebel who even had a considerable female fan base, whose name, it has been suggested, is an acronym of the first six towns seized by the rebels, thereby functioning as a revolutionary mnemonic (Poniatowska, 1995, p. 218). In his interviews he has spoken seriously about the aims of the movement, but equally has charmed, delighted and contradicted on other topics. He has always

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been keen to stress the inclusiveness of Zapatista politics and to counter narrow readings of his character. His writing is a mix of that of an earnest activist and learned commentator on local and international events. He peppers his comments with literary, popular and oblique referents. This too is underscored with a sometimes ironic, at others playful and often serious tone. He also has nicknames which have their own resonance and linguistic and cultural play: Speedy Gonzalez and ‘el sup’ [the sub]. Speedy is a character of global currency who is simultaneously Mexican, a part of international imaginary and a very specifically Hollywood construct. Through the re-appropriation of Speedy, he is taking an exotic other, and investing it with new meaning, all the while recognizing the cultural weight it possesses. It is a similar exercise, in cultural terms, as the re-signification of Zapata. As el sup he is nonchalantly emphasizing his disinterest in the hierarchical encoding of language. He is underscoring his belief that his is not a rank to be taken seriously. Also, as el sup he is emphasizing the subordinate role over the commanding one. In much of his writing he repeatedly reiterates that while he may be the public face of the movement, he is in fact only a spokesperson, subject to the decisions of a collective, that is the indigenous community. This picture describes the Marcos which attracted worldwide attention and appealed to the transnational solidarity anti-globalization movement, largely made up of young people who were challenging the global reach of capitalism in the late 1990s. As a movement which attracted individuals from a wide spectrum of mostly left-wing organizations it was inspired by the Zapatistas, among others, who showed a model for rebellion without entering into armed conflict. Many activists were attracted by the cause and horrified by the civil rights violations by successive Mexican governments. This is what Coronado and Hodge have playfully described as ‘el efecto Zapatista’ [Zapatista effect] (2004, p. 45). It is a pun on the butterfly effect theory, which was popularized in the 1990s. As the title suggests, the theory is that a small insect, such as a butterfly, could flap its wings in one part of the globe and have massive consequences in another. They detail the unexpected scale of the efecto Zapatista, Si consideramos que se trata de la acción de un grupo indio, pobre, débil, aislado de los recursos del centro, en uno de los estados más rezagados económica y educativamente, no era de esperar que el movimiento insurgente hubiera alcanzado un impacto tan relevante. Sin embargo éste alcanzó un efecto en la nación y en el mundo que ya es enorme, y que todavía no es posible de predecir hasta dónde llegarán sus efectos.

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[If we bear in mind that these are the actions of a group of poor, weak, indians, isolated from the resources at the centre, in one of the most economically and educationally deprived states, it was unexpected that the insurgent movement would have achieved such a significant impact. However, they did so, not only at national level but also globally, which is considerable, and it is not yet possible to predict how far reaching an effect they will have]. (Coronado and Hodge, 2004, p. 45)

The authors are obviously enthusiastic about the ambition and reach of the Zapatistas. The efecto Zapatista is the effect a small movement has had on a global scale, facilitated by such media as the Internet, newspapers, books and films. However, local and international support for the Zapatistas has waned in recent times. There are many reasons for this. There were periods of silence by the Zapatistas in 2001–2003, when few communiqués were issued and there was a greater focus on creating new structures of organization in the Zapatista held territories. The year 2001 corresponded to the march on Mexico City, where Marcos led a caravan of people, on what was nicknamed Zapatour, from Chiapas to parliamentary buildings in Mexico City to try to push through a new law which complied with the San Andrés peace accords. In the end, a watered down version called the ‘ley indígena’ [indigenous law] was put through which meant few changes to the living conditions of the indigenous in Chiapas and elsewhere. The second date, 2003, was to publicize the creation of new autonomous communities called Caracoles [snails] using a rhetoric of good governance (buen gobierno) as against the bad centrally managed government (mal gobierno). But it was not until 2006 that Marcos returned with vigour to the fray with his otra campaña [other campaign] as candidato cero [candidate zero] (see, Ballvé, 2006). This was a campaign for what would effectively be a spoiled vote in the 2006 election, which had little widespread support. This was followed by a collaborative novel with Taibo II, first published online and later in paperback in 2002, which seemed to be a return to form, albeit in a new format, but with a different reception and changed international interest in the movement (Thornton, 2008). Whereas, support had been widespread nationally and internationally, the recent moves have been more inward looking and less other directed. There do not appear to be the same calls for transnational solidarity, nor the same interest in creating campaigns to reach out to a wide audience. In the light of this evolving situation, I shall consider some of the films

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created by foreign NGOs and solidarity groups and compare them to films made locally. It is possible to observe the trajectory of Marcos’ value as a figure through how he is represented on screen. There have been multiple representations, of which I shall consider a sampling. A film which places Marcos to the forefront is Marcos, Marcos . . . el mundo indígena, Rebelión en Chiapas [Marcos, Marcos . . . the indigenous world, rebellion in Chiapas] (Óscar Menéndez, 1994). It is dedicated to the memory of the anthropologist, Guillermo Bonfil Batalla ‘creador de México Profundo’ [creator of Deep Mexico]. Bonfil Batalla’s text looks at the rich culture and history of the indigenous and considers its significance for modern day Mexico. It was a highly influential book which marked a shift in how anthropology in Mexico studied the indigenous. The film is making a clear link to a revisionist tradition of Mexican anthropology.11 Marcos, Marcos . . . el mundo indígena, Rebelión en Chiapas differs quite considerably from later films in that it provides few current facts, many of the images used are taken from archival footage from the early part of the century, and the role of the narrator is distinct. The film opens with an unidentified sequence of black and white footage, evidently taken from different sources, of poor working conditions of the indigenous and repeated shots of dead bodies. Drawing on the ‘issue of magnitude’ where, according to Bill Nichols, tensions arise out of the inherent limitations of any form as a consequence of the ‘miniaturization’ that occurs when ‘narrative and exposition . . . seek to encapsulate a ‘world’ that bears some meaning for us’ (1986, p. 107). When the magnitude is the presence of death and its horrors, evidence (visual or oral) of injuries, or absence through disappearance, ‘there are always issues of excess to be addressed, questions of magnitudes that will not fit within a frame’ (Nichols, 1986, p.  109). This montage works to set up the historical context, which is connected to the present day through Marcos. The segment cuts to a speech given by Marcos in an urban landscape direct to camera. He is mostly shown in the intimacy of a close up, where he is established as the authoritative spokesperson talking about the current living conditions of the indigenous in Chiapas and giving the reasons for the rebellion. Intercut with this speech are repeated images of gatherings by the Zapatistas, where both the Mexican flag and images of Zapata predominate. After this, the film is broken into five sections, given as ‘tiempo/katun’ [time], followed by a number, and a distinct chapter heading. The juxtaposition of the Mayan (katun) and Spanish

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(tiempo) function to draw the viewer into a greater understanding of another culture through language. The first, ‘antes de la conquista’ [before the conquest], is a narration of a creation story from the Popol Vuh, the Mayan religious text. Narrated by a male voiceover, this segment is set against picturesque images of the skyline at dawn, rendered more poetic through the manipulation of the image, intercut with other footage of indigenous artefacts, temples and cities. The second, ‘conquista y colonia’ [conquest and colonisation], begins with facts and figures about early Mexico up to the conquest and the arrival or the Europeans. Set against discordant music, the conquest is told through visuals from the mural by Diego Rivera from the Palacio Nacional [government buildings] in Mexico City. At first, the voiceover is male, and the music emphasizes the tragedy of the conquest. Then the voiceover changes to that of a woman. This suggests that a male voice has authority, while the use of a woman’s voice makes a connection between femininity and victimhood, which is highly problematic. Against tranquil classical music, she describes the colonial structures. Again, the visuals are primarily from Rivera’s mural. This sequence then cuts to president Salinas offering an amnesty to the Zapatistas in late January 1994. Another cut begins with Marcos’ response to Salinas read by José Peguero, who acts as Marcos’ voice for the rest of the film. The text is a defiant no to Salinas accompanied by a reasoned response, citing the history of oppression of the indigenous and their mistrust of the authorities. This concludes with, ‘¿Quién tiene que pedir perdón?’ [who has to ask for forgiveness?]. Accompanying this voiceover is a series of images from the Revolution, the agricultural workers’ strikes and 1968. Thus these distinct periods are unified visually through editing and narration. The third, ‘los indios del norte los Tarahumaras’ [the Indians from the north the Tarahumaras], takes the focus from Chiapas and the centre of power, Mexico City, to the northern border states. This is taken from anthropological archival footage by the Instituto National Indigenista [national indigenist institute] accompanied by a text by Francoise Lartigny, Tarahumaras, read by a male narrator, as well as an interview with a man who had fought in the Revolution, with accompanying archival footage and still photography of the Revolution. This then cuts to a history of the exploitation of the forests, which was largely sold to US interests, accompanied by images of its current deforestation. The final segment of this section underlines the lack of access to medicine and healthcare for the indigenous and their reliance on natural healers, who are not shown to be effective.

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The fourth, ‘México Bárbaro, 1909, JK Turner’ [barbarous Mexico, 1909, JK Turner], uses extracts from an eponymous film with text by John Kenneth Turner. This tells of the exploitation of workers on hemp plantations in Yucatan and Quintana Roo by wealthy landowners. It emphasizes the cruelty, poverty and slave-like conditions of the thousands of workers who live and work on the land. There is a meditation on the terminology, ‘servicio forzoso por deudas’ [indentured labour], that is effectively a form of slavery. The language used by the landowners and officials is presented as a cynical way of evading accusations of slavery. A sequence shown earlier in the film of a public flogging is now put into context as an example of the routine, brutal punishments meted out to the workers. The fifth and final, ‘las profesionales de la esperanza’ [the professionals of hope], is a return to Marcos’ words, which is in the form of an open letter to a child from Baja California explaining why they have taken up arms. It is a text which emphasizes peace, and the Zapatistas’ desire to lay down arms. The images shown accompanying the text are of Zapatistas training in the mountains of Chiapas. The message is, clearly, that they are prepared to fight even if the ultimate goal is not to. The film ends on a still photograph of Zapata and an expression of thanks, ‘[a]gradecemos al Ejercicio Zapatista de Liberación Nacional y al Subcomandante Marcos por el cambio que se produjo en México a partir del 1º enero de 1994’ [we are grateful to the EZLN and Subcomandante Marcos for the changes that have come about in Mexico since 1994]. This is an optimistic ending in a documentary which has many emotive images of exploitation, poverty, cruelty and death. This is a partisan documentary. Such is the nature of an ongoing conflict that it is difficult not to take sides, particularly so near the beginning of the rebellion when this film was made. It has a definite structure through the use of chapter headings, yet, the links are created through editing rather than having a selfevident narrative association. Footage is shown in the introductory section, which is only contextualized later, while there is other material included which is never fully made clear. For example, the flogging scene is clearly taken from the hemp plantation sequence and is part of an overall thesis suggesting that the exploitation of the indigenous is a legacy of colonization. On the other hand, there are images of the dead bodies of agricultural workers, with a particular emphasis on a child’s body, whose inclusion is never fully explained. The build up of images of exploitation, poverty and death associated not only with the rural indigenous population but also juxtaposed with urban protest and revolt takes the Zapatista rebellion out of its jungle setting and into a city space.

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In addition, including the story of the Tarahumara and highlighting the 8,000 Yaqui Indians working on the hemp plantations, both of whom are from the north, creates a link between their stories of exploitation and builds a unifying portrait of recent indigenous history. It is an implicit incantation of the ‘todos somos Marcos’, chanted at marches, mentioned earlier. The polyphonous use of multiple narrators, none of whom are omniscient, builds a portrait that crosses cultures, times and spaces. Transversal solidarity is created between city and country, among indigenous and non-indigenous, all the while emphasizing social and historical responsibility. Another slogan oftentimes used by the Zapatistas, familiar from t-shirts, is ‘detrás de nosotros estamos ustedes’ [behind us you are with us as one]. The difficult to translate linguistic play is included in a speech by Mayor Insurgente Ana María in Zapatista (Benjamin Eichart et al. 1999). The verb ‘estamos’ means ‘we are’ in a temporal and physical sense. But the ‘ustedes’ is ‘you’ which should but does not correspond to the verb ending. The apparently ungrammatical ‘estamos ustedes’ places a we and a you subject together. This is a message that is threaded through the documentary, just as it is implicitly through Marcos, Marcos. . . . Zapatista, a film made by a New York based, non-profit organization, was created to communicate the Zapatistas’ message and provide information on key moments in their struggle to a transnational audience. The film uses talking heads, multiple images of indigenous people engaging in protest or struggling as they flee their homes, multiple narrators, contemporary and traditional music, and intertitles to build a picture of the situation in Chiapas. In some respects, the film is a mélange of the techniques employed by Marcos, Marcos . . . and Zapatista: crónica de una rebelión, which I shall discuss later. Like Zapatista: crónica de una rebelión, Zapatista tells a history of recent events in a linear fashion with the aim of educating its audience and building solidarity. The multiple narrators, use of music and deliberate use of editing as a form of collage is reminiscent of Marcos, Marcos. . . . However, how these are deployed is distinct and more deliberately aimed at a specific audiences. Zapatista is a film that is unmistakably made for a transnational audience. In Marcos, Marcos . . . and Zapatista: crónica de una rebelión the Zapatista movement is clearly identified from the perspective of individuals who see themselves and their audience as members of the Mexican nation state, familiar with its emblems and their significance, and make allusions to moments in history (the Revolution) of particular local significance. These references are either absent or played down in Zapatista.

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In Zapatista the discourse of Marcos, Comandante David, Comandante Zebedeo and others employs the language of international solidarity, civil rights and anti-globalization. Rather than talk of the failures of specific politicians or of national agreements, as in the Mexican-made films, references are made to exploitative multi-national corporations, free trade agreements, global exchange, commodities, critiques of neoliberalism and the building of solidarity with the marginalized of the world. This ability to switch from the local to the global is an indicator of why this movement has managed to rally international support, for what could otherwise appear to be a dispute over land rights. The interviews with the Zapatistas and the discourse they employ chimes with that of the various Mexican and international individuals who provide the rest of the talking head style interviews. The speakers are human rights campaigners (e.g. Vivian Stromberg of MADRE, Marina Patricia Jimenez, Civil Rights Centre, Chiapas), intellectuals (e.g. Noam Chomsky), cause celèbres (Mumia Abu Jamil, Ji Jaga “Geronimo Park”), musicians (e.g. Zack de la Rocha, lead singer of Rage Against the Machine) and so on. Their support for the Zapatistas, and the overlap in the discourse they employ reinforces each others’ arguments. The message of the film is that there is authenticity in what the Zapatistas say because it is supported by these recognized names, and, in turn, these are supported by what the Zapatistas’ say. Thus, a global anti-capitalist picture is drawn from a local movement. Music is used to seduce the audience. The film opens with a sepia tinted series of images of a bullfight. They are a succession of short segments, with quick fades to black. The non-diegetic music is from Spain. This sequence appears to establish a tone of brutality, which is implicitly associated with the Spanish tradition through the music. The filmmakers may be conjuring up a colonial past or creating a link between an ill-defined Hispanic culture with violence. The latter interpretation is possible in an audience used to slippages between Hispanic identifiers in Hollywood film. The ambiguity of the sequence leaves it open to misinterpretation. The use of such a visual cliché is problematic in a film which forefronts cultural awareness. The other three pieces of music used, that I consider here, are two songs performed by Rage Against the Machine and a third by Neil Young. Rage Against the Machine’s two songs, ‘People of the Sun’ and ‘Take the Power Back’ are worth examining side by side. Both are used as part of music videostyle segments in the film. The music is used as an editing tool, where the rhythm of the songs dictates the cuts. In addition, as defined by James Monaco there are

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‘jump cuts, rapid and “ungrammatical” cutting’, which follow MTV style editing (2000, p.  218). The music of Rage Against the Machine is characterized by its heavy electric guitar riffs and pounding rhythms, which predominate over de la Rocha’s shouting vocal delivery of lyrics which demand action and change. This performance style and music has considerable intensity when juxtaposed, in the first instance, with a sequence showing the Zapatistas’ training in the mountains (some of which is footage also used in Zapatista: crónica de una rebelión); indigenous and their supporters marching in the countryside, towns and Mexico City; gatherings of army troops and violent beatings of protestors by police. In this sequence the Zapatistas and the indigenous get most screen time, their firepower is emphasized, which is interesting given the rhetoric of peace that is recurrent in their discourse in the film. Zapatista wants the viewer to understand the magnitude of the events loudly and viscerally. This sequence is accompanied by text on screen giving information about troop deployment in the area, as well as a brief pause in the music for an interview with Chomsky. Mid-song, the music is pulled down to a barely audible level in the audio mix. Chomsky is a quietly spoken man, which contrasts considerably with the volume and pace of the music and demands that the listener/viewer adjust their hearing back to focus on what is being said and gives him considerable authority and power. It also creates a parenthesis of quiet and near stillness, which draws attention to the return of the music again. The sequence ends with an interview with Marcos, which has no music in the background. Since the song is not over, just abruptly cut, there is an anticipation of a return to it after Marcos’ words, just as there had been after Chomsky’s interview. The editing has created an aural expectation. Therefore, it is an unexpected change in pace when the next sequence begins with a complete slow down in the tone and style of music. A mournful cello piece accompanies a slower paced sequence, where the images are in slow motion. This sequence lasts a mere 29 seconds, and we are told, through text on screen, of the beginning of a new offensive by the Mexican army after the US grants a bail out to the government. The pace and music suggest at incipient tragedy and underline the implication that the bail out influenced the Mexican government’s decision. The second song comes after a sequence showing women bereaving for loved ones they have lost in the tragedy at Actael (which I shall discuss in more detail later). Their crying is layered with a gradual build up of the guitar, drumbeat and then the lyrics, ‘no more lies’, which is the final chorus to ‘Take the Power Back’. The chorus is a mere minute long and again the images are cut to the rhythm of

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the song as the singer builds to a shout and the drums and backing guitars get louder and more intense. The sequence uses special effects, altering the film in post-production in such a way that appears to animate certain elements of the image. This short burst of noise and increase in pace is followed by another slow down, this time to real time speed and almost complete silence for ten seconds before another narrator speaks. This change in pace from quick, dramatic bursts to relatively slow sequences is in tune with youth programming. It is an aesthetic aimed to entertain and draw in the (young) audience who were involved in the anti-globalization movement. The final song in the film is Neil Young with Crazy Horse performing ‘Cortez the Killer’. For Young, who is well known for his jagged, guitar performances where he often uses sustain pedals to create feedback, this is a very pared back piece. He uses single sustained notes, and a slow, simple drum beat behind a straightforward narrative. In the lyrics, the story he tells is of an idyllic Arcadian time before the arrival of the conquistador, Hernán Cortez, ‘where the women all were beautiful/and the men stood straight and tall’ and ‘hate was just a legend/war was never known/and the people worked together’. This romantic picture of pre-conquest Mexico is obviously false. But, it works with a sequence of images at the end of the credits to sum up the sentiments of the film. Cut to the slower rhythms of ‘Cortez the Killer’, the post-credit sequence shows Zapatistas marching, raising their fists in defiance, solidarity marches in Mexico City and a final image of a bonfire at the end. The song draws on a sentimental and idealized perception of Mexican history. Beginning and ending with recourse to facile images of a pan-Hispanic culture is no doubt included to act as visual and aural shorthand. In addition, the bullfight and its association with holidays and exoticism juxtaposed with Young’s 1975 song, which harks back to an earlier time, draw on clichéd notions of Hispanic culture that have potential appeal to a wider, mainstream and foreign audience. This film was made to look like an attractive, edgy, politically aware and wellinformed piece, which would appeal to a young global audience, yet not alienate older viewers. The use of well-known names as interviewees and as narrators (e.g. Edward James Olmos and Daryl Hannah) give the film an air of authority while the pace and use of music gives it a veneer of cool. While Zapatista: crónica de una rebelión may seek to educate, Marcos, Marcos . . . wants to make its audience reflect on the wider historical context, Zapatista seeks to seduce, entertain and then to educate.

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Zapatista: crónica de una rebelión (Victor Mariña and Mario Viveros, 2007) is a film produced by Canal seis de julio and La Jornada. As I have already mentioned, La Jornada have been long time supporters of the Zapatista cause, publishing the communiqués and maintaining a web presence on their behalf. This has been mutually beneficial as much of the early traffic to the La Jornada site was to search out information on the Zapatistas (see Villareal and Gil, 2001). Canal seis de julio is a small independent channel, whose work on documentaries about 1968 was discussed in Chapter  4. They describe themselves as a channel ‘que difunde información y opinión acerca de temas que la televisión commercial omite o distorsiona’ [that disseminates information and opinion about themes that commercial television ignores or distorts].12 The film provides an overview of the Zapatista rebellion from the beginning in 1994 to the aftermath of the 2006 elections. It uses original footage from the early days of the rebellion shot by reporters who accompanied the rebels; documentary footage of the indigenous camps and activities up to 2006; official speeches by different Mexican presidents, Salinas de Gotari, Zedillo, Fox and Felipe Calderón (2006–12); clips from Andrés Manuel López Obrador’s presidential campaign; a sampling of the fear-mongering campaign videos that were shown on television; promotional army videos and a few graphics with maps to explain the development of the rebellion and the army and paramilitary attacks on the Zapatistas. Zapatista: crónica de una rebelión is defiantly on the side of the indigenous. This is done in a number of ways. First, in the role of the narrator (Bernardo Ezeta). He gives an account of the events that is sympathetic to the Zapatistas’ aims. For example, it downplays what was, for many, the disastrous choice by Marcos of getting involved in the presidential campaign (see Klein, 2009; Ross, 2009). Also, the narrator often mocks those who are seen to be on the opposing side. For example in one scene there is a long pause on a negotiator combing his hair and looking away from an indigenous woman who is detailing her case, the narrator makes a jibe at the negotiator’s disinterest in the proceedings. In another scene we are shown the army struggle to move a tree. Much screen time is given to an apparently trivial moment, which shows the army to have few skills to deal with the jungle terrain. This contrasts with the propagandist efficiency of the army in the clips from the training videos. Again, the narrator mocks them. The indigenous are represented as unified and organized. Visually, the filmmakers use many low angle shots of the indigenous, ensuring that they dominate the frame when giving speeches. Or, alternatively, close ups are used

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to create intimacy and proximity. The army are only ever seen in a medium or wide shot, thus creating distance. We see many positive images of the indigenous in their daily lives once they are left alone by the army. In the camps and communities they are shown to be content. There is no presentation of dissent or disunity. This does not take into account the fact that there are some indigenous who do not agree with the Zapatistas. Instead, the film gives the impression that all indigenous in Chiapas are Zapatistas. Interestingly, Marcos’ role as spokesperson for the rebellion is played down. There is no explicit reference to his and their web presence. This is a curious gap as it could potentially serve the interests of La Jornada. The only oblique reference is mention of a return to the public sphere by the Zapatistas in 2003. For many, Marcos has been a synecdoche for the Rebellion, as is demonstrated in a protest march in Mexico City shown in the film where participants chant ‘todos somos Marcos’ [we are all Marcos], and in the wearing of the iconic ski mask and carrying pretend pipes by others. While Marcos is present in the film, his role is downplayed. There are several possible reasons for this. One factor is Marcos’ aforementioned silence. Up to that point a considerable body of netusers had been consistently following his communiqués, posting them on their websites, and translating and interpreting their content for others. The silence resulted in a loss of impetus for the international solidarity campaigns. In 2003, with the formation of the Caracoles, the communiqués started to become more focused on factual information rather than the mix of fact, playful linguistic games and transnational cultural referents that had heretofore been characteristic of Marcos’ style. Detail about governance was a step away from denouncing capitalism, which had more widespread appeal. Finally, the otra campaña was not a popular platform and appeared to be more about tearing down institutions than the creation of inventive solutions previously associated with Marcos. There is, of course, another important reason Marcos is not as prominent as might be expected. He has always been eager to present himself as a mere spokesperson, not a leader. This contrasts with the repeated claims of the government that the indigenous were led from without, rather than within. This attestation is made clear in a speech by president Zedillo in the film. Like the presence of foreign activists and volunteers in the film, Marcos’ presence is visible, but, for the most part, not highlighted. Zapatista: crónica de una rebelión details the trajectory of the rebellion and emphasizes key moments in the movement, such as the massacre at Acteal. The

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film builds a strong argument from the outset. A very definite editorial line is taken in the voiceover, which concludes stating that there is an increased move to the right in Mexico as well as a growing militarization of society. This is also shown visually through repeated footage of army incursions into the Zapatista territory, the inclusion of the army training videos, as well as images towards the end of the film of large army parades. These sequences are often juxtaposed with visuals of the government and, in particular, president Felipe Calderón. Editing, aesthetic visual techniques and narration all contribute to creating a coherent and subjective film, aimed to persuade its audience of the importance and validity of the Zapatista cause. Using different audio-visual techniques, the Mexican film, Zapatista: crónica de una rebelión communicates a similar message to the US made Zapatista. The Scottish produced, A Massacre Foretold (Nick Higgins, 2007) in its style and approach differs considerably from the other non-Mexican film, Zapatista. The focus is on the massacre at Acteal in 1997. Acteal was a small community which chose not to join the Zapatistas, but, inspired by their rhetoric and aims, formed a pacifist, Christian-based community called Las abejas [the bees]. As observed by visitors to the village in November 1997, in line with the increased militarization of Chiapas by government forces, the community felt under threat (For more on this, see Weinberg, 2000, pp. 169–71; Womack Jr, 1999, p. 56). On the 23rd of December 1997, a group of armed paramilitaries attacked the people who were praying in a church and killed 45. That number was made up of: nine men, 21 women (five of whom were pregnant) and 15 children. It has not yet been properly investigated, as the voiceover at the opening of the documentary states, and there are allegations of government collusion in the deaths. The film opens with close shots of modern, glass fronted, high rise office buildings in Mexico City. Over these the voiceover gives a brief introduction to recent Mexican history, talking about the context out of which the Zapatista movement emerged, through embracing globalisation and adapting to the international free market, Mexico has been seen by many as an economic success story. But, in the early 1990s thousands of indigenous people rose up in arms to contest this image.

The voiceover continues, ‘they came from a forgotten region of Mexico called Chiapas’. The camera lingers for a moment on a final image of a glossy building and then cuts to a panoramic vista of the mountains of Chiapas. The opening reads as a deliberate attempt to foreground Mexico’s modernity over a picturesque

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nation bound by tradition. It also underscores the tension between the wealth of the capital city at the centre of power versus the evident poverty of Chiapas at the periphery. A Massacre Foretold tells the story of the Zapatista Rebellion and the Mexican government’s reaction to it by way of context for what happened in Acteal. At 58 minutes, it necessarily picks out key moments and events, such as the San Andrés peace talks, and Bishop Samuel Ruiz’s role as mediator in these, up to the more recent launch of the presidential campaign with Marcos as Delegado Cero. Detail is left out in order to give a broad sweep and create empathy with the victims and their supporters. For example, little information is given on the San Andrés accords, which were seen to be an imperfect compromise by both sides, but were watered down to such an extent that when they reached parliament and were passed into law they were mere ornamentation. Zapatista: crónica de una rebelión, as a film aimed at a local audience live to the intricacies of power at a local level, did explore this in detail. The impression given in A Massacre Foretold is that the talks themselves led to no immediate outcome. A Massacre Foretold jumps between 1995, 1997 and 2006, thus creating a continuum between these different time periods. Although the voiceover creates a very strong editorial voice, which positions itself as a critic of capitalism and points out the cracks in the glossy facades of modernity, it is not used again after the pre-credit sequence analysed above. Thereafter, A Massacre Foretold uses a mixture of interviews, archive footage, television newscasts from CBS and CNN, statements to camera by Zedillo during his presidency (1994–2000) and others of Marcos on his campaign, and footage taken from the present day. The interviews to camera are with witnesses: Bishop Samuel Ruiz; Antonio, a spokesperson for the community at Acteal; Blanca Martínez, a civil rights activist; Andres Aubray, a French anthropologist, and other unnamed individuals. The indigenous are largely either not identified or not given their full names. Interestingly, while they are objects of the documentary, and, by being given considerable space and time to speak, they are also its subjects. However, this is somewhat compromised by the lack of a full title and name when they appear on screen. Dissatisfaction with the army and the government’s decision to militarize the zone is shown through footage of people shouting at the army, sombre music which accompanies their appearance on screen and from the direct placing of blame on the government by those speaking to camera. The film never explicitly makes any declaration of culpability, but, through editing and music creates a very clear thesis that links the government and the paramilitary to the

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massacre at Acteal. In contrast, the films made in Mexico are more explicit, more deliberately partisan and clearly name those who they believe to be culpable. Tracing this line is easier, and perhaps more necessary, for a local audience who are familiar with the context and need more convincing about where the fault lies. Such detail would be overcomplicated for a foreign audience and difficult to compress into a film of this length. This is territory that the director, Higgins, has marked out in his book, Understanding the Chiapas Rebellion: Modernist Visions and the Invisible Indians, where he read the Zapatista uprising as, ‘the most organized and convincing challenge to international neoliberalism witnessed so far’ (2004, p.  2). His book examines the indigenous uprising against the backdrop of colonialism, its legacy, centralization of power by the PRI and more recently the espousal of neoliberal economic models by governments in Mexico. He also underscores the history of unrest and rebellion of the indigenous peoples in Mexico, to counter the perception of outside influence on the recent Zapatista movement. His is a complex portrait of the situation and a sympathetic reading of the Zapatista activities and model of organization and revolt. This sympathy is evident in both A Massacre Foretold and Mentiras. Included on the DVD is a short 13’ documentary called Mentiras [lies] (Nick Higgins, 2006). Packaged alongside the other it works as supporting evidence for the thesis of A Massacre Foretold. It is an account by an ex-paramilitary explaining why he joined and what he did during the time of his involvement in attacks on villagers in Chiapas. In the beginning we are told through an intertitle that the man, who is the subject of the film, is currently living under special protection in Mexico City. His story is told in a voiceover; we never see him. The film opens with a gradual timelapse panoramic image of Mexico City from daybreak to daylight shot from the mountainside overlooking the city. Then, the camera takes a journey from the outskirts into the centre, pausing briefly on individuals and images to underscore their significance. It gives the impression of a realistic point of view of an interested and engaged traveller, who pauses, in particular, on the disadvantaged, disabled and poor of Mexico City, and considers the contrasts between these and the dramatic buildings, spaces and range of glamorous advertizing billboards that litter the roadsides. The relationship between the narrative describing paramilitary involvement in the distant jungles of Chiapas and the visuals are not immediately obvious. However, the filmmaker is making a connection between the then forthcoming presidential elections evident from the painted campaign slogans and posters, the

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inequalities evident in the city and the disconnect between the white privileged faces on the billboards selling absurd ideas of beauty and consumption, and the account of the real lived experience as told by the voiceover. The two films are more focused in their content than Zapatista, using slower editing and transitions, in comparison to the sharp cuts and sometimes frantic pace of Zapatista. They use music more sparingly. A Massacre Foretold uses two tracks, ‘Shit Heap Gloria of the New Town Planning’ by Set Fire to Flames and ‘Var’ by Nils Økland. Both are spare, minimalist pieces which act subtly to create mood and are used to supplement and underscore the visuals rather than determining them, as is the case in Zapata. Neither Set Fire to Flames, a post-rock band from Montréal, and Økland, a jazz-inspired traditional musician from Norway, have any clear link with Zapatismo.13 What they do convey is the personal taste and vision of the director and evoke a mournful and sometimes eerie tone. In comparison to the music used in Zapata, they are lesser-known artists, therefore their presence does not come with the same weight of prior history in popular culture. The use of these pieces with traditional music and tropical cumbias’ performed by the indigenous shows their ability to dwell in a plurality of worlds in which the multiple temporality of the modern and the nonmodern coexist without contradictions. As such the nonmodern does not refer to a premodern antechamber, but rather to an elsewhere from which the most modern technologies are observed and deployed. (Rabasa, 2010, p. 183, emphasis his)

There is both a local and transnational sensibility shown in the indigenous’ performances and in the selections by the director. In A Massacre Foretold the music conveys a transnational aesthetic of a more avant garde musical taste, than the somewhat mainstream, albeit of an indie flavour, choices in Zapatista and through directly appealing to no one, appeals directly to the emotions that the music conveys. As the Zapatista campaign has evolved from a call to solidarity at home and abroad to a desire to manage that support and focus energies on building alternative scripts for local government, so too have their representations changed. The contrast between Zapatista, which was full of the youthful verve of the antiglobalization movement, and A Massacre Foretold, a more subtle and poetic film, reflects the changing contexts and aims of non-Mexican filmmakers.

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Conclusion In Mexico, the indigenous have been treated as pre-modern races who need to be educated and assimilated into the dominant culture. Instead, through becoming involved in the Zapatista movement they have come to exemplify postmodernism for a transnational audience. In the political sphere, meaning, definitions and parameters are being constantly re-negotiated and challenged. They are changing orthodox thinking on how to take back the power-to-do. For example, many commentators see the Zapatista rebellion as a precursor to the global protest movements, such as those that took place at the march in Seattle in 1999 and Genoa in 2001, when the slogan ‘we are all Marcos’ ran through the crowd (Klein, 2002, p.  208). The Zapatistas are solving local problems: Providing information through the translation of official documents into the many minority languages; educating and teaching literacy to adults and children; establishing autonomous self-governing communities which preside over local issues; attempting to banish endemic corruption; instituting gender equality, improving healthcare and so on. Through these activities they have shown how local action can effect change in global thinking and pose a radical challenge to the very composition and imagining of the nation. However, there has been a change in how Marcos and the Zapatistas have been viewed in recent years. From being the acclaimed spokesperson of the Zapatista movement, Marcos’ fall from grace has been dramatic. Unlike the favourable light in which Higgins places the presidential Delegado Cero campaign in A Massacre Foretold, many commentators have seen it as a negative turn in Marcos’ public face. The evolution of Marcos’ public persona has led to John Ross summing up his assessment of Marcos in the following terms, ‘in recent years, the Sup has transformed himself into a vituperative, narcissistic charlatan who is single-handedly responsible for the depreciation of the Zapatista movement as a national and international player on the Left’ (2009, n.p.). He does go on to distance the movement from his negative opinion of Marcos, Zapatista communities in the highlands and jungles of southeastern Chiapas have continued to demonstrate the capabilities of collective action. The rank and file rebels’ creativeness in providing a Zapatista education for their children and their defense of their environment, particularly native plants, are exemplary. (Ross, 2009, n.p.)

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His criticisms are, in part, a reaction to what he describes as the ‘absurdist heights’ that the commodification of the Zapatista movement had reached after reading a 2009 New York Times’ article which suggested that Chiapas is a hot budget destination for eco-tourism. He catalogues the damage to locals in this new development and places much of the blame for the commodification of the Zapatistas on Marcos’ shoulders. In a subsequent edition of the online version of NACLA, Hilary Klein challenges Ross’s statements and intemperate language, ‘his tirade against Marcos is a blow against that very same work being done by the Zapatista support base’ (2009, n.p.). She takes issue with other substantive statements that Ross makes, but her major issue is that an attack on Marcos potentially undermines the struggle, ‘an article like this does nothing but add fuel to the fire of the counter-insurgency strategies being employed against Zapatista communities by the Mexican government and other actors’ (Klein, 2009, n.p.). They do not disagree on the assessment. Klein takes issue with the fact that such a debate and the emphasis on Marcos as the public face of the movement take away from the positive work done by the Zapatistas. The evolving persona of Marcos has meant that his (and for some the Zapatistas’) reception at home and abroad has changed. So too have their representations on film. Zapata as hypertext has had an enduring legacy and has become a transnational phenomenon. That is not to say that he has been treated the same at home and abroad. The local versions can evoke images of the Revolutionary Zapata when representing the present day Zapatistas, whereby the films are imbued with the weight of history. The Mexican films do not have the same attempt to draw in its audience with musical scores and fast paced editing. The figure of Zapata is normally glossed over as a diversion from the actuality and the campaigning thrust of the international films. They rely on brief introductions to recent events, focus on specific stories and film techniques that appeal to a youth audience. It is evident from the films about the Zapatistas and the ever-evolving representations of the historical figure, Zapata, that both are incomplete projects. The Zapatista rebellion is ongoing and, as yet, has not reached a moment of completion that allows for distant assessment. Curiously, Zapata as a figure, despite being long dead, is not fully resolved in Mexico. He has been idealized and lionized and his story is told following the same ‘great truths’. But, through ignoring his current resonance, the filmmakers have failed to capture what has been his lasting legacy, the call for land and freedom. Where the city was the locale for the conflict in 1968 the country, with all its pre-modern associations, is the theatre of the Zapatista rebellion. Paul Virilio

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has written extensively on the interrelationship between war and the city, seeing the city as ‘constitutive of the form of conflict called WAR’ (uppercase his, 2002, p. 5). The rebellion in Chiapas relied on attention from the metropolis with its contemporary means of communication, most specifically the Internet, yet its rural location shifted the figuration of a modern Mexico away from the centre of power to marginal others. Virilio also emphasizes how the spectacle of the battle is integral to success, ‘there is no war, then, without representation, no sophisticated weaponry without psychological mystification. Weapons are tools not just of destruction but also of perception’ (1989, p.  8). Cinema has had an active role in this perception. Whereas the move outside the city and the communication tools that have been employed by the warriors de-centralizes the battles in this most recent rebellion, film is still integral to its representation, yet not to mystify, but to bear witness.

Notes 1 For a brief overview of Zapata’s life see Benjamin (2000) and for a more in-depth evaluation see, Womack Jr (1970). 2 See, Womack Jr. (1999, pp. 7–9) for more on the Revolution in Chiapas. 3 For more on remediation see, Bolter and Grusin (2000). 4 A fictional representation of one such rebellion is in Rosario Castellano’s Oficio de tinieblas (1962). 5 According to Hables Gray (1997) Viet Nam was the first postmodern war. 6 John Arquilla and David Ronfeldt write: ‘Industrialization led to attritional warfare by massive armies (e.g. World War I). Mechanization led to maneuver predominated by tanks (e.g. World War II). The information revolution implies the rise of cyberwar, in which neither mass nor mobility will decide outcomes, instead, the side that knows more, that can disperse the fog of war yet enshroud an adversary in it, will enjoy decisive advantages, in which neither mass no mobility will decide outcomes; instead, the side that knows more, that can disperse the fog of war yet enshroud an adversary in it, will enjoy decisive advantages’. (1993, n.p.). 7 Arquilla and Ronfeldt go further and add: ‘whoever masters the network form will gain major advantages’ (1993, n.p.). 8 In Hables Gray’s words, the Zapatista movement ‘is a hybrid movement, with the traditional virtues of peasant rebellions augmented by media-savvy spokespeople who use the Internet and the tabloid press with the shamelessness of athletic shoe companies (1997, p. 5).

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9 At the core of his theory is a re-appraisal of the Marxist concept of ‘fetishism’ which is a ‘theory of the negation of our power-to-do. It draws attention both to the process of negation and to that which is negated’ (2002, p. 78). 10 See, Villareal Ford and Gil (2001) for more on the importance of the use of mainstream media for the movement. 11 Claudio Lomnitz challenges Bonfil’s thesis in his Exits From the Labyrinth: Culture and Ideology in the Mexican National Space (1992, pp. 248–51). 12 This is part of their anti-piracy statement at the beginning of the DVD. 13 For more on Set Fire to Flames see last.fm www.last.fm/music/ Set+Fire+to+Flames/_/Shit-Heap-Gloria+of+the+New+Town+Planning, and on Økland http://www.last.fm/music/Nils+Økland/_/Var, last accessed 17 July 2009.

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Political conflict is necessarily deeply rooted in the specificities of the national context. The conflicts themselves have local significance and resonance. Most importantly, the actual lives affected and events involved take place within the national territory. Their representations have been largely, though not exclusively, of interest to a Mexican audience. The Revolution was a conflict which drew international media attention, albeit at a time when news journalism had a slower cycle at the beginning of the twentieth century, and captured the imagination of transnational or international filmmakers. This has been the subject of some consideration, for example Orellana (2003), although there is scope for wider studies. Similarly, the two more recent events, 1968 and the Zapatista rebellion, because they were transnational in their inspiration and ideology, if not necessarily in the specificities of the occurrences, have drawn filmmakers from outside. In this concluding chapter I shall examine the recent evolution of films of political conflict in Mexico and consider how these have modelled the developments in the Mexican (and international) film industries. The Revolution has continued to attract filmmakers as a significant thematic, temporal and conceptual moment in Mexican history. The 1990s saw a return to it as a setting or a source of inspiration. Often claimed as the key film which impelled the revival of Mexican cinema, and marking its renewed popularity among an international audience, Como agua para chocolate (Alfonso Arau, 1992)  is comparable to the traditional Revolutionary melodrama. It was launched as an early example of a multi-platform product, where books were sold in the cinemas to US audiences who were also encouraged to experience the food made by local Mexican restaurants (see Wu, 2000, pp. 186–7). Made

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by the then husband and wife team, Alfonso Arau (director) and Laura Esquivel (scriptwriter and author), it became the most successful foreign language film in the US and, in the context of the pressure being imposed on the government to change cinema funding under NAFTA, it showed that box office success could be achieved outside of the government supported sector. Hailed as an example of Magic Realism that reinforced the impression that Latin American reality was other and exotic to its US and international audience, providing ‘familiar and comfortable claims to exotic otherness [that] reassuringly reaffirm the status of the United States as the center’ (Wu, 2000, p. 189). Como agua para chocolate centres on the story of a matriarch, Mamá Elena (Regina Torné), who insists that her youngest daughter, Tita (Lumi Cavazos), cannot marry her true love Pedro (Marco Leonardi) and must stay at home and mind her. Tita cooks and cleans while her sisters, Gertrudis (Claudette Maillé) and Rosaura (Yareli Arizmendi), can marry. Each chapter of the book starts with a recipe, which becomes central to the narrative, in the execution of these Tita transmits her emotions through her cooking, which affects those who eat the food accordingly. There is a similar motif in the film. Set during the Revolution, the characters’ lives largely exist apart from it. With the exception of Gertrudis’ decision to run away naked with a Revolutionary and their later visit to the ranch; some discussions about a need to ration food; and a debate as to whether they should leave Mexico for the United States to escape the turmoil; the Revolution functions as little more than a historical backdrop. Little action is seen on screen. Therefore, Como agua para chocolate has some commonalities with some of the studio films of the Golden Age more so than with its more recent predecessors of the 60s and 70s. Interestingly, since it is devoid of armed conflict the film ignores an important motif of the studio films: the battle scene, where the people (usually Zapatistas or Villistas) move in unison against a common enemy (usually Federales), set against the backdrop of a dramatic landscape. For Deborah Shaw, ‘[t]he revolutionaries themselves are reduced to folkloric caricatures and are seen drinking, dancing, and singing, rarely fighting’ (2003, p. 41) because of the absence of any representation of armed conflict. In Nuala Finnegan’s assessment, as a result of both this representational gap and the reference to Villista soldiers who appear to lack any identifiable enemy, the film conforms to Hollywood representations of the Revolution, which functions merely to create a sense of local colour (1999, pp. 314–5). Arau’s attempt to re-visit this era and give it a similarly ahistorical reading in Zapata: el sueño del héroe proved to be a failure, as I have considered in Chapter 5. Ultimately,

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Como agua para chocolate promoted ‘a tourist-friendly view of the country’ and is ‘an ideal national product of the Salinas regime in the way that it masks social inequalities and political discontent’ (Shaw, 2003, p. 36). Villa’s soldiers may have appeared as mere ‘bandits’ (Shaw, 2003, p.  41) in Como agua para chocolate, yet Villa reoccurs as a character and historical figure from the first Revolutionary films, as I have examined in Chapter 1. Oftentimes, he was a romantic hero in the early films, a compromised leader or a figure of fun. He made a return in a peculiar twist in Entre Pancho Villa y una mujer desnuda (Sabina Berman and Isabelle Tardán, 1995), where he is a failed guide to the modern day romantic hero. Based on a play written by Berman, the film tells the story of Gina (Diana Bracho), a businesswoman who is undergoing a personal crisis after Adrián (Arturo Ríos), her lover, leaves her just when he appeared to have decided to commit to their relationship. Troubled by this change and influenced by a theory that all Mexican men model themselves on Villa’s machismo, she decides to ‘act like a man’ herself and takes a younger lover, Ismael (Gabriel Porrás), to whom she refuses to commit. Gina is torn between being excited by Adrián and his alter ego, Villa (Jesús Ochoa), as a romantic hyper-masculine hero and desiring a settled relationship. This is represented in the opening scene where we hear her excited moans as she watches a pastiche of the Toscano archive footage showing Villa riding across the landscape and away from the camera. ‘Cuanta virilidad’ [How virile], she gasps, ‘metáfora perfecta de mi relación con Adrián’ [a perfect metaphor for my relationship with Adrian]. From this establishing summation of her attitude towards romantic relationships, where she sees herself in a traditional role of passive, romantic heroine waiting for her man to call, she changes and realizes that this model of masculinity is redundant and is not what she really wants. Over the course of this somewhat screwball comedy, where Villa appears to both principals and offers them advice, Gina comes to the conclusion that there is a need for a new model for her romantic life and for Mexican society in general. Villa and the Revolution are represented as redundant. If Como agua para chocolate represents the apotheosis of Salinas’ neoliberal capitalism and an example of the romantic assimilation of the Revolutionary narrative into late twentieth century imaginary, Entre Pancho Villa y una mujer desnuda is a critique of the same. Gina, who is involved in the building of a maquiladora  – factories for the mass production of cheap goods for export which proliferated after NAFTA – is a symbol of a powerful woman, financially secure and ready to exploit others for her own personal gain. Meanwhile,

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Adrián is a public intellectual, who has recently completed his book, Villa: La Revolución traicionada [Villa: The Revolution Betrayed], preaches to her about her implication in the exploitation of Mexican labour to service global capital, yet is hidebound by old traditional macho behaviour. This tension between progressive political values and old-fashioned machismo serves as opportunities to lampoon both characters and play out these debates in the context of a lightweight narrative. However, much of the broad humour gets in the way of the social critique and its low budget makes it look, at times, like a madefor-television film.1 Yet, in its critique of Mexican capitalism it is an important counterpoint to the sanitized representation of the Revolution in Como agua para chocolate. It stands alongside El bulto, considered in Chapter 4, as a worthy, but flawed, attempt to reconsider national narratives. On its release it received poor reviews from notable critics such as Ayala Blanco (1996), Leonardo García Tsao (1996) and María Guadalupe García (1996). All three felt that it lost some of its bite in its adaptation from play to film. García finds Villa to have been watered down, as he es utilizada como el símbolo del inconsciente machista, el cual dirige las actitudes y decisiones del protagonista: por otro lado, era el elemento de comicidad en la idea y puesta original, sin embargo, en la versión para cine se pierde y más que nada, se siente forzado. [is used as the symbol of irresponsible machismo, which governs the attitudes and decisions of the (male) protagonist; however, on the other hand, it is this element of humour and staging in the original that in the adaptation for screen is lost and, above all, feels forced]. (1996, n.p.)

García Tsao laments that Villa disappears from the film earlier than the play thus, ‘no resuelve la contradictoria relación de los personajes’ [doesn’t resolve the contradictory relationship between the characters] (1996, n.p.). The female protagonist plays out anxieties of 90s middleclass womanhood: The difficulties of attaining independence, having a fulfilling career, and combining these with motherhood and a satisfying relationship. All three critics recognize that this is a persistent theme in recent Mexican film. However, what they all object to is the tension between the currency of the film in this respect and how Villa is used. In Ayala Blanco’s words ‘el machismo/antimachismo se autoseñala como inconsciente de la raza’ [the machismo/antimachismo is identified as integral to the [Mexican] race] (1996, n.p.). He criticizes the facile assumption that

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all Mexican men are macho and that women secretly desire it. The film does not fully resolve this problem: Portraying an independent woman who wants a stable relationship and desires the very man who does not wish to commit to her. Using Villa as a model of masculinity in the narrative takes this story away from the particular and situates it in the general. Adrián, from the ‘mundo chilango-liberal-clasemediero-intelectual-coyoacanense’ [liberal-middleclassintellectual-Coyoacán-Mexico City blow-in milieu] (1996, n.p.) could not be more different to the Revolutionary leader from an impoverished Northern Mexican background. By having Villa as an advisor, Tardán and Berman draw on the legacy of the Revolution. Ironically, through trying to critique Mexican maschismo, they weaken their case by taking a romantic narrative and trying to employ Villa as an ahistorical figure. Another, more earnest attempt to consider the legacy of the Revolution is the documentary by Francesco Taboada Tabone Los últimos Zapatistas: héroes olvidados [The Last Zapatistas: Forgotten Heroes] (2001), which interviews 12 surviving veterans of Zapata’s troop. Most of the former combatants are positive in their assessment of Zapata and a few claim that he is still alive. This documentary, while ostensibly about the Revolutionary experiences of the interlocutors, comes closer to approximating a life story of Zapata through the reminiscences of the former soldiers than do any of the feature films considered in Chapter 5. There are stylistic techniques which draw attention to the constructedness of the film – such as the use of music as an editing tool, the blending of old and new footage, quick cuts in editing and so on. This self-conscious style is similar to many of the transnational documentaries made about the Zapatistas, examined in Chapter 5, but is more sombre in tone and directly addresses the specifics of the national narrative. For Cristina Cervantes, the mixture of [t]estimonies, well-known songs such as the corridos, and even sequences inserted from films of the Revolutionary period, combine to present us with a fragment of Mexican history, and above all, with a view on the terrible neglect currently demonstrated to these twelve veterans of the Revolution (2009, p. 156).

It is a film which links Zapata to the present day through both the interviews with the veterans and their widows, and in their stories, which tell of the state’s neglect for their welfare through the withdrawal of pension entitlements, and draws a connection to what is happening in Chiapas and the uprising there.

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It is a cross-over film in what has been a growing volume of Latin American films in recent times that tackle memory, history and how this intersects with the national narrative.2 Los últimos Zapatistas: héroes olvidados is an archival piece. There is a clear indication of the veteran’s imminent demise, as one dies on film (see Chanan, 2007, p. 170). These men are presented as both symbols of the past and as a synecdoche of the promises of the Revolution, which have been abandoned. The men ‘succeed, at the same time, in talking about their past and in confronting us with their present: the neglect they suffer, and from which their only means of escape is death’ (Cervantes, 2009, p. 156) and they ‘reveal through their testimonies the continued failure of society to uphold the ideals of the Mexican Revolution for which these veterans fought’ (Cervantes, 2009, p. 158). This film is an historical document: The filmmakers have recorded interviews with these men giving them an opportunity to talk about their past and showing their present circumstances. It is also an exploration of how significant the Revolution is in the national discourse. The lament of the loss of the Revolutionary promises is represented as tragic because the filmmakers assert its importance not only through the pro-filmic events being captured – including the death of a man – but also through editing and a nostalgic musical soundtrack, which draw on the symbolic and representational cues of the Revolution. Importantly, just as with the feature films examined in Chapter  5, Zapata as an historical figure continues to be above reproach. This does not drive the narrative forward, instead it looks back to the Revolution as a time which held many promises that, by implication, if other, less corrupt politicians had been in charge, could have been delivered. Los últimos Zapatistas: héroes olvidados operates within the parameters of Revolutionary discourse and does not offer a new reading. What it does do is highlight the human effect of the Revolution and how the veterans have been abandoned by successive governments. The criticisms of the neglect of the veterans by the state are very pointed. The sentimental tone of the film appears to be a deliberate technique to highlight their circumscribed and impoverished lives and to remind the viewer of the broken promises of the Revolution. Elsewhere, the state is challenged for its terrible and brutal actions against its own citizens. These critical films are a sign of a new openness. If there had been attempts to criticize the government in the past that had been canned (as discussed in Chapter 3), there are some indications that the new model of transnational film funding and creativity means that there is now the possibility for more deliberate and explicit criticisms.

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A film that has brought the representation of political conflict in a new direction is El violín (Francisco Vargas, 2005). It follows the story of Plutarco (Ángel Tavira) a violinist, whose son, Genaro (Gerardo Taracena), is engaged in the indigenous guerrilla rebellion of the 1970s in Guerrero, although this is not made explicit in the film. He is left in charge of his young grandson, and because of the army crackdown on his village he is forced to flee with the child to the mountains. The octogenarian actor Ángel Tavira is a reknowned musician, who had to play the violin with the bow strapped to his wrist as he lost his hand as a child. Now dead, this was Tavira’s only acting role. The story pivots on his relationship with Capitán (Dagoberto Gama), a ruthless army leader, and how Plutarco exploits his apparently non-threatening appearance as an octogenarian with a disability and an outstanding musical ability to enable him to cross army lines, ostensibly to access his land, instead he is smuggling arms for the guerrillas. Although much of the story is built around the tension of this journey from the forests to the highlands, there are also battle scenes between the army, who have sophisticated weaponry (including heat seeking missiles and helicopters), and the indigenous with their local knowledge armed only with guns. These recall the descriptions of warfare by the EZLN. Although there is an absence of documentary footage showing Mexican army activity, detailed descriptions can be found in many of the documentaries (as well as in books and web communiqués). This parallel is made more possible through the absence of any defined timeframe and without any clear establishing geographical markers in El violín. The film is evidently Mexican, through the use of Mexican actors, local accent and dialect, and elements of the mise-en-scène, such as wardrobe (e.g. the army uniform), food and drink. With funding from Brazil, Uruguay and Argentina, there appears to be an attempt, through the lack of naming its location, to render this a Latin American story. However, its groundedness within the local makes this an overtly political and specifically Mexican film. The local (Mexican) elements, despite its lack of temporal markers, encourage the viewer to draw parallels with the present-day Zapatista rebellion. For example, Alejandro Suverza and Mariana Mora, in their commentary on the film remarked upon the parallels between the opening scene and three separate cases in Coahuila, Zongólica and Michoacán. They quote Tavira who says, ‘Yo creo que con la película le dieron al clavo porque nos está haciendo recordar lo que sucede en nuestro país’ (2007, p. 10) [I believe that they got to the truth with the film because they remind us of what happens in our country]. The implicit

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message is that depressingly little has changed in the government’s response to indigenous rebellion in the intervening years. It continues to be one of torture, kidnap and murder. The lack of explicit reference to a specific time, date or location has a dual function: On the one hand, it masks the particularities of the historical and geopolitical context in which this took place; on the other, it allows us to make connections to present-day conflicts without the director having to explicitly do so. Although there are battles waged against the people, which both portray the individual, human cost of war and the lack of capability of the army in the given terrain, due to little local knowledge, young recruits and lack of training, there are also scenes of torture. This recalls similar scenes in the independent films of the 1960s and 70s, discussed in Chapter 3. El violín opens with a torture scene. Capitán beats a man and burns him with a cigarette. This is followed closely by a scene where soldiers repeatedly rape a woman in a shack. It is shot from an oblique low angle with the head of the soldier and the woman in the foreground as he forces himself onto her. Rather than objectify the woman, or observe the event from a distance, the camera angle encourages us to identify with her experience. Our eyeline is the same as the other gagged and bound captives who we can see sitting against the wall on the opposite side of the room, and it makes it more subjective and horrific. This is part of the credit sequence and the scene cuts to ellipsis with credits in small white font. The silence accompanying these ellipses make the visuals and the sounds of the shouts and screams more shocking. The only time the sound bleeds into an ellipsis is when we see the woman being raped, her cries can be heard for a few beats over the film title. This then cuts to a pastoral scene with bird song and, after the camera pans across this rural setting, another sharp cut shows Plutarco cleaning his violin. Unlike El principio, considered in Chapter 3, the rape is not gratuitous, there are no lingering shots of her battered body, but, rather, El violín shows rape as an instrument of torture consonant with that which was meted out to the man. The stark contrast between the abusive soldiers, the rural idyll and the violinist’s careful cleaning of his instrument further underscores the awfulness of the soldiers’ behaviour. The filmmakers have chosen to show less rather than more, and through montage, ellipsis, camera angle and sound they encourage the viewer to identify with the victims rather than with the soldiers. It is evident from the press coverage of the film on its release that it sparked a debate about censorship and the representation of the army in such a negative

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light. There were even suggestions by a former army general that the film could be enlatada (Carreño, 2007, n.p.). Instead, thanks to support from intellectuals and journalists, the director Guillermo del Toro, a raft of international prizes including an Ariel (Mexican film award) and a distribution deal with Canana Films (the company owned by Diego Luna, Gael García Bernal and Pablo Cruz), the film became the second most seen film after Spider-Man 3 (Sam Raimi, 2007) on its release (Calderón, 2007, n.p.). In a newspaper article on the film Carlos Bonfil sees the explicit representation of the brutality of the army as a step forward in Mexican cinema when he states that El violín ‘en sus crudas escenas iniciales derriba el tabú que impedía representar al Ejército Mexicano como algo más que una noble institución al servicio del bienestar público, particularmente en el campo’ [in its brutal opening scenes breaks down the taboo that prevented the representation of the Mexican army as anything more than a noble institution at the service of public good, particularly in the countryside] (2007, p. 9). He compares this scene to the ‘tímida intención’ [timid aim] of showing the army responsible for the deaths in Tlatelolco in Rojo amanecer (Bonfil, 2007, p. 9). A film that he also sees as marred by ‘la mutilación de escenas incómodas, el escamoteo de la realidad histórica y la autocensura solución fílmica’ [the mutilation of uncomfortable scenes, the avoidance of reality and the self-censoring filmic solution] (Bonfil, 2007, p. 9].3 For him, and many other Mexican critics, El violín was a breakthrough in its explicit representation of army violence against indigenous people (see also, Carrasco Araizaga, 2007; Tovar, 2007). The indigenous are rarely represented in Mexican films with political conflict at their centre. El violín is a new departure, not just through the openness of its critique – albeit hidden behind non-specifics of time and location – but also in its representation of rape in conflict. This is evidence that Mexican filmmakers are addressing the representation of the Revolution in new ways in more recent films. El violín received almost universal approval from the critics because of its openly critical approach towards the army, with the exception of Hermann Bellinghausen, La Jornada special correspondent to Chiapas since the uprising in 1994. He joins in with other writers’ praise for the explicit representation of army brutality, but challenges how ‘[e]l comportamiento de indígenas y guerrilleros es sistemáticamente torpe, rayando en la tontería’ [the behaviour of the indigenous and guerrillas is foolhardy throughout, to the extent that it borders on the stupid] (Bellinghausen, 2007b, p. 4). Citing plot details such as

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the rebels purchasing weapons in a bar, which would be more usually populated by the army, and the fact that Don Plutarco sells his land in exchange for a donkey, given the importance of land to his survival. Bellinghausen is asserting his insider knowledge of indigenous peoples and the locale and has subsequently collaborated on the making of another film of political conflict. He is one of the co-writers of a script, supported by the Zapatistas, starring amateur actors, set in Chiapas and highly praised for its authenticity, Corazón del tiempo (Alberto Cortés, 2009). There are two interweaving narrative strands in Corazón del tiempo: The love triangle between Miguel (Leonardo Rodríguez), an electrician, Sonia (Rocío Barrios), a teacher and Julio (Francisco Jiménez P.), a Zapatista insurgent, and the community’s attempts to build an electrical generator. It is set in the autonomous community of San Pedro de Michoacán in the south east of Chiapas. Surrounded by the army and paramilitaries, the community have to be ever vigilant and to carefully negotiate their way through roadblocks to get vital equipment and supplies. Unlike El violín, the film never shows any brutality or bloodshed, instead, it alludes to it in witness reports, particularly in the accounts of harassment by nearby community members in the documentary made within the film. The film is more concerned with the banal and mundane (to return to Billig’s phrase) of everyday life, albeit one lived in a war zone. The film explores how customs and traditions are dynamic and carefully negotiated by the community through the romantic story. It is largely concerned with the place of women in Zapatista territory.4 The film opens with a medium shot of a cow as it is being led towards Sonia’s house as a dowry for her hand in marriage to Miguel. While angry at the fact that her worth is measured in a cow, at first she is content with the arrangement. Then, while out providing food for the Zapatistas, she meets Julio. Theirs is an instant attraction, but both know the social and emotional cost of following through on this. They move carefully forward. Sonia faces up to her parents’ disappointment, knowing that they will not only have to return the cow, but also pay a tariff on top. Julio is punished by the Zapatistas for neglecting his post and sneaking off to meet Sonia, as well as breaking rules about consorting with a local woman who is already engaged. They both face the opprobrium of the local community. A further cost for Sonia, which she initially resists, is the obligation to leave her community and join the Zapatistas in the mountains, thereby depriving her village of a teacher. The film is largely concerned with these negotiations the account of which are portrayed

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in almost ethnographic detail. In that vein, much of the praise for the film has been for its authenticity. An interesting range of public and private money was invested in this project. As is evident from the credits, this film was financed by a Sundance grant, and many of the major government run cultural organizations in Mexico (El instituto mexicano de cinematografía (IMCINE) and CONACULTA, as well as IBERMEDIA, the Spanish-based funding organization that supports SpanishLatin American co-productions. However, it was the 10 per cent support which came from the EZLN in the form of security, accommodation and food for the cast and crew, that received media attention on its release (see, for example, Huerta, 2010). This was part of its badge of authenticity. I do not want to quibble with how the customs and practices are portrayed on screen, however, there is an interesting tension at play here. In interviews with Cortés and in Bellinghausen’s written account, the film is presented as an innovative move towards greater fidelity on screen of the indigenous story, all the while the idea of the lack of fixity to this supposed authentic is very much the subject of the film. This is not a contradictory position, merely one that underscores the challenges of representing the other that, according to Bellinghausen, El violín falls short on. Music is part of the transcultural flow of the authentic. Lyrics are very deliberately employed in the film to act as a commentary on the action and as a suture between scenes. Often making up for the sometimes stilted nature of the acting and the sparse dialogue. The music was produced in advance of filming by two Cuban musicians, Descemer Bueno and Kelvis Ochoa, who worked alongside a local band, La Marimba de San José del Río and women and children from Chiapas, as well as the Mexican rock star Cecilia Toussaint, who sings a ranchera and a Catalan group, Ojos de brujo (Molina Ramírez, 2007, p. 8). For the most part, the songs are in a new folk style similar to those made popular by the nueva canción [new song] movement of the 1960s and 70s associated with protest, uprisings and resistance throughout Latin America. The director, Alberto Cortés praised the ‘conmovedor canto de resistencia’ [moving song of resistance] (Vértiz de la Fuente, 2009, p. 86) that Bueno and Ochoa wrote. Therefore, there is a deliberate referencing of rebellion through the songs, and a carefully pared back style to the music with simple narrative detail underlined through the lyrics. The Cuban-Mexican collaboration is told as one in which the metropolitan Cubans went to the rural villages of Chiapas working with the locals and gathering influences in the manner of ethno-musicologist (Vértiz de la Fuente, 2009, p. 86). Again, this points towards an idea of the authentic that

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films, which include the indigenous, feel the need to foreground because of their persistent mis-representations, but that nonetheless needs to be complicated by a realization that such a quest for an authentic is impossible. Another film that employs music as a central defining plot element is Arráncame la vida: el corazón no se gobierna (Roberto Sneider, 2009). It is based on the bestselling novel, Arráncame la vida (1985) by Ángeles Mastretta, which in turn got its title from a bolero. Although popular in Mexico where it developed its own flavour, particularly through the compositions of Agustín Lara, boleros are of Cuban origin, with no direct meaningful affiliation with the Revolution. The narrative of the novel and film starts at the end of the bellicose period of the Revolution and are therefore concerned with the political machinations in the immediate aftermath, similar to La sombra del caudillo. As I have discussed elsewhere, the use of the bolero in the novel is to take a popular form more usually associated with conservative values and subvert or challenge its original meaning (Thornton, 2006, pp. 206–12). The plot is concerned with Catalina Guzmán’s (Ana Claudia Talancón) early marriage to Andrés Ascencio (Daniel Giménez Cacho), a corrupt and ambitious military man turned businessman and politician. Theirs is a passionate relationship that sours when she discovers his unfaithfulness and murderous ambitions. It is played out with a full awareness of the hypocrisy of the time, as well as displaying Catalina’s skills in navigating the limitations placed on women’s financial and social independence. Catalina has several children with Andrés and has an affair with an orchestra conductor, Carlos Vives (José María de Tavira), who is murdered on Andrés’ bidding. Catalina reaps revenge by poisoning Andrés. This is a mere sketch of a plot which also engages with Andrés political manoeuvres and involves some attention to the social mores of the time. It is a fairly faithful rendition of the novel with some omissions. The film’s focus on the love stories pushes to one side the novel’s complicated negotiation of motherhood and Catalina’s decisions to sideline her relationship with her children in order to protect them from Andrés’ sordid business dealings, which is a fresh approach in the novel. But, more crucially, the use of an unreliable first-person narrator creates quite an ambiguous tone in the novel, never making explicit Catalina’s role in the death of Andrés, unlike the film. Voiceover is used only in the opening and close of the film, alongside conventional camera angles it makes our knowledge of Catalina’s point of view limited to dialogue and gestures. This makes it inferior to the source text and it is thus rendered a

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generic romantic film with some critical political content largely directed at the PRI. Unlike La sombra del caudillo, a film which employed thriller conventions to tell its story, Arráncame la vida: el corazón no se gobierna did not imbue the romantic genre with any innovations. It was also not subject to any sort of censorship. Given that the PAN were in power on its release and the fact that it denounced corruption in the PRI, the criticism contained in the film could only benefit the then ruling party. The novel was part of the ‘boom femenino’ of literature that emerged at the same time that Esquivel published Como agua para chocolate in the early 1990s, that is a period in which ‘[women] writers continually interrogated ways of conceiving gender and that they resist any fixed, limited or absolute representation of the feminine’ (Finnegan, 2007, p. 9). Where the novel challenged gender roles, employed an unreliable narrator, used musical citation and allusions to popular culture in lively and innovative ways, the film is a return to a more conventional rendering of the Revolution more akin to that of Zapata: el sueño del héroe. A more recent project attempted a very different approach. To commemorate the centenary of the Revolution, Revolución (2010) is a film made up of ten shorts and was released for 24 hours in Mexico and 48 hours in the rest of the world online from the 20th of November, the date the Revolution began. It has also had limited release at film festivals and events. Its distribution was via a Mexican payper-view television station, the videosharing site, YouTube and MUBI, an online site for film viewing. Using social networking sites such as Twitter and Facebook to garner an audience, the film was only available for a limited period up to its release on DVD in 2011. Funded by Air France, as well as private Mexican producers (including the ubiquitous Diego Luna and Gael García Bernal and their production company Canana), and IMCINE, for the most part the stories are set in present day Mexico. Shot in black and white, they are varied, and, as is often the case in such collaborations, uneven in quality. Luna describes them as ‘ten different voices shouting at the same time’ and that ‘[a]ll ten films begin with the question, “Where is the Revolution today?”’ (Ellis, 2010, n.p.). The stories range from: Fernando Eimbicke’s La bienvenida [The Welcoming Ceremony], which tells the story of Arnancio, an impoverished single parent and tuba player, living on the edge of a small town, and the build up to the arrival of a dignitary to a commemoration ceremony; to Patricia Riggen’s Lindo y querido [Beautiful and Beloved], about a daughter’s quest to have her father buried in Mexico with his gun from the Revolution; Carlos Reygadas’ misanthropic representation of a chaotic and wild party where the upper class family’s celebration is juxtaposed

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with that of their servants and Mariana Chenillo’s story of a young woman’s sexual harassment by her boss in La tienda de raya [The Estate Store]. These serve as snapshots of the filmmakers’ assessment of the legacy of the Revolution. Some employ explicitly Revolutionary themes, others consider the social and political legacy of the Revolution, whereas others use the commemorative festivities themselves as a source of inspiration for the stories. For Luna his reason for getting involved in the project was because, ‘Cien años después, más que celebración, lo que hace falta es una reflexión. Estamos viviendo una de las épocas más violentas de la historia, quizás sólo comparable a los años de la Revolución’ [a hundred years after the events, we don’t need a celebration, we need reflection. We are living though one of the most violent periods of history, perhaps comparable to the years of the Revolution]. He states that his film, about a man going through a separation who is reflecting on his life by going to a beach called paraíso [paradise], was inspired by a question: ‘me pregunté cuál era el sentimiento revolucionario dentro de mí’ [I reflected on what revolutionary feeling I had inside] (de los Reyes, 2010, n.p.). Luna’s repetition of the first person pronoun underlines a key feature of these films: These are highly individualized representations, often losing the idea of a collective and unified pueblo [people] integral to the earlier Revolutionary films, in favour of the struggles of individuals in the face of national politics and transnational capital. As a consequence, although the films have the Revolution as a significant marker or point of reference, in many ways they are explorations of many of the anxieties and problems faced by individuals across a broad spectrum of conditions and experiences. A man’s marital breakdown, a woman’s reliance on credit to get a denture, the glaring disparities between rich and poor, another woman’s attempt to reconcile herself with her father’s past after his death, are not stories specific to the legacy of the Mexican Revolution, but conditions and circumstances common to many. In addition to these five films, the other directors were the Mexican García Bernal, Amat Escalante, and Gerardo Naranjo, the Uruaguayan, Rodrigo Plá and Colombian, Rodrigo García. They are (relatively) young directors, ‘[t]odos ellos forman parte de una generación de cineastas empeñada en crear una alternativa fílmica al dominio de Hollywood en México, para dotar al cine mexicano de un rostro propio y reconocible’ [they are part of a generation of filmmakers whose aim is to create alternative Mexican films to those made in Hollywood, to provide Mexican film with its own recognisable face] (informador, 2010, n.p.).

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This generation is prepared to look outside of Mexican borders to consider the representation of the Revolution, as is evident in the final short which is shot at the eponymous street junction ‘La 7th Street y Alvarado’ (Rodrigo García) in Los Angeles. Ghostly, Revolutionary horsemen ride down the street as people go about their ordinary, daily lives. Shot in slow motion the film revels in the anachronistic juxtaposition, and meditatively evokes multiple concepts, such as the idea of place, immigration, the politics of border divisions, the significance of these Hispanic neighbourhoods in the US and what the legacy of the Revolution means in this context. The message is that the Revolution is evident in all aspects of Mexican everyday life as well as in the moments of celebration, and it is the function of these films to critique its legacy. However, the problem with aligning a critique of contemporary Mexico with the Revolution is that the current regime can disassociate itself from these criticisms. While the PAN who held power from 2000 to 2012 were happy to use the Revolution as a unifying commemorative celebration, they have distanced themselves from its legacy. In contrast, the PRI, which, for more than 70 years held the reigns of power, is closely aligned with the failed Revolutionary project. Therefore, the current government can claim that the failed legacy of the Revolution is a hangover from the previous regime and one for which they can claim impunity. In particular, because none of these films consider one of the most contentious and brutal conflicts of recent time in Mexico – which Luna alludes to in his interview with the BBC – the drug war which has subsumed many areas of Mexico from the North, East, West and Southern regions in terrible violence. This war is one which the current regime is deeply implicated, not least because of the perception of their mishandling of operations and the army’s implication in some of the violence. One recent film has linked the past with the present is El infierno [The Narco] (Luis Estrada, 2010). It opens with the official logo of the joint centenary and bicentenary (of independence) celebrations in Mexico being shot through with bullet holes. This is Estrada’s way of connecting the violence in the northern states of Mexico, the so-called drug war, with the legacy of the Revolution. The film tells the story of Benny (Damián Alcázar), a naïve deported migrant who, on his return to a small border town, through a series of misadventures, becomes involved as a dealer and assassin in the drugs trade. Although the comedy, while dark, is somewhat farcical, like his earlier film La ley de Hérodes [Herod’s Law] (1999) the ending is very bleak.

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El infierno is extremely violent throughout, evident in the graphic scenes of torture and killing, however, the final scene is disturbing in the scale of the killing and targets of the protagonist’s ire: The priest, the mayor, the head of the drugs gang, his wife and heads of the police and the army. All are implicated in the drug trade, whether directly (the drug warlord) or indirectly (the priest who willingly accepts bribes to say Mass over the dead and grants little respect to the victims who cannot pay) and are punished for this in a very (melo) dramatic way. In the final scene Benny walks among the crowd who are gathered in the main square, pushing his way to the front just as the traditional ceremony takes place. This culminates with a Grito [shout] which commemorates the bicentenary of the declaration of independence by the revolutionary priest Miguel Hidalgo (1753–1811). The dignitaries are lined up on the balcony. The square and the town hall are festooned with bunting and images of the founding leaders of Mexican independence in lights, while the crowd are waving flags, and banners state that this is the bicentenary year. Placing this final scene at this event is significant. The Grito is an annual celebration, but in 2010 it marked the commemoration of not only the bicentenary of independence, but also of the centenary of the Revolution. Thereby the founding narratives of the Mexican nation are foregrounded in this moment. As Benny moves to the front of the crowd, the mayor (Emilio Guerrero) introduces the drug baron, José Reyes (Ernesto Gómez Cruz), who is now also the municipal president. Standing on the balcony behind a podium with the Mexican crest on it, flanked by the other dignitaries, Reyes waves the Mexican flag and shouts ‘Viva el bicentenario de la independencia’ [long live the bicentenary of independence], and another series of ‘vivas’, celebrating local and national glories. These are followed by ‘vivas’ from the crowd and the others on the balcony. It is to be read as a moment of celebration, intercut with the ominous progress of Benny towards the front. The church bells ring out and the fireworks are let off. Amidst this noise of celebration, the tone changes. A shot of Benny pushing aside someone in the crowd and pulling something from inside his coat cuts to a reverse shot of Reyes, whose expression of delight changes to fear as he lowers the flag and then it cuts to his wife, Mari (María Rojo) whose smile becomes a frown, then to the priest and a slow motion shot of Benny. It is now clear that he has a machine gun, a woman screams and the crowd moves away from him. He kills the security guards and policeman first and then moves up the hierarchy

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of power killing the mayor, Mari (who Reyes is hiding behind), the priest (José Concepción Macías) and, finally, Reyes himself. Everything is in slow motion. The visuals are slowed to linger on the blood coming out of the gunshot wounds and the bodies falling. It also cuts between the victims and Benny emphasizing the deliberate nature of his attack. This may be revenge, but it is done in cold blood rather than in the heat of the moment. The audio foregrounds the sound of the gun matching it to the explosive impact on the bodies of the victims. The bells, which earlier had been ringing loudly and at an upbeat pace, are now slowed down to a funereal beat, underlining the tragic tone of the moment. This cuts to the fireworks in real time. Where before they indicated celebration now they serve as an audio and graphic match to the wounds and gunshots of the preceding sequence. This cuts to Benny who lowers his gun and takes in what he has just done. His face suggests that he is horrified, but this may be at what he sees rather than at his actions. The camera lingers on Reyes’ dead body slumped over the podium as his blood trickles down over the eagle, snake and cactus of the Mexican crest. The final firework explodes spelling out the words ‘Viva México 2010’ [long live Mexico 2010]. The camera stays on this until it burns out and then the structure where the words were spelt out by the fireworks, collapse. The scene fades to black in silence. The closing sequence is powerful in its almost over-determined use of the symbols of Mexican independence and of a familiar celebratory moment. Further, by setting it during the bicentenary, Estrada is mocking the exaggerated celebrations, but also juxtaposing the tragic denouement of the film and the excessive, hypocritical and misplaced nature of these events. The message of the film is clear: Mexico is a place of little opportunity, no future and run by corrupt individuals. As the Spanish language film title suggests, it is hell. In addition to backing the Revolución project IMCINE’s Marina Stavenhagen has said that there are seven projects due for release ‘centradas sobre la Revolución mexicana y sus efectos’ [centred on the Mexican Revolution and its consequences] (author unknown, 2010, n.p.). The Revolution continues to inspire filmmakers; whereas 1968 has not yet inspired many new films. There have been many rumoured projects about 1968. For example, on Alfonso Cuarón’s imdb.com profile for many years there was a running line about a future project called México: 1968. Since 2009, this has disappeared. A new Mexican film, Tlatelolco (Carlos Bolado, 2013), has recently been released and has yet to make it to the international market. From the trailers and Mexican reviews, it evidently emphasises the romantic relationship at the centre of the

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political and social drama. It may yet be too early. There are a lot of unaccounted for facts. The archive may be open, but it is not yet fully catalogued. Poetry, testimonials, installations, novels and other creative explorations of the event have not exhausted the depth of hurt and trauma still felt by this unresolved moment in history and there is still scope for filmmakers to explore new and different versions of the events. As can be seen from Corázon del tiempo, the representation of Zapatismo is an ongoing project as it is still an ongoing conflict. In the beginning of the conflict they had a multiplatform approach, in particular online networks and digital formats to communicate their message to a wider, global community, as well as leaflets, books, t-shirts and other consumables. They were pioneering in their early adoption of the Internet. But, in recent years they have lagged behind again, not really availing of the growth in Web 2.0. As well as the films made by national and international filmmakers, that I discussed in Chapter 5, there are other films associated with Zapatismo, which are deserving of further research. This chapter is not an exhaustive review of recent films dealing with political conflict, instead it address the most prominent of these. What this overview demonstrates is the ongoing interest in political conflict by Mexican filmmakers.

Notes 1 In reviews both García Tsao and García criticize the film for lack of technical skill. 2 I am thinking here of such films as the Chilean Patricio Guzman’s La memoria obstinada (1997) and the Argentine Los rubios (Albertina Carri, 2003). 3 In an earlier article about the film, Bonfil talks about censorship in Mexico during the Fox sexenio stating that of the 213 films produced in that six-year period 77 were enlatadas (2006, p. 7). 4 This reading is echoed by many of the critics as well as the cast and crew’s assessment in the making of in the DVD extras (see, for example, Pérez, 2009).

Conclusion

Films representing political conflict have evolved as the Mexican industry has: From the early documentaries through the studio films; the evolution of an independent cinema; up to the more recent mix of public and privately financed films from both national and transnational sources. Also, this development has taken place against a backdrop of political upheaval that has sometimes looked more like stasis when the PRI dominated the political landscape, through the brief change in government to the PAN (2000–12). The changes in representations have taken place with these multiple factors in play. Given the necessarily political nature of the films they have generally been judged by critics in Mexico in the context in which they were released. This can result in ignominy, in the case of many of the studio films. Or, in the case of some, such as El Prisonero 13 and ¡Vámonos con Pancho Villa!, the films were recovered by a later generation for whom it matched their ideas of what Revolutionary film should be. For most of the twentieth century the Revolution was exploited by a single party in a mutable way. This created a narrative that was to change according to the particular needs of the sexenio. Fernando de Fuentes’ trilogy (¡Vámonos con Pancho Villa!, Prisonero 13, and El compadre Mendoza) was made at a time when an idea of a glorious Revolution was first being established and the bloodshed was only recent, as considered in Chapter  1. Yet, despite the ambivalence of ¡Vámonos con Pancho Villa! towards Villa and the critical approach it takes to some aspects of the Revolution, it does not fully challenge the government’s grand narrative of the Revolution. This is because it was made with government support and full collaboration of the government forces for many of the battle

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scenes. Therefore, the praise heaped upon it by the Nuevo Cine group as well as subsequent critics, may recognize its critical strengths, but sets it apart from the later studio films as if it has little in common with their approach or dramatic style. The studio films, discussed in Chapter 2, may deserve the criticisms heaped upon them as being conservative texts for the most part. However, although I only consider those starring Félix, the suggestion that being studio films perforce means that they are not worthy of consideration is absurd. It is a view, as I have explored in this book, that came out of the particular perspectives of the Nuevo Cine group and independent filmmakers of the 1960s and 1970s and is therefore one that is kicking out against what had become a stagnant industry. These films are worth returning to with fresh eyes and reflecting on how the studio filmmakers played around with generic conventions. Chapter 2 considers how gender, in particular, is tackled in these films. There is scope for further explorations of how studio films belie early dismissal. This shift can be seen in some welcome recent research (Garza Iturbide and Lara Chávez, 2010). The generation which has received the most positive critical reception is those that emerged in the 1960s and 1970s. This group was enabled by the then government to create more overtly challenging representations of the Revolution. The regime was keen to demonstrate their openness against the backdrop of their brutal repression of the student movement. Knowing that the studio films had long established the Revolution as a lively background for multiple romances, musicals and adventure stories, encouraging a small group of independent filmmakers to make films about the Revolution would not prove to be a major threat. In particular, because none of these films reached a wide audience, unlike their studio predecessors. These filmmakers did produce films that shifted how the Revolution would be filmed without creating a new formula. The context was all important in terms of how violence was represented, becoming more graphic and brutal. The tone of the films is bleaker. The Revolution is no longer a moment of glorious national formation, but a terrible moment in which many lives were lost. In addition, they express an implied ambivalence about the supposed achievements of the Revolution. The independent films of the Revolution must be read against the backdrop of the student movement of 1968. It was a tumultuous period and one which has yet to be fully accounted for. As I have explored in Chapter 4, the documentaries and feature films that have attempted to represent this period have had mixed

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success. The documentaries function as a sort of first-hand eye-witness reportage sympathetic to the student movement. While testimonios, novels, poetry and songs have been written to try and provide versions of what occurred on the 2nd of October 1968, no complete and satisfactory historical account has yet been written. So, film is adding to this popular understanding and often the documentaries are an archive of sorts, which provide some insight into the events. Given the controls and censorship that governs over the production of feature films, these have been much more curtailed. Although when viewed as a whole alongside the documentaries, they provide a useful insight into both the events and the filmmakers’ understanding of their significance. Another conflict which cannot yet be understood in full is the Zapatista rebellion because it is still ongoing. Chapter 5 considers the multiple documentaries that have been made about this rebellion. Filmmakers from Mexico and abroad were attracted to the rebellion because of its international profile, largely established through the Internet. Through their name the Zapatistas also draw on the mythology surrounding the Revolutionary leader, Zapata. Part of this myth was created through biographical films. Interestingly, the first of these, Viva Zapata!, was a Hollywood production. Therefore the cultural imaginary that the Zapatistas are tapping into already has a transnational flavour and is part of a global flow. As can be seen, while transnational productions are growing in recent times, these have precedent in earlier films. Up to now a focus on a single conflict has tended to dominate a particular period, and this is more mixed now, as can be seen in Chapter 6. Given the tardiness in opening up documentation about 1968 and the continuing sensitivities by successive governments of the events, it still is given relatively little attention. The Zapatistas and the Revolution tend to dominate the landscape at present. These are not always necessarily dealt with directly. For example, El violín clearly represents an indigenous rebellion and ambiguously sets its narrative in the past, however, the allusions to the present-day struggle are clear. Equally, through its name and the surrounding newspaper coverage, the link with the Revolution in La Revolución is evident. However, many of the films make no clear allusion to the historical period or even the conflict itself. Those films that do deal with the Revolution more explicitly, such as Arráncame la vida: el corazón no se gobierna or Zapata: el sueño del héroe, shy away from representing any form of graphic violence and instead focus on romantic narratives.

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Violence is integral to all conflicts. Yet its representation is never simple. Too often, in an attempt to convey the horror of the conflict and evoke empathy, brutal injuries and torture are inflicted on women. The symbolic field these victims then enter into is so loaded as to often render the scenes melodramatic or gratuitous. Women are often already laboured with being coterminous with the nation, as is the case in most of the studio films and the man’s role is to act as her saviour. If he fails in this task it is to the detriment of all. In addition, violence inflicted on women is often in the form of rape, either implied, as in the studio films, or explicit, as in the films made during the 1960s and 1970s and beyond. There is considerable difficulty in representing rape with sufficient sensitivity and in a way that is not gratuitous, in particular when its aim is to disturb and shock the viewer. It also reinforces ideas about gender binaries, which insist that men are macho and women are both vulnerable and in need of their protection. While there has been an incremental use of a more graphic portrayal of violence against women, it appears that in later films there is also a greater sensitivity to how it is portrayed. Women are increasingly not mere metaphors, but fully rounded characters with greater equality on the battlefield and off. There is a variable degree of violence inflicted by combatants on each other. With the exception of El infierno and its mix of comedy and bursts of violence, which is set in the present day, many of the other films have moved away from the spectacular battle sequences and bloodshed and moved towards reflecting on the significance of political conflict on the individual, whether that is in Zapatista territory in Corazón del tiempo or the evocation of the Revolution in La Revolución. This book explores the evolving nature of the representation of conflict in Mexican film. The pivotal historical event is the Revolution. However, it is not the only conflict which has been considered by filmmakers as a worthy subject of documentaries and feature films. It may be a truism to say that the conflict on film and the historical period in which it is purportedly set is not necessarily the conflict under consideration. At times, as with the independent filmmakers considered in Chapter 3, while ostensibly the films were set during the Revolution, the filmmakers were exploring the student protests and the state’s violent response to it. Similarly, in the films about the latter day Zapatistas, the Revolution recurs as a theme and trope. The Revolution is a recurrent source of imagery and inspiration, in particular in the context of the centenary

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commemorations, yet, it is not always the focus of the narrative concern. Historical and political context is important, so too is an understanding of the national and international cinematic legacy within which the films are being made. Due to the range and number of films of the Revolution and also, albeit to a lesser degree, about the subsequent conflicts there is ample scope for further investigations and explorations. This book shifts the focus from the purely canonical Revolutionary films to a consideration of what the Revolution means outside of this narrow canon and to re-consider how political conflict as a more broadly defined concept, has been represented on screen.

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Filmography A Massacre Foretold (2007) Directed by Nick Higgins. UK: Lansdowne Productions [Video: DVD]. Amores perros [Love’s a Bitch] (2000) Directed by Alejandro González Iñarritú. Mexico: Altavista Films and Zeta Films [Video: DVD]. And Starring Pancho Villa As Himself (2003) Directed by Bruce Beresford. USA: HBO Films [Video: DVD]. Anoche soñé contigo (1992) Directed by Maryse Sistach. Mexico: Clasa Films Mundiales and Producciones Tragaluz [Video: DVD]. Alien (1979) Directed by Ridley Scott. USA and UK: Brandywine Productions and Twentieth Century-Fox Productions. Allá en el Rancho Grande (1936) Directed by Fernando de Fuentes. Mexico: Antonio Díaz Lombardo and Bustamente y Fuentes [Video: DVD]. Arráncame la vida: el corazón no se gobierna (2009) Directed by Roberto Sneider. Mexico: Altavista Films and La Banda Films [Video: DVD]. Batalla en Chile (1975) Directed by Patricio Guzmán. Venezuela, France and Cuba: Equipo Tercer Año and Instituto Cubano del Arte e Industrias Cinematográficos [Video: VHS]. Battaglia di Ageri (1966) Directed by Gillo Pontecorvo. Italy and Algeria: Igor Film and Casbah Films. Bonnie and Clyde (1967) Directed by Arthur Penn. USA: Warner Bros [Video: DVD]. Café Colón (1958) Directed by Benito Alzaraki. Mexico: Filmadora Chapultepec and Producciones Galindo Hermanos [Video: DVD]. Canoa (1976) Directed by Felipe Cazals. Mexico: Conacite Uno and STPC [Video: DVD]. Cananea (1977) Directed by Marcela Fernández Violante. Mexico: CONACINE [Video: DVD]. Como agua para chocolate (1992) Directed by Alfonso Arau. Mexico: Arau Films International, Aviacsa and Cinevista [Video: DVD]. Con los dorados de Villa (1939) Directed by Raúl de Anda. Mexico: Producciones Raúl de Anda [Video: DVD]. Corazón del tiempo (2009) Directed by Alberto Cortés. Mexico: IMCINE, Bataclán Cinematográfica and the Universidad de Guadalajara. Doña Bárbara (1943) Directed by Fernando de Fuentes and Miguel M. Delgado. Mexico: Clasa Films Mundiales and Producciones Grovas [Video: DVD]. Dos de octubre, aquí México (1968) Directed by Óscar Menéndez. Mexico: Cine independiente de Mexico [Video: VHS].

206

Filmography

El bulto (1992) Directed by Gabriel Retes. Mexico: Cooperativa Conexión SCL and Cooperativa Río Mixcoac [Video: VHS]. El callejón de los milagros (1995) Directed by Jorge Fons. Mexico: Alameda Films, CONACULTA and IMCINE [Video: VHS]. El compadre Mendoza (1933) Directed by Fernando de Fuentes. Mexico: Interamericana Films [Video: DVD]. El grito (1968) Directed by Leobardo López Aretche. Centro Universitario de Cinematografía [Video: DVD]. El infierno Directed by Luis Estrada. Mexico: Bandidos Films, CONACULTA, IMCINE, FOPROCINE and Comisión BI 100 [Video: DVD]. El peñón de las ánimas (1942) Directed by Miguel Zacarías. Mexico: Producciones Grovas [Video: DVD]. El principio (1972) Directed by Gonzalo Martínez Ortega. Mexico: Estudios Churubusco Azteca S.A. [Video: DVD]. El Prisonero 13 (1933) Directed by Fernando de Fuentes. Compañía Nacional Productora de Películas [Video: DVD]. El violín (2005) Directed by Francisco Vargas. Mexico: Camara Carnal, Centro de Capacitación Cinematográfica and FIDECINE [Video: DVD]. Emiliano Zapata (1970) Directed by Felipe Cazals. Mexico: Producciones Águila [Video: DVD].Enamorada (1946) Directed by Emilio Fernández. Mexico: Panamerican Films S.A. [Video: DVD]. Enemigos (1934) Directed by Chano Urueta. Mexico: Atlantida Films [Video: DVD]. Entre Pancho Villa y una mujer desnuda (1995) Directed by Sabina Berman and Isabelle Tardán. Mexico: Televicine S.A. de C.V. and Televisa S.A. de C.V. [Video: DVD]. Epopeyas de la Revolución (1961) Directed by Jesús H. Abitia and Gustavo Carrero. Mexico: Tlaloc Films [Video: DVD]. Flor silvestre (1943) Directed by Emilio Fernández. Mexico: Films Mundiales [Video: DVD]. Francisca, ¿De qué lado estás? (2002) Directed by Eva López Sánchez. Spain, Mexico and Germany: IMCINE, Odeon and Resonancia Madrid – Bias Postproduccion [Video: DVD]. Historia de un documento (1971) Directed by Óscar Menéndez. Mexico: Cine Independiente de México [Video: VHS]. Juana Gallo (1960) Directed by Miguel Zacarías Mexico: Producciones Zacarías S.A [Video: DVD]. Jueves de Corpus (1998) Directed by Marcos Almada. Mexico: Mexcinema Video Corp [Video: DVD]. La Bandida (1962) Directed by Roberto Rodríguez. Mexico: Películas Rodríguez [Video: DVD]. La Cucuracha (1958) Directed by Ismael Rodríguez. Mexico: Películas Rodríguez [Video: DVD].

Filmography

207

La formula secreta (1965) Directed by Rubén Gámez. Mexico: Salvador López and Estudios Churubusco S.A. [Video: VHS]. La Generala (1970) Directed by Juan Ibáñez. Mexico: CLASA Films Mundiales and Estudios Churubusco Azteca S.A [Video: DVD]. La ley de Herodes (1999) Directed by Luis Estrada. Mexico: Alta Vista Films, Bandido Films and IMCINE [Video: DVD]. La memoria obstinada (1997) Directed by Patricio Guzmán. Canada and France: La Sept-Arte, Les Films d’Ici and the National Film Board of Canada [Video: DVD]. La niña en la piedra (2006) Directed by Maryse Sistach. Mexico: Estudios Churubusco Azteca S.A., FONCA and FOPROCINE [Video: DVD]. La monja Alférez (1944) Directed by Emilio Gómez Muriel. Mexico: CLASA Films Mundiales [Video: DVD]. La mujer del puerto (1934) Directed by Arcady Boytler. Mexico: Eurindia Films [Video: DVD]. La soldadera (1966) Directed by José Bolaños. Mexico: Producciones Marte and Productora de Técnicos Cinematográficos del Sindicato de Trabajadores de la Producción Cinematográfica [Video: DVD]. La sombra del caudillo (1961) Directed by Julio Bracho. Mexico: STPC de la RM [Video: VHS]. Las fuerzas vivas (1975) Directed by Luis Alcoriza. Mexico: CONACINE and Unifilms [Video: DVD]. Las mujeres de mi general (1950) Directed by Ismael Rodríguez. Mexico: Producciones Rodríguez Hermanos [Video: DVD]. Los Caifanes (1967). Directed by Juan Ibáñez. Mexico: Cinematográfica Marte and Estudios América [Video: DVD]. Los rubios (2003) Directed by Albertina Carri. Argentina and USA: Primer Plano Film Group and Women Make Movies. Los últimos Zapatistas: héroes olvidados (2002) Directed by Francesco Taboada Tabone. Mexico: Fondo Estatal para la Cultura y las Artes de Morelos and Universidad Autónoma del Estado de Morelos [Video: DVD]. Marcos, Marcos . . . el mundo indígena, Rebelión en Chiapas (1994) Directed by Óscar Menéndez. Mexico: Óscar Menéndez Producciones [Video: DVD]. Memorias del subdesarrollo (1968) Directed by Tomás Gutiérrez Alea. Cuba: Cuban State Film and Instituto Cubano del Arte e Industrias Cinematográficos. Memorias de un mexicano (1950) Directed by Carmen Toscano and Salvador Toscano. Mexico: Fundación Carmen Toscano. Mentiras (2006) Directed by Nick Higgins. Mexico and UK: Lansdowne Productions [Video: DVD]. México, 68 (1992) Directed by Óscar Menéndez. Mexico: Centro Universitario de Estudios Cinematográficos [Video: VHS].

208

Filmography

México, la Revolución congelada (1973) Directed by Raymundo Gleyzer. Argentina [Video: DVD]. Nadie te oye: Perfume de violetas (2001) Directed by Maryse Sistach. Mexico: Centro de Capacitación Cinematográfica, CNCA, and Filmoteca de la UNAM [Video: DVD]. Olimpiada en México (1969) Directed by Albert Isaac. Mexico: Seccion de Cinematografia del Comite Organizador de los Juegos de la XIX Olimpiada [Video: VHS]. Operación Galeana (2000) Directed by Carlos Mendoza. Mexico: Canal 6 de Julio [Video: DVD]. Pancho Villa y la Valentina (1958) Ismael Rodríguez. Mexico: Películas Rodríguez [Video: DVD]. Queen Christina (1933) Directed by Rouben Mamoulian. USA: Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer [Video: DVD]. ¡Que viva México! (1979) Directed by Sergei M. Eisenstein. Soviet Union: Mosfilm [Video: DVD]. Remolino (1961) Directed by Gilberto Gazcón. Mexico: Cinematográfica Intercontinental [Video: DVD]. Reed, México insurgente (1970) Directed by Paul Leduc. Mexico: Ollín y asociados [Video: VHS]. Revolución (2010) Directed by Mariana Chenillo, Fernando Eimbcke, Amat Escalante, Gael García Bernal, Rodrigo García, Diego Luna, Gerardo Naranjo, Rodrigo Plá, Carlos Reygadas and Patricia Riggen. Mexico: Canana Films, IMCINE and Mantarraya Producciones [Video: DVD]. Revolución (La sombra de Pancho Villa) (1933) Directed by Miguel Contreras Torres. Mexico: Miguel Contreras Torres [Video: DVD]. Río escondido (1948) Directed by Emilio Fernández. Mexico: Producciones Raúl de Anda [Video: DVD]. Rojo amanecer (1989) Directed by Jorge Fons. Mexico: Cinematográfica Sol [Video: DVD]. Spider-Man 3 (2007) Directed by Sam Raimi. USA: Columbia Pictures, Marvel Studios and Laura Ziskin Productions. The Wild Bunch (1969) Directed by Sam Peckinpah. USA: Warner Bros/Seven Arts [Video: DVD]. Tlatelolco, las claves de la masacre (2002) Directed by Carlos Mendoza. Mexico: Canal 6 de Julio and La Jornada [Video: DVD]. ¡Vámonos con Pancho Villa! (1936) Directed by Fernando de Fuentes. Mexico: CLASA [Video: DVD]. Viva Zapata! (1952) Directed by Elia Kazan. USA: Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation [Video: DVD]. ¿Y si platicamos de agosto? (1981) Directed by Maryse Sistach. Mexico: Centro de Capacitación Cinematográfica [Video: DVD].

Filmography

209

Y tú mamá también (2001) Directed by Alfonso Cuarón. Mexico: Anhelo Producciones, Bésame Mucho Producciones and Producciones Anhelo [Video: DVD]. Zapatista (1999) Directed by Benjamin Eichert, Rick Rowley and Staale Sandberg. USA: Big Noise Films [Video: DVD]. Zapata: amor en rebeldía (2004) Directed by Walter Doehner. Mexico and USA: Argos Television [Video: DVD]. Zapatista: crónica de una rebelión (2007) Directed by Victor Mariña and Mario Viveros. Mexico: Canal 6 de Julio [Video: DVD]. Zapata: el sueño del héroe (2004) Directed by Alfonso Arau. Mexico: Latin Arts LLC, Comala Films and Rita Rusic Co [Video: DVD].

Index Aguilar, Luis  56, 137 Alva, Los hermanos  36 Anderson, Benedict  2, 26 Armendáriz, Pedro  24, 28, 61, 66 article 27  36, 134 Ayala Blanco, Jorge  28–30, 76, 78, 170 banal nationalism  2, 119, 176 Banco cinematográfico  74 Bartra, Roger  11, 13 Benjamin, Thomas  3–4, 11, 13–14 bicentenary  182–3 Billig, Michael  2, 119, 176 Bracho, Carlos  87, 91 Bracho, Diana  169 Bracho, Julio  32, 35, 73, 93, 98 caberateras  26 Calles, Plutarco E.  95 Cárdenas, Lázaro  21 Carranza, Venustiano  79, 134 centenary  12, 15, 179, 181–2 Chávez, Óscar  106, 109, 111 Chion, Michel  54–5 comedia ranchera  26, 28 corridor  24–5, 39, 60–7, 69, 89, 111, 171 Cristero rebellion  14 Cuarón, Alfonso  37, 126, 183 del Río, Dolores  28, 44–8 del Toro, Guillermo  37, 175 Díaz, Porfirio  4, 17, 91, 136, 140, 142 Diaz Ordaz, Gustavo  104, 109–10, 118–20 Draper, Jack  25 Echeverría, Luis  10 Echeverría, Rodolfo  74 Eisenstein, Sergio M.  25–6, 71, 90 Estrada, Luis  99, 181, 183 Fernández, Emilio  7, 12, 25, 28, 41, 48, 54–5, 61, 69, 90, 93

Figueroa, Gabriel  7, 25, 41, 47, 54, 80–1, 90–3 Flores Magón, Ricardo  73, 90, 93 Gámez, Ruben  110 García Riera, Emilio  16, 19, 26–8, 39, 45, 49–51, 59, 76–7, 86, 137 Giddens, Anthony  2, 16 Golden Age  7, 16, 27, 36, 41, 102, 107, 115, 168 González Iñarritú, Alejandro  37, 127 Guzmán, Martin Luis  83, 94–7, 137 Hedges, Chris  2, 4 Holloway, John  13, 146 Hollywood  9, 26, 31–2, 41, 44–5, 73, 100, 103, 107, 136, 143, 148, 154, 168, 180, 187 Huerta, Victoriano  19, 88, 142, 177 Infante, Pedro  23 Juárez, Benito  11 La Adelita  25, 61, 69, 89 La Valentina  24 Lara, Agustín  43, 178 López Portillo, Margarita  14 Los Halcones  5, 121, 123 Madero, Francisco I.  61, 64 Marín Gloria  44–5 Marqués, María Elena  44–5 Mistral, Jorge  55 Monsiváis, Carlos  16, 26, 30, 39, 44, 81, 97, 129 Mraz, John  4, 7, 11, 13, 19–20, 24 Negrete, Jorge  43 North American Free Trade Agreement, NAFTA  16, 36, 122, 132, 168–9 Novelas de la Revolución  4

212 Nuevo cine  19, 21–2, 25, 28, 35, 75–6, 99, 140, 186 O’Malley, Irene V.  4, 11, 13, 21–2, 73, 136–7, 139, 144 Obregón, Álvaro  80, 95 Orozco, José Clemente  20 Palma, Andrea  45 Partido Acción Nacional, PAN  127, 179, 181, 185 Partido Revolucionario Institucional, PRI  3–5, 15–16, 33, 47, 59, 75, 92, 101, 113, 127, 161, 179, 181, 185 Paz, Octavio  11 Peckinpah, Sam  33, 86, 99, 102 Pick, Zuzana M.  11–12, 14, 17, 25, 41, 79, 83, 101 Poniatowska, Elena  45, 84, 129, 132, 147

Index Salinas de Gotari, Carlos  36, 134, 151, 157, 169 soldadera  23–4, 48–50, 52, 55, 61, 66, 71–2, 85 Sontag, Susan  77, 86, 113 Toscano, Carmen and Toscano, Salvador  17–18, 36, 77, 169 transnationalism, transnational film  6, 10, 12–13, 15, 32–3, 36–8, 103, 112, 124, 132–3, 148–9, 153, 158, 162–4, 167, 171–2, 180, 185, 187 Villa, Francisco  5–7, 11–12, 18–25, 32, 36, 39, 46–7, 59, 79–83, 87, 93, 95, 97–8, 132–7, 139, 143, 169–71, 185 Virilio, Paul  9, 86, 165 Zedillo, Ernesto  36, 157–8, 160 Zepeda, Heraclio  83