Aguardiente: Where Magic Transcends Borders

If it has been awhile since I've posted here, it's because you can see the last two years of productions that I've seen over the summer in Mexico City in the Latin American Theatre Review journal. However, I just saw a "world premiere" of a production here in DC at the Gala Hispanic Theatre, and felt prompted to share that review here. Without further ado:

        I realized during Aguardiente: Where Magic Transcends Borders that when I attend a theatrical production, I hope to experience a somewhat polished performance (as polished as "live" can be), and a product that witnesses a process through which workshopping, critical feedabck, and revisions have occurred. I also look for actors who embody their roles with pizazz, who tell me through their performance that what I am seeing is worth their and my time. For this production, the latter triumphed over the former. And mind you, the performance I attended was a student matinee, with students from various schools (both public and private), who were, generally, inexperienced with how to behave during a live performance. However, attending with them was refreshing, as it was telling to see and hear their reactions, especially toward unexpected and/or non-normative events on stage. I think that we in the theater world are too often accustomed to our own ways of experiencing theater (and its progressive ideals), and it would do well for us to reach more diverse audiences (which is something that delights me each time I go to CDMX and see how diverse and accessible the theater scene is there). In this respect, I applaud Gala Hispanic Theatre's education program and recommend supporting it in ways that are meaningful and sustainable. In what follows, I hope to unpack the dichotomy I outlined above: a work-in-progress that doesn't quite stand up on its own legs, but which nonetheless merits your visit anyway.



        Gala Hispanic Theatre in Columbia Heights, here in Washington, D.C., is producing an updated version of R.Evolución Latina's 2025 performance of Aguardiente: In process, originally conceived by Luis Salgado and Daniel Gutiérrez. The fact that Gala is billing the show as a world premiere evinces to the public that this new version has been workshopped enough to merit a name change--at least enough to state that what we are seeing is new. However, here is where I'm left baffled by this whole setup. But first, allow me to provide a quick plot summary before I delve into aspects that have led me to arrive at such a state of bewilderment.



        Quick plot detour: Three aspiring artists--Alberto, Alejandro, and Kiara--work together to produce a show that feels authentic to their Latinx roots, despite the artistic wing-clipping demands from investors and other producers in the theatre industry. As their show progressively congeals, we are privy to its development as their characters come to life on stage. Thus, Aguardiente becomes a production within a production. Their characters, Anís and Azuquita, are two young Afro-Latino lovers from a small town somewhere around the Caribbean, who set out on an adventure to explore the world and what it has to offer, without losing their identities. In the musical number “Buscando la ciudad” the writers pass through fictitious cities (Macondo, for example) and real ones (London, for example), looking for the perfect urban environment that will put their characters to the test. After settling on New York City, they receive a call from an investor who wants them to add a circus into their production. Their show takes a drastic shift, then, as Anís meets Beta in the circus, and Azuquita is left out. As the second act develops, both Anís and Azuquita are left struggling with how to reconcile their past identities with their present circumstances. This occurs while the struggling writers juggle with artistic integrity to their Latinx roots, the demands of capitalist investors, and their relationship as friends. Thus, the struggle of the writers begins to parallel that of their characters. Anís eventually breaks with Azuquita to develop a relationship with her new friend Beta. Back in our reality, instead of continuing their production process with these demanding producers, they turn to their Latinx communities to raise the necessary funds, with the help of Kiara, their designated social media influencer. Their show becomes a success, and they are given the promise of a Broadway contract, which they promptly reject. By staying true to their identities and their communities, the writers demonstrate to themselves, to their investors, and to us as an audience, that one should never sell out or change to please others.






        But what has left me puzzled? Let me start with the set. This production relied heavily on AI imagery, as Drew Morris explained in his review. There were misspelled words, odd images with conflicting spelling (circa vs. circo), and the unsettling and uncanny vibe that we’ve come to expect from “realistic” images produced with AI. Let me be clear that I am not opposed to the use of AI projections within theater, but there needs to be a thorough vetting process before an image is projected in the final production. I felt offended throughout the production because what I was seeing felt half-baked. Even the playbill’s main art used AI. I feel that this was a missed opportunity to highlight the actors themselves, especially if the production was looking to be more inclusive through its casting. Since the production highlights identity and community, the use of AI—and bad use of AI—as their scenery and through their playbill seems to undercut the foundational messaging at play of being authentic.

        

        As you can see from the synopsis, there is an embrace of the local, of bucking the “polished” or “mainstream” demands of popular media, as well as learning to sit comfortably within one’s self-defined parameters. Their dramaturgical choice was to represent the struggle that so often occurs behind the scenes when facing pressure from producers and investors. I wonder if Aguardiente becomes this in a nutshell. The show itself is a testament to the “in process” nature of its content. To that extent, I believe that because the production felt unfinished is also the foundation of its message, which has left me puzzled. And don’t get me wrong—I’m happy when a production leaves me thinking and conflicted.


(Photo Credit: Daniel Martínez)

        The unpolished vibe extended to the minimalistic set as well: a rolling whiteboard with notes and post-its, a keyboard to practice new melodies, and blocks for staging. But this actually worked well, as the show seems to sit in its unrefined positionality. We are not witnessing a Broadway production, mind you, and the show makes no insinuation it is trying to be that. Furthermore, the screens on which the AI images were projected were also used to project virtual calls, allowing the characters to communicate across borders through technology. Finally, the lighting from the stage was augmented into the audience with a fog machine that steadily pumped out a haze through which the colors would extend during big numbers. This part felt immersive, which I did find myself enjoying, especially during the musical numbers with great choreography and dancing.

        On another note, the plot and character developments also felt unpolished, but not because the show is trying to buck the trends of mainstream expectations. For example, the relationship between the two fictional lovers seems to be held up only by the sole fact that these two happen to be from the same town. Later, when Anís leaves Azuquita for Beta, there is only a sense of gratitude to Azuquita for allowing her to explore who she is. I posit that much of this play tries to pay respect to Latinx heritage and underrepresented communities (especially in the Latinx world), but that the rushed (literally the struggling writers are working under deadlines they find hard to meet) and underdeveloped characters undercuts its message of inclusivity and celebration of Latinx heritage. Granted, it is hard to develop their relationship when half the play itself is about the writers and not these characters, but that is a choice they made when creating a show within a show.



        After the performance that I saw, the students who remained were curious about how the characters felt when Anís went from a heteronormative relationship to a lesbian relationship. Unfortunately, no one in the cast or production crew addressed that question. I wonder if it’s because they don’t have to think about that in the production or because they felt uncomfortable speaking about that with kids. So, on the one hand, I applaud the production for seeking more inclusive representations by lifting marginalized communities like the Afro-Latinx and LGBTQ+ communities, but on the other hand, it felt very much like lip service to these communities, which ultimately, I believe, undermines their production. Ironically, what makes this decision more striking is that the writers themselves strive to reject the forced inclusion of certain ideas from overbearing producers to make their show mainstream, but in their quest to be authentic, they include underrepresented communities with no sense of authenticity. In all actuality, the play within the play produces two parts whose sum does not equal a whole.



        There were also brief, nationalistic moments for the audience, which so often occurs among events geared toward Latinx communities. In a production meant to highlight pride in Latinx identities, the show made intertextual and popular references to La casa de Bernarda Alba, 100 años de soledad, Rita Moreno, West Side Story, In the Heights, and other icons, figures, and canonical Spanish pieces. All of this seemed geared to boost pride for their audience as the production gloried in predecessors who paved the way for writers like those on stage, and a production like Aguardiente. In a very real way, this musical is a love letter to the Latinx community in all its diversity, but to celebrate it, they certainly don’t make the experience profound.

   

        If I am harsh on the production, I think it is warranted. Surely the director and playwrights saw this criticism from miles away—and embraced it. I’m just now arriving at it after seeing it for myself. The show (the production I saw and the show being produced within the show) feels rushed and underdeveloped, which seems to be the point. Maybe we can enjoy theater that isn’t polished or ready for mainstream consumption. Maybe we can enjoy something that strives for inclusivity but lacks depth. This unfinished quality and unsettled feeling have left me truly puzzled about my feelings toward Aguardiente overall. I doubt I’ll ever have a definitive answer or resolution, and that’s fine with me. However, what I will say is that the live band, the actors, the energy, and the singing are top notch, and enough for me to recommend the show before it closes on Sunday, May 24th. Just know that what you are about to see truly remains “in process”.



(Pictures of the production are credited to Gala Hispanic Theatre)

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.