The Gringa Watches Telenovelas

Kay Gardella Memorial TV Review Blog, telenovelas, , , , , , ,

While sometimes compared to American soap operas, telenovelas are superior as a storytelling form in that they are conceived for limited runs usually between 60-100 hours of episodes with occasional shorter-run sequels to very successful shows. The clear beginning, middle and ending saves them from the American phenomena of running long after they’ve run out of steam.

Clearly, the class system in Latin America is more obvious than in the US, and often telenovelas are all about the class difference. One can argue, however, that they are no more than “opium for the masses” offering fairy tales of imps from the slums marrying up a la Maria la del Barrio which starred Thalia as a winsome waif. They can also be criticized for almost never talking about race except for ground breakers like Brazil’s Xica, or Mexico’s Ramona – which dealt with the US persecution of indigenous and not Mexico’s. Worse still, the darker and more indigenous looking actors inevitably play servants and are often used for comic effect while the lightest skinned are the stars. In fact, two of Mexico’s most popular stars are a pair of Krakow born sisters whose family moved to Mexico when they were small children.

Nevertheless, they often deal with social issues and sometimes in ways that are subtle and imaginative. In La Usurpadora for instance, everyone marvels how much the capricious Paola Bracho has changed. She’s suddenly interested in saving the family factory and pushes the family members to actually show up and work, even accept cutbacks while she convinces the workers that they must all come together for the benefit of everyone. She even manages to secure a big fat loan to help keep things going. Of course, Paola has been replaced by her long lost sister, Paulina – a former lady’s room attendant. While it’s a fantasy, it’s a fantasy that emphasizes the stupidity, laziness and casual cruelty of the upper class while celebrating the common sense wisdom of the masses.

As with any art form there are certain conventions. Exceptions are almost statistical anomalies. Inevitably, someone will turn out to be someone’s long lost sister, mother, father wife, daughter, etc. (Even the rightfully celebrated and much imitated, Yo Soy Betty La Fea managed to put in a pregnancy-scare subplot and the return of a husband who’d long ago abandoned his family.) Other conventions are rarely breached. The heroine will eventually wind up with the handsome galán (male lead). Often the galán is less bright than the heroine, immature and flawed, but he’s grown under her influence and is a better man by the end than when we started.

Yet to say that all telenovelas are alike would be like saying that all US situation comedies are alike. While there are sit/com conventions– a living room must have a couch, some mix-up or misunderstanding will move that week’s plot – there is a vast world of difference between the bleakness of The Honeymooners and the sublime silliness of The Beverly Hillbillies. There’s the urban sophistication of Seinfeld versus the redneck wisdom of The Jeff Foxworthy Show.

Telenovelas like cuisine tend to have regional differences that extend beyond accents. Colombia came up with the clever workplace comedy/drama Yo Soy Betty La Fea. Despite a successful run on Mexican television, it was remade with more Mexican flavor – as La Fea Mas Bella. Just as one expected a certain type of film in the Hollywood studio system to from a particular studio – Warner Brothers—gangsters, MGM musical extravaganza etc., telenovela producers are known for their specific specialites — historical melodrama, contemporary issues, etc.

My journey into fandom started with Mexico’s historical telenovela, Ramona. The show, based on the “classic” American novel by Helen Hunt Jackson, completely subverted the message of the original. Jackson’s novel was meant as a protest against American treatment of Native Americans, but the TV version was nothing less than Santa Anna’s revenge as telenovela, a retelling of the US conquest of California and its aftermath from the Mexican point of view with not so subtle allusions to other US imperial adventures and manifest destiny.

Exchanges of dialogue made it quite obvious and included the following:

The American bad guys are taking an Indian youth back to his village in order to hang him as a horse thief. They all know that he’s innocent and is being framed. At one point a henchman asks, “Why can’t we just hang him here?” The strategist for the villains replies that he must be hanged publicaly, “In order to sow terror in the hearts of the people.”

Ramona interested me as a film-fan in its use and subversion of certain movie genres – in particular the western. In Ramona, the sheriff is not a hero trying to maintain order in a rough frontier, but a petty, corrupt dictator trying to drive our Mexicans and Indians and take their land. A wild frontier outpost – Spurtown, which had formerly been the peaceful Mexican village of Todos Santos had the inevitable saloon in which could be found a bargirl with a heart of gold, a heroic hired-gun, a town drunk and other characters who could have been lifted from any western. It alluded as well to films in which the protagonists “go native” such as Dances with Wolves and Little Big Man – films which celebrate and romanticize native culture.

Since Ramona, I haven’t found any telenovela that was so blatant in its underlying agenda, but I have found other interesting and unexpected elements. Nods to Douglas Sirk-style “women’s pictures” in the design and background music of La Usurpadora, almost surreal moments of post-modernism like when Betty Pinzon, the ugly duckling heroine of Yo Soy Betty La Fea runs into the Brazilian bombshell Taís Araújo who starred in the telenovela Xica in which she portrayed a slave who uses her beauty and guile to rise to power. Araújo playing herself, advises Betty on self-acceptance and discovering her inner beauty.

I recently discovered that most telenovelas are available free on YouTube. I have been revisiting some of my favorites and watching new ones. In the coming weeks, I will be blogging on them.

I’m no expert on Latin American history or culture. Spanish is my second language, and I’m probably missing at least 15% of the dialogue and many of the specific cultural references. The blogs are subjective – interpretation through my gringa eyes and brain. I’m sure I’ll miss a lot and get stuff wrong, so comments and feedback will be most welcome.

Of Chimps and Children — Or The Perils of Fame

Politics and Culture, , , , ,

After the lady in Connecticut got her face bitten off by a chimp purchased in part to pay for itself as an actor, there was a spate of articles on chimptainers. It turns out their professional lives are short, usually ending before they hit puberty and become uncontrollable. Upon retirement, something has to be done with them and the result is inevitably tragic. If they are lucky enough to retire to a sanctuary, they must learn to socialize with other chimps and not the humans who raised them. And one can only imagine what it must be like to go from a private dressing room to a cage at the zoo.

The conclusion that anyone with a heart (and a brain) must reach is that the exploitation of chimps for our entertainment – in commercials, movies, talk shows etc. must stop. Cease and desist. This can be no more.

Which brings me to Michael Jackson…

While there are people who aren’t famous as children who become child-molesting narcissists with little grip on reality –a lifetime of celebrity doesn’t help. During crucial times in childhood and adolescence, “fitting in” with peers or at least being able to socialize with them, is of primary importance in establishing and solidifying identity. Michael’s friends (and yes we all get to be on a first name basis with dead celebrities) were aging movie stars like Elizabeth Taylor who of course was also a famous child and Liza Minelli – the daughter of one. If he was ever around “normal” non-celebrity kids, he would have been fawned over and objectified. Fame did him no favors ,and while it’s still possible that he might have grown into the same pathetic surgery-obsessed creature without it, the chances are that at least more people would have said, “Michael, you don’t need another nose job!” or “Michael inviting a group of prepubescents into your bed is a terrible idea!” Instead, even his doctors became his enablers. They not only provided the drugs that may have contributed to his death, but now it looks like his dermatologist – the same one responsible for his lily-white skin –was also the sperm contributor for the creation of the commodities known as Michael’s children.

Fame like most drugs, impairs judgment. Take Woody Allen…please. And I’m not just talking about the diminishing qualities of his films. You’d think those around him, particularly the psychiatrist he allegedly saw for years might have said, “You know Woody, running off with the teenage daughter of your lover, really isn’t a good idea.” But the disease affects those around the “star” as much as the star himself.

In Woody’s case, he at least had a chance to grow up, become a man and responsible for his own bad decisions, as opposed to Michael who wasn’t allowed a childhood and never became an adult.

There are kids who are natural performers, who want to be in show biz. (There are also children who want to eat unlimited amounts of sugar and stay up all night, but that is where parents come in.) I’m not suggesting that we stop talented children from strutting their stuff. I am suggesting, however, we do what we can to protect them and allow them something close to normal childhoods.

A modest proposal: There are already rules about how many hours children can work on movie sets and rules making sure they have tutors and keep up with school. What about not listing their names in credits? What about making sure that during most of the school year, they are in schools with other children? How about limiting the number of films they can be in, and restricting them from publicity tours and appearing on talk shows? In other words, what about allowing them to perform, but not allowing them to become “stars”? Would it hurt Dakota Fanning not to appear on The Tonight Show and to make only one film or fewer a year? Shouldn’t she be allowed to be a child before she becomes a brand? Do we need to read all about her in People?

The fact that not all former child stars grow up to rob convenience stores, flash their genitals at reporters, or undergo multiple plastic surgeries designed to wipe out all traces of ethnicity and gender, does not make the exploitation of children right. There are kids making carpets in Pakistan who will grow up and lead semi-normal lives, child prostitutes who may escape, and if they don’t die of AIDS even marry, but that doesn’t justify child labor or prostitution. If it is time to stop exploiting primates for our amusement, shouldn’t we apply the same rule to children?

About a car…

death and dying, New York Stories, true story

_1990-1991-ford-taurus__180-1Jack’s car was not exactly pampered, having a maintenance schedule that consisted of an oil change prior to inspection every August. Most of the time, the 1990 Taurus remained in the heated garage below and in back of the tidy two-family house in Queens — its only companion the Volvo kept lovingly by the garage tenant who lived in Manhattan but visited most weekends. Thanksgiving, Passover and maybe some other times when the weather was good, Jack and Dora took it up to Albany to see their daughter Anita and the grandkids. Occasionally, he’d use it to chauffeur Dora (who’d never learned to drive) and her Hadassah friends to some special event although as the years passed there were fewer, and Dora, easily winded, barely left the house.

Jack had kept his optometry office on the first floor of his home, so the Taurus had never known the rigor of the morning commute. The practice had stayed open long after many of Jack’s patients had died or moved away or been enticed to try the big schlock houses — Cohen’s and Vision Center — with their designer frames and fancy window displays. In the end, the rising cost of malpractice insurance outweighed his desire to keep busy, and so he closed up the shop. He and Dora had talked about traveling, but she’d complain that her neck bothered her after long rides. The grandkids were getting older too, Matthew off at college. The Albany trips became less frequent.

Anita hinted that maybe he didn’t need a car. After all, she pointed out, the grocery store and movie theater were down the block, and they were still capable of getting on a bus though Dora had trouble with the stairs on the subways. Trains to Albany ran often, and now that Andrew had a license, there’d be no problem with his picking them up at the station. Jack replied with an edge to his tone that was rarely heard, that he was not yet “decrepit.”

One spring, he found himself with even less energy than his wife who finally convinced him to see a doctor where he received the bad news with the quiet rectitude that characterized his generation. Soon after the diagnosis, he decided to visit Albany. His youngest daughter, Marion, a childless Manhattanite who didn’t own a car, offered to drive him, but he insisted on doing it himself. A few months later, came his granddaughter’s bat-mitzvah, and he allowed Marion and her husband to drive the Taurus as he sat with Dora in the back, offering instructions on the best route and reminding his son-in-law that this was not a NASCAR event.

He didn’t leave the house much after that, and a few weeks later, he died in his bed. The Taurus though it was 15 years old, still had under 55k and was needed as Dora had made a hasty transition to Anita’s home while on the waiting list for an assisted living facility close by, and many things still needed to be transported. Marion thought she would hold on to it at least until the house was sold.

It turned out that street parking in her uptown neighborhood was less of a chore than she’d anticipated, and the car came in handy especially for the visits she was obliged to make almost monthly to see her mother. Finally, a reasonably priced parking space at her co-op complex became available, and the car no longer needed to be moved thrice weekly to accommodate the alternate side parking rules.

While they did not mean to treat the car badly, Marion and her husband were not experts on its care. On a trip to Vermont, they were sideswiped by a truck resulting in a dent and some damage near the trunk. Due to its age, the insurance payout wouldn’t cover the repair, so they spent the money elsewhere, and only months later noticed that water had leaked into the trunk, pooled inside the wheel-well and froze solid. As it thawed in the spring, a mildew odor pervaded the inside of the vehicle. They drained the water, dried out the inside and used tape and plastic to prevent future occurrences. While this shouldn’t have caused mechanical damage, things began to go wrong. The car stalled on the road. The alternator and battery were replaced, but a week later it stalled again on a busy street apparently due to a corroded wire. They didn’t trust the Taurus after that and felt it would be better off with an owner who knew more about its needs.

On Mother’s Day, they took it for a final trip to Albany, joking that that was what Jack would have wanted. They stopped by Dora’s little apartment and she proudly introduced them to the new desk clerk as she signed out for the afternoon and they all went to Anita’s. When they dropped her back off, Dora — never one for sentiment — said, “Well you’re better off renting for all you use a car.”

The ad went out on Craigslist. $299 OBO. Despite its still low miles and relatively good condition, only one respondent – a teenager in Brooklyn — wanted it for other than its parts. His offer of $200 was accepted. He didn’t need a test drive, was willing to take their word that it ran, and would be by to pick it up on Saturday.

The day before, Marion walked over to the space to get out the last of their things which included all of Jack’s insurance cards stuffed in the glove compartment, along with a few old wrappers for the Nips candies he and Dora had liked, and a couple of pieces of paper faded, with handwritten directions in Jack’s familiar scrawl.

She went back to the apartment and searched for something on the Internet, printed it out, returned to the vehicle, sat in the passenger seat and began, “Yit-ga-dal v’yit-ka-dash sh’mei ra-ba b’al-ma di-v’ra chi-ru-tei, v’yam-lich mal-chu-tei…..”

When she had finished the prayer, she said, “Jack, I’m sorry we didn’t take care of it as well as we should have,” she paused then continued, “but you were never much about things anyway. You know where we all are. You don’t need the car to get there. You need to leave it, now.”

She waited a few more minutes, and then feeling a subtitle difference that could have been entirely imaginary, she left.

How I got to tell that story….

true story, ,

So almost a year ago, I’m listening to the WBAI – my local Pacifica station or as the better-half refers to it – Commie Radio. It’s The Next Hour, a Sunday arts show, and there are these two men talking about their theater piece which is called Two Men Talking . These two men who had met in a private Jewish day school in South Africa when they were twelve, tell stories about their evolving friendship and their lives. The show though it always features certain core stories is always different. I liked what I was hearing. Plus it was, as it often is on BAI, a pledge drive and for $200, you could get two tickets to the show and one admission to their all day storytelling workshop and learn a little about how to do what they do.

I pay my $200. Go to see the show which the better-half and I both found very moving although to say much more would be to spoil it. Then came the workshop.

It was a beautiful Sunday morning, sunny, the sky was clear and it wasn’t too hot. I got to the building – a large studio complex in Greenwich Village where there was the smell of smoke and several entrances closed due to a fire that morning. The gathering crowd, the sense of “What the hell is going on?”, the weather, and the lower Manhattan locale all combined to remind me of that thing that happened a few years ago…. And if you were in the City when it did, you know what I’m talking about.

But we did manage to find our way to a spacious studio with a rooftop patio that with river views. The workshop was spectacular. Filled with really good storytellers, but the technique was challenging. Tell what happened. Sounds simple but when that means you can’t rely on your shtick, you can’t give an opinion or even tell how you felt, it’s tough. But the result was stories that flowed like conversation and allowed the listener to have his or her own experience. It reminded me of something I’d heard once about acting. It doesn’t matter if you can cry on a stage. The point is to make the audience cry.

I signed up for the 4-week advanced series. By the end, I felt like I had a handle on it and a few good memoir stories to tell and write. Then I got THE CALL. The two men were going back on WBAI and this time they were bringing some of their storytellers and I was invited. And so I got to tell a story on the radio. (I’ll upload it when I can find it and figure out how to do it. In the meantime, go here to see a written version.) All of the storytellers were radio virgins, we were sitting in a circle and it felt intimate and safe like the workshop.

After my story, Janet Coleman the host, asked Murry Nossel one of the Two Men, “How could she have screwed that up?”

Murray replied, “She could have told us how she felt.”

And that was the whole point of telling “what happened”. It’s a bit like saying “trust the reader” if you’re a fiction writer. If you tell how YOU felt, than you are telling the listener how to feel instead of allowing them to have their own feelings.

A couple of months later, I hear from Jerome Deroy who runs the business end of the workshops. He tells me that they are going to film some storytellers for the website and I’m again invited. I chose a more upbeat one than the one I’d told on the radio. It’s more upbeat than the radio story and a good one for aspiring writers and other aspirants to hear. Check it out!