Mi madre y el dinero

 

In 2018, I witnessed a piece of theater that has forever altered the way I view “realism” in theater. That play was Tijuana, a one-person show starring Lázaro Gabino Rodríguez, in which the main character travels to the eponymous border city to experience what it is like to live in poverty. You can read about my experience with Lázaro and the play in my previous blog entry. My main takeaway from that experience was that what appears as real (video recordings, pictures, testimony) may in fact be a farcical realism trying to make a different point altogether. In other words, playwrights/directors may be portraying reality while simultaneously calling into question the realities they are portraying. With that in mind, on Sunday, I traveled to the Teatro de la Ciudad Esperanza Iris to see the play Mi madre y el dinero, a “work in progress” with Josefina Orlaineta and Anacarsis Ramos, a mother-son duo. It is an intimate play about their economic struggles, as well as about the construction of the play we are seeing, told from the perspective of both. 

The front cover of the playbill.

A panoramic view of the theater I took after the performance.

This is what the playbill states: Durante más de seis décadas (1960-2020) Josefina Orlaineta, madre de Anacarsis Ramos, ejerció más de cuarenta trabajos y negocios en Campeche, uno de los estados con mayor tasa de pobreza y rezago económico en México. 

A partir de herramientas teatrales y cinematográficas, Josefina y Anacarsis reproducen algunos de estos trabajos para reflexionar sobre la crisis económica como estado permanente de vida, la expansión del trabajo a todos los espacios de una familia, la vergüenza de clase, la indefensión social de los trabajadores independientes (tanto comerciantes como artistas) y las negociaciones que se hacen al interior de un proyecto para contar la vida de alguien más. 

A map emphasizing the location of the state of Campeche in Mexico.

During more than six decades (1960-2020) Josefina Orlaineta, mother to Anacarsis Ramos, worked more than forty jobs and businesses in Campeche, one of the states with the highest rates of poverty and economic lagging in Mexico. 

Using theatrical and cinematographic tools, Josefina and Anacarsis reproduce some of these jobs to reflect on economic crises as a permanent stage of life, the expansion of work to all corners of the family, the embarrassment of class, the social helplessness of independent workers (vendors and artists) and the business deals that are made inside a project which aims to retell the life of someone else. (my rough translation)

Anacarsis speaking to the audience.

As you walk into the production, you are led behind the curtain of the theater on the stage. There, Josefina is cutting her son’s hair. There were occasional moments of dialogue between the two, as well as with the audience. Immediately, the two have established an intimate space for them and for the audience. Since we are also behind the curtain, in a non-traditional space for theater productions, one also senses the attempt to "reveal," in an intimate environment, the machinations of theater and establish a setting in which the audience feels the authenticity of those on stage. We are literally “behind-the-scenes,” if you will. The set consisted of open shelving and a long table, in which the actors on stage remained exposed during the production. Above this minimalist set was a projector screen, in which, during various points in the production, text, images, and videos were projected to the audience, providing a glimpse into life in Campeche, within the walls of their home, and the inner thoughts of Anacarsis. 

The opening of the play as Josefina actually cuts Anacarsis's hair, while a video plays the setting of the malecón in Campeche.

Anacarsis remarked, toward the beginning of the play, that audiences and producers in Mexico have a thirst for realism on stage. As such, his exposition of life in Campeche, told through the eyes of someone both in (Anacarsis) and outside (Josefina) of theater, with projected diary entries, cuts to the core of the human experience and “realism” that he recognizes that audiences desire. The exposition was divided into 7 scenes: estética, negociación, abarrotes, zapatería, chorizos, y el dinero, y actriz. Josefina started the play cutting her son’s hair while also explaining how she threw herself into opening a beauty salon—despite confessing that she didn’t know how to cut hair at first. In a later scene, Anacarsis stacks boxes on the table as they talk about opening and supplying an abarrotería (or a mini convenience store) until an Oxxo opened up next to them.

Anacarsis stacking the boxes during the segment about opening up an abarrotería. The Google maps image shows the location of their convenience store in Campeche.

In one of the vignettes, about chorizos, mother and son put together chorizo links on stage, replicating the countless hours they spent in the past. In fact, the son challenges the mother to sell some of her chorizo to an audience member, further creating a realist link between her ability to sell chorizo and convincing the audience that she in fact did sell chorizos. 

Josefina attempting to sell her chorizos to an audience member.

In each of the scenes, either videos or on-stage demonstrations proved to the audience their acquired talents in each of these stages of their family’s economic lives. Finally, at the end of the show, Anacarsis hails his mother onto the stage. She appears from behind the shelves, where she had been hiding for a little while. Now, however, instead of her simple clothes, she is dressed in a crown and cape, wielding a sword. She recounts some theatrical lines and pronounces that she is no longer scared of acting. She has culminated her abilities now with acting. Upon her final line, where she declares she is no longer scared of acting, the main curtain on the stage arose, exposing the grandiose venue’s theater, all to the reverberating applause from the packed audience. 

Josefina comes out to "act" before the audience.

The ending of the performance toward the empty theater.

And yet, I can’t help but pause and wonder aloud if what I witnessed is what I witnessed. This takes me back to my first idea, about realism on stage. The fact that Anacarsis mentioned the thirst for realism in Mexican audiences today makes me question whether he is, perhaps, trolling his audience with the appearance of realism. Is he intermingling fiction with reality? Is all that I saw a farce, real, or a mixture of both? As I stated earlier, this wouldn’t be my first experience with farcical realism. 

A list of the jobs Josefina states that she's had over the span of a few decades.

But it turns out that this type of genre in the theater has picked up in popularity here in Mexico. During my stay in Mexico this year, I have already witnessed three different performances in which the protagonists relate intimate stories of their lives. Autofiction is a genre in which the playwright finds inspiration in their own reality to retell the events of their life, but they intermingle fictitious elements into the storyline, creating a piece of theater that becomes engaging enough to sell to an audience. Thus, it is difficult, and rich, for audiences to imagine what is real and what is fiction. Blurring the lines between what is true and what is fiction is a fascinating endeavor, as those who study the genre of testimonio or those who work with memory studies may attest to. 

Curtain Call

In this way, audiences—myself—may begin to question their/my own limits between fiction and reality in life. I recently watched the series “Death and other details” on Hulu, and this element of memory recall becomes a fascinating tool to highlight that what/how we remember the past may, and probably will be, colored by our later information through hindsight. Thus, to what degree is any historical representation truly “faithful” to actual events when so many perspectives evolve and are colored by other viewpoints?

The title of the production on the screen at the end of the show.

For me, this performance made me consider not so much the economic and social ideologies inherent in the scenes themselves, but the machinations used to create the story and the idea of reality. In fact, the quest for “realism” on stage has left me wondering how possible it even is anymore. With the rise in Artificial Intelligence, the use of different medias on stage to capture reality, and the theatrical “behind-the-scenes” techniques employed in this production, I am left wondering what to believe when something occurs right in front of me. What I am saying may sound dystopic--that I struggle with accepting what I see as real--but I think it cuts at the core of what our task as scholars and humans is today: to think critically about what we consume in order to authenticate what we should believe or discard in our quest for "truth" and creating a better world based on that truth.

¿Puedes verme?

 

In México, los desaparecidos is an unfortunate reality. The United Nations announced, tragically, that in 2022, the number of those who have disappeared in Mexico reached 100,000. We’ll never forget the 43 students in Ayotzinapa, for example, who were taken and then forcibly disappeared, approximately 10 years ago on September 26, 2014. I briefly bring up the historical context to this issue because Valentina Sierra wrote and directed a play related to this horrible reality. Would it surprise you if I then say that this play is for children? 

Cover of playbill

The play, ¿Puedes verme? (Can you see me?), relates the story of a young girl named Bárbara, played by Daniela Arroio, who feels that she is disappearing from reality. At first, she thinks her feet begin to disappear, then her hands, then her legs, then her arms, then parts of her face. Her parents also recognize that she is disappearing and take her to a doctor who prescribes bright clothing so that she can be recognized. Bárbara feels that this isn’t a permanent solution, so she looks for ways to solve this issue herself—demonstrating that her own agency is perhaps better than what “experts” or “adults” can offer. 

Bárbara says she is present, but her teacher doesn't see her

One day, while she is at an art museum with her school, she sees an installation about disappearances that speaks to her. Unfortunately, the exhibition is leaving the next day. So, logically, she fits inside a luggage and is transported with the exhibition to its home—where the original artist, Azucena, resides. There, she escapes the police and finds refuge with the help of other children who “disappeared” and depend on Azucena. Bárbara is ecstatic to identify with this group of children, and after some play, they decide to look for the author of the exhibition. 

Bárbara travels to Azucena's home town

Eventually, Azucena “appears” in the form of a large, blue dress, and helps Bárbara find her voice by revealing that her real mother, her aunt, disappeared, and that people eventually gave up looking for her. With this hard truth, Bárbara, as well as the others, begin to “appear” again. They learn that if they want to be “seen” then they will need to speak up more—use their agency. Eventually, Bárbara returns home. Her “parents” apologize to Bárbara for withholding this truth. By the end of the play, Bárbara is whole again. 

Bárbara is complete again

I’d like to focus on two scenes that I found to be rich in intertextuality, especially for children’s audiences. First, in the factory, where the niños desaparecidos reside, Bárbara begins to feel at home as she identifies with the other disappearing children. There, she takes off the bright-colored clothing and embraces her new state in revelry and fun. They dance. They jump. They sing. One tap dances. It is a scene of youthful bliss. 

Having fun in the abandoned factory

However, this jubilee is broken when another child suddenly asks Bárbara “a quién extrañas más” (who do you miss the most?). This question reminds both the character and the audience that this joy is momentary. There is a deeper sadness hidden behind the jubilee of these children. Immediately, this scene reminded me of the lost boys in Peter Pan. In Neverland, the lost boys, who fell out of their perambulators, play all day and night. They live in a constant state of brotherhood and depend on each other to survive. Nonetheless, the lost boys yearn for a mother figure in their lives, which is where Wendy’s role became significant. She could read books to them and take care of them as if she were their collective mother. Their disappearances remind us of the underlying sadness upon which the children appear to be content in their new state. The connection between Peter Pan and los desaparecidos in this play could not be more obvious at this point, at least for me, and I find it super fascinating that a play for children about los desaparecidos evokes what one could argue as the first play/novel in England that was tailored for children—more than a century ago. In my opinion, this intertextuality speaks to the ongoing influence of such foundational, canonical works for children in Mexico. 

F.D. Bedford, "Peter Plan Playing Pipes," Peter and Wendy, 1911

Secondly, when Azucena finally appears in the form of an illuminated and oversized dress, the characters and audience cannot put a face to her. She is an elusive figure, much like a deity or fairy, who works beyond the realm of what we perceive as reality. Through her omniscience, she reveals Bárbara’s true identity. This revelation allows Bárbara to then see herself as her body returns to its normal appearance. After this revelation, she disappears, and the other characters begin to find themselves as well. They have learned the hard lesson of their disappearances and have, apparently, come to terms with the fact of their identities. They have also learned the importance of their own voices and that they should shout until their loved ones are eventually found. They should never stop looking for those who have disappeared. 

Azucena appears

This scene evoked yet another intertextual reference to children’s literature: The blue fairy, or the fairy with turquoise hair. In Pinocchio, the fairy aids Pinocchio during his misadventures, and eventually turns him from a puppet into a real boy. This fairy has been evoked in other forms as well. Readers might remember the 2001 movie A.I.: Artificial Intelligence in which a robot boy sought to become “real” and eventually finds a blue fairy on Coney Island, in a sunken post-apocalyptic period. This child’s quest to transform into their true or yearned-for identity is apparent in ¿Puedes verme? as well. It is only after contact with this otherworldly character that Bárbara can find herself and eventually return home in her true and complete form. 

The desaparecidos begin to see each other after Azucena's visit

In terms of the production, I hope this play finds new audiences. The direction of the play was outstanding. Every moment was full of energy—every moment. This included the transition scenes. The actors displayed a real awareness toward the audience to keep them engaged, mostly through slapstick and corporeal gesticulations that heightened their storytelling, and not once did the energy subside. I could sense how much the audience was engaged throughout the production, especially because kids tend to be real about their feelings. Through vibrant and ever-changing costumes, digital projections and black-light sets, the visual components of the play also produced a dynamic atmosphere for storytelling. There was also audience participation. For example, at one point, the desaparecidos in the factory were listening to the sounds of the ocean on the edge of the stage, listening toward the audience. Eventually, the audience began to make the sounds of the ocean, as the actors commented on the sounds they heard. 

The niños desaparecidos listening to the ocean

In this season, it is also worth noting that Valentina Sierra made the Saturday performances funciones relajadas, for autistic and neurodivergent audiences. This allowed children who otherwise would not be traditionally welcomed into the theater space, to feel a part of this vibrant community. These relaxed performances allowed these audiences to attend the theater without the constraints of traditional audience behavior, like being quiet and sitting still during the production. On another level, it is also beautiful to see the inclusion of other desaparecidos from society attending the theater as well. In all ways, this performance, and its production, are why I attend theater: the construction of an inclusive community—on stage and in the audience—and raising awareness—in creative and imaginative ways—of important issues affecting such communities. Bravo Puño de tierra!

Chilangolandia, mi amor

It is difficult for me to come to terms with the fact that it has taken me years to return to my beloved Ciudad de México (CDMX) and its vibrant and dynamic theater scene—a long-distance relationship prolonged by the COVID-19 pandemic, finishing my dissertation, and a new job/move. So, to my utter delight, the first production on this trip was Chilangolandia, mi amor at Foro A Poco No on calle de la República de Cuba. My first play back turned out to be a love letter to the city by those who live the good, the bad, and the chingado. 

The 80-minute billed production is a cornucopia of histories and experiences that help build/reflect a sense of community among those who call CDMX their home (whether since birth, by choice, or by force). The actors share stories and interact with the audience—thus creating this two-fold sense of community through stories and action. I might add that with the rise of artificial intelligence, and concerns about dwindling human contact, coupled with an ever-increasing sense of loneliness, this play reminds us of the many players that construct a community, as well as community fostered through theater experiences. This play also reminded me that I feel such a community in CDMX each time I return. It feels great to be back! 

The playwright, Mario Conde, wrote in the playbill: 

No se trata de las historias de la ciudad, sino de la historia que la ciudad misma es. El calor dentro de un taxi, el olor de una quesadilla callejera, las inundaciones en avenidas, la música del concreto: emociones que vivimos a través de personajes de papel para expresar lo mucho que se ama a una ciudad que nos da todo para odiarla” 

It’s not about stories from the city, but the story of what the city itself is. The heat inside a taxi, the smell of a street-bought quesadilla, the floodings on the avenues, the music from the concrete: emotions that we live through character roles that express how much we love a city that gives us every reason to hate it (my translation). 

The roughly 20 stories, not in chronological order, that I could count throughout the production were: street vendors, a lucha libre fight, relating traffic news from a helicopter, a female lover acting as if she were the city, relating episodes of tragedy in the city, a male calling on a prostitute, relating their run-in with the trademarked word chilango, a moment to talk about their theater, relating aspects of the city through the alphabet, the curtain call, a lamplight with skull, the dance of death, a robber with gun, the evolution of the bus, relating a story with an Aztec codex, cut-out scenes of the city, the death of a lady in a traffic accident, the representation of death on scaffolding, the suggestion of a new city crest, commuting to work late on the bus. 

The four actors, David Almaga, Abigail Espíndola, Omar Esquinca, and Erika Franco, inhabited various roles throughout each of these scenes, demonstrating their tremendous, and nimble, acting skills, and their ability to engage—in the moment—with the audience and themselves (there was a moment another actor needed help unrolling some yarn and they stepped in to help). Throughout the production, then, the fourth wall was not only crossed, but shattered. In fact, at one point, Erika Franco, who was playing the role of a street vendor, came to me and asked me to buy something from her. At first, I thought this was just part of the show and she was going to move one, but she insisted. So, I pulled out my collection of coins, and, in the dark light of the theater, handed her I have no idea how much. And then she gave me a de la Rosa marzipan.

One might argue that they know their audience (themselves?) well—the constant swiping and messaging, Hollywood, 24-hour news cycles, have all created a world in which we, as consumers, crave attention spans with new content. Our production lasted around 70 minutes, and with the inclusion of approximately 20 scenes, that means the average length of each scene lasted around 3.5 minutes. The caveat to this calculation, however, is that there were transitions and addresses to the audience that could very well have been considered a scene. All of this said, the production was a fluid tour de force of the fast-paced life that one lives in a behemoth of an urban setting like CDMX, which is the 5th largest city in the world, with over 21.5 million inhabitants, per the 2018 UN population estimates. 

The production ends today (Sunday, July 14), so if you happen to be reading this and are in CDMX, I highly recommend taking the time to do so.

Tijuana

Tijuana is a conceptually driven devised piece of documentary theater whose underlying premise is to (supposedly) put oneself in the shoes of another and learn more about humanity, all the while teaching a lesson in dignity and economics. This play forms part of a series that looks at what democracy means for Mexico from 1965-2015. In this case, Lázaro Rodriguez, film and theater actor from the group Lagartijas tiradas al sol, portrayed life in Tijuana for five months in 2015, and took on a new identity and worked for minimum wage. As a result, Tijuana becomes a recollection of recreated vignettes performed on stage through such physical elements as visual aids and props, as well as formally through current theatrical fashion in México, narraturgia (telling stories and reenacting them).

Image by Juan Leduc

I must be honest that I am a little troubled by, but not completely opposed to, the concept in general. If what he told us is indeed true, then for me, Tijuana feels uncomfortably close to slum tourism, a controversial type of voyeurism to see how people live in the poorest areas of the world. With that said, Carolina A. Miranda of the LA Times feels the opposite. She feels that the play “steers clear of romanticized poverty porn” because she sees the play more as “ultimately a performance about a performance. As Rodríguez questions his own motives for wanting to take on the role of Santiago Ramírez, he asked: “Is it possible to represent another?”. I think that’s a question that not only deals with the premise of the play, but acting in general, which is far more intriguing to me. Gabino’s other works tend to question the fidelity of representation as well, with both Tijuana (2017) and Montserrat (2014) providing bibliographies at the end. If a bibliography is needed, then to what extent is material provided, and to what extent does the actor provide his own resources. Therefore, to what extent does he “actually” walk in another’s shoes?

Beginning of the work. Photo: Nicholas Sheets

While I feel the premise behind this devised piece of theater is noble, that is, to educate Mexico’s middle class to current socioeconomic problems, I find it more troubling that an actor who was apparently dishonest with locals (not revealing his true identity or purpose), and who later makes a living as an actor by producing other’s poverty into entertainment, albeit honest entertainment, thinks that the ends justify the means. With all of that said, however, Gabino does not pretend to become what he is documenting. That is, he does not portray himself as having authentically experienced poverty. He confesses at the beginning, for example, that he brought with him hygiene products that a person on minimum wage could not afford, but that he finds essential for his daily routine, emphasizing implicitly that he does not plan to fully experience poverty. At another point we see him in an interview post-Tijuana sipping a cup of espresso, juxtaposing his own middle-class life versus the poverty of others. Thus, the play is as much a play about working class poverty conditions as it is about Gabino himself, or the persona he created, and that, I have to say, saves the play from becoming 100% “slum tourism” or “poverty porn”. But then again, was this Gabino or a persona Gabino created? That would change a lot of how one looks at this play.

Gabino's "interview". Photo: Nicholas Sheets

And, if this was indeed the actor who lived in poverty and not a fabricated persona, then this is not the first time something similar has been produced for consumption in an art form. You’ll probably remember the documentary in Netflix called “Living on OneDollar” (2013) where four Americans go to rural Guatemala and document living on a typical wage for two months. Of notable difference here, however, is that Gabino is Mexican, whereas the Netflix documentary is made by foreigners not accustomed to the country where they are living. Another similar documentary where someone documents poverty working conditions in sweat shops is The True Cost (2015). Since the naturalist movement in the late 19^th century, audiences have welcomed a new form of “living in the shoes of another” through visual art such as film documentaries and documentary theater. And while these types of documentaries are necessary to provide more concrete information about challenges in our world today, to what extent do these efforts lend to “poverty porn” or “slum tourism”? Does Gabino offer a new perspective on dealing with difficult issues through Tijuana?

Tijuana. Photo Credit: Nicholas Sheets

Moreover, the production blurred the lines between theater and real life, in true documentary fashion. On two occasions we are privy to recorded death and destruction―literally. Gabino recorded videos, took photos, and acquired others’ videos. Thus, the audience receives both Gabino’s experience in his own words and writing, as well as actual experiences of others. On one occasion we see someone’s video recording of shoddily built houses collapsing on the side of a hill as spectators laugh and joke about it. This was the 2015 landslide in Tijuana in the colonia Anexa Miramar, and luckily no one was either injured or hurt during this catastrophe, since signs of a landslide were beginning to appear, and people were evacuated. Nonetheless, this was not the outcome of another video reproduced with sound only, except for one brief moment, showing the actual murder of a supposed rapist. Gabino reproduced the speech by one of the community leaders who declares that justice should be executed by the community and not by the police, since the law had abandoned them in their shanty towns. After this fiery speech, the lights went out and we heard a video someone took while the community murdered this man, and then suddenly, we see his bloodied body. After this brief glimpse, we continue to hear the community killing him while we sat in utter darkness. Absolutely horrific, and uncomfortable; and I think that was the point.

Gabino recorded his experiences in a journal, which he states served as a means whereby he could record his thoughts without having to color them through hindsight. He would often recite this journal word for word, which would often lead to a reenactment and/or his didactic thoughts about that experience. For example, on one occasion he was home alone when suddenly he found himself in front of the family’s adolescent daughter, who was completely naked after having taken a shower. He excused himself with an apology and returned to his room, conflicted over what he as Gabino Rodriguez versus he as Santiago Ramírez (his new persona) would have done. But after a conversation with Gabino, I’m not sure whether all the material provided is completely legit, or material created to show the life of “someone”, when that someone is not actually Gabino himself.

Tijuana. Photo Credit: Nicholas Sheets

Toward the end of the production he made a point to argue that the socioeconomic situation of those who live in poverty with the legal minimum wage of around 73 pesos in 2015 (the equivalent of about $5/day at the exchange rate around May 2015) creates situations like the one he lived in—living in a small room in a section of town abandoned by the police. It also says something about what Mexicans who hold power think about those who live in poverty. In 2018 the minimum wage a day for a Mexican is 88.36 pesos (or the equivalent of $4.80 at the current exchange rate). His conclusion, “People who determine the minimum wage don’t ever have to live on minimum wage”. Tijuana is an attempt to show how people live on minimum wage to a middle-class public that has probably never experienced such a socioeconomic struggle.

Toward the end of his stay in Tijuana Gabino’s persona decided that his life was indeed in danger because he had misled this community for five months in terms of his real identity and purpose, and after learning of the brutal murder of this person in the video, and having lost his true identification card, he left a month early. I asked him after the show if he was concerned whether his story would eventually make its way back to the family with whom he lived, or that particular community. He replied that the social circles of those who attend and publish about theater are far removed from the lives of a community that lives under minimum wage. This is somewhat fortunate for him, but also unfortunate in general. But if the story itself was almost all fabricated, then I take my hat off to him for his amazing storytelling, and I have to take a hard look at myself for my own gullibility. As Gabino states in another interview: "I show a lot of material in the performance which proves I was there. But the spectator has, hopefully, enough material to doubt whether they are seeing truth or fiction" ("Playwright undercover: Gabino Rodriguez").

Tijuana. Photo Credit: taken from Exberliner

Nonetheless, the theatricality of the storytelling provided a helpful mechanism for us to follow his story, and an artistic means to perceive life in Tijuana without having to go to Tijuana. There was a projector upstage right where pictures and videos appeared. For example, the video of the man being murdered, and the houses crumbling in the landslide, appeared on this screen. But when he would reenact certain experiences he would also use the screen, as a sort of supplement to his storytelling. For example, while in Tijuana Gabino would go to a park and meditate while looking at the sky. Gabino laid on the floor of the stage looking upward, and the audience saw clouds and airplanes moving on the screen. In essence, we saw what he was looking at, but at a different angle. On many occasions he would read aloud his journal, and as an audience we see the journal entry on the screen. Thus, the visual aids helped reinforce many of his experiences that words alone could not portray.

Looking up at the sky. Photo: Nicholas Sheets

Gabino also used movement as a mechanism for storytelling. He began his performance reproducing movements he performed each day in a factory, moving his hands to the rhythm of the part of the machine that he was assigned to in the assembly line. He opened with these robotic movements but ended dancing as if he were in the bar of the community, lost in the music the locals danced to. And this movement was far freer than the repetitions of a factory.

One of the final moments dancing. Photo: Nicholas Sheets

But these lighter moments were tinged with underlying pessimism. For example, at one point he narrated the times he enjoyed watching “Manchester United” vs. “Real Madrid” playing soccer, the kids wearing shirts of famous players they dream of becoming, dreams that Gabino states will more than likely never take place. So, while the community enjoyed playing soccer to pass the time, it merely underscores the stagnant place and unmoveability of this sector of society.

Tijuana is a tough play to digest, and it should be. Someone with fame and money who is concerned for those around him that suffer socioeconomically decides to apparently walk in the shoes of those with whom he empathizes as a means to call attention to the plight of another. But if he did not do what he said in a literal fashion, that is, he created a persona like himself to make a sort of mockumentary, then the play takes on a whole new and interesting light that is indeed worthy of far more explorations. Ultimately, however, I feel the play is a step in the right direction in understanding what democracy and freedom mean for those who live on minimum wages in Mexico in 2018, as well as how those in the middle class perceive of, and play with, their own representations in juxtaposition.

Wenses y Lala

To be human. For me, theater reminds me of what it means to be human. Carefully cultivated theater draws out and highlights the gloriously human in life. Such theater I experienced Friday night at the Miami Dade County Auditorium. As part of the 33^rd International Hispanic Theatre Festival of Miami, I witnessed a remarkable play, Wenses y Lala, from the group “TresTristes Tigres”, written and directed by Adrián Vázquez (as Wenses), with Teté Espinoza as Lala. This was the first time the play breathed air outside of Mexico, and Miamians are in for a real treat. If you are in Miami for the weekend and would like to spend money on something meaningful, worthwhile, and ultimately human, I suggest you consider seeing this beautiful piece of theater. In what follows, I would like to remark on some of the aspects of the play that I found simply captivating and well executed, both in terms of content of the play and the form in which it was realized.

Wenses y Lala. Photo credit: Cartelera de Teatro

First and foremost, Wenses y Lala is a story of love. A love between two persons that continues beyond the grave. As such, we as the audience are participating in their reminiscing about their life together. As we walked into the theater we were met by both characters sitting on a brown, wooden bench, mute but observant. Little by little they began to open up to us about who they were and what to expect as they began to unfold their lives for our observance. The beauty of this first encounter was that we began to see little idiosyncrasies that defined each of the characters. For example, Lala loves to talk and make jokes. She is expressive with her gestures and still in love with her Wenses. He, on the other hand, finds it very difficult to speak in public to those he does not know. He stutters, avoids eye contact, and relies on Lala to control the conversation. Immediately, the fourth wall is shattered as the lights go up and Lala asks for volunteers to introduce themselves. She engaged with the public and asked questions, cracked jokes, and found a way to make a connection between themselves as a couple and the characteristics of the audience members. Once finished, Wenses felt a little more comfortable opening up, and the stutter, while still there, began to subside. The lights then faded on the audience, and the couple continued their storytelling. I would venture that we as an audience felt more connected to these two characters because of this initial experience. This connection between actor and audience, I feel, was vital for the play’s ultimately successful realization because Wenses and Lala were no more mere characters on a stage, but people with real lives who wished to interact and form a bond with us as an audience. As the saying goes: “People don’t care how much you know until they know how much you care”.

Adrián Vázques. Photo Credit: Cartelera de Teatro

This is a story that weaves together two distinct periods of time: the immediate present, as deceased persons engaging with the audience and reminiscing on times foregone; as well as brief moments in which the characters reenact specific moments of the past they are narrating. Let me give you an example. At one point in the show, as Wenses and Lala describe their evolving relationship from innocent children cum lovers, we reach a point in their story when their physical intimacy blossoms. As they both recount their version of this event (Lala probing Wenses to see how much he remembers), you see each of the characters lost in their emotions. Lala, for one, with closed eyes and lips somewhat pursed, reimagines the feelings of her “first time”, while Wenses, the shy one of the couple, acknowledges with a head nod this special moment as it is being recounted by Lala. The storytelling here transports us into the past, and Lala’s corporeal and sensual probing reminds us that the story being told actually occurred because she can recall her emotions and feelings.

Teté Espinoza. Photo Credit: Cartelera de Teatro

Here’s another example. Toward the end of the show, Lala recounts the day she died and how Wenses, who sang once and refused to sing again, actually sang at her funeral. At that moment, Wenses, the reticent of the two, bursts up and out of the bench and begins to express himself in song, lamenting the death of his beloved companion. His character’s arch probably hit its climax at this point, from the beginning of the play when he could barely speak to finally releasing his emotions and becoming vulnerable in front of not only those at his wife’s funeral, but us as an active audience. It was breathtaking.

Which brings me to one of the most remarkable aspects of this play: the acting. I am almost always blown away by the amazing theater produced in Mexico City, and tonight I was definitely not disappointed. Theater does not necessarily need a large set or fancy lighting schemes to bring out the human in all of us. Theater simply needs a body or two sitting on a bench and captivating an audience by gestures and words. And that is exactly what occurred tonight. The eyes, the hands, the little idiosyncrasies of each of the characters, the songs, the playful way in which Lala teased and egged on Wenses and Wenses reverted to his defense mechanisms, all of these elements felt real. It was, in a word, human. I might add that Teté and Adrián have been acting in this play off and on since its debut in 2014, so there has to be some chemistry after four years together. Both Wenses and Lala have well crafted characters on stage and I am very appreciative and aware of the hard work that goes into crafting such unique relationships on the stage.

Wenses y Lala. Photo Credit: Centro Cultural Español

Finally, I would like to mention the form of the play in terms of its story telling. There is something to be said about the way a piece of drama utilizes storytelling as a tool for driving plot and action in the present world of the play. However, this technique was not taught to me during my playwrighting class, for example. The emphasis in playwrighting within modern Western dramatic traditions has usually focused on the dialogue between two persons in a time in which they are portrayed to be living. Much of the realist and absurdist drama of the twentieth century tend to remain in one time period with an immediate and mutual present for all characters involved. In a sense, the neoclassical tradition of the unities of time, space, and plot dominate most theater today, with few (notable) exceptions. In television much of this technique is used with flashbacks, such as in the series Lost when viewers are transported into the past of a character’s life in order to understand the present action and the driving forces behind each of the characters. In this way, storytelling provides clear impetus for understanding the present.

But in this play the present action is not dependent upon previous memories. Rather, the memories build up the story in order to create finely polished characters with whom the audience falls in love. We do follow a trajectory of their lives as the play advances, but the present action are two people sitting on a bench retelling important episodes in their lives. We share memories with them as they recall their most harrowing and joyful experiences together. By the end of the play, we have invested so much time and emotion into their lives that they have become dear friends to us and it is hard to say goodbye. In this way, the play’s action is more about establishing close relationships rather than strictly following a chronological plot. It is more an awareness of what it means to be human, without explicit didactic purposes or an activist theme for social or political change. For me, it was like opening up a window into the human experience and remembering what it means to have a meaningful conversation, to develop lasting relationships, and to persist in love despite the challenges I face.

Is this the new direction of theater today? I at least realize that in Mexico this is becoming a popular trend, with critics and fans alike. During the discussion after the show I asked Adrián about his choice in writing Wenses y Lala in the form of narrating stories, a genre often referred to in post-dramatic theory as “narraturgia” (narrativa + dramaturgia). He replied that the theater he writes seeks to find “el poder de la palabra” (the power of the word) and to “transmitir un sentimiento” (transmit a feeling). He does not like to use the term “narraturgia” because he views his theater as just that, theater: “lo nuestro es teatro”. Thus, he feels that categorizing his theater into a subsection like “narraturgia” does not give justice to what he is attempting to do: write theater that is engaging. Adrián is colleagues with Alejandro Ricaño (think El amor de las luciérnagas or Más pequeños que el Guggenheim, for example). Ricaño also writes theater in this style and has found a lot of success. Since the beginning of the 21^st century Mexican playwrights have begun to write theater by telling stories in them (think of the 2006 edition of Paso de Gato). One of the audience members felt that the storytelling allowed us as an audience to glimpse what it means to be Mexican, but a self-identified Mexican felt that the story was rather universal in its scope. I agree with both. I found the play’s recourse to violence one of the tropes often used in Mexican theater, but the idea of lasting relationships and difficult marriages is indeed universal.

For those in the Miami area this weekend, I highly recommend this play. For more information, visit teatroavante.com or visit miamidadecountyauditorium.org.

Baño de Luna (Bathing in the Moonlight) by Nilo Cruz

Truth. It speaks to all of us and we know it when we feel it. Inescapable and undeniable truth. Theatre brings out the human condition, yes. But it does so revealing truths that are difficult, if not impossible, to deny. Personally connecting with those truths unlocks compartments of the soul that, sometimes, we never knew we never knew. Such is the case with Nilo Cruz’s new work “Baño de Luna”, set in the U.S., but among Cuban exhiles. For me, the play seemed like a tango between the 1984 movie Camila and a play about the struggles of exhiles in the US adapting or not adapting, to a new way of life. The story of a priest falling in love is nothing new. It’s a subject matter that, quite frankly, is sort of cliché. The idea of exhiles, and Cuban exhiles, at that, has been a topic of discussion in South Florida, at least, since the first half of the 20th century. So, for me the play itself wasn’t something I considered very fresh, but there were moments when the play did resonant with current social vibes and offered commentary for further consideration.

Flyer for the Production by Arca Images

            This Miami premiere occured in the Black Box Theater at the Miami-Dade County Auditorium. I’m learning that this venue is very fruitful for latino and latin-american theater within Miami. Both domestic and international pieces of theater occur here. It’s a versatile space. Nilo Cruz straddles his residence between Miami and New York, so it was a treat to have this new production in Miami. The world premiere occured in the McCarter Theater in New Jersey, and won the Greenfield Award in 2016.

Nilo Cruz, the playwright. Photo Credit: Difusión

The acting choices and directing were clear except for the interaction between Martina, Marcela’s mother, and Taviano, who it appeared played her former spouse. When Taviano appears after a long stay at the university, his mother confuses him with her late husband. However, when Taviano appears later, all dressed in white, and acts like the former husband, he cannot kiss her. It looked as if Taviano was playing the role of his late father for his mother, and that’s why he couldn’t kiss her. That would be like the game going a bit too far. But then later  (SPOILER) he appears and takes Martina with him to live in the great beyond. So, because Taviano looked so similar to his father, they used him again, dressed all in white, to be the late father and husband. It was clear by the end,, but it was not clear the first time he appeared on stage. Other than that, though, the acting was superb. Really. The matriarch of the family, Martinela, is played by Teresa María Rojas who has been described as “una leyenda del teatro en Miami” (“El Nuveo Herald”). It was a treat to see her before she bids adieu once and for all to the limelight.

Elenco de ‘Baño de luna’: (desde la izq.) Carlos Acosta Milián, Joel Hernández Lara, Ariel Texidó, Teresa María Rojas, Andrea Ferro, Claudia Valdés, el autor y director Nilo Cruz y la productora Alexa Kuve. PEDRO PORTAL pportal@elnuevoherald.com

Two scenes left an indelible impression on me. To give my reader some context, Father Monroe has fallen in love with Marcela, one of the members of his congregation. This is the underlying plot for the play. Their precipitous love was sparked when Marcela decides to practice the piano at church. Marcela had a piano, but the family decided to sell it in order to, among other things, keep up appearances, as well as pay for her younger brother’s, Taviano, college education. It is during one of these practice sessions that, in another location within the church, Father Monroe and Father Alberto discuss Monroe’s vertiginous feelings toward Marcela. The background music of the piano kept Marcela’s presence so palpable during this scene. Father Monroe asks Father Alberto, his superior, if, as celibate clergy, they might have distanced themselves too much from the nature of their composition as men. Personally, I agreed with Father Monroe, but, much to my surprise—and delight—Father Alberto took advantage of the current situation and asked Father Monroe to hear the slow, methodic piano music coming from Marcela. He then asks, “Isn’t music far removed from our nature?” Yet it is the same music that enveloped Father Monroe into an enraptured state of desperate love for Marcela. Both Monroe and Alberto had valid perspectives. Carnal nature of man and the edifying nature of the arts and religion were put in clarifying juxtaposition. Yet for Father Monroe, both sides pulled him toward Marcela. I was truly thankful for that surprising, honest, and conflicting argument. I’ve heard an interpretation of Nilo Cruz’s plays as placing the arts as having some sort of redemptive power. I can see this soundly in Baño de Luna from the previously described scene, as well as understanding how music is what provoked Father Monroe’s journey with Marcela.

Marcela and Father Monroe. Photo Credit: Álvaro Mata

The second thought that underlined the play was the idea of expanding our borders, if not entirely destroying them. Father Monroe, a self-declared progressive clergyman, sermonizes at the beginning of the play about extending borders to include others is needed if the church is to stay relevant. He refers to a passage in the New Testament wherein Christ remarks: “In my Father’s house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you” (John 14:2). Father Monroe’s take on that passage of scripture was that there is plenty of room for all in Heaven. Therefore, to emulate the way Heaven treats its citizens, fellow congregation members should also allow spaces to exist for all around them as well. At the end of the play, this theme returns in full force as Marcela consoles Father Monroe in their new relationship. She says that he may have lost a place in the house of God, but he will always find a place at their home. In short, she put into practice the very same words Father Monroe preached at the beginning of the play. Thus, everything comes back full circle.

Overall the play was a treat—one of those treats that you’ve had time and again. It may get old, but sometimes you just can’t quit it. Crunch. Crunch.