Revolution and Rebellion in Mexican Film-Bloomsbury Academic (2013)

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 50 Bedford Square

New York London
NY 10018 WC1B 3DP
USA UK
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
Typeset by Newgen Imaging Systems Pvt Ltd, Chennai, India

Contents
Acknowledgements vi
Introduction 1
1 War Stories on Film: Chaos, Confusion and Creativity 17
2 A Woman at War: María Félix 41
3 Revisiting the Revolution: Mexico’s Independents
Challenge Conventions 71
4 Mexico 1968 on Film: Screening State Violence 103
5 Zapata and the (Neo)Zapatistas: Indigenous Heroes and
Online Warriors 131
6 Romance, History and Violence: The 1990s and 2000s 167
Conclusion 185
Bibliography 191
Filmography 205
Index 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
Acknowledgements vii
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.
2 Revolution and Rebellion in Mexican Film
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.Â€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 psychologicalÂ€ – the affiliation of
individuals to a set of symbols and beliefs emphasizing commonality among
the members of a political order’ (1985, p.Â€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.Â€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.Â€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
Introduction 3
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.Â€14). On the one hand, there is this ever-
changing ‘official’ versionÂ€ – 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
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.Â€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. [.Â€.Â€.] Wars that lose their mythic stature for the public .Â€.Â€.
are doomed to failure, for war is exposed for what it isÂ€– organized murder.
(Hedges, 2002, p.Â€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 ever-
evolving 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.Â€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.Â€ 14). The first narratives, novelas de la
revolución [Revolutionary novels], written immediately after the Revolution
Introduction 5
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
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 textsÂ€– as they are
Introduction 7
generally understoodÂ€ – 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
ChapterÂ€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 ChapterÂ€2, however
conventional and generic, are more radical than they have been credited to be.
ChapterÂ€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)Â€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.Â€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 ChapterÂ€2. These films have often been dismissed as shallow
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 ChapterÂ€ 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 ChapterÂ€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. ChapterÂ€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
alternaÂ€ – elementos constitutivos del cine independiente del momentoÂ€ – no
podría comprenderse a plenitud sin la inclusión de esa vivencia excepcional.
Introduction 9
[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 distributionÂ€ – constituent elements of independent
cinema of the timeÂ€– couldn’t be fully understood without the inclusion of this
exceptional experience]. (2007, p.Â€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 ChapterÂ€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.Â€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
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.Â€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 ChapterÂ€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.Â€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.Â€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 ChapterÂ€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 present-
day 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 ChapterÂ€5.
Introduction 11
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)Â€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 ChapterÂ€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.Â€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.Â€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.Â€12) whose primary
value is as a tourist attraction.4 Instead, they are actors, demanding a place on
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 ChapterÂ€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 hundredsÂ€ – some estimates
suggest more than 250Â€– these recent studies are the foundational texts of an area
that merits further research (Vazquez Mantecón 2010, p.Â€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
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.Â€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.Â€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.Â€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 70Â€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
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.Â€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.Â€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.Â€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.Â€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.Â€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)Â€and Epopeyas de la Revolución [Epic of the Revolution] (Jesús H. Abitia
and Gustavo Carrero, 1961)Â€(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
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.Â€ 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)Â€was the first sound feature
to be made on the topic and was a commercial flop on its release. In the 1960s
War Stories on Film: Chaos, Confusion and Creativity 19
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.Â€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.Â€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 prisioneroÂ€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.Â€ 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.Â€98). Darker than many of the films that would
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.Â€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.
¡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.Â€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.Â€10)
While the novel was a bestseller for the reasons Parra suggests, the film was
a commercial failure (O’Malley, 1986, p.Â€ 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.Â€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.Â€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,
impersonal Villa who looked and acted like a professional officer from the
National Military Academy. (1986, p.Â€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.Â€ 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
ChapterÂ€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.Â€ 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.Â€4)
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.Â€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.Â€ 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
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 ChapterÂ€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.Â€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
‘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.Â€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 ChapterÂ€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.Â€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.
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)Â€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.Â€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 indigenismÂ€ – which echoed the official state narrativeÂ€ – 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.Â€ 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
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.Â€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.Â€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.Â€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
version of the Revolution became a conformist spread of the big stars of Mexican
cinema] (1994, p.Â€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.Â€98–9; García Riera, 1994, p.Â€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.Â€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.Â€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.Â€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.Â€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 like-
minded 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
critically acute idiom’ (Noble, 2005, p.Â€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.Â€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.Â€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.Â€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.Â€ 84). In the later Juana Gallo ‘cabalgaba como amazona volviéndose
leyenda’ [rode like an Amazon to become a legend] (Ayala Blanco, 1974,
p.Â€ 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
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.Â€84–5). He labels these films as
‘las cucurachas’ (1974, p.Â€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.Â€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.Â€ 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 ChapterÂ€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 <<cine de la Revolución mexicana>> 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.Â€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.
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 ChapterÂ€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
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.Â€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.Â€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.Â€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
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 ChapterÂ€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
etÂ€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 ChapterÂ€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.Â€ 9), with the governing party taking a very
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.Â€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.
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)Â€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.Â€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.Â€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.Â€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,
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
ChapterÂ€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)Â€and
Emiliano Zapata (Felipe Cazals, 1970)Â€(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 ChapterÂ€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 part-
financed 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
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 ChapterÂ€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, ChaptersÂ€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. ChapterÂ€4 deals with
some of these issues in relation to a selection of the documentaries which were
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.Â€ 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.
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.Â€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.Â€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.Â€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)Â€ 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.Â€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
Gallo (Miguel Zacarías, 1960), La Bandida [The Bandit] (Roberto Rodríguez,

1962)Â€and Café Colón (Benito Alzaraki, 1958), I shall consider the radical code-
switching 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.Â€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 off-
screen 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,
A Woman at War: María Félix 43
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.Â€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.Â€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.Â€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
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.Â€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.Â€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.
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.Â€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.Â€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.Â€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.
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 careerÂ€ – as was the case with the other actors
listedÂ€– 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.Â€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 anti-
revolutionary 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.Â€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.
[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.Â€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)Â€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
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.Â€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.Â€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.Â€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
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.Â€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.
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.Â€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.Â€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
is significant as here La Cucaracha/Félix disrupts the ‘active/male and passive/

female’ binary that Laura Mulvey has written about (1992, p.Â€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.Â€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.Â€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
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
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.Â€ 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 cross-
dresses 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
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.Â€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 post-
Revolution era’ (2007, p.Â€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,
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.Â€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.Â€185). Again, this is another critic eager to dismiss Félix’s performances
as merely disposable populism. As discussed in ChapterÂ€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.
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 self-
defeating. 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
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 off-
screen 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 tomboyÂ€ – one of the few rites
of passage stories available to women in the cinemaÂ€– is a narrative about the
forging of the proper female identity’ (Creed, 1995, p.Â€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.Â€ 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,
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.Â€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.Â€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.
[The film that you made was dirty. I never drank and I didn’t dance with the
soldiers. I was a general, madam. What’s more, I never smoked cigars. Now,
people don’t respect me because of that film full of lies]. (Taibo I, 1969–78,
p.Â€404)
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,
‘[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.Â€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.Â€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.Â€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)Â€ 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.
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.Â€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.Â€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.
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 1912Â€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.
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.Â€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.Â€410)
For Taibo I, the film turns the Revolution into ‘un siniestro juego de borrachos,
asesinos y prostitutas’ (2004, p.Â€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.Â€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
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.Â€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
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.Â€ 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 cross-
dressing. 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
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
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.Â€ 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.Â€ 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, ‘cross-
dressing 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.Â€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.Â€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.Â€ 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 1960s-
style 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
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)Â€and El callejón de los
milagros (Jorge Fons, 1995)Â€are three that fit within this genre.
3
Revisiting the Revolution: Mexico’s

Independents Challenge Conventions
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.Â€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
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 ChapterÂ€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
Revisiting the Revolution: Mexico’s Independents Challenge Conventions 73
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)Â€ set in a fictionalized, yet identifiable, post-
Revolutionary, 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)Â€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 ChapterÂ€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.Â€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
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.Â€ 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 ChapterÂ€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.Â€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
film industry, and began to concentrate on improving the distribution and

exhibition of Mexican films. (quoted in Treviño, 1979, p.Â€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 film-
making’ (Treviño, 1979, p.Â€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.Â€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.Â€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
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.Â€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.Â€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.Â€ 15). He is also credited on the radical student
documentary El grito (Leobardo López Aretche, 1968)Â€(examined in ChapterÂ€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.Â€ 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.Â€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
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.Â€ 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.Â€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.Â€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
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.Â€49)
Leduc’s remarks are a deliberate swipe at the high cost biopic Emiliano Zapata
(Felipe Cazals, 1970, considered in ChapterÂ€ 5), but also those earlier films
considered in ChapterÂ€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.Â€ 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
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.Â€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
actions and gestures project a sense of spontaneity’ (2010, pp.Â€ 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.Â€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.Â€16–19).
In contrast, in Reed, México insurgente, the camera follows the action at ground
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.Â€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.Â€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.Â€119). Using
a largely static camera Leduc conveys the chaos of war rather than showing it
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 ChapterÂ€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.
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.Â€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.Â€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)Â€[Pancho Villa]
and Pancho Villa y La Valentina (Ismael Rodríguez, 1960)Â€ [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.Â€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
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.Â€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.Â€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)Â€ is another film which
suggests that randomness was integral to the Revolution. That is where the
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
‘indifferent and threatening at the same time’, as Alcoriza defined them to Pérez
Turrent]. (García Riera, 1995b, p.Â€126)
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.Â€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.Â€104). In US cinema, Peckinpah’s influential films are the manifestation
of what has been called ‘brutality cinema’ (2005, p.Â€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,
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
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.Â€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.Â€55). Rape, or the threat of rape, is a constant in these films.
However, it is usually a function of the heroÂ€– husband or suitorÂ€– 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
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.Â€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 ChapterÂ€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
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, yetÂ€ 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.Â€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.Â€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
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 4Â€years and 5Â€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
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
have more faith in the artist’s conception than in the historian’s’ (Burton, 1986,
pp.Â€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)Â€ 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 30Â€years it is in a curious position, chronologically, in relation to the
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.Â€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.Â€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.Â€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.Â€ 187). Both
the novel and film recount the events surrounding the succession to General
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 shadowsÂ€ – 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.Â€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.Â€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
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
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.Â€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.Â€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.Â€ 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 8Â€years
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.Â€ 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.Â€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.Â€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 post-
Revolutionary period in Mexico’ (1995, p.Â€177). Little had changed in 40Â€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.Â€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
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 post-
Revolutionary 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.Â€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,
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.Â€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.Â€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
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.Â€4). Another said of him, ‘he went his way blithely, surely, reckless of safety,
reputation, comfort, possessions’ (Robert Hallowell in Rosenstone, 1990, p.Â€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.Â€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.
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.Â€196–7).
8 Marsha Kinder described Peckinpah as the ‘filmmaker who came to epitomize
American excess in cinematic violence’ (Kinder, 2001, p.Â€64) and, for Slocum, the
1960s and 1970s were the ‘golden age of American Film violence’ (2001, p.Â€7).
4
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,
10Â€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
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.Â€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.Â€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,
Mexico 1968 on Film: Screening State Violence 105
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)Â€(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 10Â€ 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
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)Â€ 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,
p.Â€38). Many among this generation created the films analysed in ChapterÂ€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.Â€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.Â€203)
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.Â€28) and ‘to develop the means for grasping history as process, change,
contradiction and conflict: in short the dialectics of history’ (Wayne, 2001,
p.Â€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 ChapterÂ€5, there cannot be assumed to be a
straightforward relationship between document and documentary (Rosen,
2001, p.Â€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.Â€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.Â€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 already-
mediatized nature of the reality of poverty and violence; or in critique of the
illusions of modernity. (2009, pp.Â€12–13)
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.Â€ 27; Vázquez Mantecón, 2007, p.Â€ 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.Â€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
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)Â€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).
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.Â€ 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.Â€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 ChapterÂ€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 33Â€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.
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,
[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.Â€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.Â€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
political organizations as an underground film, much like the later Batalla en

Chile [Battle of Chile] (Patricio Guzmán, 1975)Â€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
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.Â€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-classÂ€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.
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 ChapterÂ€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.Â€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.Â€ 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)Â€ 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.Â€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
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.Â€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.Â€ 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.Â€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.Â€218)
He also criticizes the violence as ‘sensationalist and exaggerated’ and some of the
dialogue as ‘not altogether convincing’ (Maciel, 1999, p.Â€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
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
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.Â€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.Â€6)
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
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.Â€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.Â€ 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
20Â€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.
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.Â€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.Â€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
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.Â€5).
Yet, genre films attract audiences because of the familiarity of their ‘common
elements’ (Grant, 2007, p.Â€ 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
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
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.
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.Â€ 26). Films such as Y tu
mamá también (Alfonso Cuarón, 2001)Â€‘conceive(s) of provincia as the obliging
fulfilment of Mexico City residents’ desires’ (Hind, 2004, p.Â€ 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
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 70Â€ 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
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.Â€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,
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.Â€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
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.
5
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.Â€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.Â€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
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.Â€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 anti-
globalization 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
Zapata and the Zapatistas: Indigenous Heroes and Online Warriors 133
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
estatesÂ€ – a move which would be imitated 70Â€ years later by the EZLNÂ€ – 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
allocated land’ (Mason Hart, 2000, p.Â€ 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 ZapataÂ€ – to the extent that he named his son Emiliano and his
government jet ZapataÂ€– was behind the reform of article 27 of the constitution
in 1992, which effectively ended historical land rights for the indigenous (Collier,
1999, pp.Â€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.Â€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.Â€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
previous 70Â€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.Â€ 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.Â€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.Â€22). In order to negotiate this non-
linear 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.Â€ 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
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.Â€46). It appears that Kazan had adopted this characterization
which suggests that Zapata was reactive, rather than being someone who had a
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.Â€62) and contrasts with the real
Zapata that O’Malley portrays who fathered nine children, ‘when drunk he could
be sexually aggressive’ (1986, p.Â€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.Â€47). As discussed in ChapterÂ€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.Â€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 5Â€million pesos to
15, thus making it the most expensive Mexican film up to that point (see García
Riera, 1994g, p.Â€24).
As befits the time in which it was made, examined in ChapterÂ€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
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-to-
nature idealism in the scriptwriter and director’s decision to have him return to
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.Â€616).
The violence in this film is more explicit, similar to those considered in
ChapterÂ€ 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
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 70Â€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.Â€ 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 $10Â€million, it
was the most expensive film made in Mexico to date. It was written and directed
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.Â€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
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.Â€ 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
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.Â€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 ChapterÂ€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
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.Â€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
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-maidensÂ€ – computers
to process it, multimedia to spread it, systems to represent it) has become the
central sign of postmodernity. (1997, p.Â€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 12Â€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.Â€ 208). For John
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.Â€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.Â€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.Â€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.Â€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
strictures of conventional media) and one which no one expected a guerrilla

army to employ (Le Bot, 1997, p.Â€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.Â€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
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.Â€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.
[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.Â€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
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.Â€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.Â€ 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
(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.
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 self-
evident 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.
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 etÂ€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.
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 video-
style 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
‘jump cuts, rapid and “ungrammatical” cutting’, which follow MTV style editing
(2000, p.Â€ 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
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 well-
informed 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.
Zapatista: crónica de una rebelión (Victor Mariña and Mario Viveros, 2007)Â€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 ChapterÂ€ 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
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
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)Â€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.Â€169–71; Womack Jr, 1999, p.Â€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
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
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.Â€ 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
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.Â€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 anti-
globalization movement, and A Massacre Foretold, a more subtle and poetic film,
reflects the changing contexts and aims of non-Mexican filmmakers.
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.Â€ 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.)
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
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.Â€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.Â€ 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.Â€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.Â€5).
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.Â€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.Â€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.
6
Romance, History and Violence:

The 1990s and 2000s
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)Â€ 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.Â€186–7). Made
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.Â€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.Â€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.Â€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 ChapterÂ€5. Ultimately,
Romance, History and Violence: The 1990s and 2000s 169
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.Â€36).
Villa’s soldiers may have appeared as mere ‘bandits’ (Shaw, 2003, p.Â€ 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 ChapterÂ€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
maquiladoraÂ€ – factories for the mass production of cheap goods for export
which proliferated after NAFTAÂ€– is a symbol of a powerful woman, financially
secure and ready to exploit others for her own personal gain. Meanwhile,
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 made-
for-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 ChapterÂ€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
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-middleclass-
intellectual-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 ChapterÂ€5. There
are stylistic techniques which draw attention to the constructedness of the filmÂ€–
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 ChapterÂ€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.Â€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.
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.Â€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.Â€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.Â€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 capturedÂ€– including the death of a manÂ€–
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 ChapterÂ€ 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 ChapterÂ€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.
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.Â€10) [I believe that they got to the truth with
the film because they remind us of what happens in our country]. The implicit
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 ChapterÂ€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 ChapterÂ€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
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)Â€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.Â€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.Â€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.Â€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
critiqueÂ€– albeit hidden behind non-specifics of time and locationÂ€– 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.Â€4). Citing plot details such as
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
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 Spanish-
Latin 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.Â€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.Â€ 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.Â€86). Again, this points towards an idea of the authentic that
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.Â€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
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.Â€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 pay-
per-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
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.).
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 70Â€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 MexicoÂ€– which Luna
alludes to in his interview with the BBCÂ€– 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.
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
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
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 ChapterÂ€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.Â€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 ChapterÂ€ 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
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 ChapterÂ€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. ChapterÂ€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 ChapterÂ€4, the documentaries
and feature films that have attempted to represent this period have had mixed
Conclusion 187
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. ChapterÂ€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 ChapterÂ€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.
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 ChapterÂ€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
Conclusion 189
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.
Bibliography
Anderson, B. (1983), Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of

Nationalism. London: Verso.
—(1996), ‘Introduction’, in Gopal Balakrishnan (ed.), Mapping the Nation. London &
New York: Verso.
Anonymous (n.d.), ‘El bulto’ in Películas del cine mexicano, http://cinemexicano.mty.
itesm.mx/peliculas/bulto.html, last accessed October 2008.
Anonymous (2010), ‘Gael García y Diego Luna encabezan la “Revolución” de
directores mexicanos’, Informador, 3 February, www.informador.com.mx/
entretenimiento/2010/176009/6/gael-garcia-y-diego-luna-encabezan-la-revolucion-
de-directores-mexicanos.htm, last accessed 24 May 2011.
Arquilla, J. and Ronfeldt, D. (1993), ‘Cyberwar is Coming!’, Comparative Strategy, 12(2),
Spring, 141–65. Available at: www.rand.org/pubs/monograph_reports/MR880/
MR880.ch2.pdf, last accessed 15 July 2010.
Arredondo, I. (2001), Palabra de mujer: Historia oral de las directoras de cine mexicanas
(1988–1994). Madrid: Iberoamericana.
Ayala Blanco, J. (1996), ‘Berman-Tardán y la feminidad prendida’, Cinelunesexquisito,
22 April, n.p.
—(1974), La búsqueda del cine mexicano (1968–1972) tomo 1. Mexico City: UNAM.
—(1988), La ‘apertura’ cinematográfica México: 1970–1976. Puebla: Paola Costa
Universidad Autónoma de Puebla.
—(1994), La eficacia del cine mexicano: entre lo Viejo y lo nuevo. Mexico City: Grijalbo.
—(2004), La grandeza del cine mexicano. Mexico City: Oceano.
—(2006), La herética del cine mexicano. Mexico City: Oceano.
Bailey, D. C. (1974), ¡Viva Cristo Rey!: The Cristero Rebellion and the Church and State
Conflict in Mexico. Austin: University of Texas Press.
Ballvé, T. (2006), ‘A Day in the Life of The Other Campaign’, NACLA: Report on the
Americas, 39, 4–7.
Bartra, E. (1999), ‘Faldas y pantalones: La mujer y el cine de Revolución mexicana’,
Film-Historia, IX(2), 169–80.
Bartra, R. (2002), Blood, Ink and, Culture: Miseries and Splendours of the Post-Mexican
Condition. Translated by M. A. Healey. Durham & London: Duke University Press.
Basinger, J. (1993), A Woman’s View: How Hollywood Spoke to Women 1930–1960.
London: Chatto & Windus.
Bauman, Z. (2001), The Individualized Society. Cambridge: Polity Press.
Benjamin, T. (2000), La Revolución: Mexico’s Great Revolution as Memory, Myth and
History. Austin: University of Texas Press.
192 Bibliography
Bellinghausen, H. (2007a), ‘En los términos de su dignidad cinematográfica’, La

Jornada, 22 March, 8.
—(2007b), ‘Notas para El violín’, La Jornada, 18 June, 4.
Billig, M. (1995), Banal Nationalism. London: Sage.
Biskind, P. (1975), ‘The Politics of Power in “On the Waterfront”’, Film Quarterly,
Autumn, 29(1), 25–38.
Bolter, J. D. and Grusin, R. (2000), Remediation: Understanding New Media. Cambridge,
Massachusetts and London: The MIT Press.
Bonfil Batalla, G. (1996), México Profundo: Reclaiming a Civilization. Austin: University
of Texas Press.
Bonfil, C. (2006), ‘El violín’, La Jornada, 31 December, 7.
—(2007), ‘El violín y la carreta’, La Jornada, 29 April, 9.
Brewster, C. (2005), Responding to Crisis in Contemporary Mexico: The Political
Writings of Paz, Fuentes, Monsiváis, and Poniatowska. Tucson: University of
Arizona Press.
Brewster, K. (2010), Reflections on Mexico ’68. Malden, MA and Oxford: Wiley and
Blackwell.
Burton, J. ed. (1986), Cinema and Social Change in Latin America: Conversations with
Filmmakers. Austin: University of Texas Press.
Butler, J. G. (1991), Star Texts: Image and Performance in Film and Television. Detroit:
Wayne State University Press.
Butler, J. (2004), Undoing Gender. New York and London: Routledge.
Calderón, L. (2007), ‘Se mantiene en taquilla’, Excelsior, 9 May, 13.
Carrasco Araizaga, J. (2007), ‘El otro cine’, Proceso, 1 January, 42.
Carreño, D. (2007), ‘Temen censura del ejército’, Reforma, 27 April, 18.
Carroll, N. (1998), ‘The Professional Western: South of the Border’, in E. Buscombe and
R. E. Pearson (eds), Back in the Saddle Again: New Essays on the Western. London:
BFI, pp.Â€46–62.
Cervantes, C. (2009), ‘Characters and Conflict: Dramatic Structure in Three Mexican
Documentaries’, in M. Haddu and J. Page (eds), Visual Synergies in Fiction and
Documentary Film Latin America. New York & Hampshire: Palgrave Macmillan,
pp.Â€151–62.
Chanan, M. (2007), The Politics of Documentary. London: BFI.
Chion, M. (1999), The Voice in Cinema. Translated by C. Gorbman. New York:
Colombia University Press.
Chow, R. (2007), Sentimental Fabulations: Contemporary Chinese Films. New York &
Chichester: Colombia University Press.
Cine Club INBA Ciclo. (1985), La Revolución mexicana. Mexico City: Instituto
Nacional de Bellas Artes Mexico.
Collier, G. A. (1999), ‘Preface’, in G. A. Collier with E. Lowery Quaratiello (eds), Basta!
Land and the Zapatista Rebellion in Chiapas. Oakland, CA: Food First Books.
Bibliography 193
Corner, J. (1986), ‘Preface’, in John Corner (ed.), Documentary and the Mass Media.
London: Edward Arnold.
— (1996), The Art of Record: A Critical Introduction to Documentary. Manchester &
New York: Manchester University Press.
Corona, I. (2010), ‘Emiliano Zapata y el fluctuante archive de la imagen: del héroe
trágico a la nostalgia neoliberal’, in F. Fabio Sánchez and G. García Muñoz (eds), La
luz y la guerra: el cine de la Revolución mexicana. Mexico City: CONACULTA.
Coronado, G. and Hodge, B. (2004), El hipertexto multicultural en México posmoderno:
paradojas e incertidumbres. Mexico City: Porrua editorial.
Creed, B. (1995), ‘Lesbian Bodies: Tribades, Tomboys and Tarts’, in E. Grosz and
E. Probyn (eds), Sexy Bodies: The Strange Carnalities of Feminism. NewYork &
London: Routledge.
Davalos, P. E. (1990), ‘â•›“Rojo Amanecer” venció a la censura fílmica en 1990’, Proceso,
30 December, n.p.
de la Garza, A. (2011), ‘Nicolas Felizola’s Enamorada 2009 Collection’, paper presented
at the ‘Film and Fashion: Unlocking the Synergies’ Symposium, that took place at
Ningbo Fashion Fair 22 October 2011.
de la Mora, S. (2006), Cinemachismo: Masculinities and Sexuality in Mexican Film.
Austin: University of Texas Press.
de la Vega Alfaro, E. (1995), ‘Origins, Development and Crisis of the Sound Cinema
(1929–64)’, in P. A. Paranagua (ed.), Mexican Cinema. Translated by A. M. López.
London & Mexico: British Film Institute/IMCINE.
— (1999), ‘The Decline of the Golden Age and the Making of the Crisis’, in J. Hershfield
and D. R. Maciel (eds), Mexico’s Cinema: A Century of Film and Filmmakers.
Wilmington, Delaware: SR Books.
de los Reyes, A. (1987), Medio siglo del cine mexicano (1896–1947). Mexico: Editorial
Trillas.
— (1996), Cine y sociedad en México, 1896–1930: Vivir de los sueños, Volume 1 1896–1920.
Mexico: UNAM.
de los Reyes, I. (2010), ‘La revolución mexicana desde el ojo paternal de Diego Luna’,
BBC mundo, www.bbc.co.uk/mundo/noticias/2010/11/101119_revolucion_
mexicana_pelicula.shtml, last accessed 24 May 2011.
de Luna, A. (1984), La batalla y su sombra (La Revolución en el cine mexicano). Mexico:
Universidad Autónoma Metropolitana-Xochimilco.
— (1995), ‘The Labyrinths of History’, in P. A. Paranagua (ed.), Mexican Cinema.
Translated by A. M. López. London & Mexico: British Film Institute/IMCINE.
de Orellana, M. (2003), El cine norteamericano de la revolución (1911–1917). Madrid:
Biblioteca nueva.
Dever, S. (2003), Celluloid Nationalism and Other Melodramas: From Post-Revolutionary
Mexico to Fin de siglo Mexamérica. Albany, New York: State University of New York
Press.
194 Bibliography
Domínguez Ruvalcaba, H. (2010), ‘Remitidos al silencio: los filmes censurados de la

Revolución y La sombra del caudillo de Julio Bracho’, in F. Fabio Sánchez and
G. García Muñoz (eds), La luz y la guerra: el cine de la Revolución mexicana. Mexico
City: CONACULTA.
Doyle, K. (2003), ‘The Tlatelolco Massacre: U.S. Documents on Mexico and the Events
of 1968’, National Security Archive. www.gwu.edu/~nsarchiv/NSAEBB/NSAEBB99/,
last accessed 8 June 2011.
Doyle, K. and Zavala, S. (2008), ‘2 DE OCTUBRE DE 1968Â€– Verdad Bajo Resguardo’,
www.gwu.edu/~nsarchiv/NSAEBB/NSAEBB258/index.htm, last accessed
10 September 2009.
Dyer, R. (2004), Heavenly Bodies: Film Stars and Society. London: Routledge.
Doremus, A. T. (2001), Culture, Politics, and National Identity in Mexican Literature and
Film, 1929–1952. New York & Bern: Peter Lang.
Ellis, C. (2010), ‘Gael García Bernal and Diefo Luna Stage Their Own Revolution’, The
Huffington Post, November 17, www.huffingtonpost.com/cynthia-ellis/diego-luna-
and-gael-garcI_b_784008.html, last accessed 24 May 2011.
Ezra, E. and Rowden, T. (2006), Transnacional Cinema: The Film Reader. London &
New York: Routledge.
Fabio Sánchez, F. and García Muñoz, G., eds (2010a), La luz y la guerra: el cine de la
Revolución mexicana. Mexico City: CONACULTA.
— (2010b), ‘Más antiguo que su patria: Pancho Villa, el (anti)héroe revolucionario de la
cinematografía nacional’, in F. Fabio Sánchez and G. García Muñoz (eds), La luz y la
guerra: el cine de la Revolución mexicana. Mexico City: CONACULTA.
Félix, M. (2000), María Félix: Una raya en el agua. Mexico City: Sanborns.
— (2003), Todas mis guerras. Barcelona and Mexico City: Debolsillo.
Figueroa, G. (2005), Memorias. Mexico City: Pértiga.
Finnegan, N. (1999), ‘At Boiling Point: Like Water for Chocolate and the Boundaries of
Mexican Identity’, Bulletin of Latin American Research, 18(3), 311–26.
— (2007), Ambivalence, Modernity, Power: Women and Writing in Mexico Since 1980.
Oxford & Bern: Peter Lang.
Garber, M. (1992), Vested Interests: Cross-Dressing and Cultural Anxiety. London & New
York: Penguin Books.
García, G. (1979), ‘Cine y revolución en los setentas’, Filmoteca 1: el cine y la revolución
mexicana, 1, November, 110–17.
García, G. and Aviña, R. (1997), Época de oro del cine mexicano. Mexico: Clío.
García, M. G. (1996), ‘Entre Villa y una Mujer Desnuda’, Sol de México, 29 April.
García Riera, E. (1992a), Historia documental del cine mexicano. Vol. 1, 1929–39.
Guadalajara: Universidad de Guadalajara.
— (1992b), Historia documental del cine mexicano. Vol. 2, 1938–42. Guadalajara:
Universidad de Guadalajara.
Bibliography 195
— (1992c), Historia documental del cine mexicano. Vol. 3, 1943–5. Guadalajara:

— (1993a), Historia documental del cine mexicano. Vol 4, 1946–8. Guadalajara:
— (1993b), Historia documental del cine mexicano. Vol 5, 1949–50. Guadalajara:
— (1993c), Historia documental del cine mexicano. Vol 6, 1951–2. Guadalajara:
— (1993d), Historia documental del cine mexicano. Vol 7, 1953–4. Guadalajara:
— (1993e), Historia documental del cine mexicano. Vol 8, 1955–6. Guadalajara:
— (1994c), Historia documental del cine mexicano. Vol 11, 1961–3. Guadalajara:
— (1994d), Historia documental del cine mexicano. Vol 12, 1964–5. Guadalajara:
— (1994e), Historia documental del cine mexicano. Vol 13, 1966–7. Guadalajara:
— (1994f), Historia documental del cine mexicano. Vol 14, 1968–9. Guadalajara:
— (1994g), Historia documental del cine mexicano. Vol 15, 1970–1. Guadalajara:
— (1985), ‘De una entrevista a Emilio García Riera’, Cine Club INBA Ciclo La
Revolución mexicana. Mexico City: Instituto Nacional de Bellas Artes.
— (1995), ‘The Impact of Rancho Grande’, in P. A. Paranaguá (ed.), Mexican Cinema.
Translated by A. M. López. Mexico City & London: BFI/IMCINE.
García Tsao, L. (1996), ‘¡Amachémonos con Pancho Villa!’, La Jornada, 17 May, n.p.
— (1995), ‘One GenerationÂ€– Four Film-makers: Cazals, Hermosillo, Leduc and
Ripstein,’ in P. A. Paranaguá (ed.), Mexican Cinema. Translated by A. M. López.
Mexico City & London: BFI/IMCINE.
Garza Iturbide, R. and Lara Chávez, H., eds (2010), Cine y Revolución: La Revolución
Mexicana vista a través del cine. México: Instituto Mexicano de Cinematografía/
Cineteca nacional.
196 Bibliography
Giddens, A. (1985), The Nation State and Violence. Berkeley: University of California
Press.
Gliemmo, G. (1994), Las huellas de la memoria: entrevistas a escritores
Latinoamericanos. Buenos Aires: Beas ediciones.
Gormley, P. (2005), The New Brutality Film: Race and Affect in Contemporary American
Cinema. Bristol & Portland Oregan: Intellect.
Grant, B. (2007), Film Genre: From Iconography to Ideology. London & New York:
Wallflower.
Guzmán, M. (1979), La sombra del caudillo. Mexico: Editorial Porrua.
— (1987), El águila y la serpiente. Mexico: Editorial Porrua.
Gutiérrez, C. A. (2008), ‘Y Tu Crítica También: The Development of Mexican Film
Studies at Home and Abroad’, The Sage Handbook of Film Studies. Los Angeles and
London: Sage.
Gyurko, L. (1994), ‘Twentieth-Century Fiction’, in David William Foster (ed.), Mexican
Literature: A History. Austin: University of Texas Press.
Hables Gray, C. (1997), Postmodern War: The New Politics of Conflict. London:
Routledge.
Haddu, M. (2007), Contemporary Mexican Cinema 1989–1999. Lewiston & Lampeter:
The Edwin Mellen Press.
Hayden, T. ed. (2002), The Zapatista Reader. New York: Thunder’s Mouth Press/Nation
Books.
Hedges, C. (2002), War Is a Force that Gives Us Meaning. Cambridge, MA: Public
Affairs.
Henderson, S. (2010), ‘“Nasty Demonstrations by Negroes”: The Place of the Smith-
Carlos Podium Salute in the Civil Rights Movement’, in K. Brewster (ed.), Reflections
on Mexico ’68. Maden, MA and Oxford: Wiley and Blackwell.
Herrera-Sobek, M. (1993), The Mexican Corrido: A Feminist Analysis. Bloomington &
Indianapolis: Indiana University Press.
Hershfield, J. (1996), Mexican Cinema/Mexican Woman. Tucson: The University of
Arizona Press.
Hershfield, J. and Maciel, D. R., eds (1999), Mexico’s Cinema: A Century of Film and
Filmmakers. Wilmington, Delaware: SR Books.
Higbee, W. and Hwee Lim, S. (2010), ‘Concepts of Transnational Cinema: Towards a
Critical Transnationalism in Film Studies’, Transnational Cinemas, 1(1), 7–21.
Higgins, Nicholas P. (2004), Understanding the Chiapas Rebellion: Modernist Visions and
the Invisible Indians. Austin: University of Texas Press.
Hind, E. (2004), ‘Provincia in Recent Mexican Cinema, 1989–2004’, Discourse: Journal
for Theoretical Studies in Media and Culture, 26.1Â€& 26.2, Winter and Spring, 26–45.
Hjort, M. and Scott MacKenzie, eds (2000), Cinema and Nation. London: Routledge.
Holloway, J. (2002), Change the World Without Taking Power: The Meaning of
Revolutions Today. London & Sterling, Virginia: Pluto Press.
Bibliography 197
Huerta, C. (2010), ‘El realizador Alberto Cortés regresa a los temas citadinos’, El
Universal, 22 May, 9.
Ibarra, J. (2006), Los Bracho: Tres generaciones de cine mexicano. Mexico City:
Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México.
‘International Theater of the Oppressed Organisation’, (n.d.), www.
theatreoftheoppressed.org/en/index.php?nodeID=1, last accessed 22nd December
2009.
Joseph, G. M., Rubenstein, A. and Zolov, E., eds (2001), Fragments of a Golden Age: The
Politics of Culture in Mexico Since 1940. Durham & London: Duke University Press.
Kinder, M. (2001), ‘Violence American Style: The Narrative Orchestration of Violent
Attractions’, in J. D. Slocum (ed.), Violence and American Film. New York & London:
Routledge.
King, J. (1990), Magical Reels: A History of Cinema in Latin America. London & New
York: Verso.
Klein, H. (2009), ‘Response to Ross: A Second Look at the EZLN’s Festival of Dignified
Rage’, NACLA online, 24 February, https://nacla.org/node/5545, last accessed 17 July
2009.
Klein, N. (2002), ‘Rebellion in Chiapas: Subcomandante Marcos and the Zapatistas are
Staging a Revolution the Relies More on Words Than on Bullets’, in Naomi Klein
(ed.), Fences and Windows: Dispatches from the Front Lines of the Globalization
Debate. London: Flamingo.
Knight, A. (1999), ‘Political Violence in Post-Revolutionary Mexico’, in K. Koonings and
D. Krujit (eds), Societies of Fear: The Legacy of Civil War Violence and Terror in Latin
America. London & New York: Zed Books.
Kosofsky Sedgwick, E. (1985), Between Men: English Literature and Male Homosocial
Desire. New York: Colombia University Press.
Kramer, L. (1997), After the Lovedeath: Sexual Violence and the Making of Culture
Berkeley, Los Angeles & London: University of California Press.
Lash, V. (1966), ‘Experimenting with Freedom in Mexico’, Film Quarterly, 19 (4),
Summer, 19–24.
Leal, L. (1979), ‘Prólogo’, in M. Guzmán (ed.), La sombra del caudillo. Mexico: Editorial
Porrua.
Le Bot, Y. (1997), Subcomandante Marcos: El sueño Zapatista. Barcelona: Plaza y Janés.
Lefebvre H. (2004), Writings on Cities. Selected, Translated and Introduced by
E. Kofman and E. Lebas. Malden & Oxford: Blackwell Publishing.
León Hoyos, D. (1981), ‘Paul Leduc y el dinosaurio: entrevista’, Revista Cine,
septiembre–octubre, 5, 15–34.
Lomnitz-Adler, C. (1992), Exits From the Labyrinth: Culture and Ideology in the
Mexican National Space. Berkeley: University of California Press.
MacDonald, S. (2001), The Garden in the Machine: A Field Guide to Independent Films
About Place. Berkeley, Los Angeles & London: University of California Press.
198 Bibliography
Maciel, D. R. (1999), ‘Cinema and the State in Contemporary Mexico, 1970–1999’,

in J. Hershfield and D. R. Maciel (eds), Mexico’s Cinema: A Century of Film and
Filmmakers. Wilmington, Delaware: SR Books.
Magallanes-Blanco, C. (2008), The Use of Video for Political Consciousness-Raising in
Mexico: An Analysis of Independent Videos About the Zapatistas. New York and
Lampeter: Edwin Mellen Press.
Marcos, S. and Taibo, P. I. II. (2005), Muertos incómodos (falta lo que falta). Mexico
City: Joaquín Mortiz.
Marsh, H. (2010), ‘“Writing Our History in Songs”: Judith Reyes, Popular Music and the
Student Movement of 1968’, in K. Brewster (ed.), Reflections on Mexico ’68. Maden,
MA and Oxford: Wiley and Blackwell.
Martínez Ortega, G. (1985), ‘Entrevista a Gonzalo Martínez Ortega’, Cine Club INBA
Ciclo la Revolución mexicana. Mexico: Instituto Nacional de Bellas Artes.
Mason Hart, J. (2000), ‘The Mexican Revolution, 1910–1920’, in M. C. Meyer and
W. H. Beezley (eds), The Oxford History of Mexico. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
McCallion, M. (1988), The Voice Book. London: Faber and Faber.
McGirk, T. (1999), ‘General Analysis: Role of NGOs wired for Hardware’, Time
Magazine, 154(15), October 11, published on www.globalpolicy.org, last accessed
July 14, 2004.
Mendieta Alatorre, Á. (1961), La mujer en la Revolución Mexicana. México: Biblioteca
del instituto nacional de estudios historicos de la revolución mexicana.
Messenger Davies, M. (2005), ‘“Crazyspace”: the Politics of Children’s Screen Drama’,
Screen, 46(3), Autumn, 389–99.
Michel, M. (1965), ‘Mexican Cinema: A Panoramic View’, Translated by Neal Oxen
Handler, Film Quarterly, 18(4), Summer, 46–55.
Mistron, D. E. (1984), ‘A Hybrid Subgenre: The Revolutionary Melodrama in the
Mexican Cinema.’ Studies in Latin American Popular Culture, 3, 47–56.
Molina Ramírez, T. (2007), ‘Corazón del tiempo extiende su permanencia en cartelera’,
La Jornada, 3 September, 8.
Monaco, J. (2000), How to Read a Film: Movies, Media, Multimedia. New York &
Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Monsiváis, C. (1995), ‘Mythologies’, in P. A. Paranagua (ed.), Mexican Cinema.
— (2000) Aires de familia: cultura y sociedad en América Latina. Barcelona: Editorial
Anagrama.
— (2006), ‘When Gender Can’t Be Seen Amid the Symbols: Women and the Mexican
Revolution’, in J. Olcott, M. K. Vaughan and G. Cano (eds), Sex in Revolution: Gender
Politics, and Power in Modern Mexico. Durham & London: Duke University Press.
Mora, C. J. (1989), Mexican Cinema: Reflections of a Society 1896–1988. Berkeley, Los
Angeles & London: University of California Press.
Bibliography 199
Mraz, J. (2009), Looking for Mexico: Modern Visual Culture and National Identity.
Durham & London: Duke University Press.
Mulvey, L. (1992), ‘Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema’, in M. Merck (ed.), The Sexual
Subject: A Screen Reader in Sexuality. London and New York: Routledge.
Muñoz, R. F. (1999), ¡Vámonos con Pancho Villa!. Mexico City: Colección Austral.
Nelson Miller, M. (1998), Red, White, and Green: The Maturing of Mexicanidad
1940–1946. El Paso, Texas: Texas Western Press.
Nichols, B. (1986), ‘Questions of Magnitude’, in J. Corner (ed.), Documentary and the
Mass Media. London: Edward Arnold.
Noble, A. (2005), Mexican National Cinema. London and New York: Routledge.
Noriega, C. A. and Ricci, S. (1994), The Mexican Cinema Project. Los Angeles: UCLA
Film and Television Archive.
Olmo, H. R. (2003), María Félix: Grandes mexicanos ilustres. Madrid: Dastin S.L.
O’Malley, I. V. (1986), The Myth of the Revolution: Hero Cults and the Institutionalization
of the Mexican State. New York & London: Greenwood Press.
Page, J. (2009), ‘Introduction: Fiction, Documentary, and Cultural Change in
Latin America’, in M. Haddu and J. Page (eds), Visual Synergies in Fiction and
Documentary Film Latin America. New York & Hampshire: Palgrave Macmillan.
Paranaguá, P. A. (1995), ‘Ten Reasons to Love or Hate Mexican Cinema’, in P. A. Paranagua
(ed.), Mexican Cinema. Translated by A. M. López. London & Mexico: British Film
Institute/IMCINE.
Parra, M. (2005), Writing Pancho Villa’s Revolution: Rebels in the Literary Imagination of
Mexico. Austin: University of Texas Press.
Paz, O. (1997), El laberinto de la soledad y otras obras. London & New York: Penguin
Books.
Pellicer, J. (1996), ‘La gravedad y la gracia: el discurso del Subcomandante Marcos’,
Iberoamericana, LXII (174), 199–208.
Pensado, J. (2008), ‘The (Forgotten) Sixties in Mexico’, The Sixties: A Journal of History,
Politics and Culture, 1(1), 83–90.
Pérez, J. (2009), ‘Una historia romántica zapatista’, El Financiero, 16 December, 34.
Pérez Verduzco, G. (1976), ‘Entrevista al Indio Fernández en la carcel por Guillermo
Perez Verduzco’, GPerezVerduzcoTV www.youtube.com/watch?v=0BuWHRWsc4k,
last accessed 3 July 2012.
Philippe, P. (2006), María Félix New York: Assouline.
Pick, Z. M. (2010), Constructing the Image of the Mexican Revolution: Cinema and the
Archive. Austin: University of Texas Press.
Pines, J. and Willemen, P. (1989), Questions of Third Cinema. Norfolk & Suffolk: BFI
Publishing.
Pitman, T. (2007), ‘Latin American Cyberprotest: Before and After the Zapatistas’, in
C. Taylor and T. Pitman (eds), Latin American Cyberculture and Cyberliterature.
Liverpool: Liverpool University Press.
200 Bibliography
Poniatowska, E. (1984), ‘Testimonios de una escritora: Elena Poniatowska en

microfono’, in P. E. González and E. Ortega (eds), La sartén por el mango: encuentro
de escritoras latinoamericanas. Río Piedras, PR: Ediciones Huracán.
— (1995), ‘Communiqué: Voices From the Jungle Subcomandante Marcos and Culture’,
in T. Ziff (ed.), Distant Relations. New York: Smart Art Press.
— (1997), La noche de Tlatelolco. Mexico City: Biblioteca Era.
Pratt, M. L. (1992), Imperial eyes: Travel Writing and Transculturation. London:
Routledge.
Rabasa, J. (2010), ‘On Documentary and Testimony: The Revisionists’ History, the
Politics of Truth, and the Remembrance of the Massacre at Acteal, Chiapas’, in
B. Sarkar and J.Walker (eds), Documentary Testimonies: Global Archives of Suffering.
New York & London: Routledge.
Ramírez Berg, C. (1992), Cinema of Solitude: A Critical Study of Mexican Film, 1967–1983.
— (1994), ‘The Invention of Mexico: The Poetics and Politics of the Fernández-Figueroa
Style’, in C. A. Noriega and S. Ricci (eds), The Mexican Cinema Project. Los Angeles:
UCLA Film and Television Archive.
Rashkin, E. J. (2001), Women Filmmakers in Mexico: The Country of Which We Dream.
Reed, J. (2000), Ten Days That Shook the World. New York & London: Penguin Books.
— (2006), Insurgent Mexico. New York: International Publishers.
Rodríguez Cruz, O. (2000), El 68 en el cine mexicano. Puebla: Universidad
Iberoamericana, Plantel Golfo Centro.
Rosen, P. (2001), Change Mummified: Cinema, Historicity, Theory. Minneapolis &
London: University of Minneapolis Press.
Rosenstone, R. A. (1990), Romantic Revolutionary: A Biography of John Reed.
Cambridge, Massachusetts & London: Harvard University Press.
Ross, J. (2009) ‘Chiapas Under Siege by Global Industries’, NACLA online 17 February,
https://nacla.org/node/5520, last accesed 17 July 2009.
Samper, J. (2004), María Félix: María bonita, María del alma. Bogotá: Panamericana.
Schmidt, A. (2001), ‘Making it Real Compared to What? Reconceptualizing Mexican
History Since 1940’, in G. Joseph, A. Rubestein and E. Zolov (eds), Fragments of a
Golden Age: The Politics of Culture Since 1940. Durham & London: Duke University
Press.
Serrano, F. (1978), ‘¡Vámonos con Pancho Villa!’, Cine, 1(8), 57–64.
Seydor, P. (1980), Peckinpah: The Western Films. Urbana, Chicago & London: University
of Illinois Press.
Shaw, D. (2003), Contemporary Cinema of Latin America: 10 Key Films. New York:
Continuum.
Shaw, D. and de la Garza, A. (2010), ‘Introducing Transnational Cinemas’, Transnational
Cinemas, 1(1), 3–6.
Bibliography 201
Sifuentes–Jáuregui, B. (2002), Transvestism, Masculinity, and Latin American Literature:

Genders Share Flesh. New York and Hampshire: Palgrave.
Slaughter, S. (2010), ‘Adelitas y coronelas: un panorama de las representaciones clásicas
de la soldadera en el cine de la Revolución mexicana’, in F. Fabio Sánchez and
G. García Muñoz (eds), La luz y la guerra: el cine de la Revolución mexicana. Mexico
City: CONACULTA.
Slocum, J. D. (2001), ‘Violence and American Cinema: Notes for an Investigation’, in
J. D. Slocum (ed.), Violence and American Film. New York & London: Routledge.
Smith, P. J. (2003), Amores perros. London: BFI.
Sommers, D. (1991), Foundational Fictions: The National Romances of Latin America.
Berkeley: University of California Press.
Sommers, J. (1968), After the Storm: Landmarks of the Modern Mexican Novel.
Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press.
Sontag, S. (2003), Regarding the Pain of Others. New York & London: Hamish Hamilton.
— (2008), On Photography. London & New York: Penguin Books.
Soto, S. A. (1979), The Mexican Woman: A Study of Her Participation in the Revolution,
1910–1940. Palo Alto: R and E. Pubs.
Suvrerza, A. and Mora, M. (2007), ‘La música continúa’, El Universal, 9 June, 10.
Taibo I, P. I. (1986), El Indio Fernández: el cine por mis pistolas. Mexico: Joaquín Mortiz.
— (2004), María Félix: 47 pasos por el cine. Mexico: Ediciones B.
Thornton, N. (2006), Women and the Novela de la Revolución in Mexico. New York and
Lampeter: Edwin Mellen Press.
— (2008), ‘From the City Looking Out, Out of the City Looking In’, Bulletin of Latin
American Research, 27(4), October, 501–18.
— (2010), ‘YouTube: Transnational Fandom and Mexican Divas’, Transnational
Cinemas, 1(1), 53–67.
— (2011), ‘Valentinas, Coronelas, Soldaderas: Explosive Women in Mexican Film’, The
Colorado Review of Hispanic Studies, 8, Spring, http://spanish.colorado.edu/General/
volume-8.html.
Tierney, D. (2007), Emilio Fernández: Pictures in the Margins. Manchester & New York:
Manchester University Press.
Tovar, L. (2007), ‘La mejor (I de II)’, La Jornada, 29 April, 13.
Treviño, J. S. (1979), ‘The New Mexican Cinema’, Film Quarterly, 32(3), Spring, 26–37.
Tuckman, J. (2003), ‘Not the whole enchilada’, The Guardian, 23 August, www.guardian.
co.uk/film/2003/aug/28/1, last accessed 17 July 2009.
Tuñón Pablos, J. (1995), Mujeres de luz y sombre en el cine mexicano: la construcción de
una imagen (1939–1952). Mexico City: Instituto mexicano de cinematografía.
— (1999), Women in Mexico: A Past Unveiled. Translated by Alan Hynds. Austin:
University of Texas Press.
— (2000), Los rostros de un mito: personajes femeninos en las películas de Emilio Indio
Fernández. Mexico City: Consejo nacional para la cultura y las artes.
202 Bibliography
Vanden Berghe, K. (2001), ‘La marca de Marcos: ¿pueden hablar los indígenas
mexicanos?’, Cuadernos Americanos, 87, 158–73.
Vanden Berghe, K. and Maddens, B. (2004), ‘Ethnocentrism, Nationalism and Post-
Nationalism in the Tales of Subcomandante Marcos’, Mexican Studies/Estudios
mexicanos, 20(1), Winter, 123–44.
Van Leeuwen, T. (2009), ‘Voice. A Semiotic of the Voice’, in G. Harper, R. Doughty and
J. Eisentraut (eds), Sound and Music in Film and Visual Media: An Overview. New
York & London: Continuum.
Vargas Amésquita, A. (2010), ‘Si Adelita se fuera con otro’, in Roberto Garza Iturbide
and Hugo Lara Chávez (eds), Cine y Revolución: La Revolución Mexicana vista
a través del cine. Mexico City: Instituto Mexicano de Cinematografía/Cineteca
nacional.
Varon, J., Foley, M. S. and McMillian, J. (2008), ‘Time is an Ocean: The Past and Future
of the Sixties’, The Sixties: A Journal of History, Politics and Culture, 1(1), June, 1–7.
Vázquez Mantecón, Á. (2007), ‘Cine: El 68 en el cine mexicano’, in Á. Vázquez
Mantecón (ed.), Memorial del 68. Mexico City: UNAM/Gobierno del Distrito
Federal-Secretaría de Cultura/Turner.
Velazco, S. (2005), ‘Rojo amanecer y La ley de Herodes: cine político de la transición
mexicana’, Hispanic Research Journal, 6(1), February, 67–80.
Vértiz de la Fuente, C. (2009), ‘Corazón del tiempo de Cortés’, Proceso, 16 August, 86.
Villareal Ford, T. and Gil, G. (2001), ‘Radical Internet Use’, in J. D.H. Downing etÂ€al.
(eds), Radical Media: Rebellious Communication and Social Movements. London:
Sage Publications.
Virilio, P. (1989), War and Cinema: The Logistics of Perception. Translated by Patrick
Comiller. London & New York: Verso.
Vitali, V. and Willemen, P., eds (2006), Theorising National Cinema. London: BFI.
Wayne, M. (2001), Political Film: The Dialectics of Third Cinema. London & Sterling,
Virginia: Pluto Press.
Weinberg, B. (2000), Homage to Chiapas: The New Indigenous Struggles in Mexico.
London & New York: Verso.
White, H. (1993), Metahistory: The Historical Imagination in Nineteenth-century Europe.
Baltimore & London: The Johns Hopkins University Press.
Willemen, P. (1989), ‘The Third Cinema Question: Notes and Reflection’, in J. Pines and
P.Willemen (eds), Questions of Third Cinema. Norfolk & Suffolk: BFI Publishing.
William Foster, D. (2002), Mexico City in Contemporary Mexican Cinema. Austin:
University of Texas Press.
Womack, Jr. J. (1999), Rebellion in Chiapas: An Historical Reader. New York: The New
Press.
— (1970), Zapata and the Mexican Revolution. New York: Vintage Books.
Wright, E. and Wright, E., eds (1999), The Žižek Reader. Oxford: Blackwell.
Bibliography 203
Wu, H. H. (2000), ‘Consuming Tacos and Enchiladas: Gender and the Nation in Como
agua para chocolate’, in C. A. Noriega (ed.), Visible Nations: Latin American Cinema
and Video. Minneapolis & London: University of Minnesota Press.
Yúdice, G. (2003), The Expediency of Culture: Uses of Culture in the Global Era. Durham
& London: Duke University Press.
Žižek, S. (2008), Violence. London: Profile Books Ltd.
Zolov, E. (1999), Refried Elvis: The Rise of the Mexican Counterculture. London and
Berkeley: University of California Press.
— (2001), ‘Discovering a Land “Mysterious and Obvious”: The Renarrativizing
of Postrevolutionary Mexico’, in G. Joseph, A. Rubenstein and E. Zolov (eds),
Fragments of a Golden Age: The Politics of Culture Since 1940. Durham & London:
Duke University Press.
Zúñiga, A. (1995), ‘Roberto Gavaldón’, in P. A. Paranagua (ed.), Mexican Cinema.
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 100Â€[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 MadridÂ€– 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, Luisâ•‡ 56, 137 Figueroa, Gabrielâ•‡ 7, 25, 41, 47, 54, 80–1,
Alva, Los hermanosâ•‡ 36 90–3
Anderson, Benedictâ•‡ 2, 26 Flores Magón, Ricardoâ•‡ 73, 90, 93
Armendáriz, Pedroâ•‡ 24, 28, 61, 66
article 27â•‡ 36, 134 Gámez, Rubenâ•‡ 110
Ayala Blanco, Jorgeâ•‡ 28–30, 76, 78, 170 García Riera, Emilioâ•‡ 16, 19, 26–8, 39, 45,
49–51, 59, 76–7, 86, 137
banal nationalismâ•‡ 2, 119, 176 Giddens, Anthonyâ•‡ 2, 16
Banco cinematográficoâ•‡ 74 Golden Ageâ•‡ 7, 16, 27, 36, 41, 102, 107,
Bartra, Rogerâ•‡ 11, 13 115, 168
Benjamin, Thomasâ•‡ 3–4, 11, 13–14 González Iñarritú, Alejandroâ•‡ 37, 127
bicentenaryâ•‡ 182–3 Guzmán, Martin Luisâ•‡ 83, 94–7, 137
Billig, Michaelâ•‡ 2, 119, 176
Bracho, Carlosâ•‡ 87, 91 Hedges, Chrisâ•‡ 2, 4
Bracho, Dianaâ•‡ 169 Holloway, Johnâ•‡ 13, 146
Bracho, Julioâ•‡ 32, 35, 73, 93, 98 Hollywoodâ•‡ 9, 26, 31–2, 41, 44–5, 73, 100,
103, 107, 136, 143, 148, 154, 168, 180,
caberaterasâ•‡ 26 187
Calles, Plutarco E.â•‡ 95 Huerta, Victorianoâ•‡ 19, 88, 142, 177
Cárdenas, Lázaroâ•‡ 21
Carranza, Venustianoâ•‡ 79, 134 Infante, Pedroâ•‡ 23
centenaryâ•‡ 12, 15, 179, 181–2
Chávez, Óscarâ•‡ 106, 109, 111 Juárez, Benitoâ•‡ 11
Chion, Michelâ•‡ 54–5
comedia rancheraâ•‡ 26, 28 La Adelitaâ•‡ 25, 61, 69, 89
corridorâ•‡ 24–5, 39, 60–7, 69, 89, 111, 171 La Valentinaâ•‡ 24
Cristero rebellionâ•‡ 14 Lara, Agustínâ•‡ 43, 178
Cuarón, Alfonsoâ•‡ 37, 126, 183 López Portillo, Margaritaâ•‡ 14
Los Halconesâ•‡ 5, 121, 123
del Río, Doloresâ•‡ 28, 44–8
del Toro, Guillermoâ•‡ 37, 175 Madero, Francisco I.â•‡ 61, 64
Díaz, Porfirioâ•‡ 4, 17, 91, 136, 140, 142 Marín Gloriaâ•‡ 44–5
Diaz Ordaz, Gustavoâ•‡ 104, 109–10, 118–20 Marqués, María Elenaâ•‡ 44–5
Draper, Jackâ•‡ 25 Mistral, Jorgeâ•‡ 55
Monsiváis, Carlosâ•‡ 16, 26, 30, 39, 44, 81,
Echeverría, Luisâ•‡ 10 97, 129
Echeverría, Rodolfoâ•‡ 74 Mraz, Johnâ•‡ 4, 7, 11, 13, 19–20, 24
Eisenstein, Sergio M.â•‡ 25–6, 71, 90
Estrada, Luisâ•‡ 99, 181, 183 Negrete, Jorgeâ•‡ 43
North American Free Trade Agreement,
Fernández, Emilioâ•‡ 7, 12, 25, 28, 41, 48, NAFTAâ•‡ 16, 36, 122, 132, 168–9
54–5, 61, 69, 90, 93 Novelas de la Revoluciónâ•‡ 4
212 Index
Nuevo cineâ•‡ 19, 21–2, 25, 28, 35, 75–6, 99, Salinas de Gotari, Carlosâ•‡ 36, 134, 151, 157,
140, 186 169
soldaderaâ•‡ 23–4, 48–50, 52, 55, 61, 66,
O’Malley, Irene V.â•‡ 4, 11, 13, 21–2, 73, 71–2, 85
136–7, 139, 144 Sontag, Susanâ•‡ 77, 86, 113
Obregón, Álvaroâ•‡ 80, 95
Orozco, José Clementeâ•‡ 20 Toscano, Carmen and Toscano,
Salvadorâ•‡ 17–18, 36, 77, 169
Palma, Andreaâ•‡ 45 transnationalism, transnational filmâ•‡ 6, 10,
Partido Acción Nacional, PANâ•‡ 127, 179, 12–13, 15, 32–3, 36–8, 103, 112, 124,
181, 185 132–3, 148–9, 153, 158, 162–4, 167,
Partido Revolucionario Institucional, 171–2, 180, 185, 187
PRIâ•‡ 3–5, 15–16, 33, 47, 59, 75, 92, 101,
113, 127, 161, 179, 181, 185 Villa, Franciscoâ•‡ 5–7, 11–12, 18–25, 32,
Paz, Octavioâ•‡ 11 36, 39, 46–7, 59, 79–83, 87, 93, 95, 97–8,
Peckinpah, Samâ•‡ 33, 86, 99, 102 132–7, 139, 143, 169–71, 185
Pick, Zuzana M.â•‡ 11–12, 14, 17, 25, 41, 79, Virilio, Paulâ•‡ 9, 86, 165
83, 101
Poniatowska, Elenaâ•‡ 45, 84, 129, Zedillo, Ernestoâ•‡ 36, 157–8, 160
132, 147 Zepeda, Heraclioâ•‡ 83

Revolution and Rebellion in Mexican Film-Bloomsbury Academic (2013)

Diunggah oleh

Informasi Dokumen

Hak Cipta

Format Tersedia

Bagikan dokumen Ini

Bagikan atau Tanam Dokumen

Opsi Berbagi

Apakah menurut Anda dokumen ini bermanfaat?

Apakah konten ini tidak pantas?

Hak Cipta:

Format Tersedia

Revolution and Rebellion in Mexican Film-Bloomsbury Academic (2013)

Diunggah oleh

Hak Cipta:

Format Tersedia

Topics and Issues in National Cinema

1385 Broadway 50 Bedford Square

First published 2013

© Niamh Thornton, 2013

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in

No responsibility for loss caused to any individual or organization acting on or refraining

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Typeset by Newgen Imaging Systems Pvt Ltd, Chennai, India

This book was born of a singular obsession supported by a multitude. It took

His assessment is drawn from his experiences as a war correspondent in places

means to coalesce sentiments around a movement or an ideal, on the one hand,

In Mexico, so many were killed (estimates suggest as many as two million);

were primarily fictionalized (auto)biographies and devastating retellings of

I have taken a chronological approach in this book. The introductory chapter

generally understoodÂ€ – are, in fact, often challenging, dissident texts. As one

El legado más importante se dio en la manera en que la intensa experiencia del

Therefore, integral to understanding the Revolutionary films of the 1960s and

carefully controlled by the government, and Menéndez asserts that it was

For example, Haddu’s (2007) chapter closely examines a selection of films as

Revolution, rebellions and archives

When representing political conflict there is a requirement to have a certain

representative sampling of exemplary films. Some of those are neglected and

a distinctive contestatory thread that runs through their representation, which

War Stories on Film: Chaos, Confusion

Revolution on screen: ¡Vámonos con Pancho Villa!

Jorge Ayala Blanca, who has provided an idiosyncratic approach to Mexican

Esta película es un homenaje a la lealtad y el valor que Francisco Villa, el

Valentina opens and closes with a voiceover by Villa (Pedro Armendáriz)

‘encarnan a un tiempo la inocencia popular y su visión critica: su entrega es tan

The (pre)dominance of the studio films

The release of these Revolutionary films by de Fuentes coincided with an

social and amorous trajectory, with frequently negative outcomes. In Mistron’s

Heretofore, there has been an assumption that the Revolutionary melodramas

Dentro de este marco folklórico-sexista se entenderá mejor por qué el cine de la

prolongado como cine revolucionario hembrista’ [without changing its terms of

Out with the studio, in with the young

Félix’s last film, La generala, another Revolutionary melodrama, was released in

should be interpreted as a category that describes a particular aesthetic (and

Documentary, fiction and conflict

Documentaries covering political conflict in Mexico have had different

Political conflict in Mexico does not have a strict pattern of representation. It

A Woman at War: María Félix

Gallo (Miguel Zacarías, 1960), La Bandida [The Bandit] (Roberto Rodríguez,

México se agitaba bajo la convulsión de su Revolución cuando los cómplices

Isabela Corona era la gran actriz

Faltaba la mujer que negara la servidumbre tradicional y folklórica de la hembra

He describes Félix using adjectives which express movement, action and

Posiblemente ningún país tenga un cine revolucionario tan conservador y

The opening sequence of La Cucaracha (Ismael Rodríguez, 1958)Â€follows a grand

In a key scene, which I shall examine here, she becomes ‘feminizada en

is significant as here La Cucaracha/Félix disrupts the ‘active/male and passive/

Juana Gallo (Miguel Zacarías, 1960)

en el final de Juana Gallo se nos muestran algunas fotografías de los resultados

la revolución podía ser para el cine mexicano un llamativo espectáculo en colores

It is usual in Revolutionary films, for the woman to be equated with the

La Bandida (Roberto Rodríguez, 1962)Â€ contrasts with La Cucaracha and

On being found in bed with another, La Bandida is abandoned by Roberto

La Bandida permite a los argumentistas de nuestro cine vengarse de la mujer

a play of hypermasculinities (the two men) contrasted with La Bandida’s

at least disavowed. This is a more muted representation of her life as a nightclub

1 Gender synergy is defined by Kramer (1997) as the displacement of power and

Revisiting the Revolution: Mexico’s

of success on the battlefield. La soldadera was an early example of new ways

film industry, and began to concentrate on improving the distribution and