¿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.

Los monstruos

My first production at the International Hispanic Theatre Festival. The festival is one of the main reasons I came to Miami. Where else can I get such top notch quality theater in Spanish, than in sunny Miami. This particular production of "Los Monstruos" comes from the Compañía Criolla in Buenos Aires, Argentina. Emiliano Dionisi wrote this musical at a playwrighting conference, which lasted three months. He's acquired quite a CV as a playwright and director. I learned this information during the talk-back session after the show, moderated by Teatro Avante's director: Mario Ernesto Sánchez. The play is reminiscent of God of Carnage, written by Yasmina Reza, and originally produced in 2006. Accordingly, the subject matter is about societal expectations of parents, parents who have a hard time dealing with their kids' behavior, and the ultimate breakdown of the parents in the face of conflict. I find it a little conflicting that the subject matter is such by a young playwright who is not a parent. But hey, everyone can branch out a bit. And, this musical won a lot of awards in Argentina.

Here "Los Monstruos" won the award for best musical in the 2016 Premios Hugo. Photo by Alfredo Luna.

The play follows the lives of a single dad, Claudio, and his son, paralleled with a mother, Sandra, and her daughter (the dad is a deadbeat who is only referred to). Claudio was played by Argentine actor Mariano Chiesa, while Sandra was played by Argentine actress Natialia Cociuffo. Both have "exceptional" kids: "Ni peor, ni mejor...distinto". Obviously, this is in the eye of the beholder. It's true. Each parent tends to believe their children are unique and outstanding. But their uniqueness creates problems at school. We learn that the dad has a problem with his son because he doesn't defend himself and others bully him. The mother has a hard time with her tomboy daughter who is invited to parties out of "pity". Each parent tries to make the best with their current situation, but they begin to unravel as the play develops. Eventually, the father snaps, and we learn at the end that instead of a life-threatening fight at school, he's actually the reason his son is in the hospital. On the other hand, the mother is in the hospital, awaiting the recovery of her husband, because her daughter pushed him down the stairs. At the end, we learn that the parents are the ones with the problems, and not so much their children. Or, their children were to become a product of their parenting. Either way, it's definitely not a happy ending.

Mariano Chiesa as Claudio, next to Natalia Cociuffo as Sandra. Photo taken from: El Mostrador, Argentina.

The scenery is exactly what you see in the picture above. It's rather simple, which, for me, is always welcome. I like this minimalist feature because I can focus on the acting and the dialogue. There's nothing worse than watching a flashy spectacle with absolutely no story. And there was a story here! If I could add a little more, on top of the minimalist stage, they never left the small square that encapsulated them during the entire musical. Much like God of Carnage, mentioned above, as the play progressed, the parents slowly opened up to the audience and revealed their innermost desires for fame, sexual satisfaction, etc. It was like watching a boxing match where the players bloody themselves verbally more and more, reaching the climax when one is knocked out.

I have to be honest. When I see productions like these, it makes me reevaluate my own position as husband and father. Their kids, on the surface, are everything to them, but underlying it all is their forgotten selves. You could almost argue that their children become their obsessions that end up hurting both their children and themselves. After seeing this production, I've reflected on moments when I raise my voice or get frustrated with my children. How far away am I from becoming like them? It's a scary thought, but I at least find solace in the fact that I can reflect on this development before it is too late. And yes, my kids mean the world to me. And yes, they are special.

Sublime Decisión

I finally have an evening to escape from the plethora of amazing activities Mester in Salamanca has put together for my 2 week course for Spanish professors. Luckily, this week is the "Festival Internacional de las Artes de Castilla y León". Not so luckily, there are very few theater pieces to see: two to be exact. Oh well. "No llueve a gusto de todos" ("you can't please everyone") as one of my professors said here.

Flyer for the Arts Festival

Tonight's production was "Sublime Decisión", an overtly didactical feminist play, at the Teatro de la Comedia in Salamanca. This play was originally produced in 1955 by Spanish playwright Miguel Mihura at the Madrid theater "Teatro Infanta Isabel". All the actors of this production, directed by Pablo Málaga, belong to the company "En Verso" ("In Verse"), promoted by the "Universidad de la Experiencia" (University of Experience), a government inititative with the University of Salamanca, for citizens 55+ in the region of Castilla y León. If I were to offer some type of production comparison for the United States, I would categorize this as a "community theater" piece.

Outside of the "Teatro La Comedia" in Salamanca

Flyer for the production of "Sublime Decisión"

In "Sublime Decisión" we follow the life of Florita, played in this production by Isabel Ortiz de Zarate Gorbea. Florita aspires to more than being only a coquetish girl on a balcony, awaiting a suiter to snatch her up. She aspires to work, to do more with her life. The year is 1895, and we are in Salamanca. For women in Spain during th 19th century, to pursue a career was almost impossible, and definitely socially awkward. Take, for instance, Emilia Pardo Bazán, an incredible writer from Galicia who was denied entry into the Real Academia Española, not for her indubitable talent, but for the simple fact of being a woman. Florita confronts her society with her dreams. She eventually persists enough to be placed in a government position that is completely sexist. But, true to melodramatic works, she clearly outperforms the men and makes them feel humiliated. She is the "underdog" with pure talent. However, with time, she is eventually sacked from her job, even though she is the best at it, and even though the other men have problems with her. It's completely unjustified, but what could you expect from 1895 when, in comparison, we have an idiot like Trump who continues to make hostile comments about women and menstrual cycles? But enough about that...

Florita at work

But the government office is not where the majority of this play occurs. We are privy to the conversations of Cecilia, Florita's sister, their mother, the aunt, and the two neighbors who gossip like crazy. That was my favorite part of the play. There were moments when it felt like I was actually watching a real conversation. In other words, a lot of the dialogue felt real, as opposed to other moments when the dialogue was a bit forced. Let me give you an example of forced dialogue here. When Florita was fired, right before she leaves she turns back and says "Adiós a mi sueño". I mean, it's obvious. We don't need to hear it to confirm it.

At the end of the production a sort of "deus ex machina" tool was used, and Florita was offered a position to oversee the new ministry of women and put only women to work in that ministry. She denies, yet again, the advances of her suitor, and dedicates her life to her work. This is when she confronts the audience to say that this decision was "sublime".

The ladies gossip about Florita

Now, if I may, I'd like to add just a few criticisms concerning this particular production. I'm not sure if it was the directing or the limitations of the space, but the lighting and the music truly bothered me. For example, the sound system made me jump in my seat at first. Then, they had some strange jazz/pop selection like something straight out of "Moulin Rouge (2001)" that played between major scenes. Concerning the light, there were moments in which actors whole faces were blocked by the curtain and, subsequently, were in the dark. However, they did well with what they had. I'd imagine this was sort of a shotgun performance for the arts festival, so they probably didn't have a lot of time to sort through technical aspects of the play in this particular theater. 

The actors during their final bow (Florita is next to the guy with the white blazer)

It doesn't seem like theater is very popular here. There are two productions during the whole festival, and very few options in Salamanca. Maybe I'm just here during the "off" season, though. For this production, the small house was maybe a quarter to a third filled. But anyway, it was a fun experience. I'm grateful for the time and talents that went into this production.