cabaretera noir: Aventurera (1950)

Aventurera [videorecording]. Producciones Calderon S.A.; argumento de Alvaro Custodio; adaptacíon de Carlos Sampelayo y Alvaro Custodio ; una pelicula de pedro y Guillermo Calderón; dirigida por Alberto Gout. Cinemateca, distributed by Facets Video, [2004]. Originally released as a motion picture in 1950. Cinematography, Alex Phillips; editor, Alfredo Rosas Priego; music, Alberto Domínguez, Antonio Díaz Conde and Agustin Lara. Performers: Ninón Sevilla, Tito Junco, Andrea Palma, Miguel Inclán. With: video introduction by Michael Donnelly.

Summary: Elena tries to make a new life for herself after her mother leaves her alone, but she is drugged, seduced, and forced to work as a dancer/call girl in a nightclub. She soon rises to stardom as a dancer, but still plots revenge and escape.

style ****

substance ***1/2

Aventurera is a primo entry in the Golden Age of Mexican cinema, and, more important, perhaps the finest exemplar of the Mexican cabaretera subgenre, which is the rough equivalent of the American films noirs of the era. The critical difference, as the name implies, is that cabaretera always uses a club or casino as the backdrop and includes a goodly amount of musical numbers, also that cabaretera was more up front in its depiction of sensuality and sordidness than its Code-inhibited American cousins.

In any case the usual cabaretera story has considerable Sturm und Drang, and to spice things up, as if we needed more, the cabaret often doubles as a front for prostitution and white slavery, with the proprietor (or proprietress) leading a double life, usually as an otherwise respectable figure in high society. And, again paralleling film noir’s leftist sentiments, Aventurera and other films of its ilk swept away the curtain and revealed the seamy side of urban economic affluence in Mexico during the post-World War II years [1]. Changing tastes and other factors doomed the cabaretera to a short life span, little more than five years, and by 1956 it had more or less disappeared.

The plot of Aventurera, such as it is, concerns the character Elena (Ninon Sevilla) and her attempts to go straight after being forced into life as a prostitute and cabaret dancer by an evil bordello madam. Plot twists proceed fast and furious and the viewer can be forgiven for having difficulty keeping up with all the goings-on. But these are smoothed out by the phantasmagoric dance numbers which feature a high-energy Ninon at her most beguiling, never more so so than in the surrealist Arabian nights number, the over-the–top glory of which would do Busby Berkeley proud.

Aventurera was re-released in the late 1990s to much acclaim, and today enjoys a considerable cult following, mostly for its camp elements. But even so, after seven decades the film holds up exceptionally well, but more to the point holds up well when considered against the American films noirs of the period. And ultimately, even with all the talent in front of and behind the camera, this is Ninon Sevilla’s film start to finish.

Echoes of cabaretera can been seen even today in our current pop culture, most prominently in the immensely popular Mexican telenovelas. There was no American equivalent of cabaretera, though the closest is probably Gilda, and, strangely, in its more tenuous way, Casablanca. One quibble: the Facets DVD includes an informative introduction by film historian Michael Connelly, but a film as significant as Aventurera seems to scream out for real-time commentary as well as other extras. Perhaps Criterion can be persuaded to release an all-the-trimmings version in the future. Still, even in its present incarnation, a wild ride, and a fun movie.

[1] Aventurera has also been cited for its proto-feminist elements. The strong-willed Elena refuses to bend to the dictates of a patriarchal system; she resists the machinations of high-handed would be masters, be they a kindly, albeit clueless, husband, or a ruthless gangster, and ultimately her independent spirit prevails. There’s also the character of Rosaura, who, despite the unsavory nature of her enterprise, is a capable and successful businesswoman.

Further reading

Las reinas del trópico: María Antonieta Pons, Meche Barba, Amalia Aguilar, Ninón Sevilla, Rosa Carmina, by Fernando Muñoz Castillo. [México, D.F.] : Grupo Azabache, 1993. "Se termino de imprimir en julio de 1993 en Offset 70, S.A. de C.V., Victor Hugo 99, Mexico,03300, D.F."

Joanne Hershfield, Mexican Cinema/Mexican Woman, 1940-1950, University of Arizona Press, 1996.

Paula Barreiro Posada, ''The Only Defense is Excess: Translating and Surpassing Hollywood's Conventions to Establish a Relevant Mexican Cinema,” Anagramas Rumbos Sentidos Comunicación, v9 n18, Jan./June 2011.
 

 

The curse of the crying woman (La maldición de la Llorona)

    The curse of the crying woman / La maldición de la Llorona [DVD]. Alameda Films, CasaNegra presents a film by Rafael Baledón; screenplay by Rafael Baledón & Fernando Galiana; directed by Rafael Baledón. Panik House Entertainment; Ryko Distribution, 2006. Originally released as a motion picture in 1961. Cast: Rita Macedo, Rosita Arenas, Abel Salazar, Carlos Lopez, Moctezuma, Enrique Lucero. 

    Summary: a young woman inherits a creepy mansion from her reclusive aunt and gradually discovers its secrets, which include cursed bloodlines, mysterious murders, and supernatural magic.

style ****

substance ***

Accompanied by her husband, a naïve young woman visits her eccentric auntie, who lives in a decaying mansion. When they arrive, a scarred, clubfooted servant greets them in most menacing fashion while the auntie is nowhere to be found. As the couple settles in, creepy sounds of a wailing woman and ominous organ music can be heard in the middle of the night. Things only get worse for the visitors as the night progresses. 

If all this sounds familiar it’s, well, because it is. Curse of the Crying Woman (La Maldición de la Llorona) follows the familiar Gothic formula while throwing in a few, decidedly Mexican, twists and tricks of its own. Beautifully filmed at night and often described as the Mexican Black Sunday, the film is one of the summits of Mexican horror cinema and abounds in the genre’s trademark creepy atmospherics: hovering fog, candle lit dungeons, dilapidated castles, endless stairways, howling wolves, and lots of dead trees. In overall elegance of production I would rate it a whisker below Black Sunday, but with its own quirks and charms, which is another way of saying it’s pretty darn good.

Unrepentantly Gothic and with references not only to witchcraft but also voodoo, vampirism and lycanthropy, Crying Woman has all the genre’s requisite tropes: an inherited curse, pervasive madness, a menaced heroine, well meaning but ineffectual hero, sexy witch who is also a femme fatale, deformed servant, madman in the attic, rundown old castle, magical mirrors, dour portraits, and an intermingling of life and death, all done in a quintessentially Mexican style.

A veritable catalog of cinematic sleight-of-hand conjures up all these moods: miniatures, trick shots, lighting effects, rubber bats, foam rubber makeup, shadows, spooky sound effects, trap doors, elaborate staircases, fog machines, zooms, heavy-handed music score, rear projection and so on. Thus the striking similarity not only to the elegant Italian horror films of the era, but also the cheesy potboilers William Castle was serving us at about the same time, House on Haunted Hill in particular. But Crying Woman is a lot classier than Haunted Hill, and in its way scarier. All the more impressive that its high level of technical accomplishment was done so on a much smaller budget than its Hollywood and European counterparts.

In any case, the Mexican folktale of “La Llorona” (“The Weeping Woman”) has many variations and can be found in the local folklore of Hispanic communities from the American Southwest to the Philippines. The Curse of the Crying Woman is a very loose adaption of the original legend. In this version, the villainous Selma tries to use her niece in order to resurrect the ancient specter of La Llorona.

Selma is played by Rita Macedo, who projects a strong screen presence in the role of country estate matriarch who moonlights as a high priestess and sometimes eyeless witch. She’s supported by a fine cast of veteran Mexican actors but it’s really her show all the way. Whether playing the organ or metamorphosing into witch mode through one of her sinister trances, she oozes a malevolent sensuality that overlays a smoldering evil: seldom have we seen a witch this hot (burned at the stake or no) [1]. All in all, a marvelous, scenery chomping performance as the black magic woman.

My regard for the Mexican Horror genre grows with each new film I see, and if Curse of the Crying Woman is any representation, Mexico was a great country for Gothic cinema in the 1950s and 1960s. Though it my have some minor flaws, La Maldición de La Llorana is a quasi-masterpiece and nudges for a place in the top tier of horror films of the era.

CasaNegra’s re-mastered print looks like a million dollars and the special features include commentary by Michael Liuzza and a full color booklet, "The Legend of La Llorona" by Peter Landau. Delectably macabre and just plain beautiful to look at, Crying Woman is a must-see for fans of offbeat horror films.

[1] Barbara Steele, in the aforementioned Black Sunday is also pretty steamy. Is it just me, or does Rita Macedo bear a vague resemblance to Miss Steele? Maybe it’s all that black they wear. But for the hot witch ne plus ultra, it has to be Samantha Robinson in The Love Witch. 

Distinto Amanecer

Distinto Amanecer (Another Dawn). Mexico City: Films Mundiales, S.A., 1943. Productor, Emilio Gómez Muriel; director, Julio Bracho. With Andrea Palma, Pedro Armendáriz, Alberto Galán, Beatriz Ramos. Based on the play La Vida Conyugal by Max Aub. 

style ***1/2

substance ***1/2

Distinto Amenecer is probably as good a Hitchcock movie you’ll ever see by a director not named Alfred Hitchcock. It essentially takes the Hitchcockian chase story and sets it in an incredibly atmospheric Mexico City in the early 1940s. The basic idea is reminiscent of The 39 Steps, especially the opening scenes at the theater which bring to mind Richard Hanney being cornered by the police at the Palladium in the latter film. 

But another, even more important, quality of Distinto Amamencer is that it may well be the first film noir [1]; its release in 1943 places it a full year ahead of the traditional noir kickoff year of 1944, during which Murder My Sweet and Double Indemnity in particular closed the deal as full-blown examples of the style. 

It certainly has all the hallmarks of noir: crime story; memorable femme fatale; claustrophobic feeling; threatening urban setting; nightclub; sinister looking bad guys who menace the heroine and pursue the hero; and most of all the great nighttime, off-kilter photography of cinematographic legend Gabriel Figueroa. And make no mistake, visually the film is very dark indeed.

Distinto Amanecer takes place almost totally at night, and is beautifully shot and lit in eminently noirish style. However, the most unforgettable image, alas all too fleeting, takes place in the daytime, at dawn to be exact, nearing the end of the film as a  forlorn Julieta (Andrea Palma) walks into traffic while the tall buildings surround her somwhat menacingly.

Distinto is also probably Andrea Palma’s finest hour along with the below-mentioned Mujer del Puerto [2]. And it’s also good to see a youthful, charismatic Pedro Armendáriz; he and Palma have terrific screen chemistry throughout. My only criticism of the film is that at a leisurely 108 minutes the film feels a little longish.


[1] It’s the first Mexican film noir if we don’t count the proto-noir La Mujer del Puerto from 1934 (wouldn’t that be something if a Mexican noir anticipated Hollywood by a decade!). Of course we can go on and on about the origins and evolution of noir, and indeed writers have gone on and on. Although Double Indemnity is often cited as the first case where all the noir elements combine in a definitive whole, there were lots of prior films which flirted with the noir aesthetic, Stranger on the Third Floor from 1940 being a much referenced example. But all this is perhaps best left for a future posting. Whatever the case, Mujer del Puerto is also a great Andrea Palma vehicle and probably ranks with Distinto as her best leading role before she settled into the more mature and matronly characters she essentially played for the rest of her career.

[2] In Distinto Palma plays a woman who leads a double life: respectable wife by day and B girl at night. This seems to be a favorite [sub]plot theme in Mexican cinema, that of an upstanding middle-class or upper-class woman with a dark secret, usually running a nightclub and/or place of prostitution. At least two other Palma films, Casa de la Zorra and Aventurera, use the same idea. In the latter she reprises the shady role but in Casa plays a more virtuous character.

La Mujer del Puerto 

Las reinas de las rumberas

Las reinas del trópico: María Antonieta Pons, Meche Barba, Amalia Aguilar, Ninón Sevilla, Rosa Carmina, by Fernando Muñoz Castillo. [México, D.F.] : Grupo Azabache, 1993. "Se termino de imprimir en julio de 1993 en Offset 70, S.A. de C.V., Victor Hugo 99, Mexico,03300, D.F."

Las reinas del trópico is a loving pictorial tribute to the five Latina actresses* in the book's subtitle, focusing on their spicy dance numbers in the rumberas (aka cabaretera) cinematic genre popular in the 1940s and 1950s. In the context of cine negro the book is also noteworthy for its many tasty and very noirish photos of the (non-cabaret) scenes from individual films. See also : Rumberas cubanas, reinas en el cine.


* They all attained fame in Mexican films but only one of them (Meche Barba) was actually of Mexican descent.

arqueológico noir

Plunder of the sun [DVD]. Warner Bros. presents a Wayne-Fellows production; produced by Robert Fellows; screenplay by Jonathan Latimer; directed by John Farrow. Based on the novel by David Dodge. Originally released as a motion picture in 1953. Special features: Commentary by Peter Ford and Frank Thompson; On location with Glenn Ford; Sean McClory; Plundering history. Performers: Glenn Ford, Diana Lynn, Patricia Medina, Francis Sullivan.

style ***
substance ***


exotic noir

Film noir buffs are divided as to whether Plunder of the Sun is genuine noir or not. I include it here because of its heist/missing treasure plot and its shadowy look (the latter is actually quite strikingly done; kudos to director John Farrow and cinematographer Jack Draper). Two more strengths: 1) it’s refreshing to see a movie about Mexican archaeology that’s not a horror film; 2) the novelty of the filming locations (Oaxaca, Mitla and Monte Alban).

Looking great at forty-ish, Glenn Ford is solid as always. Here he's part villain and part hero, and seems bemused much of the time as he tries to locate some sort of mislaid Aztec parchment. His leading lady Patricia Medina is terrific. I’d never heard of her until this film, and her exotic looks make her perfect for the part: she's absolutely gorgeous in every scene she's in, though I was never sure, even at the end, whether she was a femme fatale or virtuous heroine.

But the great coup of the story - and the casting - is the group of eccentric characters who are sprinkled around the nominal leads: Francis Sullivan as an obsessive collector; a Gloria Graham-esque Diana Lynn as the film's de facto femme fatale; and the, alas unidentified, singer of  “Sin Ella” at the saloon in Havana. Miss Lynn in particular practically steals the movie from ostensible leading lady Patricia Medina. There's also a nice cameo by Mona Barrie (her last film) as a chatty American tourist.

First among supporting equals is surely Sean McClory’s oily villain, an excommunicated archaeologist named Jefferson who is Glenn Ford’s principal rival in tracking down the McGuffin-like treasure. McClory steals every scene he’s in, despite (or perhaps because of) his albino looks. What’s up with that bleached hair and shades, anyway? Whatever the intentions of the scriptwriter and director, it all gives a fey element to an already offbeat, vaguely sinister character. In any case, it's a marvelous performance by McClory.

A curious little movie, then, alternatingly compelling and boring, and with more than a few touches of The Maltese Falcon. The real star of Plunder, of course, is the authentic Mexican atmosphere, so effectively underscored by Antonio Díaz Conde's brash, idiomatic  score. In sum, Plunder of the Sun is not quite an undiscovered masterpiece, but rather a well-heeled, quasi-noir adventure film, definitely worth a watch. Raiders of the Lost Ark with feeling, if you like.

Family affair

La Casa de la Zorra (1945). 89 min. Producción : Compañía Cinematográfica Mexicana. Director: Juan José Ortega. Director of photography, Domingo Carrillo; editor, Juan Jose Marino; arreglos y dirección musical, Gonzalo Curiel; production designer, Paul Castelain; writers, Xavier Villaurrutia and Luis G. Basurto. With Virginia Fábregas, Isabela Corona, Alberto Galan, Sara Guasch, Susana Guízar, Ricardo Montalban, Carlos Orellana, Andrea Palma, Andres Soler, Roberto Cañedo. "Homenaje a la Eximia Actriz Mexicana, Doña Virginia Fabregas.”

More drawing room melodrama than genuine noir, Casa de la Zorra nonetheless has a couple of nifty noirish scenes of limousines prowling sinister back alleys. It also employs to good effect that noir staple, the night club (though here I believe it’s referred to more as a casino). In any case, the film also shares certain, eminently noirish thematic similarities [1] with the better-known hybrid noir-musical Aventurera, though Zorra is a straight drama without musical numbers.

But probably of most interest for American audiences is that this is an early entry in Ricardo Montalban’s oeuvre. On the cusp of rapidly rising stardom, he already displays the smooth self-assurance and easygoing charm that would serve him well throughout his career. Ricardo plays Alberto, a slightly wayward scion of an upper crust Mexico City family. Alberto has a fondness for those two usual suspects of vices, gambling and alcohol. And, yes, he has an eye for the ladies, but his romantic adventures eventually get, as the saying goes, complicated [2].

One of the film’s delights is Montalban’s mostly twilight-of-their-careers supporting cast, which includes among others Mexican film legends Andrea Palma and Virginia Fábregas. My favorite scenes include a silky Montalban/Palma waltz and Fábregas’s drunken, and very public, harangue at her casino. Despite a certain light-weightness and predictability, Zorra can be recommended as a well-heeled representative of the Golden Age of Mexican cinema.

style **1/2

substance **1/2

[1]  Family secrets and shady business dealings in particular.

[2] I must admit that I had difficulty accepting the story's basic romantic premise.

south-of-border noir: Salón México (1949)

Salón México (1948). 95 min. Director: Emilio Fernández. With Marga López (Mercedes López), Miguel Inclán (Lupe López), Rodolfo Acosta (Paco), Roberto Cañedo (Roberto), Silvia Derbez (Beatriz), Mimí Derba (directora del instituto). [Remade in 1995].


If there’s such a thing as the definitive Mexican noir, then this may well be it. I’d heard about the film’s classic status but had no idea it was this good. A representative of Mexico’s Golden Age of cinema, Salón México is a virtual catalog of noir visual flourishes. And though the film dates from the peak of the noir cycle [1], the touches still feel fresh: smoky nightclubs; flashing neon lights; craggy staircases; back alleys; mists and fog, all of which contribute to a general sense of foreboding and doom in a claustrophobic, sleazy urban setting.

Marga López plays the heroine with a quiet charisma and dignity. Interesting that she bears a striking resemblance to noir leading ladies Linda Darnell and Jean Brooks. Rodolfo Acosta makes for a deliciously slimy villain, but the film’s real star is Gabriel Figueroa's cinematography, which reel for reel, scene for scene, out-noirs most (and far better-known) American films from the same era.



I couldn’t help noticing the many similarities between Salón and Touch of Evil [2]: an urban, slightly sinister Mexican setting; bustling, crowded streets; jumbled sounds; a somewhat bumpy narrative; Latino music; seedy nightclubs; Spanish-deco architecture; a constantly menaced heroine; cigarette smoke; and of course lots of night and shadows. Anyway, my favorite scenes are the ones at the club, in the street just outside the club, and in the hotel across the street. If the movie has any weaknesses, they’re relatively minor: the heavy-handed music score; too many scenes at the girls’ school.

Question: was the Salón México a real club or made up for this film? Based on a real club with a different name? Whatever. Wow! What a movie!


style ****
substance ***



[1] Salón México and the even more flamboyant Aventurera rank among the supreme examples of the cabaretera genre, which might well be seen as the Mexican equivalent of film noir; so many of the cabaretera films have noir-like overtones both in content and style. Indeed, as has been pointed out, Mexican films with a noirish look and feel appeared as early as 1943 and even before, anticipating the American heyday years by nearly a decade (Joanne Hershfield, Mexican Cinema/Mexican Woman, 1940-1950, Tucson, University of Arizona Press, 1996, p142). Conversely, echoes of cabaretera can be found in the immensely popular Latin-American telenovelas, as well as in American movies as diverse as Casablanca and the 1970s American disco movies.


[2] Did Orson Welles know this film? It’s hard to believe he didn’t. BTW, incredibly, Salón predates Touch of Evil by about a decade. And while we’ve no conclusive evidence that Welles had ever seen Salón, it’s certainly possible that he did and might well have been influenced by the earlier film. Welles had a sympathy for and appreciation of the people and culture of Mexico (all of Latin America, for that matter), dating as far back as 1936 with his Haitian ‘voodoo’ Macbeth, through the early Forties and his travels to Mexico and Brazil, culminating in his doomed South American epic, It's All True. 




One of the most striking parallels between the two films is that each contains a pivotal scene in a dingy hotel room. In fact, the two hotels could probably be interchanged and no one would notice. But what is common to both is the heavy layer of atmosphere provided by the pulsing on-and-off lights. (This type of lighting effect, one should hasten to add, is virtually a noir staple, certainly not unique to these films). In any case, in both films surreptitious activity is happening: in Salón, Mercedes steals some money from her ‘agent’, but in Touch of Evil Welles ups the ante dramatically by using the hotel room as the setting for a drug frame and murder.