Beyond the Happy Ending… Re-Viewing Female Citizenship within the Mexican Industry

Eva Lewkowicz

PhD

2011

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Acknowledgements

As the saying goes, we are hardest on the ones we love. This study has been a labour of love and by no means should my critique of the Mexican telenovela betray my admiration for this rich cultural form and its industry. I ♥ Mexican . As the afternoons wore away over the years, I found great inspiration in the tales of love and betrayal that played out before me — for their passion, their sincerity, and their audacious triumph against all odds...

As life began to imitate art, and the convoluted plotlines of my own labour of love entangled, my resolve was secured through the unwavering support of my family. I am forever indebted to you and I hope that you understand my immense gratitude. These thanks are not nearly enough for the blessing that you bring to my life. To my treasured friends, thank you for your continuing support — for listening to my ideas and keeping me sane. Thank god I’ve got you. Thank you so much to my supervisors Dr Michelle Langford, Dr Olivia Khoo and Mr Scott Shaner for your continuing encouragement, insight and patience. I am very grateful for your extraordinary care in helping to make this research what I hoped for. And to José Nayver González Rosales, who wanted his name in print; thank you for your unwavering assumption that I was more than competent.

As I fell in love with these wonderful stories and forged my own, I developed a great respect for those involved in the ongoing triumph of the Mexican telenovela industry. To those writers, directors, producers, scholars and critics who gave me their time and encouragement, I am eternally grateful. Thank you for sharing your passion with mine.

And finally, to those loved and unloved women whose triumphs and tragedies haunt the pages of this text — your audacity was my true inspiration.

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Al pajarito del campo:- Que guíe el camino

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Introduction The End

Beginning: Making the ‘Tidy Nation’

Chapter One The Melodrama of [‘Tidy’] Nation-Construction

Chapter Two The ‘Bigger Picture’ ; Plotting a History of Female Mythification

Chapter Three Production and Consumption ‘Values’ within the ‘Bigger Picture’

Chapter Four Founding Female Citizenship within the Telenovela Rosa

Middle: ‘Breaking’ the ‘Tidy Nation’?

Chapter Five The Limitations of Resistance within the Telenovela de Ruptura

End: [Money] Making [with] the ‘Unruly Nation’

Chapter Six The ‘Tyranny of the Ratings’ ; ‘Post Romantic’ Narratives within the Teen and Comedic Subgenres

Chapter Seven The Melodramatic Downfall ; ‘Disturbing’ the Narrative Formula within the ‘Telenovela de Alteración’

Conclusion Beyond the ‘Happy Ending’?

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‘Históricamente la sociedad ha castigado con dureza a sus Mujeres. No les perdonamos a nuestras madres, a nuestras hermanas o a nuestras hijas, lo que si le perdonamos a los hombres de nuestra familia. La sociedad pone encima de la mujer una responsabilidad que no pedimos. Se espera de nosotras sometimiento, abnegación, y la renuncia de los deseos. Porque a un hombre se le ocurrió que , es la base de la sociedad. Y que la mujer es la base de la familia.’

‘Historically, society has punished its women mercilessly. We don’t forgive our mothers, our sisters or our daughters, what we forgive the men of our family. Society burdens women with a responsibility that we did not ask for. It demands of us submission, abnegation, and the renouncement of our desires. Because it occurred to some man that the family was the basis of society. And that woman is the basis of the family.’

‘Capadocia’ (Argos Productions 2008)

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Introduction

The End

Introduction: The End As Marcia dies in the arms of her true love, she gasps her gratitude to the man she gave her life for. While the pulsating music sweeps to a frantic crescendo, and the blood dries on her ashen face, she explains why she took the bullet meant for him; ‘I did it, I did it all for love.

Because I love you, I love you more, more than my own life’.

Love conquers all in the Mexican telenovela. Misery, suffering, betrayal; nothing can silence the beat of a loving heart. Its pulse keeps hope alive in the most desperate of circumstances. Its warmth gives comfort to those ravaged by its eternal grasp, unable to relinquish a lover’s scent, touch or taste, despite the insurmountable obstacles standing in the way. Love is an endurance test whose contenders blindly battle over an average 120 episodes to their ultimate triumph; in the arms of their true love.

Yet despite this promise, not all who end in their lover’s arms are deemed to be ‘true’ nor is their ending so ‘happy’, as indicated by Marcia’s fate. As discussed with Mexican telenovela professors, critics and scholars in 2007 and 2008, integral to the telenovela love story is hatred and the survival of the fittest. In interview in 2007, telenovela industry executive Laura Sanchez explained that not everyone in the Mexican telenovela has the right to be loved (2007, pers. comm., 8 Feb.).1 Within this serialised , for a woman to be loved, she must be ‘good’. To be ‘good’, she must exhibit certain qualities.

1 All interviews, television and research material have been translated from the original Spanish by the author. 9 | Page

Telenovela executive Hernán Vera clarifies that ‘the telenovela profiles the model of the perfect woman’ such that ‘Woman exists to have children. So to have children she must have a husband. To have a husband, she must be a virgin. When she acquiesces to her husband, it is ‘til death do us part’ (2007, pers. comm., 22 January). This woman is the story’s protagonist.

As coordinator of the Writer’s Development Centre at ’s , ’s largest television conglomerate, Sanchez is well versed in the dichotomous dynamics of the loved and the unloved woman. Hernán Vera’s position as once part owner of Argos

Productions, Mexico’s largest independent production company, qualifies this formula.

Their theories can be tested upon close analysis of any number of Mexican telenovelas from over fifty-years of television history, whose ‘happy endings’ reveal the exclusionary prerequisites for those charged with the narration of these epic love stories.

Thus, following the Mexican telenovela’s recent fiftieth anniversary (1958-2008), this thesis explores a variety of texts pertaining to the Mexican telenovela genre, to determine not only those exclusionary narrative tropes that reappear, but also the reasons behind the perpetuation of an exclusionary representational schema at the heart of the telenovela narrative. For despite the changes to form and content throughout the genre’s history, the perseverance of core narrative tropes, whose ideological parameters mirror nationalist logic, seems at odds with the ‘post-national’ nature of the privatised contemporary industry.

In particular, the appearance of exclusionary ideologies regarding race and class — but specifically gender and sexuality—within the texts reviewed here, suggests that the

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formulae identified by telenovela executives are not only pervasive within the Mexican telenovela genre, but also constitute an important site of sociocultural discourses which provide insight into this popular cultural form.

To understand the significance of the telenovela’s exclusionary representational schema in relation to the sociocultural meanings beyond the ‘happy ending’, it is important to look at the form’s textual dynamics, beginning at the end of (‘Mariana of the

Night’ Televisa 2003).

As Marcia’s eyes lose focus and she declares her eternal love, Ignacio confides ‘when you met me, my heart no longer belonged to me’. Lurking in the background is Mariana. She is the local primary school teacher and she loves Ignacio. Her strawberry blond hair, soft gaze and pretty clothes compliment her love. As the love of Ignacio’s life, Mariana is the story’s protagonist.

Suffice to say, it is evident that the central frame is for heterosexual lovers only. Although there may be ‘flamboyant’ male hairdressers, fashion designers, transvestites and other such characters within a telenovela narrative, they are for comic relief only. As television and film director Antonio Serrano states, gay characters ‘always end up being a caricature’

(2007, pers. comm., 23 January). These men may have a boyfriend on the side, but the antics of this often jealous, melodramatic couple never constitutes the heart of the narrative.

They are merely adjuncts to the main couple, and part of the extended community of the

Mexican telenovela. They rarely appear in non-comedic telenovelas, and even if they do, they remain peripheral. Within this world, lesbians do not exist- either in comic or serious 11 | Page

form. The romantic heterosexual couple is the love of the telenovela’s life.

Yet as with Marcia and Mariana, even this construct has its conditions. Not every heterosexual character is eligible to form part of the couple at the heart of this love story.

Following the dichotomous formula outlined by Sanchez and Vera, female characters come in two types; good and bad. The good have the right to be loved. The bad do not.

Mariana is everything that Marcia is not. From telenovela beginning, Marcia is proud, assertive and unforgiving. She wears pants and revealing clothing and smokes cigarettes.

She uses sex to get what she wants and even her way of loving is aggressive. Furthermore,

Marcia does a ‘man’s’ work. She is the manager and part owner of the mine, and she treats the workers badly: shouting and swearing at them. She has no motherly instinct. Following telenovela logic, it is unsurprising that Ignacio does not love her.

As the ‘bad’ woman, Marcia is undeserving of Ignacio’s love. Following Sanchez’s logic, this is the sacrifice she must pay ‘for a life of immorality’ (2007, pers. comm., 8 February) which sees her planning to kill Ignacio, rivalling Mariana for his love, seducing the telenovela ‘galán’ (hero), falling pregnant with his baby, miscarrying before stealing

Mariana and Ignacio’s child and claiming it as her own, obliging Ignacio to marry her, then attempting to murder the child. Following these transgressions, Marcia is the story’s antagonist.

Exemplifying the exclusionary characterisation and narrative trajectory for female

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protagonists and antagonists within the Mexican telenovela, the contrasting fates of Marcia and Mariana suggest that the Mexican telenovela love story does not merely narrate the triumphs and tragedies of two star-crossed lovers but rather is more interested in threesomes. In fact, the key third party involved in the romantic love triangle makes the telenovela love story just as deeply a tale of hatred and revenge. Thus from the romantic couple’s first embrace to their last, both love and hate form the driving force of this narrative; the heart to which all other elements are added.

Here the ‘happy ending’ is premised not just on Mariana’s moonlight wedding to Ignacio, before the blessing of God, but also Marcia’s death in the arms of the telenovela galán.

Thus, despite Marcia’s tragic sacrifice for Ignacio, her death is no tragedy. In fact, Marcia’s demise is inherent to the ‘happy ending’ of this 135 episode love story. When her eyes finally roll back into her head, she sets the heroic couple free to fulfil their destiny, just as hers is complete. Contingent on the defeat of the 'unloved woman', this ‘happy ending’ highlights the fight between two women for one man, and their consequent reward and punishment, as the true narrative heart of the telenovela ‘love’ story.

Clearly love does conquer all; at telenovela end, despite the pain, despair and tragedy that marked the path to their ultimate union, the love of Ignacio and Mariana rises from the ashes to claim its victory. As the lovers embrace, their happy ending becomes all the more profound for its seemingly eternal delay. As Diane Vela explains, ‘even though it sounds repetitive, the story’s long awaited ending is worth waiting a long time for’ (11).

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So established is this schema that it can be traced throughout different periods of Mexican telenovela history, despite a half-century of innovation within the form. This is not to assert that change does not occur. Over fifty years of the Mexican telenovela have seen many changes in both its form and content; from the gripping telenovela thrillers of the mid

1980s to the social realist texts of the telenovela de ruptura movement in the mid and the teen hits of the 2000s. The creation of over forty-five different telenovela subgenres is indicative of these transformations and earns it the moniker ‘melodrama of a nation’, for its response to national trends and moods (Cueva 1998).

Yet, despite these surface level variations, the representational schema of this popular genre seems to resist core structural change. As Director of the Writer’s Development Centre at

Televisa, Cuauhtémoc Blanco explains, telenovelas have ‘changed in appearance’ but ‘in essence, the telenovela as a genre, does not change’ (2007, pers. comm., 17 January). In particular, the schematic ‘reward’ of and maternity for one type of woman, and the punishment through death, incarceration and myriad other forms of ‘exile’ for another type, is upheld. As scholar Elena Galán Fajardo explains, ‘Despite the changes, woman continues to be represented through the same tropes and stereotypes’ (Galán Fajardo 2007,

45).

In this light, the genre’s changing form and content constitute what scholar Olga Bustos

Romero considers to have been mere ‘pseudo changes’ for its female characters (2007, pers. comm., 19 January) as the perpetuation of certain female ‘types’ at the narrative core persists. Telenovela producer for Argos Productions Marcela Mejía explained in interview

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that certain elements of the female representational schema have been updated, such that

‘they put a character in an office’ but that ‘they do not develop her role’ (2007, pers. comm., 17 January). Instead, the traditional ‘schema of the mother at home’ is maintained, which according to Mejía, ‘no longer exists’ (2007, pers. comm., 17 January).

Despite the apparent simplicity behind the representational schema honed over fifty years of love and betrayal, and its apparent permanency within the telenovela genre, what determines the maintenance of this narrative schema and its categorisation of ‘good’ and

‘bad’ women reveals more complex truths about the Mexican telenovela and its industry.

Indeed, exactly what designates the protagonist as lovable and the antagonist as unlovable is not as indiscriminate as cupid’s arrow. The galán falls in love with a very specific type of woman and her best assets don’t just have to do with his personal predilection for blondes or brunettes.

This study posits that the pervasiveness of these narrative tropes can only be contextualised when reading telenovela text as a ‘site of discursive practice’ (Mittell 2001, 9). Using this notion of the telenovela as a nexus at which social and cultural discourses manifest, enables the telenovela to be read as a product of the cultural imaginary, of which nationalist nation- building ideologies throughout Mexican history are the foundation. Here female characters are an allegory of the nation; agents of Mexican Government policies concerned with ‘the necessity of producing and reproducing the nation’ (Estill 2001, 172) during key periods of nation construction such as during the Mexican Independence (1810-1821) and the

Revolution (1910-1920) periods.

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This framework provides the context within which the exclusionary female characterisation within the Mexican telenovela can be read. and a brief overview of this context introduces the links between history and representation that underline this study.

Writing on the Independence period, Jean Franco observes how wifedom and motherhood were seen as ‘a shelter from political turmoil’ for the ‘new men’ of the nation, and became synonymous with the guardianship of private life (Franco 1989, 81). In response to the secularisation of the religious sphere and the subsequent ‘displacement of the religious onto the national’ (Franco 1989, 81), women were charged with the task of guarding the purity of the nation by ‘carving out of a territory of domestic stability and decency from which all low elements were expelled’ (Franco 1989, 81). Writing on the Revolution that took place a century later, Ilene O’Malley describes how in the aftermath of the Mexican Revolution, motherhood and the family unit were similarly endorsed as a means of ‘restoring the population’s physical and “moral” health […] to create responsible workers for the rebuilding of the economy’ (O’Malley 1986, 138). Within this context, the anti-feminist movement flourished, and many saw feminism as a threat to the nation. As O’Malley states,

‘Mexico […] needed to increase its population in order to prosper, and birth control (a major feminist goal) would prevent the increase’ (O’Malley 1986, 124).

Following this logic of ‘woman-as-nation-construction’, nationalist ideology posed marriage, maternity and existence within the domestic sphere as an indication of true womanhood. The creation of a female counterpart, whose personal agency, independent of those tenets of appropriate femininity, threatened the nation-building project, followed this

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schema. So too did the inherent sexualisation of this dichotomy, which persecuted female sexuality outside of the constraints of patriarchal institutions by configuring female existence as either virgin or whore. The corresponding battle to celebrate one whilst eliminating the other identity ensued and is evident within official government policy and legislation. It is also perpetuated within the cultural industries throughout Mexican history.

Once played out within national literatures and cinema, in particular Mexico’s golden era of cinema in the 1930s and 1940s, the female dichotomy finds its perfect vehicle within the telenovela and it is here that the 'melodrama of the nation' takes on more symbolic meaning for its narration of a deep cultural core concerned with the generation of female citizens

‘appropriate’ for the ‘production and reproduction’ (Estill 2001, 172) of the nation.

Important to note here is that although this thesis focuses on Mexican nationalism through the telenovela, this television genre is not just a Mexican phenomenon. The telenovela genre has found popularity in many different nations, throughout Latin America, Asia and

Europe. These nations have adapted the format to their own cultural contexts, maintaining elements of the melodramatic schema and morality play. Consequently, the dichotomous representational schema that is explored in this thesis cannot be deemed exclusive to

Mexico, nor can the Mexican telenovela be deemed exclusively ‘made in Mexico.’ Like all genres, the Mexican telenovela is a hybrid text. From its roots in US and Cuban drama to the long-term practice of sourcing telenovela from abroad for adaptation, the

Mexican telenovela is a truly transnational entity.

However, despite this hybrid lineage, the Mexican telenovela provides the perfect vehicle

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for nationalist ideology. This is explored in Chapter One but suffice to say, the Mexican telenovela’s heightened Manichaeism, for which it is renowned, contributes to the particularly exclusionary representations of nation that this study identifies. This is evident with the role of re-makes in the Mexican telenovela industry. Epigmenio Ibarra outlined the prevalence of this practice in the industry when stating that ‘the majority of telenovelas that have been made over the past few years, have been either new versions- the remakes- of old telenovelas, or stories that are in other Latin American countries’ (2007, pers. comm, 9

February).

In addition to explaining the reasons behind this practice2, Ibarra argued that ‘when we buy stories in other Latin American countries we come across the fact that the set of values that exist in these countries, including in our own region of Latin America, is not that same as in

Mexico’ (2007, pers. comm, 9 February). Álvaro Cueva explained the problems that this created for writers charged with their adaptation, in that ‘they have to recontruct the stories so that there are at least some points of contact. And many times they fail to do so’ (2007, pers. comm.12 January). For Cueva, that is why ‘many telenovelas are not working nowadays’ (2007, pers. comm.12 January).

The tendency to revert to what are deemed by television companies as the cultural values of

Mexico, follows within this context. Thus, in spite of its inherent hybridity, the Mexican

2 As Ibarra explained; ‘a central problem is where you find writers capable of doing one hundred and twenty hours of drama. It’s exhausting for all of us […] and then in this industry in this country where there are so many dogmas and strictures for the telenovela, and so much cultural deformation in television, it is really hard to find someone who will say to you ‘look, here’s a good idea.’ So, what have we done? We’ve gone to […] we’ve gone to . We’ve gone to ’ (2007, pers. comm, 9 February).

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telenovela’s attempt to maintain a connection with the audience via a continuum of re/producible audiovisual and narrative codes, re/produces a particularly nationalist schema. Arguably, the prevalence of remakes serves to instil a particularly national ideological schema within the Mexican telenovela genre. It is for these reasons that the focus of this study remains legitimately largely within the borders of the Mexican telenovela and its industry.

Following this logic, Chapter One explores the more general relationship between national history and popular cultural fiction, before subsequent chapters trace this association within the Mexican context. It begins by observing those characteristics of the nation-as-historical- construction that facilitate this relationship, such as the nation’s construction through processes of ‘banal nationalism’ (Billig 1995, 6) to which the telenovela’s serialised melodramatic form is particularly matched. Following the work of Hayward (2000),

Castellò (2007, n.d) and Berlant (1997) the relationship within popular fictional forms such as national cinemas and serialised television melodrama contextualises the importance of serialised melodrama to the Mexican telenovela’s nation-building potential, as ‘a genre whose repetitive and melodramatic structure seems to be tailor-made for nation- construction’ (Estill 2001, 187). Here the finite number of episodes culminating in an ultimately ‘happy ending’ are key to this project of constructing what scholar Adriana Estill calls the figuratively ‘tidy’ version of the ‘ideal imagined’ community onscreen. As journalist Sam Quiñones details, ‘The ending was crucial. For with it came a moral conclusion: love conquers all, the world’s complexities are neatly resolved, and above all, the bad guys get what’s coming’ (Quiñones 2001, 57).

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Within this ideal Manichaean world, with its ‘tidy’ race, class, gender and sexuality representations, the patriarchal nationalist project of nation-construction finds a prime

[time] site within the twenty-first century. Indeed, the telenovela provides a unique platform for this project, with Manichaean characterisation and plot constructing a veritable dramatization of those nationalist ideologies and behaviours conducive to patriarchal nation-construction. Those representations endorsed or denied take on far greater meaning than the narrative undulations of television melodrama.

The construction of an ideal female ‘citizen’ within the ideal community follows and the inherently exclusionary nature of this citizenship becomes clear with reference to Berlant’s work on ‘sex and citizenship’. Contextualising the logic of ‘woman-as-nation-construction’ within popular cultural forms, this work highlights the importance of female sexuality to this schema. In fact, mirroring nationalist investment in the female dichotomy of the virgin and the whore, female sexuality constitutes the primary category for female citizenship within this figurative version of the national imagined community.

It is here that this thesis introduces the telenovela love story as integral to the nation- building equation. Beyond the ‘sweet nothings’ of ‘blind’ romance, the love story effectively serves as a citizenship test, to determine which tenets of femininity, including sexuality, are endorsed and which are vilified. The romantic love triangle forms a key means through which those women conducive to nation construction are selected. Indeed, where the protagonist’s ‘appropriate femininity’ secures her reward [through marriage to the telenovela galán and maternity] she is granted ‘permanent residency’ as custodian of

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this community.

In contrast, the antagonist’s transgressions of the law of the ‘tidy nation’ make her repulsive to the telenovela galán, and warranting punishment, she is exiled. This eternal battle between good and evil, emblematic within the melodrama genre, provides a clear formula for ‘appropriate’ and ‘inappropriate’ femininity as determined by the project of

‘tidy’ nation construction. Indeed, within the telenovela love triangle, it is the antagonist’s opposition to the protagonist that disqualifies her as a legitimate candidate for nation- construction. Her ‘unfeminine’ personal agency that sees her active pursuit of the telenovela hero’s love situates her in this battle against ‘good’.

Thus just as female characters and the telenovela community take on allegorical significance, so too do the exclusionary dynamics of the telenovela love story. It is here that the importance of telenovela heroes such as Ignacio comes into play. As a figurative representation of the power of the state to endorse or deny different forms of female sexuality, the galán is the site of the telenovela’s central battle between two women for one man and it is his choice that equates to the awarding or denial of citizenship. Most clearly upon narrative conclusion, when the galán finally rejects one woman and marries another- the relationship between telenovela narrative dynamics and the parameters for ideal female citizenship within the Mexican nation are highlighted.

Consolidating this relationship between telenovela fiction and reality, Chapter One ends with common criticisms of the negative ramifications of the Mexican telenovela love story

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for gender norms. Here, the work of Yolande Le Gallo (1988) as well as such NGOs as the

Consejo Ciudadano por la Equidad de Género en los Medios de Comunicación (‘Citizens’

Council for Gender Equity in The Media’)3 indicate that the Mexican telenovela’s narrative schema has dangerous repercussions for social behaviour (Caballero 2008). For these critics, the deceptive ‘banality’ and enduring popularity of the powerful telenovela love story only exacerbate this danger.

However, in order to provide a more comprehensive analysis of the Mexican telenovela love story’s perpetuation of nationalist discourses within what can be described as the

‘post-national’ context for twenty-first century production, when the relationship between the ‘privatised’ cultural industries and the state is increasingly less tenable, Chapters Two and Three focus on the those multivalent elements contributing to this exclusionary schema. ‘Female mythification’ becomes the focus of this analysis. Conceived here as the historical construction and ongoing perpetuation through official as well as popular cultural channels, of exclusionary discourses originating with the state surrounding notions of

‘appropriate’ and ‘inappropriate’ femininity, female mythification relies upon the

‘naturalisation’ of these discourses within the cultural imaginary.

Highlighting the inherent relationship between history and myth within this phenomenon,

Chapter Two begins by tracing the creation of Mexico’s female dichotomy from its colonial origins. Here female mythification starts with two ‘opposing’ female figures from the conquest of Mexico; the Virgin of Guadalupe whose apparition in 1521 made her the

3 See . 22 | Page

mother of Mexico and La Malinche who as mistress and interpreter of ’s head conquistador, was accredited with the downfall of pre-conquest indigenous civilizations. It then flourishes as these respective figures of the Virgin and the Whore are used within state-driven nation-building projects during the Independence and Revolution periods. The

‘natural’ progression of these discourses occurs within popular cultural texts, as advocated by the post Revolutionary governments of the twentieth century. Here, along with a body of literature developed by the literati, which set out to ‘diagnose’ Mexican National Identity, female mythification becomes consolidated within the cultural imaginary. This shared understanding of ‘Mexican’ cultural values thus secured the ‘naturalisation’ of the female dichotomy within Mexico.

Importantly here, by tracing how both the ideological tenets and processes of female mythification became ‘naturalised’ within the cultural imaginary, it is possible to provide a more comprehensive picture of why those nationalist ideologies which formulated the female dichotomy continue into the present day. Indeed, locating the telenovela within the

Mexican cultural imaginary clarifies its status as a complex site of cultural negotiation, and consequently, as a site of mediation (Martín-Barbero 1987, 1993).

Through material gained from over twenty interviews with industry executives, scholars and critics in 2007 and 2008, Chapter Three reveals the multivalent components of the

‘ideological ecosystem’ for female mythification, which facilitate this. This includes not only official historical investment in the female dichotomy via popular cultural texts such as the telenovela, and the subsequent influence of this cultural imaginary on audience

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reception and industry ‘values’, but also both active audience consumption practices and commercial industry production imperatives. Thus, whilst acknowledging that the

‘naturalisation’ of female mythification within the cultural imaginary does shape both production and reception practices, the ‘ideological ecosystem’ includes other important factors that facilitate the perpetuation of these ideologies within the Mexican telenovela.

These include time constraints on production processes and audience affiliation with particular narrative dynamics.

Consequently, Chapters One, Two and Three establish the theoretical and historical parameters for the relationship between women, nation-building and popular cultural texts.

They also trace those multivalent industrial factors, which facilitate this project into the

‘privatised’, ‘post-national’ context of twenty-first century telenovela production. Chapters

Four through Seven then put this framework to the test through the detailed analysis of seven different telenovelas from 1997 to 2006, with further reference to programming from the very first serial melodrama in 1957 to the latest mini-series in 2010.

Following the principles of good storytelling, there are three parts to this study, composed as a beginning, middle and end. Entitled Founding Female Citizenship within the

‘telenovela rosa’, Chapter Four rounds out ‘The Beginning’ of this thesis by providing a detailed reading of woman-as-nation within the traditional telenovela’s narrative tropes.

Although one of the more trite telenovelas surveyed within this thesis, a close reading of

Rosalinda (Televisa 1999) is conducted not only for its formulaic nature but also for its spectacular ratings failure. Indicative of the shift towards a more ‘revolutionary’ phase of

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the telenovela (a product of Mexico’s vast political and economic changes around the turn of the millennium during which Televisa’s long-term government affiliated television monopoly was challenged by new commercial rival TV Azteca) Rosalinda’s shortcomings lead into an analysis of the telenovela de ruptura in Chapter Five.

Entitled The Limitations of Resistance within the ‘telenovela de ruptura’, Chapter Five traces the sites of ‘rupture’ in El Candidato (TV Azteca 1999) and (TV

Azteca 1997). Yet whilst some ‘untidying’ occurs around the inclusion of once taboo themes such as political corruption, drug trafficking and illegal immigration, this analysis finds that the racial, class, gender and sexuality dynamics of the ‘tidy nation’ stand upon narrative conclusion. Identifying the ‘limitations to resistance’ posed by those narrative and industry tropes as outlined in Chapter Three, Chapter Five plots the ‘rise and demise’ of this revolutionary phase, from the mid nineties to approximately a decade later. Here, the ultimate reversion to the more financially viable traditional formula sees the continued female mythification within the telenovela form, despite promises of its ‘rupture’.

However, like all good telenovelas, the narrative arc of this thesis does not end so tragically, or so soon. As ‘The Middle’ of this story, Chapter Five provides the turning point in the thesis narrative, such that beyond the exclusionary configurations of the telenovela de ruptura’s ultimately ‘happy ending’, Chapters Six and Seven provide a surprising twist in the telenovela’s story.

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Entitled The ‘Tyranny of the Ratings’- ‘Post Romantic’ Narratives within the Teen and

Comedic Subgenres, Chapter Six explores how these two subgenres — which result from attempts by producers to cater to niche markets with (Televisa 2004-2006) and to capitalise on a particular ‘national mood’ with La Fea más Bella (Televisa 2006). The alternative narrative tropes within these subgenres inadvertently challenge the resistant schema. Here, there is a move away from female rivalry for the love of the telenovela galán, as a principal means of narrative drive comes via the investment in alternative narratives other than the heterosexual love story. As such, the dynamics of female mythification tied to the melodramatic form are displaced, in what might be called the triumph of the ‘tyranny of the ratings’ (Corral 2007, 65) over the ‘tyranny of the plot’ (Du

Plessis 1985, 56).

Following the potential of telenovela subgenres to ‘break’ the exclusionary dynamics of the traditional narrative formula, Chapter Seven then identifies how this ratings pursuit can wreak havoc on even those more traditional telenovela romances. Here, the ‘disturbance’ of the telenovela formula and its exclusionary dynamics follows both attempts to capitalise on ratings hits via narrative extension (Amor en Custodia, TV Azteca 2005) and to cater to audience tastes through the greater number of characters within an increased cast size (Tres

Mujeres, Televisa 1999). Thus both narrative extension and multiple protagonists characterise what is conceptualised and labelled here as the “telenovela de alteración”

(telenovela of disturbance). The ‘downfall’ of the [Manichaean] melodramatic narrative formula that follows within this newly 'coined' commercial formula, sees the disturbance of the traditional elements of the love story, including its exclusionary gender configurations.

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Thus both Chapters Six and Seven constitute ‘The End’ of this thesis arc, in a seemingly predestined ‘happy ending’; where the apparent limitations of a commercial industry are ironically those elements which most help to break female mythification. Here the ‘tidy nation’ meets its match with a commercial logic that creates ‘unruly’ character possibilities and storylines. However, a look ‘beyond’ this ‘happy ending’ in the conclusion of this study questions how sustainable this equation actually is.

Importantly here, despite the formulaic nature of the Mexican telenovela and its industry, this study resists any foretold conclusions. Rather, it looks into the Mexican telenovela’s non-narrated future to consider the various possible fates awaiting its next landmark birthday. In light of the ratings slide that has accompanied increasingly powerful audiences embracing newly emerging media markets, this may prove to be dire, as telenovela directors and scholars alike have confirmed that ‘Television Azteca and Televisa ratings have fallen sharply’ (Mejía M. 2007, pers. comm., 17 January). Arguing that ‘the formula is running out’ film and television director Antonio Serrano suggested that both producers and audience are simply tired of the telenovela genre (2007, pers. comm., 23 January).4

It is in this light that this study takes place, situated at a figurative crossroads in telenovela history. Television journalist and telenovela writer Álvaro Cueva painted a picture of this crossroads, plotting a scenario in which the continued demise of the telenovela’s heyday follows its inability to innovate. Within this equation, telenovelas have become a source of

4 As Serrano explained; ‘They provide a reflection of ourselves and I think that we are tired of lookling in that mirror because I feel that we are much more than that […] those that make telenovelas are tired too […] they make the minimal effort’ (2007, pers. comm., 23 January).

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great disappointment for devoted audiences, such that ‘right now, are very annoyed with our telenovelas because each time there are less points of connection, with us and our reality’ (2007, pers. comm.12 January). Arguing that ‘society has changed’ (Cueva

Á. 2007, pers. comm., 12 January) scholars outlined the gendered nature of this equation.

For Vera, real women are ‘years in front of women onscreen’ (2007, pers. comm., 22

January). For Blanco, the telenovela genre perpetuates a set of moral virtues despite changes in gender roles throughout Mexican society. As he states, ‘of course the for female public life has grown enormously, but essentially the moral and ethical virtues of women [...] have to be defended tooth and nail. Otherwise we would be talking about another genre, not the telenovela’ (2007, pers. comm., 17 January).

Following the logic espoused by Blanco regarding the inpermeability of the telenovela’s moral code, Cueva traced the implications of a ‘type of divorce between the public and telenovelas’ (2007, pers. comm., 12 January) stating that

‘the new Mexican woman, like the new woman all over the world, is a very independent woman […] and that just isn’t happening in the telenovela! […] So what happens is that these women find refuge in another type of programs, on television, in series, in foreign productions, in order to find a reflection (2007, pers. comm.,12 January).

Consequently, new media platforms and technologies are altering the Mexican telenovela’s historically successful repertoire. Many of those interviewed identified the rise of cable and satellite television as the means through the television market has diversified. Interviewees also identified the ease of access to alternative programming through the as exacerbating the Mexican telenovela’s increasing ‘disconnect’ with television audiences.

For Cueva, this phenomenon is a result of telenovelas ‘not comply[ing] with democracy’ 28 | Page

(2007, pers. comm., 12 January). Stating that ‘now that we have other voices, telenovelas cannot adapt’, Cueva suggested that this is only exacerbated by the changing audience relationship to content in the new media landscape (2007, pers. comm., 12 January). Here, as Vera explained, ‘the audience’s relationship with the product will be different’ as

‘technology will radically change the control of content’ (2007, pers. comm., 22 January).

In this new media environment, it seems only logical that ratings have diminished such that

‘[n]ow there are telenovelas that have 11 points, 12 points’ which for Cueva, is ‘an embarrassment! In a country where telenovelas always had more than twenty five!’ (2007, pers. comm., 12 January) The potential exacerbation of this ratings decline follows the current industry investment in ‘hard-hitting’ mini-series that attempt to win back those audiences who have defected from broadcast television. Although such mini-series and their new narrative scope look to take an important place on the Mexican free to air broadcast landscape, industry executives have emphasised that this will not ‘detract’ from the telenovela and its rich traditions (Agencias PDA 2007).

Similarly, if the statements made by Televisa’s president Emilio Azcárraga Jean in

February 2008 are any indication, this remains unlikely. In a speech entitled ‘Televisa:

Vision of the Future’, he explained that; ‘at this time Televisa has reached the limits of expansion in Mexico with 70 percent of audience share in a country of more than 100 million inhabitants’ (AMAP 2008). As a consequence of this state of play, Azcárraga confirmed that over the next decade, Televisa would develop ‘a plan to expand into international markets based on relationships with strategic partners and packaged content’

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as well as towards those national markets that provide room to grow, such as the pay television market (AMAP 2008).

This declaration seems to suggest that the beloved telenovela genre has effectively reached its commercial potential. Whether saturation means stagnation for the telenovela remains to be seen. Yet in light of this uncertain future, such questions highlight the importance of looking closely at the Mexican telenovela as it passes the half-century mark. For although there is abundant writing on this genre, no study adopts an historical perspective that considers the textual dynamics of the form at the nexus of social, cultural and industrial factors, and the reasons behind their persistence following the dynamic nature of these factors. Within Mexican telenovela literature, the interrelationship between the nation, the industry, its transnational success, the genre and its representational schema, as well as audience reception, remains largely unexplored.

It is here that the theoretical framework of this thesis contributes to the significance and originality of this study, and to the field of telenovela literature in significant ways (AMAP

2008). Situated in the field of genre studies, this thesis moves beyond a mere textual analysis of the genre, to consider those wider sociocultural, historical and industrial factors that contribute to the genre’s development and ultimate recourse to particular narrative tropes. Thus whilst this thesis uses particular texts to track the permutations of the genre over an historical continuum, and considers ‘questions of definition’ by identifying ‘core elements that constitute the genre’ (Mittell 2001, 4) it does not consider the Mexican telenovela genre as constituted by texts that are ‘bounded and stable objects of analysis’

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(Mittell 2001, 7). This avoids generalisations about the genre and subsequent possible oversights about the generic nuances within different texts. Instead, this study posits the texts examined here as constituted by ‘industries, audiences, and historical contexts [which themself are fluid]’ (Mittell 2001, 7).

The benefit of this discursive approach, as indicated by Mittell, is avoidance of compiling a

‘chronology of changing textual examples’ (Mittell 2001, 11). Instead, by ‘decentring’ the text, it is possible to study ‘genres as cultural categories’ (Mittell 2001, 12) through an historiographical approach, where ‘changing cultural circumstances bring about generic shifts’ (Mittell 2001, 5) and provide ‘a genealogy of discursive shifts and rearticulations to account for a genre’s evolution and redefinition’ (Mittell 2001, 11). Yet this approach also enables the study of those elements that do not seem to shift, through an analysis of how generic tropes relate to ‘cultural power relations’ (Mittell 2001, 16).

Thomas Schatz’s work on film genre serves as a useful reference point here. Discussing the dual ‘static’ and ‘dynamic’ nature of film genres, in which a genre ‘can be identified either by its rules, components, and function (by its static deep structure) or conversely by the individual members which comprise the species (by its dynamic surface structure)’ (Schatz

1991, 692), he observes the cultural significance of static tropes across genres. Arguing that

‘all drama establishes a community that is disturbed by conflict’, he states that ‘all film genres treat some form of threat—violent or otherwise—to the social order’ (Schatz, 1991

697). The discursive approach deployed in this study follows this logic, where Mexican telenovela is read not merely as a changing textual form but as a popular cultural site at

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which cultural anxieties are played out and resolved. As Schatz suggests; ‘it is a cultural milieu where inherent thematic conflicts are animated, intensified, and resolved by familiar characters and pattern of action’ (Schatz 1991, 695). Thus for Schatz, the stage for this conflict is often less a product of the locale but ‘the conflict between the values, attitudes, and actions of its principal characters’ (Schatz 1991, 697).

Following this equation, parallels can be drawn with the telenovela’s ‘tidy’ ideological community coming under threat by morally antagonistic characters. As Schatz explains,

the characters’ identities and narrative roles (or “functions”) are determined by their relationship with the community and its values structure. As such, the generic character is psychologically static—he or she is the physical embodiment of an attitude, a style, a world view, of a predetermined and essentially unchanging cultural posture. […] the generic character is indentified by his or her function and status within the community (Schatz 1991, 696).

The corresponding Manichaeism of the Mexican telenovela’s characterisation is supported by its drive for narrative resolution, and Schatz outlines the inherent relationship between characterisation and narrative conclusion as the basis of those genres that act as social rituals that ‘stop time, to portray […] culture in a stable and inevitable ideological position’

(Schatz 1991, 700). Here Schatz finds that ‘the most significant feature of any generic narrative may be its resolution – that is, its efforts to solve […] the conflicts that have disturbed the community welfare (Schatz 1991, 699). In a similar vein to the genre films that Schatz references, the telenovela’s finite number of episodes which secure its ‘happy ending’ through the reward and punishment of particular social behaviour and value sets, also ‘project an idealized cultural self-image […] into a realm of historical timelessness’

(Schatz 1991, 702). Thus by resisting ‘the complexity and deep-seated nature of the 32 | Page

conflict’ that is resolved, ‘basic communal ideals’ -- the ‘timelessness’ of which are here recursive to a nationalist past -- ‘are ritualized’ (Schatz 1991, 701).

This is not to preclude the dynamic nature of genre that Schatz is careful to maintain, as he explains, ‘changes in cultural attitudes, new influential genre films, the economics of the industry, and so forth, continually refine any film genre. As such its nature is continually evolving’ (Schatz 1991, 691). From this historiographical perspective, it is possible to identify the telenovela genre’s evolution through time as a product of these changing pressures. Reading the Mexican telenovela’s development from rosa to de ruptura during the nineteen nineties follows this focus, and mirrors Schatz’s view that texts ‘produced later in a genre’s development tend to challenge the tidy and seemingly naive resolutions of earlier [texts]’ (Schatz 1991, 702).

However despite the value of this ‘dynamic’ approach, an historiographical study of textual elements like setting, plot and character cannot be made without consideration of those factors that would seem to defy these pressures, and which can in fact be read as factors that contribute to their stasis. As Schatz explains ‘rules have been assimilated, consciously or otherwise, through cultural consensus’ (Schatz 1991, 692-3). Here the relationship between production and consumption practices becomes apparent, as producers work to the logic of audience ratings, and audiences come to expect narrative conventions-- plot and character-related--that become synonymous with the story playing out before them. As

Schatz argues, ‘as we repeatedly undergo the same type of experience we develop expectations which, as they are continually reinforced, tend to harden into “rules” (Schatz

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1991, 691). Thus ultimately for Schatz, genre conventions represent the cooperative efforts of production and consumption elements ‘to “tame” those beasts, both actual and imaginary, which threaten the stability of our everyday lives’ (Schatz 1991, 698).

Following the dualistic approach endorsed by these scholars then, this thesis develops an analytical framework that integrates an analysis of the interrelationship between text, history, culture, nation, industry and audience, to consider not just the dynamic generic tropes that constitute the telenovela’s dynamic textual history, but also those factors that contribute to the maintenance of a static core. Described here as an ‘ideological ecosystem’ in which the text is a product of both production imperatives and consumption practices, which are themself the product of a cultural imaginary, which is itself an historical product of nationalist discourses, this analytical framework goes against ‘linear notions of cause and effect’ (Straubhaar 2007, 8) by focusing on the interrelated and cumulative nature of this web.

Straubhaar’s use of both ‘complexity’ and ‘structuration’ theories in his analysis of world television provide an example of this approach within television studies. For Straubhaar, both of these theories illustrate how ‘economic frameworks, technological bases, institutional forms of organization and operation, genres and forms of television content, and enduring cultural definitions and values […] form boundaries within which cultural forces and agents, such as television producers, distributors, and viewers, operate’

(Straubhaar 2007, 8). This ‘holistic approach’ (Straubhaar 2007, 2) offers not just a means of working ‘against linear notions of cause and effect’ but also ‘a sense of complex

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possibilities, hard to predict exactly but bounded by certain factors, such as technology and economics, and patterned by others, such as cultural formations like genres that flow among television systems’ (Straubhaar 2007, 8).

Acosta-Alzuru’s writing on the Venezuelan telenovela El País de las Mujeres (‘Country of

Women’) deploys a similar approach within telenovela scholarship. Writing on the ‘lack of comprehensive [telenovela] studies that simultaneously examine two or more aspects, such as production and reception, or text and reception’ (Acosta-Alzuru 2003a, 273). Acosta-

Alzuru highlights the importance of a ‘multi modal’ approach for textual analysis. Using a

‘circuit of culture’ model as conceived by du Gay et al (1997) she identifies how the

‘constant negotiation between the writers, those in charge of the mise-en-scene—producers, director, actors—the audience, and the institutions that participate in the social formation’ all shape this content (Acosta-Alzuru 2003a, 274).

Shaped by these scholars, the analytical framework deployed in this study is both unique to

Mexican telenovela scholarship and complements the timeliness of this study. Unlike much of the industry-generated material celebrating the Mexican telenovela’s recent fiftieth anniversary, this framework helps to surpass a superficial celebration of those merely anecdotal triumphs and tragedies that colour its past. Rather, it highlights the myriad political, economic, social and cultural elements shaping the telenovela’s past and playing out in the present. Thus beyond a merely historical documentation of shifting trends, this framework seeks to provide a comprehensive theoretical insight into the Mexican telenovela timeline.

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Looking into the past, it is used to engage with those unexplored elements of the telenovela’s timeline as the post-telenovela de ruptura period, spanning the early 2000s to the present day. Here, the downfall of Mexico’s much anticipated and touted telenovela de ruptura ‘revolution’ is a key moment in telenovela history, for its provision of stories that

‘ruptured’ the traditional narrative schema through wildly controversial characters and themes. Yet the consequent failure for such changes to transpire remains sorely under- theorised within Mexican telenovela literature. Whilst in interview many of the scholars and critics who dedicated pages to espousing a new era of Mexican television have declared their disappointment with the industry, it would seem that any rigorous scholarship on this phenomenon has not yet appeared.

The analytical framework used here assists an exploration of the reasons behind this demise, and helps to compensate for the dearth of literature on the Mexican telenovela

“post-ruptura”. Yet beyond a reading of the telenovela past, the multi-modal approach utilised here does not just document the ‘blind spots’ along the Mexican telenovela’s timeline, but also helps to envisage the state of play within the contemporary industry as well as its possible fate in the increasingly ‘post broadcast’ future.

The importance of this approach is not only the contribution of a comprehensive analytical tool for Mexican telenovela studies. In identifying the ways history, nation, industry, audience and text interrelate, this research contributes to each of these individual areas of scholarship to which this study is indebted. A brief overview of these works maps where this study contributes to the existing literature within this field.

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Documenting the changes within the telenovela following each six-year presidential term amongst other conduits of national sentiment and mood such as natural disasters and financial crises Cueva (1998) is one of those scholars who have addressed the relationship between the Mexican telenovela and the state. Elizabeth Fox emphasises the relationship between the state and privately owned television companies in Mexico, referring to the infamous relationship between Televisa and el PRI (Institutional Revolutionary Party) as the ‘dominant characteristic of Mexican broadcasting’ (Fox 1997, 37). John Sinclair deciphers the effects of this mutually beneficial relationship on telenovela production by referring to Televisa’s ‘Mexican formula’ (Sinclair 1986). Here Sinclair suggests that

Televisa prioritised quantity over quality; pumping out formulaic fairytale narratives, which upheld what cultural critic Mario Vargas Llosa has called ‘the perfect dictatorship’ (cited in

Krauze 2007, n.p.) of the PRI’s seventy-one year rule.

Such was the mutual benefit of this ‘Mexican formula’ that Patrick Murphy identifies the

‘shift of the locus of ideological influences from a function of the state to the domain of the culture industries’ (Murphy 1995, 250) stating that ‘Televisa has become the unofficial and dominant force in Mexico’s politics of culture’ (Murphy 1995, 254). Identifying the continuing emphasis on nationalist discourses regarding race, class, gender and sexuality within the popular cultural products created by Televisa, Murphy indicates the inherent misnomer of what might be dubbed the ‘post-national’ context for Mexican telenovela production.

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The vast field of scholarship on Entertainment-Education telenovelas and Pro-Social soap operas by scholars such as , Aravind Singhal and E. M Rogers further elucidates the connections between the culture and political industries. Developed by

Televisa under the tutelage of Sabido during the seventies, these telenovelas were aimed at promoting social change such as increased literacy levels and family planning in Mexico.

The effects of this ‘Sabido Methodology’ were deemed highly successful, resulting in the adoption and modification of the methodology for other populations, among them ,

Kenya and The .

Another standout work that plots the relationship between popular culture and the nation is

Yolande Le Gallo’s 1988 study Nuevas mascaras, comedia Antigua. Las representaciones de las Mujeres en la telenovela mexicana (‘New Masks, old comedy. The representation of women in the Mexican telenovela’). Insightful in its complex analysis of textual dynamics, gender roles and nation-construction, Le Gallo’s study nonetheless works within the limited scope of a structuralist-oriented effects theory. The 1993 special issue of Fem journal, which was dedicated to women and telenovelas, provides a more measured approach to text and representation yet does not detail this relationship nor consider the role of the nation here.

Adriana Estill’s more recent analysis of the ‘numerous ways in which the Mexican nation

[…] appears and is constructed through the telenovela’ (Estill 2001, 171) identifies the

‘displacement of literature’s role in nation building by the ’ (Estill 2001, 187).

Here Estill’s work is useful for its updating to an audiovisual context the study of the nation

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within Mexican cultural texts which trace the representation of women within Latin

American literature, such as Jean Franco’s Plotting Women (1989) and Doris Sommer’s

Foundational Fictions: The National Romances of Latin America (1991), This work is particularly perceptive for its identification of why ‘[t]he representation of women and sexuality in the Mexican telenovela must be simultaneously read as a representation of the necessity of producing and reproducing the nation’ (Estill 2001, 172). However despite her argument that the genre’s narrative tropes embody nationalist ideology and in turn effect a form of citizenship for the characters, these connections are largely underexplored. In order to account for the telenovela as more than an ideological state apparatus, there remains much to consider within this equation.

Similarly unexplored is the careful consideration of the industry’s role in terms of production ideologies, imperatives and practices within the telenovela’s perpetuation of female archetypes. Most industry-oriented scholarship on the telenovela industry originates from the English-language press, and provides brief overview of what is labelled the telenovela ‘phenomenon’. Typically these articles first emphasise the similarities and differences that exist between what is assumed to be lesser-known telenovela and the Anglo soap opera, and then touch on the transnational expansion of the telenovela throughout global television markets. Such titles as Feeling Latin Heat Telenovelas set Teutonic

Ratings Alight (Meza 2005) and Montezuma’s Revenge which looks at ‘Latin America’s soapie revolution’ (Martínez, I 2006) show the celebration of the Mexican television industry as a success story in the face of “Westernisation” but also indicate the sensationalism often underlying these articles.

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Often marvelling at the telenovela’s counter flow into the US television market, these articles provide quirky anecdotes that epitomise the telenovela’s wild popularity in such unlikely territories as , Russia, and Lebanon. The guns falling silent on the

Azerbaijani-Armenian front during the airing of Los Ricos Tambien Lloran (The Rich also

Cry, Televisa 1979) is a clear example (Martínez, I, 2006, 4-5). Yet these articles rarely go beyond the novelty factor.

Consequently, the twenty-two interviews that were conducted with high profile telenovela industry professionals in 2007 and 2008, including writers, producers and directors, as well as scholars and critics, provide an unprecedented insight into the complex workings of the industry. The qualitative data gained from these interviews contributes substantially to the significance and originality of this thesis, qualifying the relationship between text and sociocultural context for production and consumption. Yet it also serves to diversify the methodology utilised within this study and compensates for its potential limitations regarding the detail of textual analysis and the inclusion of local perspectives on telenovela production and consumption practices within a historical and cultural matrix. .

Here, due to time and geographical constraints, the telenovelas surveyed are largely abridged versions of the originals. They have been purchased in Mexico, accessed online via the internet television sites housed within the official Televisa and TV Azteca websites, and recorded from Mexican television over the months June-July 2005, December-January

2006-7 and January-February 2008. Although this does impose limitations on an analysis of the daily rhythm of each narrative, as well as on the full intricacies of plot convolutions, it

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does not detract from the analysis at large. Within the versions surveyed, the Manichaean brushstrokes that colour even the most intricate of character nuances remain clear and the plot that is edited out is nonetheless present in the dialogue, monologue and flashbacks that are inherent to the genre. Significantly though, it is the interviews with industry executives, scholars and critics that provided the perfect forum for discussing the characters and plot within these narratives, in order to clarify and consolidate the arguments developed within this study.

Adding to the importance of the interviews is their ability to compensate for the lack of data from audience research groups. Due to time and geographical constraints, a decision was made very early on that audience research was beyond the scope for this research project.

This poses limitations on the ability to discuss audience reception and its influence on telenovela narratives and industry developments through the generation of original data specific to this study. However, it does not preclude the incorporation of “local” voices in this study, or a consideration of the place of the audience within the Mexican telenovela industry. In addition to the inclusion of insider perspectives from industry professionals, these interviews help to frame the audience through the lens of commercial logic. Here, the focus on audience consumption over reception follows the commercial imperatives within the industry, where ratings and production voices speak on behalf of audiences.

In some ways then, the absence of audience voices here mirrors the dynamics of the industry. This approach avoids specious accounts of audience reception and its relation to the telenovela industry, based on limited data findings within the scope of this thesis. It also

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enables a reflection on the arbitrary nature of ratings through an analysis of the production voices that justify the use of ratings to frame production decisions. This in turn enables the focus to remain on the interface between telenovela industry and the Mexican cultural matrix; for an analysis of the framework within which production decisions are made.

Furthermore, this approach also avoids becoming mired by the current stalemate within contemporary audience reception theory. Vek Lewis confirms the apparent reluctance within academia to explore audience reception beyond a polarised model when acknowledging that ‘the issue of representation, these days, is infrequently addressed’ as

‘the connections between cultural productions and their reception have been so complicated by cultural critics as to appear to be impossible to predict’ (Lewis 2008, 3). Indeed, cultural and media studies’ current emphasis on post-structuralist theory seems to have created a certain trepidation in re-examining the logistics of television texts as ideological tools that might ‘affect’ certain social-cultural behaviours or beliefs. From the nineties onwards, the dearth of published works that examine the interface between telenovela content and audience viewing reflects this.

Consequently, without a consideration of how audiences might actively negotiate ideological texts yet remain influenced by the ideological messages that they convey, audience reception theory does little to move beyond the construction of viewing as either

‘semiotic guerilla warfare’ (Fiske 1989, 18) or passive reception of dominant ideology.

This thesis avoids recourse to these models of audience reception, by locating viewing within the larger cultural context of the cultural imaginary. Indeed, whilst ‘oppositional or

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counter-hegemonic readings are always a possibility […] this cannot discount instances in which the knowledge frameworks of dominant culture align with the viewing public’s own available frameworks’ (Lewis 2008, 3).

This symmetry between those ‘knowledge frameworks’ circulating within the culture at large and the available knowledge frameworks of the telenovela viewing public is consolidated by the telenovela’s textual dynamics. The ‘privileged reading’ that knowledge of the telenovela’s narrative frameworks provides gives audiences maximum satisfaction for their subscription to those narrative paths which the exclusionary Manichaean melodrama endorses. Here, audiences are rewarded for their support and vilification of particular character types. Importantly, by focusing on the dynamics of textual engagement within ‘privileged reading’, it is possible to decentralise the question of audience agency from the viewing equation. This in turn helps to avoid the polarised issue of audience reception that seems to have paralysed Mexican telenovela studies.

This commercially and textually oriented model for audience reception does not however detract from the important connections made by some scholars regarding the influence that telenovelas have on everyday life, including gender relations in Mexico. It is this perspective upon which the cultural relevance of this study resides. Laura Beard, quoting

Teresa De Lauretis, comments that the telenovela is a site contributable ‘to the social construction of gender in Latin America’ including ‘the sexual exploitation of women and the repression or containment of female sexuality’ (de Lauretis in Beard 2003, 74). Many

Chicana feminists specify the tools for this oppression, identifying the female archetypes

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found haunting even the contemporary telenovelas. Gloria Anzaldúa stated that these archetypes are ‘used against women and against certain races to control, regulate, and manipulate us’ (Anzaldúa and Keating 2000, 219). Thus evident within these references is the belief that these female archetypes, and the telenovela itself, police female identity.

Mexican feminist Jean Franco suggests that Mexican women are ‘thereby trapped by stories that could be told about them […] Without the power to change the story or to enter into dialogue’ (Franco 1989, xxiv).

This perspective was consolidated in interview with feminist telenovela scholar Olga

Bustos Romero who outlined the resonance of female mythification beyond the borders of the ‘tidy nation’. Explaining the connections between the citizenship afforded women within the Mexican telenovela and that within the nation itself, she concluded that the mass murder of women in the Northern Mexican border city of Juárez illustrates this correlation.

Acknowledging the gravity of this association, she argued that Mexico’s femicide might be the last link in the chain but that it is the same story; of violence against women based around notions of appropriate and inappropriate femininity. For Bustos Romero, such parallels are evident in the misogynist emphasis on what a woman wears; a discourse found within both the telenovela’s female dichotomy and echoed in the popular press and police statements surrounding the Juárez murders (2007, pers. comm., 19 Jan.). Independent film and television director Antonio Serrano concurred, stating that ‘of course’ telenovelas

‘contribute to the mistreatment of woman, to misogyny, to the role of the macho, and [the notion of] woman as property’ (2007, pers. comm., 23 January).

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Consolidating this schema, scholars studying the serial sexual femicide in Juárez refer specifically to the archetypes of female mythification within the Mexican cultural imaginary when trying to understand the reasons for the continued perpetration and apparent immunity of these crimes. As Livingstone writes,

By analysing the crime scene, one can deduce that the sexualised murder suggests anger at the increasing sexual independence of young . The mutilated breasts suggest anger at women's use of their bodies for more than mothering and nurturing. The victims are primarily working women, suggesting resentment at women's increasing economic independence. Abandonment of their bodies in the desert like garbage reveals that these women are considered cheap and disposable (Livingstone 2004, 71).

For these scholars, the key to the femicide in Mexico’s northern border cities is how

‘women working in the maquila industry challenge the ideal of Mexican womanhood’ which ‘holds women to an ideal of femininity symbolised by the Virgin of Guadalupe, the virgin mother’ (Tiano and Ladino 1999, 307). Here, the breakdown of traditional female roles, has created ‘male resentment and hostility’ (Fuentes & Ehrenreich 1983, 33) towards women such that ‘feminist organizations in Juárez believe that a ‘macho backlash’ is responsible for the murders’ (Livingstone 2004, 64). Sociologist Pablo Vila’s claim that maquila workers are like prostitutes in the ‘service [of] foreign men’ (cited in Livingstone

2004, 66) qualifies these connections. Thus in opposition to the Virgin of Guadalupe, the violence against these maquila workers resonates as a rejection of the figurative whore.

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The socio-economic changes used here to contextualise the violence in Juárez, are also framed as conducive to social change at large. As one female politician of the current ruling

PAN party states:

In recent years, the recurrent economic crises have undermined the family structure and seriously damaged the social thread. […] Women are undertaking social roles that traditionally they have not been assigned, and along with this, men, women, the family and society at large have been affected (Álvarez de Vicencio 2006, 105).

Thus whilst these considerations do not draw a direct line between the telenovela and social violence, they demand an acknowledgement of the relationship between telenovela content and the everyday actualities that operate within a wider cultural context. They also invite a reflection on the potential for these changes to challenge the longevity of conventional

Mexican telenovela narrative schemas, which posit female characters as protagonists or antagonists of traditional family life. In light of these changes, the importance of re-viewing female citizenship within the Mexican telenovela industry is only confirmed, such that just who is and isn’t loved within the romantic narrative takes on a particular significance.

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Chapter One

The Melodrama of [‘Tidy’] Nation-Construction

Chapter One: The Melodrama of [‘Tidy’] Nation-Construction ‘Give me a telenovela and I’ll give you a nation.’ — Denise Bombardier

The dynamics of the telenovela love story take on epic proportions when considering the parallels between the ideal community configured onscreen and the wider project of nation- building throughout Mexican history. This historical continuum effectively constitutes its own ‘narrative’ of nation construction (Bhabha 1990) and consequently, provides the context within which the ideological parameters of Mexican telenovela narratives can be read. Key to this narrative of nation construction is the role of the culture industries. As the writers Susan Hayward (2000), Enric Castellò (n.d.) and Adriana Estill (1998, 2000a, 2001) suggest, popular audio-visual texts are key sites of promoting nationalist discourse. For

Castellò, ‘any debate about culture, identity or nation must include television which is the most important mechanism for disseminating representations’ (Castellò n.d, 6).

Following this logic, this chapter explores the Mexican telenovela as a principal protagonist in the historical project of nation-construction. It begins by outlining those historical tenets of nation-construction that facilitate the telenovela’s role in this project. The dialectical nature of these tenets posits the nation as invented/natural, individual/collective, banal/sovereign, invisible/visible, imaginary/real and memory/amnesia. Each of these

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equations contributes to the nation as an exclusionary entity that finds an effective proponent through national cinema (Hayward 2000), serial television melodrama (Castellò

2007, n. d.) and more specifically, the televisual melodrama of the Mexican telenovela

(Estill 1998, 2000a, 200b, 2001).

The chapter then identifies the logic of ‘woman-as-nation-construction’ within both nation- building and popular cultural forms (Berlant 1997, Hayward 2000) in order to explore the exclusionary nature of nation-construction, as evident within the Mexican telenovela. This overview is then applied to an analysis of the Mexican telenovela’s textual dynamics to consider exactly how these popular cultural texts reproduce nationalist ideology and ensure the ‘production and reproduction’ (Estill 2001, 172) of the nation. Here, the telenovela love story becomes national allegory, as narrative tropes effect a form of ‘citizenship test’ for the female characters to determine who is and is not conducive to the nation-construction.

The parameters of ‘ideal femininity’ are evident within an analysis of the race, class and gender outlined here.

The chapter ends by emphasising the importance of analysing this representational schema as a product of wider frameworks of telenovela production and consumption. This expands the notion of the telenovela as ideological state apparatus, by signalling the multiple reasons for the perpetuation of nationalist discourses within the ‘post-national’ context for twenty-first century telenovela production.

Nation- [State] Building as Televisual Construction

The nation is invented/natural. As ‘an ideological movement for the attainment and 49 | Page

maintenance of (the) unity and identity of a human population sharing an historic territory’

(Smith 1996a, 359) nationalism is much more than a series of unproblematic cultural rituals and customs organically inherent to a territorial population. Whilst the apparent ‘banality’

(Billig 1995, 6) of many cultural practices might suggest innate ontological meaning, their often-identifiable origins suggest a more constructed nature and consequently, a strategic relationship with the maintenance of specific power interests.

Certainly, the very power interests behind the origins of nationalism can be traced to the nation-building strategies of the nineteenth century, when newly born states asserted their governance over colonial territories. Here ‘[B]y binding the concept of nation to state

(literally by hyphenating it)’ the state gained ‘legitimate agency’ (Hayward 2000, 89-90) over the disparate masses of the new nation. This form of governance continues into the present day, whether as a means of ensuring economic and political viability within the increasingly globalised international community, or civil order within territorial borders.

Thus although ‘much of what we call nationalism is based on the idea that there is some basis for the unit chosen, other than historical contingency or political choice’ (Taylor C.

2004, 177) closer consideration reveals those key dialectical tropes of nation building, which secure the state’s power interests through the discourses and corresponding practices of nationalism as practiced by the state and its citizenry.

The nation is collective/individual. Defined here as a ‘contract’ between the state and its constituents, nationalism effects a form of ‘biopower’ (Foucault) where the individual’s enactment of ‘national culture’s’ traditions and beliefs secures those ideologies endorsed by

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the state.5 Of particular interest here is the relationship between the everyday life of the individual and nationalist ideology, situating the nation as banal/sovereign. This equation is particularly powerful as the obfuscation of state power interests is maintained through nationalism’s absorption into the population’s everyday life. Indeed, nationalist discourses work to ‘make the practice of the state as ‘natural’ as the concept of nation’, such that ‘[i]n the name of the nation, the state may govern’ (Hayward 2000, 89). Here the nation is visible/invisible. Indeed, the highly visible ritualistic public practice of cultural customs

(ceremonies of ‘banal nationalism’ such as flag raising, national anthems and national holidays) secures the ‘invisibility’ of the state, by making the highly constructed nature of nationalism appear innately natural.

However in a continuation of this paradoxical logic, the nation is imaginary/real. In identifying the ‘invented’ origins of these traditions (Hobsbawm and Ranger 1983), it is important not to ignore their ‘authentication’ through use. As Charles Taylor suggests, nationalism ‘can never be adequately expressed in the form of explicit doctrines because of its very unlimited and indefinite nature’ (Taylor, C. 2002, 107). It is both [re]-produced by institutional order and alive in the everyday lives of the population (Taylor, C. 2002, 121).

Whilst such traditions may well have been ‘invented’, they are proven to be ‘politically effective invention[s]’ which have been ‘interiorized and become part of the […] imaginary of the people concerned’ (Taylor, C. 2004, 177). The role of the imaginary is then key here

5 Foucault theorises biopower as ‘that domain of life over which power has taken control’ (cited in Mbembé 2003). Here, the human body serves a set of interests, often tied to the state and associated with the successful execution of a ‘greater public good’. In a capitalist economy this would see healthy bodies produce effective labour, which in turn reproduces a ‘healthy’ economy. In the Mexican nation-building context, the logic of biopower would paint the human body as a resource that produces ‘healthy’ ‘citizens’ for the national good, often determined by the heteronormative values of patriarchal ideology.

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to understanding the construction of nation as not simply a political state-driven ‘top-down’ process but also a cultural ‘grass-roots’ process. Yet precisely because of this individual

‘ownership’ of nationalist ideology, state power is further secured.

Foregrounding ‘the need, in self-governing societies, of a high degree of cohesion’ and

‘something like a common identity’, state advocacy of nationalism capitalises on the ability of cultural imaginings to unite a disparate population’s sense of collective identity (Taylor,

C. 1999, 265). Indeed, the role of the cultural imaginary in consolidating an imagined national identity cannot be underestimated, as it is the marriage of nation and identity that culture, even in its most banal form, facilitates. This ‘territorialisation of memory’ sees a nationalist construction of history become highly personal, through ‘shared memories of some [collective] past or pasts which can mobilise and unite its members’ (Hayward 2000,

83).

The nation is memory/amnesia. Smith outlines the basis of this equation when he explains

‘no memory, no identity; no identity, no nation’ (Smith 2004, 75) such that the creation of collective memory is premised upon national amnesia, where ‘getting one’s own history wrong’ through the construction of a cultural history is integral ‘for the maintenance of national solidarity’ (Hayward 2000, 83). Key to this process of unification, collective memory of a shared past sees the creation of a national cultural identity and it is here that the formula for nation-state building as televisual construction comes together.

The fostering of a sense of collective belonging through the creation of a cultural imaginary

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is perfectly articulated through the audio-visual texts of popular culture. Here film and television in particular facilitate the co-option of collective consciousness and sentiment through their depiction of national culture identity, facilitating the currency of the ideological parameters of the cultural imaginary. Indeed, as ‘the link — the hyphen — between nation and state’ (Hayward 2000, 82) the audio-visual products of a national culture industry secure these discourses within the cultural imaginary. For Hayward, ‘one cannot underestimate the importance of visual and print media and their role in disseminating this relationship between nation and state’ (Hayward 2000, 82).

Building on Benedict Anderson’s analysis of the mass media’s creation of a standardised language, image and idea of the nation, which engender the processes of modern nation construction, Hayward emphasises the power of the image in creating a cultural

‘image/nation’ (Hayward 2000, 88). So just as print capitalism ‘made it possible for rapidly growing numbers of people to think about themselves, and to relate themselves to others, in profoundly new ways’ (Anderson 1983, 36) so too do the audio-visual cultural products in modern times. Many scholars have explored this paradigm within different cultural contexts, observing both the use of cultural texts by authoritarian regimes of governance, as well as their use by populations seeking independent governance within established national territories. Of these texts, Castellò’s work on television fiction — in particular fictional television serials such as the telenovela — and nation-building is one of the most significant (Castellò 2007, n.d.).

Asserting that ‘[a]ll nations need their own television, and all nations need a fiction to picture itself as a nation’ (Castellò n.d, 4) Castellò argues that fiction has served as a

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national “promotion tool” within many national-building contexts (Castellò n.d, 6).

Identifying national referents such as architecture and landscapes, art and literature, history and folklore, gastronomy and sport, flags and anthems, as well as brands and religion,

Castellò locates the many ways in which the Catalán nation appears and is constructed through serialised television fiction in Spain. Following this logic, the Mexican telenovela constitutes an ‘ideal’ version of the nation ‘in which the imagined community rallies around specific images of itself’ (Lopez 1995, 262). It constructs the ‘image/nation’

(Hayward 2000, 88) through its ‘semiotic field of images that represent the nation metaphorically or metonymically’ (Estill 2001, 172). Here the nation appears through iconographic symbols of lo mexicano (‘The Mexican’) such as tequila, the Mariachi and the

Virgin of Guadalupe. Other obvious ways in which the nation is framed is through on- location filming. Telenovela titles such as Acapulco, Cuerpo y Alma (‘Acapulco, Body and

Soul’, Televisa 1995) are testament to the appearance of the Mexican nation within the telenovela.

Further to the nation’s construction within serialised television fiction is its popularity and pervasiveness. The daily programming and often domestic scenarios they entail provide a perfect accompaniment to the rhythms of everyday life, and it is this ‘banality’ of both form and content that equates serial television fiction with those ‘banal nationalisms’ performed in everyday rituals and routines. Furthermore, the intimate place of television in the privacy of the home, and its purported reflection of the national space and its people in the practice of living their everyday lives emphasises the apparent divorce between cultural products and the state; indeed, what would such ‘banality’ have to do with the state?

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Yet it is this very ordinariness that makes fictional television serials like the telenovela, the perfect contemporary vehicle for nation-building narratives within the twenty-first century.

With an estimated telenovela viewing public of between sixty and eighty percent (Estill

2001, 179) and the back-to-back telenovela programming from Monday to Friday across the main free to air television channels, the telenovela constitutes a ‘space for [the] iteration and interpellation required to produce the […] nation [as] an intelligible, cohesive whole’

(Estill 2001, 169). Its pervasiveness and popularity provide ‘the perfect means for synthesizing diverse regional identities into an intelligible, cohesive whole’ (Estill 2001,

169).

From these complex workings of the nation, it is possible to locate the Mexican telenovela not just as popular cultural text but also as a popular national cultural text, and thus as both a product and producer of the cultural imaginary’s ideological parameters. Here, the sheer popularity of the telenovela is integral to its role in perpetuating nationalist ideology within the cultural imaginary, and consequently the perpetuation of the historical project of nation- construction within the twenty-first century. Thus beyond being an innocuous celebration of national images, the telenovela-as-nation-construction reflects more profoundly the exclusionary nature of this historical project.

With difference as ‘the very thing that nationalisms seek to deny’ (Hayward 2000, 87) the type of nation traditionally endorsed by the state has been notable for its exclusionary endorsement of particular race, class, gender and sexuality within the national space. Yet beyond legislation that discriminates against such differences, another key means of

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securing particular social practices is investment in those smaller components of society.

As a paternalistic framework through which the state assumes familial relationship with its citizens, the family unit has become one of the key components of its popular

‘infrastructure’. Here endorsement of the nuclear family unit serves to monitor aberrant behaviours that were deemed threatening to its ‘production and reproduction’ (Estill 2001,

172).

However the ‘standardisation’ of national cultural identity that this endorses is not just a product of the state, but also its constituents. Consolidating ‘some notion of a moral or metaphysical order, in the context of which the norms and ideals make sense’ (Taylor C.

2004, 25) the cultural imaginary governs social structures through the creation of this ideological framework. Here the nation is imaginary/real as the ongoing ‘weight’ of the imaginary creates ‘deeper normative notions and images’ (Taylor C. 2004, 23). With morality a vehicle for exclusionary discourses, national culture can effectively alienate and repress those individuals or groups that might threaten both the state’s power and the moral sensibilities of its constituents. Consequently within this equation, imaginings may be as potent as official forms of regulation. For just as the state regulates against diversity in order to ‘represent the nation as one’ (Hayward 2000, 86) the national cultural imaginary perpetuates these exclusionary discourses.

Considering the telenovela’s role in perpetuating national cultural identity, which is itself a reflection of nationalist discourses, it only follows that this popular cultural text conveys exclusionary discourses oriented towards constructing an ‘ideal imagined’ nation. Indeed,

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what exactly constitutes the ‘official’ version of the nation and its people need no longer be ordained by the state. These inherently exclusionary nationalist discourses take on a life of their own within the telenovela, becoming embroidered not only into the logic of the cultural imaginary and its daily ‘production and reproduction’ (Estill 2001, 172) onscreen, but also into the fabric of the telenovela form itself.

Within the telenovela’s fictional world, ‘the nation becomes the stage, the place where the story happens; […] an ‘imagined place’ where people lead their lives in a normalized way within what is considered to be the national culture’ (Castellò n.d, 15). Consequently, a close reading of the telenovela narrative is necessary to reveal the ways in which the ideal version of the nation and its constituents appear within the plots twists and turns. Following

Castellò’s logic in asking ‘Why is the plot as it is?’ (Castellò n.d., 5), ‘what kind of ideological narration do the plots provide?’, ‘What are the main arguments?’ and ‘What society does the fiction represent’ (Castellò n.d., 11) it is possible to consider those characteristics of nation-building, which secure the Mexican telenovela’s nationalist discourses within the contemporary context.

Finding ‘the Nation’ within the ‘National Melodrama’

The nation is televisual. There are several unique narrative tropes that assist the Mexican telenovela’s exclusionary nation-construction, and thereby reveals how the Mexican nation both ‘appears and is constructed through the telenovela’ (Estill 2001, 171). Adriana Estill provides important insight into these dynamics by identifying those aspects of the narrative form that contribute to the ‘rebirth of the [Mexican] nation […] at this micro level’ (Estill 57 | Page

2001, 179). For Estill, the closed onscreen community is inherently symbolic of the ‘ideal imagined Mexico’ (Estill 2001, 172) due to its limited number of characters and sets. This is facilitated by the telenovela’s ‘repetitive and melodramatic structure’, which ‘seems to be tailor-made for nation-construction’ (Estill 2001, 187).

Repetition and melodrama serve to construct the ideal national community onscreen in two key ways. Whilst melodrama is synonymous with the telenovela genre, scholars such as

Ana M. Lopez have noted the Mexican telenovela’s ‘extraordinarily Manichean vision of the world’ (Lopez 1995, 261). Importantly here, the characters that inhabit the narrative are essentialised characterisations of good and evil, further facilitating the symbolic function of this figurative national space. Indeed, each character’s affiliation with a specific ideological stance assists the construction of the ‘tidy nation’ as the battle between good and evil that ensues ‘create[s] at every turn a portrait of what the nation should be’ (Estill 2001, 179).

The role of repetition is important here, as it reiterates those ideologies and behaviours conducive to the construction of an ideal national space.

Finally, this ideological/behavioural schema is consolidated upon the fixed narrative ending that is inherent to the telenovela form. This relationship between form and content is emphasised upon comparison with Anglo soaps. Where soap operas can run for decades, telenovelas invest in narrative closure. With runs lasting anywhere between two months and two years, the conclusion informs the entire narrative trajectory. Indeed, after myriad narrative twists and turns, the ultimate drive for moral justice, best establishes the relationship between ‘tidy’ narrative structure and a ‘tidy’ version of the nation (Estill

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2001, 172). Here, ‘the telenovela’s impulse toward final and total closure’ (Estill 2001,

172) creates the need for a Manichaean schema from which ‘a permanent, stable world’ can be built (Estill 2001, 174). The inexorable ‘tidiness’ of the narrative thereby informs the essentialised nature of characterisation, with each individual rewarded or punished accordingly.

Following the logic of what Estill calls the telenovela as ‘tidy nation’ (1998, 2000a, 2001), characterisation speaks to the ideological parameters of nation-construction. As occupants of an ultimately ‘tidy’ version of the Mexican nation, the members of the telenovela community take on wider significance beyond their fictional borders; as ‘ideal imagined’ citizens of and ‘ideal imagined’ nation. Here, the narrative tropes determining characterisation and narrative trajectory take on an ideologically charged significance, such that the Manichaean melodramatic battle between good and evil, the corresponding schema of reward and punishment, and the ensuing ‘tidy’ version of the nation and citizenship that it constructs, all serve to police exactly who is and is not allowed to remain within the

‘ideal imagined Mexico’ (Estill 2001, 172) configured upon narrative conclusion.

Thus exactly who is and is not allowed to remain within this ‘tidy nation’ takes on historical, political and cultural importance and reveals those elements of telenovela-as- nation-construction that are missing within Estill’s work. To begin, a close exploration of the constitution and trajectory of telenovela characters is necessary to reveal the ideological parameters linking the historical project of nation-construction to serialised television melodrama. The beginnings of such an analysis can be found within Estill’s work, as she

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argues that ‘[T]he representation of women and sexuality in the Mexican telenovela must be simultaneously read as a representation of the necessity of producing and reproducing the nation’ (Estill 2001, 172). Citing ‘the idea that women all have the potential to betray their men, sexually, verbally, and morally by not living up to the mother/virgin image that is constantly idealized’ (Estill 2001, 186) Estill identifies this historical paradigm at the root of woman-as-nation-construction within the Mexican telenovela.

However, exactly how the Mexican telenovela’s female characters embody nationalist configurations of ‘appropriate’ and ‘inappropriate’ existence for the nation’s female citizens remains unexplored. The following section uses the theories of Lauren Berlant and

Susan Hayward to clarify this relationship between woman and nation within popular cultural texts. As such, precisely how telenovela form constructs the ‘tidy nation’ through the female characters becomes evident.

Finding Female Citizenship within the Mexican Telenovela

‘The nation appears […] where the plot unfolds, the place where the characters live’ Enric Castellò

The relationship between woman and nation has been explored in several interesting academic texts. (Yuval-Davis 1997, Collins 1998, Kaplan et al. 1999) Jean Franco, Plotting

Women (1989) traces the representation of women within Latin American narratives as simultaneously a representation of the nation, as does Kristin Pitt’s work on National Bodies: Woman as Nation in Latin American Narrative (2005) and Doris Sommer’s study Foundational Fictions: The National Romances of Latin America (1991). Yet constructed 60 | Page

within literary analysis, they do not consider the importance of audio-visual representations of the Mexican ‘image/nation’. Consequently, the work of Lauren Berlant (1997) and Susan

Hayward (2000) is most important here for understanding how female citizenship is constructed within and through popular audio-visual cultural texts.

In her 1997 study on Sex and Citizenship, Berlant observes that ‘the contemporary ideal of citizenship is measured by personal and private acts and values rather than civic acts’

(Anon. 1997, n.p.). This follows the ‘shift from a state-based and thus political identification with nationality to a culture-based concept of the nation as a site of integrated social membership’ (Berlant 1997, 3). Although basing her ‘archive’ on ‘the scene of normativity’ (Berlant 1997, 20) within the Reaganite era of politics, Berlant’s work is highly relevant to the Mexican context.

Exploring the ways in which these exclusionary discourses regarding what are the ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ 'private and personal acts’ have taken hold through the culture industries, including the ‘expansion of a mass-mediated space of opinion formation’ (3),6 Berlant speaks to the role of the telenovela-as-nation-construction. Her critique of ‘the marketing of nostalgic images of a normal, familial American that would define the utopian context for citizen aspiration’ (Berlant 1997, 3) runs parallel with the telenovela as a proponent of exclusionary nationalist discourse. Indeed, within these mass media images, in which only

6 Although Berlant looks at more than the mass media (observing other forms of ‘ordinariness’ such as the law) she observes the integral role of television in this ‘privatization’ of citizenship within the United States. As one of those ‘technologies of citizenship’ (Berlant 1997, 31) Berlant asserts ‘television’s role in constructing the hegemony [of] the normative nation’. (Berlant 1997, 35) Acknowledging Benedict Anderson’s identification of ‘the simultaneity effect of paper and electronic media, whose consumption is said to produce a general sensation of constant collective citizenship’ (Berlant 1997, 34) Berlant’s ‘archive’ highlights the importance of the telenovela as an ‘everyday communication in the national public sphere’ which assists in ‘the construction, experience, and rhetoric of quotidian citizenship’ (Berlant 1997, 12). 61 | Page

‘particular kinds of national life’ are made ‘iconic’ (Berlant 1997, 11), the de-politicisation of conservative cultural politics occurs. This in turn resembles the nation-building tenet of memory/amnesia, as confirmed with Berlant’s identification of ‘paramnesias’ as a process by which images ‘organize consciousness, not by way of explicit propaganda, but by replacing and simplifying memories people actually have […] [to] political feelings that link them to other citizens and to patriotism’ (Berlant 1997, 57).

For Berlant, this newfound ‘intimacy’ of the public sphere is problematic in its surreptitious policing of the private and personal acts of the nation’s citizens. Indeed, ‘paramnesias’ make obsolete the ‘ethical questions about the privileges only some citizens enjoy’ (Berlant

1997, 57) including ‘the historically stereotyped citizen—people of color, women, gays, and lesbians’ (Berlant 1997, 2). Here, ‘the consequences of a shrinking and privatized concept of citizenship on increasing class, racial, sexual and gender animosity’ remain

‘hidden’ amongst the workings of cultural texts (Anon. 1997, n. p.). However, it is the relationship that Berlant posits between sex and citizenship that provides the most profound insight.

By outlining the dynamics of the US ‘national culture industry that emphasizes sexuality as the fundamental index of a person’s political legitimacy’ (Berlant 1997, 58) Berlant provides insight into the logic of the Mexican telenovela’s emphasis on female sexuality and the family unit as tenets of ‘tidy nation’ construction. For Berlant, the ‘reliance on maternity to secure properly familial norms of intimacy and continuity’ (Berlant 1997, 84) is a means of securing the nation’s future. This project is particularly pertinent when ‘the

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modal form of the citizen is called into being, when it is no longer a straight, white, reproductively inclined heterosexual but rather might be anything’ (Berlant 1997, 18).

This endorsement of the family as integral to the nation’s future mirrors the Mexican telenovela’s investment in marriage, maternity and the family unit as the ultimate ‘happy ending’. Indeed, the exclusionary portrayal of citizenship as ‘something scarce and sacred, private and proper, and only for members of families’ (Berlant 1997, 3) follows ‘the regulation of ‘“perversion” on behalf of a heterofamilial citizenship norm’ (Berlant 1997,

18). Thus, the type of women awarded and denied citizenship within the ‘tidy nation’ indicates how those ‘threatening practices of nonfamilial sexuality’ (Berlant 1997, 7) can become quarantined and ultimately removed from the figurative national space. This serves as a form of national security, upon which its moral economy depends.

Susan Hayward provides a more nuanced analysis of how female sexuality secures nation- construction when she delineates how ‘woman’s body is closely aligned/identified with nationalist discourses’ (Hayward 2000, 89). Within this schema,

violated motherland= violated woman invasion by the enemy= rape of the mother-land/woman rape=occupation of the mother-body by the enemy occupation=reproduction of the enemy within the mother-body (Hayward 2000, 90).

In all of these equations, ‘the female body by extension becomes the site of life and death of a nation, the rise and fall of a nation’ (Hayward 2000, 90). As such, ‘the symbolic value of the female body […] [is] a means of playing out national insecurities’ such as invasion, colonisation, as well as miscegenation and population decline (Hayward 2000, 91). It is in

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particular this latter anxiety that posits the maternal body as a nation-building tool, yet this does not counter the importance of ‘purity’ to the mother-body’s reproduction of the nation.

Accordingly, the type of maternity endorsed must operate within the bounds of

‘appropriate’ female sexuality, as a mother whose sexuality is exercised outside of the respected institutions of virginity and marriage may compromise the moral economy of the nation’s population.

Once again then, female sexuality is the linchpin of national security, suggesting not only the importance of marriage and maternity to the national narrative, but also the

‘appropriate’ execution of these practices. Indeed, as key sites for monitoring ‘appropriate’ and ‘inappropriate’ forms of female sexuality, participating in the social institutions of marriage, maternity and the family unit are not enough. Virginity is essential to ensuring this morality is intact. Yet sugar-coating this equation is love. In all its splendour, love is the key ingredient that binds this narrative as a cohesive whole to determine whether the execution of these institutions is sufficiently ‘tidy’.

An understanding of exactly how these nation-building ingredients combine within the romantic narrative necessitates an analysis of the textual dynamics of the Mexican telenovela. The following section elucidates the ways in which this woman-as-nation- building narrative is itself constructed, via the embroidery of exclusionary nationalist ideologies into the tapestry of telenovela characterisation and plot. To highlight the primacy of female sexuality within this equation, the section begins by exploring the female dichotomy of good versus evil through the lens of race and class representations. This

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serves to establish female sexuality as the ultimate determinant of a woman’s place within the ‘tidy nation’.

Love as National Allegory; the Personal is Political

Hernán Vera explains that the Mexican telenovela format ‘is ideal’ for profiling ‘the model of the ideal woman’ (2007, pers. comm., 22 January). However, at first glance, what differentiates the protagonist from the antagonist is not apparent. Certainly it is not her physical attributes. Both the protagonist and the antagonist are strikingly beautiful. Clearly indicating one branch of ‘tidy nation’ construction through exclusionary representational schemas, the beauty of both of these characters subscribes to the racial hierarchies that inform female aesthetics within Mexican society.

Yeidy Rivero identifies this narrative trope in her analysis of “Ugliness” in Yo Soy Betty la fea’ (I am Betty: The Ugly Girl). Arguing that ‘race’ and ‘Eurocentric ideologies of

“beauty” inform the ways in which female aesthetics have been socially constructed in […]

Latin America’ (Rivero 2003, 68), she asserts that ‘whiteness’ is commonly framed as ‘the epitome of purity and elegance for the female body’ (Rivero 2003, 67). This is evident within Mexican television. With its ‘predominance of blond models and anchorpersons’ as well as its ‘indigenous subjects defined through European perspectives’ Mexican television

‘acts as the purveyor of “subliminal racism”’ within this predominantly ‘mestizo and indigenous country’ (Monsiváis 1987, 132).

Winders et. al. (2005) contextualise this within a postcolonial perspective, in their study on

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whiteness in late-night Mexican television. Suggesting that the ‘desire for whiter skin’ promoted within late-night infomercials for skin whitening cream ‘signals the traces of a colonial past and present in Mexico’ (Winders et. al. 2005, 72) they argue that they the

‘ever-present connections between darkness and poverty’ (Winders et. al. 2005, 78)

‘permeate[s] contemporary representations as well’ (Winders et. al. 2005, 81). Indeed, despite the purported racial equality of the mestizo (person of mixed race) that accompanied the Independence movement in Latin America (1807-1824) colonial ideologies of blanqueamiento (‘whitening’) continue in many Latin American contexts. As Yeidy Rivero explains, ‘while the ideology of cultural and racial mestizaje posits a racially equal and culturally hybrid national space, hierarchies exist which define the nation’s citizens based on the axes of “race” and class’ (Rivero 2003, 68).

Mexican telenovela fiction reflects this exclusionary racial ideology, as confirmed in

Glascock and Ruggiero’s 2004 study on ‘ television in the United States’

(of which the Mexican telenovela constitutes a considerable proportion). They found that

‘lighter skin characters, with typically lighter color hair, were more frequently represented overall and in major roles’ (Glascock and Ruggiero 2004, 399). Similarly, they ‘were more fit and younger, more likely to be married and had a higher class status than their darker skin counterparts’ (Glascock and Ruggiero 2004, 399). Suggesting that ‘lighter is better’

(Glascock and Ruggiero 2004, 399) within this programming, socioeconomic status is invariably bound up in race hierarchies such that ‘skin color typically dictates one’s social class, with dark skin characters relegated to servile roles and stars more frequently light skinned and blonde’ (Glascock and Ruggiero 2004, 392). Following these exclusionary

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dynamics, neither skin colour nor features determines that which differentiates the protagonist from the antagonist. Regardless of their inherent ‘goodness’ or ‘badness’, all female characters that occupy the central frame are ‘white’ and subscribe to the dominant

Eurocentric norms surrounding beauty.

Evidently class plays an important role in differentiating telenovela women. However this process is more complicated than the open rejection of a lower class habitus through the equation of ‘darkness’ with poverty. Following the Pygmalion nature of the typical

Cinderella narrative, the upper class habitus of the protagonist is vital for her successful narrative trajectory. In these narratives, which posit love and marriage as a source of class ascension for the female protagonist, lower class origins are merely the beginning point for an ultimately happy ending among the upper echelons of society. Yet despite this apparent rejection of poverty, the protagonist’s wealth is only secured after her humble origins have endeared her to many.

Here telenovela ideology attempts to imbue the lower class characters with a humanity that often eludes their wealthier counterparts. As Cynthia Duncan explains, ‘working class heroes and heroines often prove themselves to be morally superior to those who are better off financially, and they sometimes redeem or reform the well-to-do by teaching them to appreciate the non-material joys of life’ (Duncan 1995, 83). Álvaro Cueva maps this moral superiority within the Mexican telenovela, stating that;

the message is clear, it is bad to be rich, it is good to be poor. […] In this genre, the most dysfunctional families are wealthy, […] the weakest men are those within the halls of power, […] the most educated people are those most removed from their roots […] and the women, the bigger the cheque-book, the more promiscuous (Cueva 2001, 19). 67 | Page

Thus, despite the inevitable ‘whiteness’ of both the protagonist and the antagonist, a key component of their differentiation is often based upon class origins yet following these class parameters; it is not merely wealth vs. poverty, but rather the purported value(s) of poverty that is endorsed. Estill proposes that such configurations purposefully invest ‘a great proportion of the Mexican population with moral and social power, in order to compensate them for not having financial power’ (Estill 2001, 180-1). Yet regardless of its logic ‘poverty is to goodness as wealth is to evil’ (Vela 2004, 2). In fact, the antagonist’s inevitable downfall is often caused by her arrogance and sense of superiority.

Consequently, the protagonist is all the more beautiful for her humility and compassion, which prove irresistible to the telenovela galán. For it is this love story that most indicates the ‘connection of the national epic with private dramas’ (Martín-Barbero 1995, 279).

Indeed, as the logic through which nationalist notions of ‘appropriate’ and ‘inappropriate’ values and behaviour are embroidered within the narrative, love determines ‘good’ versus

‘evil’ femininity within the Mexican telenovela-as-nation-construction.

Within the telenovela love story, the characters and narrative developments take on deeper significance than the melodramatic undulations of romance. According to this schema, the characterisation of the female protagonist and antagonist reveals not only what attracts the telenovela galán, but the ideology that is endorsed within ‘tidy nation’ construction. Those traits distinguishing the female protagonist from the female antagonist, her defeated foe in the battle for the galán’s love, become the key ingredients of the ‘model of the ideal

[Mexican] woman’ as outlined by Hernán Vera;

Logic follows; Woman exists to have children. In order to have children she must have a husband. To have a husband she must be a virgin. […] She is a good hearted woman

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because a mother cannot be ‘bad hearted’, even if she is humiliated, even if she is beaten, even if she is raped […] as a human being her female condition is to endure. She is designed to mother the precious children of a triumphant father (2007, pers. comm., 22 January). It is not hard to read the national allegory within this equation, where the ultimately triumphant father of telenovela galán is the nation, the precious children are those citizens that secure its future, and woman is the means through which the nation’s future is secured.

However, the characteristics that constitute this ideal woman’s civil status and ‘nature’ are specified within this equation. Consequently, there are two types of woman within the nation-building equation; one conducive to nation-construction and another that threatens this project. The narrative trajectory of these characters secures this equation, as the two types of women are pitted against each other in a symbolic ritual of ‘survival of the fittest’.

However, considering their allegorical function, there is no doubt who will triumph in this

‘natural’ selection.

For although both the good and bad women can bear his progeny, only the good woman can secure the moral economy of the appropriately ‘tidy’ nation. In contrast, the bad woman is ‘tainted by the reality or the insinuation of unfeminine ambitions, whether sexual, financial, or moral.’ (Estill 2000a, 86) It is no surprise then that the good woman is chosen for this nation construction because what makes her good is not only her execution of the tidy-nation-building values of virginity, marriage and motherhood but also her belief in them. They are her priority and nothing in her heart or mind challenges this schema. Her

‘appropriate femininity’ posits that her virginity [purity], good-heartedness, submission and endurance are suitable for marriage to the galán (nation) and the production of his children

[the reproduction of the nation]. Accordingly, she becomes the protagonist of the nation-

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building narrative.

The protagonist’s foe does not believe in the same things. Although she may seek to marry and procreate, she is not motivated by ‘good’ intentions. In fact, her pursuit of the telenovela galán is motivated by jealousy and lust, as she is desperate to appropriate his affections from the protagonist for her own means. Thus ‘inappropriate’ behaviour accompanies her ‘inappropriate’ values. She attempts to seduce the hero and to sully the protagonist’s good name. She stops at nothing, deploying all manner of manipulations to achieve her desires. Such power-lust threatens national security, as Laura Sanchez explains:

‘If you have a mother that doesn’t protect her children […] who damages them, well, she’s not a good mother. She is a witch’ (2007, pers. comm., 8 February). It is this ‘inappropriate femininity’ that poses a threat to the family unit/nation and thereby secures her role as the antagonist.

Within this schema of ‘appropriate’ and ‘inappropriate’ femininity, notions of ‘appropriate’ and ‘inappropriate’ sexuality distinguish the protagonist from the antagonist. Here the protagonist’s ‘appropriate’ sexuality can secure the moral economy and sustainability of the

‘tidy nation’ through her reproduction of the family unit. The antagonist’s deployment of sex for purposes other than those legitimised by the institutions of marriage and maternity constitute her threat to this nation. However, although it is the galán’s role to determine which traits of femininity are deemed ‘appropriate’ for the ‘tidy nation’s’ construction, his status as a virile man who is prone to seduction means that higher forces are required.

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In order to secure the moral economy of the ‘tidy nation’, love comes into play. It cuts through both those infidelities of the galán and the deceptive manipulations of the antagonist that constitute the plot’s twists and turns. Indeed within love’s ambit, the protagonist and galán are destined to reunite despite the numerous obstacles to their union.

Consequently, love effects a form of ‘citizenship test’, which the antagonist can never pass.

She may be adept at feigning a desire for marriage and maternity to the galán, but true love eludes her. The galán may be seduced by the antagonist’s ‘inappropriate’ sexuality, but he could never love such a puerile woman or choose her for his wife and the mother of his children. She is the unloved woman and as such, she will never end in the galán’s embrace.

Here the antagonist is proof incarnate that ‘not every woman in the Mexican telenovela has the right to be loved’ (Sanchez L. 2007, pers. comm., 8 February). Indeed, according to

Sanchez, ‘A woman who has sinned because she has not remained pure, who has been with other men, does not deserve love, true love at the end, because she has behaved badly’

(Sanchez L. 2007, pers. comm., 8 February).

Unlike the power hungry obsession of the antagonist, the protagonist’s undying love for the galán triumphs against all odds, and secures her place in his arms. The galán’s only recourse is to love such a pure woman, eternally devoted to his well-being. The narrative conclusion secures the fate of these women within the ‘tidy nation’. Where love’s triumph sees the ultimate reward of marriage and maternity to the protagonist for her ‘appropriate’ execution of the tenets of tidy-nation-construction, its denial of the antagonist leads to her ultimate punishment. Both fates are integral to the ‘happy ending’s’ moral justice.

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Consequently, the protagonist’s ending is merely the beginning of ‘happily ever after’. In the final frames she is always seen celebrating victory with her beloved, the telenovela galán (Cueva 2001, 57). The white church wedding has traditionally been the final image in the protagonist’s trajectory, with ‘the close relationship between love and, moral status and marriage, considered to be the realization of happiness’ (Le Gallo 1988, 201). Although the protagonist may have already married her male counterpart in a civil service, earlier on in the narrative trajectory, the church wedding is a religious consecration of the love they have battled so long to realise. As the ‘unloved’ woman, the antagonist remains alone. She is punished for her transgression of the laws of the ‘tidy nation’ through death, disfigurement, incarceration, madness, and other variations of the ‘exile’ narrative.

The happy ending’s reward or denial of love equates to the reward or denial of citizenship within the ‘tidy nation’ configured upon narrative conclusion. Here, permanent residency equates to citizenship, as the protagonist’s future within the telenovela community is secured through her marriage to the galán and the mothering of his children. She is guaranteed citizenship by his side, with his status as the la patria (the fatherland) rewarding her patriotic behaviour. In contrast the antagonist is punished for her selfish denial of the nation and its values. Consequently, those characters remaining within the borders of the

‘tidy nation’ by telenovela conclusion, are those identities proffered as ideal, endorsed by the camera’s gaze, deemed worthy of the audience’s attention, and the determining focus of the story. Those exiled are a warning of the dangers of transgression.

This narration of national epic as personal melodrama posits the ‘loved’ are those good and

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ultimately triumphant women who represent ideal citizenship within the ‘ideal community.’

The ‘unloved’ are those bad women who are eventually ‘exiled’ from the community.

Based upon notions of ‘appropriate’ femininity- construed through values and behaviour that culminate in a woman’s execution of ‘appropriate’ sexuality- the telenovela love story becomes the means through which the ‘tidy’ version of the nation is ‘produced’ and

‘reproduced’. Evidently, the concept that ‘love conquers all’ garners greater resonance when those women battling for the hero’s love are framed as citizens of the ‘tidy nation’.

The Power of Love: Problematising the ‘Tidy Nation’ and its

Enduring Popularity

‘At any given moment actors and writers come out swinging for the fact that Latin American telenovelas promote positive values and it simply isn’t true’ Álvaro Cueva

Telenovela critics and scholars have attested to the importance of identifying the ‘negative’ values and ‘effects’ of the telenovela love story, which acts as a seductive ‘trojan horse’ with ‘real effects’ (Cueva 2001, 139). Nowhere is the power of love more evident than with the 1965 telenovela , which narrates the love story of Austrian emperor Maximilian of Hapsburg and his wife Carlota Amalia. As telenovela protagonists, this telenovela narrated ‘their short and turbulent empire and their tragic end in the context of the French intervention in Mexico (1862-1867)’ (Rodríguez Cadena 2004, 52).

Following historical accuracy, Benito Juárez — the celebrated first Indigenous president of

Mexico who was responsible for the restoration of the republic after the French invasion of

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Mexico — was portrayed ordering the execution of the archduke. Yet ‘official’ versions of history were no match for the telenovela love story. Benito Juárez, hero of Mexico against the imperialist forces, became the evil villain to these ‘innocent victims of destiny’

(Rodríguez Cadena 2004, 52).

In order to counter this negative portrayal of a Mexican president as ‘the one to blame for the separation of the aristocratic lovers’, the then secretary of State ‘demanded changes be made to the script in order to restore Juárez’s image’ (Rodríguez Cadena 2004, 52). It was however, too late. Audiences had already been ‘seduced’ by the plight of the ‘beautiful but naïve European prince and princess whose only flaw was to love each other in a land of indians’ (Rodríguez Cadena 2004, 52). Damage control meant the telenovela was terminated twenty-nine episodes shy of its schedule. In 1967 a follow-up entitled La

Tormenta (‘The Storm’) was made. Focusing on the life-long achievements of Benito

Juárez, ‘recovered the respectable image of President Juárez as a relevant national hero’ (Rodríguez Cadena 2004, 52).

For some telenovela scholars and critics, telenovela love is a ruse, ‘no more than an

“attractive” cover for normative duties that are dictated by the institution of marriage- family’ (Le Gallo 1988, 249-50). For Le Gallo, it is the persistence of those ‘moral’ values that indicate ‘correct behaviour for women, independently of time or place’ (Le Gallo 1988,

230) and which are tied to the moralistic rhetoric of the Catholic Church, that hide behind

‘the myth of love’ (Le Gallo 1988, 256). Here, love becomes the tool through which gender norms are regulated within Mexican society as its ‘“magical power” deceptively hides the

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primarily socialised aspect of this love’ (Le Gallo 1988, 249). Within this schema, woman is encouraged to ‘surrender herself in service of patriarchal order’ (Le Gallo 1988, 256) such that ‘the only means of realization is recognition by man’ (Le Gallo 1988, 250).

The alleged ‘effectiveness’ of this schema is cause for concern for many feminist scholars.

A recent example of this discourse can be seen with the commentary surrounding Fuego en la Sangre (‘Fire in the Blood’ Televisa 2008), which scored high audience ratings from its first week of transmission, that it became Mexico’s most successful telenovela beginning of all time (Cueva 2008). This was only cause for further concern for its many detractors.

Although a remake of the Colombian telenovelas Las Aguas Mansas (‘Still Waters’ 1994) and Pasión de Gavilanes (‘Sparrowhawks’ Passion’ 2003) Fuego en la Sangre is deeply invested with nationally specific iconography. Set on a picturesque ranch out of reach of mobile phone coverage, and replete with charros (cowboys) on horseback, mariachi and the

Virgin of Guadalupe, Fuego en la Sangre might be set in the colonial period. Despite its contemporary setting, the characters seem transcribed from the colonial period, with their traditional dress and simple ways. They are often dressed in long skirts and high collars that are reminiscent of turn of the twentieth century fashions. Indeed, despite Vicente

Fernández’s iconographic voice in the theme song of the opening credits imploring ‘let’s forget the past and live the present’, Fuego en la Sangre pays homage to a particularly nostalgic version of the ‘ideal imagined’ Mexico, that predates the modern day. Reflecting a time when ‘men were men’ and ‘women were women’ (Cueva 2008, n.p) the gender configurations constructed onscreen are particularly conservative.

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Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.

Figure 1 – The three Elizondo sisters Figure 2- The three Reyes brothers as charros & the three Reyes brothers

Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.

Figure 3- Sophia Elizondo in Figure 4- Sophia & Juan Reyes in traditional conservative dress regalia

Narrating the story of the three Reyes brothers, the telenovela follows their attempts to woo the three Elizondo sisters in order to seek revenge for their own sister’s murder, who they believe died at the hands of the Elizondos’ father. Yet soon this story of revenge becomes tempered by the growing love that each of these brothers feels for their chosen Elizondo

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sister. It is a prescriptive narrative yet telenovela critics were aghast by the popularity of this series. In one much publicised spat, Argos Productions head Epigmenio Ibarra critiqued the ratings success of the archaic ‘charro’ drama as evidence of Mexico’s

‘conservative television tradition’ (La Crónica de Hoy 20008, 2). Yet for one collective of

NGOs, more than a quaint homage to a bygone era, they deemed Fuego en la Sangre’s gender representations highly problematic. They promptly denounced the program for its apparent sanction of violence against women.

According to the Consejo Ciudadano por la Equidad de Género en los Medios de

Comunicación (‘Citizens’ Council for Gender Equity in The Media’), ‘each episode […] contains on average 50 scenes of violence against women’ (Minerva 2008, 34). Over the ten episodes that they studied, a total of 498 scenes were identified ‘in which diverse forms of violence against women were carried out and justified’ (Minerva 2008, 34). According to the study, ‘of these 498 scenes 313 recreated psycho-emotional violence, 66 physical violence, 17 actions with the objective of killing women and five sexual violence’ (Minerva

2008, 35). In this way, as one representative of the Mexican Foundation for Family

Planning declared, Fuego en la Sangre ‘promotes and justifies violence against women in all confines’ (Minerva 2008, 35). Within this schema, the telenovela presents ‘machismo and violence as something natural’ and ‘portrays women as submissive and long-suffering’ or ‘vindictive and ambitious’ (Minerva 2008, 35).

According to the Council, such gender representations have dangerous repercussions, especially when ‘transmitted daily’ on primetime free to air television, ‘with a ratings

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average of 36 points’, and when ‘it has been proven that television influences social behaviour’ (Minerva 2008, 35). Thus in order to counter the negative repercussions that

Fuego en la Sangre might elicit, the council ‘submitted a proposal to Televisa outlining ways in which the message transmitted by “Fuego en la Sangre” might be corrected’

(Minerva 2008, 35).

Such case studies make a convincing argument for the telenovela love story’s seductive ability to endorse traditional patriarchal values, invariably tied to the nationalist project of nation construction. Indeed, the ratings success of Fuego en la Sangre indicates the appeal of these stories. Yet to read the seductive power of the love-story-as-‘ideological-state- apparatus’ as the only cause for the enduring popularity of the telenovela’s ‘tidy nation’ is misleading. Such an ‘effects model’ is overly simplistic.

Telenovelas are wildly popular, and Cueva’s analysis of Fuego en la Sangre’s success confirms this complexity. For Cueva, the telenovela’s recourse to tradition actually panders to an audience that is ‘sick to death of being tricked with ‘new’ proposals that aren’t even new, that aren’t even worthwhile’ (Cueva 2008, n.p). Here Mexicans ‘are deeply disappointed with the ‘change’ that we demanded over six years ago’ that ‘we don’t want to advance, we want to live like the films of Pedro Infante. Fuego en la Sangre is all this and more’ (Cueva 2008, n.p). This echoes Cueva’s take on the telenovela’s recourse to tradition following the 2006 presidential election;

after such a socially intense two thousand and six for us, all Mexicans are very desperate for entertainment that helps us to dream. Almost everything we see is destructive. Almost everything we see is negative. We want to find something that makes us dream. That

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makes us believe in love again. That makes us believe in the couple again, that there are possibilities (2007, pers. comm., 12 January). Following this model, the ratings success of Fuego en la Sangre indicates not only the seductive power of the telenovela’s nationalist love stories, but also the great power that audiences have in influencing the very content of the telenovela productions they so avidly consume. As Cuauhtémoc Blanco commented ‘ultimately the influence between the sender and the receiver is mutual. The “influence” is on both sides. And although the megaphone is on this side, the answer will always be on the other’ (2007, pers. comm., 17 January).

Consequently, an understanding of the role of the audience is crucial to understanding the complexity of factors that facilitate this nationalist schema within the post-national context of twenty-first century telenovela production. Integral to this approach is a consideration of the role of the cultural imaginary. Introduced at the beginning of this chapter for its ability to normalise exclusionary nationalist discourses inherent to the nation-building project, the cultural imaginary provides the means through which this exclusionary project continues beyond a reductionist model of ‘cause’ and ‘effect’. This comprehensive picture, labelled here as an ‘ideological ecosystem’, incorporates history, myth, past, present and telenovela production and consumption, to assist an informed analysis of the perpetuation of nationalist discourses within the Mexican telenovela, despite over fifty years of changes to both form and content.

This analytical framework ultimately helps to construct a more comprehensive picture of the interrelationship between official nation-construction policies, television text and the production and consumption practices surrounding the Mexican telenovela. The following

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chapter begins this analysis through the plotting of exclusionary nationalist discourses regarding ‘appropriate’ female citizenship within the cultural imaginary. This then serves

Chapter Three’s analysis of how production, audience and text are both product and proponent of nationalist ideology within the contemporary telenovela industry.

Chapter Two: The ‘Bigger Picture’: Plotting a History of Female Mythification

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Chapter Two

The ‘Bigger Picture’: Plotting a History of Female Mythification

‘To understand the present, we must somehow come to grips with the past.’ — Eleazar Meletinsky

History repeats itself within the Mexican telenovela. Indeed, despite the post-national context for contemporary production, telenovela narratives continue to reflect gender norms reminiscent of official nationalist policies of the past. This apparent replication of the relationship between the culture industries and the state seems at odds with the privatised industry. By plotting a continuum of conservative nation building narratives throughout

Mexican history, this chapter identifies the ways in which an exclusionary cultural imaginary is both produced by, and reproduces, these once state-driven ideologies surrounding female citizenship. This framework is crucial to avoiding reductionist models of the industry. By identifying the Mexican telenovela as a complex ‘site of “mediations” between production, reception, and culture’ (Acosta Alzuru 2003b, 211) the origins and development of the telenovela’s exclusionary configuration of female citizenship are revealed.

Facilitating this analysis is a focus on female mythification, which is defined here as the construction and perpetuation of exclusionary discourses surrounding female citizenship as determined by the state and propagated within the cultural industries. Here, female 81 | Page

mythification provides the means through which the constructed nature (origins) of these discourses can be traced, thereby necessitating the historical focus of this chapter. Yet its perpetuation within the cultural industries signals its place within the cultural imaginary, and its replication within contemporary consumption and production practices. As such, the historical focus of this chapter traces both the origins and development of female mythification within official government policy and the cultural industries. This work leads to Chapter Three’s analysis of the perpetuation of female mythification through contemporary production and consumption practices. Plotting how the ideological parameters of female citizenship were developed and sustained, this ‘bigger picture’ reveals how female mythification enables the past’s continued haunting of the present.

Historical Precedents of Female Mythification

The History and Myth of an Iconic Cast

‘Each narrator focuses on different elements of the event, reflecting the distinct historical and political needs of that period.’ — Sandra Cypess Messenger

An understanding of the dialectical relationship between history and myth is integral to an exploration of female mythification. Certainly, myth’s ability to ‘purify’ history and its

‘complexity of human acts’ (Barthes 1957, 131) resounds with the logic of history — and its cast of principals — as fictional narrative. History is replete with heroes and villains, whose construction is often fictionalised; based upon the types of stories told about them in

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the service of a particular agenda, rather than the known facts surrounding their existence.

Here, the Spanish word historia, meaning both ‘history’ and ‘story’, is particularly telling.

Consequently, in tracing the origins of nationalist gender discourses within the Mexican cultural imaginary, the lines between ‘history’ and ‘myth’ are intimately intertwined. Here, an understanding of the ‘mythification of history’ and the consequent ‘historicising of myth’ reveals not only the complex process of female mythification throughout history, but how this ‘fetishising’ of certain characteristics and narrative tropes within the telling,

‘purifies’ both the complexity of human acts inherent to this narration, and the narrative itself. The consequent ease within which the telenovela’s fictional characters can replicate history’s female archetypes is clear here. For these reasons, a certain ‘working backwards’ through the myths of history reveals the history of those myths surrounding femininity, making it integral to understanding the ‘storytelling’ at the heart of the Mexican cultural imaginary and its telenovela produce.

Central to this storytelling are two key characters that are framed as the origins of gender ideology within Mexican society. Constituting the original figures of the virgin and the whore within the cultural imaginary, La Malinche and La Virgen de Guadalupe (‘The

Virgin of Guadalupe’) are the ‘figures in Mexican history that embody the most extreme and diverse possibilities of femininity’ (Castellanos 1996, 147). As both historical and mythical figures, they played an important role in the conquest of Mexico, but were subsequently mythified throughout history via the various political agendas through which they have been invoked. Consequently, their sixteenth century origins could not have

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determined the vast role that they would play within the construction of gender discourse in later centuries, following recourse to a dichotomous model of femininity within periods of nation-construction such as the Mexican Independence and Revolution periods, as well as within the cultural imaginary.

The Whore

La Malinche’s trajectory from historical figure to mythical whore begins in 1519 with the conquest of New Spain. As interpreter and mistress for Hernán Cortés, the leader of the

Spanish Conquerors, Malinche is widely accredited with facilitating the conquest of

Mexico. Cortés’ recorded assertion that ‘After God we owe this conquest of New Spain to

Dona Marina’ (cited in Wilkerson 1984, 448) testifies to this role. Yet Malinche was also respected by the Indigenous Mexicans, which indicates her role as intermediary force between the natives and conquerors. Lenchek explains that ‘As Cortés moved toward the

Aztec capital, a pattern evolved. First conflict, then meetings in which Dona Marina played a key role in avoiding more bloodshed’ (Lencheck 1997, n.p.).

So how did this important figure become synonymous with treachery and betrayal, as the epitome of the whore within the Mexican cultural imaginary? Addressing this question,

John Taylor argues that ‘The best way to achieve a sane and discernable interpretation of

Malinche is to attempt to evaluate her role after separating her from the myths and mistaken identities that have slandered her image’ (Taylor J. 2000, 1). Tracing the development of her name and its cultural connotations is one way that this ‘posthumous revision’ can be revealed (Taylor J. 2000, 1).

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Acquired by the conquerors when the Mayans gave the Spanish ‘food, cloth, gold, and slaves, including 20 women’ (Conner n.d., n.p.) Malinche was then merely the slave girl

Malinalli. Yet after endearing herself to Cortés for her ability to speak both Mayan and

Nahua, the language of the Mexica (Azteca), Malinalli was baptised Marina. Later,

Malinalli’s role as communicator and crucial strategist in the conquest saw her granted the honorary title from the two cultures that she was negotiating; to become Doña Marina in

Spanish and Malintzin in Nahua. Upon hearing her Nahuatl name, the Spanish dubbed her

‘Malinche’. Respected by both the Spanish and the Indigenous Mexicans, the famous

Malinche was named.

Yet this was not to last. Often referred to as La Chingada (‘the fucked one’) La Malinche is immortalised within the term malinchismo. Describing a ‘condition’ that disdains one’s own “native” ways, in favour of validation from the foreigner, this derivative of Malinche pays homage to a very particular reading of Malinche’s role within the conquest of Mexico.

Framed as a traitor and temptress, Malinche is symbolic of what Mexican novelist Octavio

Paz describes as those ‘Indian women who were fascinated, violated, or seduced by the

Spaniards’ (Paz 1985, 78). Exactly why this particular subjectivity has been ostracised over the years is explored subsequently with an analysis of the work of the national identity within Mexico’s pensador [‘thinker’] literary tradition, which matured in the mid-twentieth century. Yet suffice it to say here, Malinche’s denigration comes from her status as simultaneously the perpetrator of ‘Mexico's original sin’ (Krauss 1997, A3) and ‘the rationalization for the Amerindian failure to overcome the Europeans’ (Messenger Cypess

1991b, n.p.).

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As a site of nation-construction, the decline in Malinche’s status occurred around the independence period ‘at exactly the same time that the Mexicans threw out the Spaniards in

1821’ (Salas 1990, 14). Serving ‘the particular historical needs of a complex society in change’ (Messenger Cypess 1991b, n.p.) Malinche fell victim to the nationalists’ anti colonial campaign ‘to promote the Indian heritage of the Mexican people, whilst denigrating this mestizo mother of Mexico as ‘“anti-heroine, a national Judas,” and the scapegoat for three centuries of colonial rule’ (Taylor J. 2000, 4). This continues into the contemporary context.

In early 1980s when attempts were made to erect a statue of Malinche, Cortés and their son Martin, violent street protests broke out and the monument was desecrated and destroyed (Krauss 1997, A3). The house where Malinche lived is still standing, yet it has no place in Mexican history. It does not even have a plaque. In a city that commemorates the house where Leon Trotsky was assassinated, where Frida Kahlo and

Diego Rivera lived, with museums that document everything from stamps to caricatures and comics, this house is absent. As a tenant of the residence explained, ‘For Mexico to make this house a museum, would be like the people of Hiroshima creating a monument for the man who dropped the atomic bomb. …We’re not malinchistas, but we want to conserve

Mexican history’ (Krauss 1997, A3).

Such is Malinche’s infamy that she has become immortalised in urban mythology through the figure of La Llorona (‘the crying woman’). Like all good urban myths, the tale of La

Llorona has been told over, and her figure fetishised. The story stretches back to pre-

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conquest Mexico, and varies with each retelling, but the basic legend has it that upon seeking vengeance for her husband’s betrayal, La Llorona drowned her children only to realise, too late, her mistake. Condemned, she is sentenced to roam for all eternity, weeping and suffering, in search of her lost children.

This story is familiar because La Llorona’s polygenesis is extensive; her form can be found in the mythology and urban legends across cultures, from the Ancient Greek Medea, to the

African ‘Crying Wind’, the Philippine ‘White Woman’, and the Irish Banshee. Yet although La Llorona’s story is one of betrayal and revenge, pathos characterises her tragic plight to recover her murdered children. This crying woman represents a warning to women, as her incomprehensible act of infanticide narrates the horror of a transgressed motherhood and the inevitable punishment for her offense against the patriarchal order

(Schmitz 2003, 146). It is here that La Malinche is conflated with La Llorona. For her offense against the patriarchal order and eternal penance for the murder of her children, La

Llorona’s crimes are those of La Malinche. Eternally punished for this betrayal, La

Llorona/La Malinche represent the despised whore mother who as ‘a synecdoche for all

Indian women […] lament the fate of their progeny to the Spanish conquistadors’

(Messinger Cypess 1991b, n.p.).

Many have attempted to salvage Malinche’s name in recent years. Some suggest that she saved thousands of lives by encouraging the Spaniards to negotiate with the natives rather than ‘wage total war’ (Lenchek 2006, n.p.). Others have argued that ‘it is important to remember that at that time the idea of nationhood was non-existent’ such that ‘Mexico was

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not united, and it certainly was not a nation’ (Taylor J. 2000, 5). Therefore, to believe the separate indigenous groups would unite ‘in a common cause against Europeans’ is consequently at odds with the historical context (Taylor J. 2000, 5). Similarly, to accuse

Malinche of betrayal is at odds with her own reality; having been sold into slavery and then passed from different tribes to the Spanish. Her allegiances to ‘her people’ were obviously compromised and it is not difficult to imagine that her ascension from slave girl to interpreter would have consolidated her identification with the Spaniards.

Recent attempts by Chicana feminist artists and writers to reappropriate the Malinche myth by resituating her figure within modern day logic, illustrate the ongoing importance of this figure for gender norms within the Mexican, and by extension Chicanan, cultural imaginary. Yet whilst revelatory in its own right, Malinche’s mythification can only be fully understood when measured against that of her historical counterpart; the Virgin of

Guadalupe.

The Virgin

Upon her apparition in 1531, the Virgin of Guadalupe reportedly queried; ‘Am I not here, who am your mother? Are you not under my shadow and protection? Am I not the source of your ?’ (Brading 2001, 85) Her words were comfort to the Indigenous peasant Juan

Diego to whom she spoke and in centuries since, this spiritual mother of Mexico is deemed to have brought salvation to those who writer Octavio Paz has called the hijos de la chingada (‘sons of the whore’) (Paz 1985, 71). As Gabrielle Schmitz explains, ‘It is

Malinche’s betrayal that La Virgen redeems’ (Schmitz 2003, 140).

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The thanks paid to this holy mother are countless. Shrines to Guadalupe are everywhere; in churches, schools, houses, taxis, buses and restaurants. Streets, towns, cities, rivers, mountains, shops and children bear her name. Her image appears on city and town walls, business logos, mirrors, candles, magnets, mugs, mouse pads, caps, air fresheners, stickers, t-shirts, key rings and postcards. Tattooed on arms and backs, chests and hearts, Guadalupe is omnipresent. Whether in ‘plaster, marble, wood, stone, clay, cake, candy, cloth, tissue- paper, beads [or] embroidery’ (Lyons-Perez n.d., 1), her image is a part of the fabric of daily life. Unlike the statue of Malinche, Guadalupe’s enduring presence as the pride and joy of a people stands testament to their allegiance to Mexico.

Without fail, every twelfth of December, over 10 million pilgrims flock to pay their respects at the site of her apparition in Mexico City. It is the second most popular Catholic religious site in the world, only after the Vatican. Such devotion has made Guadalupe the

‘the single most potent religious, political, and cultural image’ of the Mexican people

(Maldonado 2004, 97-98). Indeed, as ‘the rubber band that binds this disparate nation into a whole’ (King 2006, n.p.), Guadalupe ensures that ‘a Mexican remains Mexican in

California, an Indian remains Indian in Mexico’ (Martínez R. 1996, 101). Although there is an increasing evangelism throughout Mexico, belief in the Catholic virgin appears to transcend religious parameters. Exemplifying Guadalupe’s transcendence, when Benito

Juárez’s government separated church and state in 1859 ‘the only remaining religious holiday in the country was December 12, the Day of the Virgin of Guadalupe’ (King 2006, n.p.).

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This power to unite disparate groups has accompanied Guadalupe from the sixteenth to the twenty-first century, and whilst not suffering such a reversal of fortune as Malinche,

Guadalupe’s accompanying mythification reflects the needs of each historical period.

Beginning a decade after the arrival of the Spanish on Mexican shores, Guadalupe first assisted the conquest of New Spain, which was still not going to plan. For despite the successful destruction of many temples, the Spaniards had trouble converting the natives to

Catholicism, as they resented the razing of their temples and mourned their deities. Their loss of land, religion and freedom saw them ready to revolt. This was highly problematic.

The conquistadors considered religious conversion to be one of their main objectives in the

New World as the fervently Catholic Queen Isabella's personal mission was the conversion of ‘the natives’ (Maldonado 2004, 100). As funding for further expeditions depended upon this conversion (Maldonado 2004, 100) it was of prime importance that the deities and rites of the native religions — among them human sacrifices — were entirely eradicated. Such eradication was seen as a military tactic, because assimilation meant control (Maldonado

2004, 100).7

Arguably, the apparition of the Virgin of Guadalupe changed the course of history. The story of the apparition of a woman who had appeared at the site of the deposed goddess

Tonantzin spread like wild fire. Her appearance to the Indigenous peasant Juan Diego, and the image she left on his shawl, formed the key to convert ‘9 million of the inhabitants of the land, who professed for centuries a polytheistic and human sacrificing religion […] to

7 As Maldonado states, ‘To Imperial minds, native conversion to Catholicism was necessary in order to make Indians intelligible, which would, in turn, make them more exploitable by controlling their religious belief system in order for assimilation to occur’ (Maldonado 2004, 100). 90 | Page

Christianity’ (Maldonado 2004, 100). Yet key to Guadalupe’s power were the many elements that spoke to the indigenous people of their old goddesses.

Speaking the Aztec tongue Nahuatl and appearing to an Indian man, Guadalupe was thought to be the reincarnation of the deposed goddess Tonantzin. The timing was right after the abandonment of the male gods during the conquest. Appearing at the end of the fifth age of the sun- epitomised by the god of war Huitzicoatl- Guadalupe augured the age of the moon and a return to the female force. She was the mother Goddess reborn. As ‘a brown-skinned woman surrounded by the sun, cloaked in a blue mantle covered with stars, standing on a crescent moon held by an angel’ (Rodriguez x1994, xv) she contained key symbols from the Azteca religion, which referenced figures from the pantheon of gods and goddesses. This saw the continued pilgrimage to the hill of Tepeyac (now the site of the

Catholic Basilica of the Virgin of Guadalupe) to worship the goddess Tonantzin, despite her new name and form. In fact, many scholars believe that Guadalupe’s name was a corruption of the Nahuatl name proffered by the virgin, with the Spanish attempting to give her a Catholic name.8

It is not difficult to locate the origins of the Virgin of Guadalupe’s ‘mythification’, already evident in her use by these different cultures of sixteenth century New Spain. Yet her place in the cultural imaginary of an increasingly commodified national identity grew throughout the centuries. A long serving representative of the national cause, the virgin played a key

8 Some believe that the original name proffered was the Aztec Nahuatl word coatlaxopeuh, pronounced “quatlasupe” and sounding like the Spanish Guadalupe. Other names such as Coatlicue have also been suggested, and mark the direct lineage of “Guadalupe” to “the long line of mother goddesses” within the indigenous tradition (Maldonado 2004, 111). 91 | Page

role in the War of Independence. Just as Malinche was being reinterpreted as a national traitor, Guadalupe graced the nationalists’ banners in the fight for freedom from Spanish oppression (King 2006, n.p.). She was used a century later by the Mexican Revolutionary forces, as Zapata’s army ‘carried the image into battle and made the Virgin's name a rallying battle cry’ (Mueller n.d. n.p.). In 1994 Guadalupe fronted the indigenous land rights campaign as rebels from Southern Mexico marched to Mexico City and protested against the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA). In the same decade, then

President Vincente Fox used the Virgin’s image during those political rallies in which he endorsed the move to (Vazquez 2004).

Regardless of political affiliation, it is the divinity attributed to Guadalupe that sees her sanction various battles on behalf of the nation. Miraculous occurrences have increased her followers exponentially and recognising this unwavering devotion to the Virgin, the

Catholic and Governmental authorities declared her ‘Patroness of Mexico City in 1737, the

Queen of Mexico in 1895, Patroness of Latin America in 1910 and Empress of the

Americas 1945’ (Mueller n.d., n. p.). Her celebration over the near half millennium since her apparition has mirrored Malinche’s demise. Yet despite their appearance throughout history, it was arguably not until the early and mid twentieth century that their place in the annals of Mexican history was consolidated and their mythification within the cultural imaginary secured. Written into national identity by the pensador literati (loosely translated as ‘the thinkers’) the place of the virgin/whore dichotomy within the cultural imaginary has much to do with the literature tracing the origins of national identity to these iconic figures.

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Mythifying History/Historicising Myth — ‘Thinking’ about

Mexican National Identity

Recourse to myth to explain the historical origins of national identity is typical of this masculinist literary tradition yet arguably the most influential text on Mexican national identity is El Laberinto de Soledad (‘The Labyrinth of Solitude’) written by Nobel Prize winning poet laureate and pensador Octavio Paz. Extending the concepts regarding national identity set forth by Samuel Ramos in his 1934 text El perfil del hombre y la cultura en

Mèxico (‘Profile of man and culture in Mexico’) Paz continues to ‘psychoanalyse’ national identity and culture.9

Central to Paz’s work is the notion that Mexican national identity is marked by isolation and ‘solitude’ as a manifestation of the geo-political history of the nation. Subscribing to the pensador tradition of turning ‘history into psychodrama, and psychodrama into interpretations of cultural practice’ (Lomnitz-Adler 1992, 2) Paz delineates these ‘national traits’ to historical periods of foreign invasion throughout Mexican history. This history has been well plotted by scholars, as seen with Ana Castillo’s annotation;

Mexico blamed the ruin of the nineteenth century on the foreigner, and with good reason. Once emptied of Spain, the palace of Mexico became the dollhouse of . Mexico was overrun by imperial armies. The of met the Manifest Destiny of the United States in Mexico. Austria sent an archduke to marry Mexico with full panoply of candles

9 Central to Ramos’ work is the notion that ‘Mexican family life was tainted by the traumas of conquest’ (Lomnitz-Adler 1992, 2-3). As Lomnitz-Adler writes, ‘Samuel Ramos connected a perceived inferiority complex in Mexico as a nation to this crushing betrayal of the indigenous culture. Ramos suggested that the Europeans’ taking of native women as wives and mistresses left the native males confused, impotent, and angry at their women. In the hundreds of years that followed, the mestizo children of this union have felt ambivalent and guilty about their unique heritage. According to Ramos and others who have written on the subject, Mexican culture has come to resent as well as idealize the European father figure, while at the same time hating and feeling inferior to him’ (Lomnitz-Adler 1992, 141). 93 | Page

and bishops. The U.S. reached under Mexico’s skirt every chance he got (Castillo 1997b, 21). Incorporating this history into the ‘psychology’ of the Mexican nation, Paz traces gender discourse within Mexican national identity- specifically the ‘national traits’ of machismo and marianismo- as a manifestation of foreign invasion.

Paz considers the sixteenth century Spanish conquest of Mexico and the Mexican-

American war of 1848 to be the most important periods to the development of gender within the ‘Mexican psyche’. He locates the origins of Mexican ‘solitude’ in the exploitation of the Indigenous people throughout the conquest yet he specifies the appropriation of indigenous woman by the conquerors during this era as responsible for gender relations in subsequent centuries. Here, loss of land, women and freedom to the foreign conquerors rendered the native men impotent. Even after gaining independence from Spain in the eighteenth century, the Mexican-American war would prevent these old wounds from healing.. Further to this logic, Mexico’s geography, ‘so far from God, so close to the United States’,10 deepened these wounds, through the ‘destiny’ made ‘manifest’ by its northern neighbour.

On February the 2nd, 1848, to end the conflict with the United States of America, Mexico was paid $15 million for ceding what is now the Southwest of the US. Known as the Treaty of Guadalupe , the deal signed over vast amounts of Mexican territory, which now form the US states of New Mexico, , Arizona, Utah, Nevada, and parts of

Colorado (Acuña in Rodriguez 1994, 67). With countless Mexican nationals displaced,

10 As infamously observed by Mexico’s nineteenth century dictator Porfirio Diaz. 94 | Page

women once again became a commodity to be exchanged with the foreigner for better social standing and living conditions (Rodriguez 1994, 68). As the pensadores tell, the constant penetration by the foreigner manifested in an inferiority complex for the Mexican male, whose sense of impotence led to the guilt and suffering of his woman.

The Macho & Marianismo

Within the pensador tradition, the quintessentially Mexican male attempts ‘to make supposedly greater masculinity compensate for the inferiority complex that most Mexicans, by virtue of their racial and economic status as well as their heritage as a conquered, colonized people suffer’ (O’Malley 1986, 8). According to this logic, Mexican man embraces the defences found within machismo. Described as ‘the male perpetual adolescent, the swaggering bully forever proving his manhood by bravado, by besting other men, by dominating women’ (O’Malley 1986, 141) the macho has ‘no recourse but to commit violence, including sexual violence, against women and against their fellow man so as to shore up a sagging and threatened identity as the possessor of a powerful and inviolable male body’ (Gaspar de Alba 2002, 42).

The need for the macho to exaggerate the self and to adopt a ‘mask’ to avoid what are deemed weak ‘feminine’ qualities of fear and vulnerability has been labelled the ‘Mexican

Disease’ by Octavio Paz. Here the macho dissimulates, impersonating strength in order to compensate for the ‘inferiority complex’ that tortures his soul. Yet the illusory nature of machismo’s empowerment is found within its failure ‘to change the socioeconomic structure that denies […] manhood in the first place’ (O’Malley 1986, 141) and signals its 95 | Page

need to be continually reasserted. Thus Mexican man’s ongoing need to repress the

‘feminine’ in self and others is a natural consequence of this psychological ‘condition’.

According to the pensadores this need to suppress the feminine results is an inherently derogatory attitude towards women, yet and a corresponding veneration of the virginal figure. Manifesting as the virgin/whore complex inherent to female gender roles, this male

‘condition’ posits marianismo as the ideal of female virtue.

Named after its emulation of the Virgin Mary, marianismo ‘is the cult of feminine spiritual superiority, which teaches that women are semidivine, morally superior to and spiritually stronger than men’ (Stevens 1973, 4). Here, women are valued only through their purity and desexualisation and as such, the cult of marianismo is a manifestation of machismo’s fear of female betrayal through active sexual independence.11 As a product of machismo, the pensadores trace marianismo to the traumatised Mexican male psyche, and even more explicitly to the quintessential figures of the Virgin and the whore.

Within Paz’s work especially, these sixteenth century figures become synonymous with gender roles within Mexican national identity. Here female virtue, as represented by

Guadalupe, is configured in opposition to the active sexuality and independence of La

Malinche. Representative of ‘the Indian women who were fascinated, raped or seduced by the Spaniards’ (Paz 1985, 89) Paz identifies La Malinche as the prototype of the ‘violated

11 Debra Castillo, quoting George Bataille, interprets the logic of this schema, suggesting that for Mexican men ‘not every woman is a potential prostitute, but prostitution is the logical consequence of the feminine attitude. In so far as she is attractive, a woman is prey to men’s desire. Unless she refused completely because she is determined to remain chaste, the question is at what price and under what circumstances will she yield’ (Castillo 1998, 21). Consequently, ‘[p]rostitution proper only brings in a commercial element’ (Castillo 1998, 21).

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mother’ (La Chingada). Within this schema, ‘[t]he chingada is the Mother forcibly opened, violated or deceived’ (Paz 1985, 71) and ’the hijo de la chingada [‘son of the whore’] is the offspring of violation, abduction or deceit’ (Paz 1985, 71). By asserting the ongoing dishonour of being ‘the fruit of a violation’ (Paz 1985, 72) Paz identifies the continued resonance of this sixteenth century woman as the ‘Mexican Disease’ inherent to Mexican national identity (Franco 1989, xix). Indeed, ‘just as a child cannot forgive the mother who leaves him to look for the father, the Mexican nation cannot forgive the treason of La

Malinche’ (Paz cited in Franco 1989, xix).

Evidently, both the macho and marianismo follow the alleged betrayal of this woman, as the psychological trauma of being ‘sons of the Malinche’ has meant that they ‘were shamed by her rape (conquest) and thus forced to reject the feminine in themselves as the devalued, the passive, the mauled and battered, as la chingada, the violated’ (Franco 1989, xix).

Consolidating this schema is marianismo’s promotion of female suffering and endurance, where under the guise of moral superiority, woman is encouraged to facilitate the very machismo that subordinates her. Here the strength of Paz’s ‘Mexican Disease’ is no doubt its logical account of the machismo/marianismo dialectic.

Many scholars have balked at what they consider to be the pensadores ‘legitimisation’ of a particularly misogynist configuration of Mexican national identity. Understanding these criticisms is important not for qualifying one version of the nation over another, but for gauging the constructed nature of this identity, to which the pensador tradition contributes.

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Problematising ‘the Thinkers’

Arguing that studies on Mexican national identity commonly determine female identity only in relation to male identity, Jean Franco explains that ‘[th]e problem of national identity was […] presented primarily as a problem of male identity, and it was male authors who debated its defects and psychoanalyzed the nation’ (Franco 1989, 131). Debra Castillo more specifically locates this phallocentrism within Paz’s analysis of the nation, arguing that ‘[t]he “our” […] requires careful attention. It seems clear that the expansively inclusive phrase omits one half of the species and suggests an applicability limited only to a community of men’ (Castillo 1998, 90).

In particular, the work of Paz is considered problematic for many reasons. Principal amongst them is its assertion that ‘[t]hrough suffering, our women become like our men: invulnerable, impassive, and stoic’ (Paz 1985, 31). Celebrating this transition, Paz asserts that machismo provides a ‘moral immunity to shield her unfortunate anatomical openness’ thereby ‘turning what ought to be a cause for shame into a virtue’ (Paz 1985, 31). Mirroring the common nation-building trope of equating woman’s body with national territory, this

‘unfortunate anatomical openness’ represents the nation’s vulnerable status upon its penetrability by the colonisers. As such, woman’s ‘anatomical openness’ becomes the site of the nation’s shameful wound, and subsequently requires machismo’s impenetrability for its salvation.12 The punishment of female sexual independence follows this logic.

12 This narrative is not unprecedented but, as Michelle Langford (referencing Chris Berry) explains, ‘the logic of the wound’ posits national history as ‘beginning from a sort of low point of crisis when integrity and survival of the nation body comes under threat’ (Berry in Langford forthcoming, 2). The continued resonance of these national allegories comes from the dynamic of ‘drawing inspiration from the wounds of the past and binding together the […] community in the present’ (Langford forthcoming, 3).

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The rejection of a sexualised Malinche, and the reverence of the virginal Guadalupe, cannot be read outside of this nation-building narrative. Indeed, where Malinche as whore/wound threatens the ‘geobody’ (Langford forthcoming, 5) of the nation, Guadalupe as impenetrable virgin is its salvation. Effectively modelling the appropriate role for woman within society, Guadalupe embodies the ideal feminine. Yet it is her purification and desexualisation that are most prized in her status as the Virgin mother. Void of all sexual agency, the mythification of Guadalupe’s purity represents male disarmament of the threat of an assertive sexual woman.

For feminist scholars and activists, this female mythification is deliberate; a patriarchal tool

‘used against women and against certain races to control, regulate, and manipulate us’

(Anzaldúa and Keating 2000, 219). So whilst such stories may be invented, ‘they [have] nevertheless powerfully controlled interpretation’ (Franco 1989, xxiii). Indeed, for these scholars the relationship between the mythification of the virgin/whore, and gender relations within Mexico is irrefutable, for as ‘the dramatic stories that become myths authorize the continuance of ancient institutions, customs, rites and beliefs’, they effectively ‘provide examples to be emulated, [and] precedents to be repeated’ (Messinger

Cypess 2008, 428). Consequently, by regulating the sexuality of its female citizens, female mythification serves to ‘define and limit woman’s roles in Mexican and Chicano societies’

(Schmitz 2003, 53). As the celebrated Chicana writer Gloria Anzaldúa asserted, ‘[m]yths and fictions create reality’ (Anzaldúa and Keating 2000, 219).

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For these scholars, the pensadores’ failure to engage with this logic has meant that they perpetuate the construction of what are essentially exclusionary religious ideologies. Here, the secularisation and subsequent popularisation of these discourses follows the pensadores’ authorisation of religious ideology as national identity (Maldonado 2004, 109).

Claudio Lomnitz-Adler further interrogates the pensadores’ construction of national identity. Exploring some of the most seminal texts within the pensador field, he laments the prevalence of an ‘anti tradition’ of ‘armchair anthropology’ (Lomnitz-Adler 1992, 256) where national identity is formulated through ‘posing an identity problem’ rather than ‘an increasingly precise theory of the ways in which a cultural and historical dialectic has played out into Mexico’s present’ (Lomnitz-Adler 1992, 9).

Within this equation, ‘a national whole […] cannot itself be described without mythification’ (Lomnitz-Adler 1992, 11) such that ‘the cumulous of ideas on Mexican national culture is often just a pile of clichés that can be used whenever they are handy’

(Lomnitz-Adler 1992, 10-11). For Lomnitz-Adler it is this ‘stagnating pool of descriptions of national traits that were produced by the pensadores’ (Lomnitz-Adler 1992, 258) which have entered the cultural imaginary only to be manipulated by ‘different political groups’ and made into the stereotypes that make up Mexican national identity (Lomnitz-Adler

1992, 10-11).

This post-pensador generation of writers makes a convincing case against the constructed nature of national identity. However, despite their critique of these ‘oppressive’ and ‘false’

‘clichés’ and ‘stereotypes’, the ability for these ‘myths’ to produce ‘reality’ should not be

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underestimated. Indeed, speaking to the logic of the cultural imaginary, Lomnitz-Adler concedes that despite their obvious deficiency in describing the nation, ‘It is astonishing that we can so well understand and deconstruct the fallacies […] of the way in which

Mexican culture is generated […] and yet find ourselves hard put to understand […] why so much of it “rings true”’ (Lomnitz-Adler 1992, 13).

Thus despite their apparent ‘internal incommensurability’ with the ‘nature and relations between the cultural groups that compose Mexico’ (Lomnitz-Adler 1992, 260) an analysis of those ‘fallacious’ clichés and stereotypes that make up this cultural imaginary helps to trace their perpetuation within the telenovela. Beginning with the national archive of cultural images, sounds and narratives made famous by the Mexican Revolution, the following sections track the particularly innovate nation-building policies of the Mexican

Revolution’s cine de oro to the contemporary telenovela. Here, the use of cinema to espouse the ideological components of the Revolution’s nation-building policy whilst influencing the hearts and minds of the new nation’s citizens is the immediate precursor to the sights, sounds and narratives of the nation evident on the small screen. Consequently, it is the continued mythification of the virgin/whore dichotomy within this national cinema that provides the source for contemporary televisual gender configurations.

Building [an A/V] Nation- The Revolution as Cultural Archive

‘The state has no desire to represent the real Mexico. It prefers to invent that which it represents out of bits and pieces of images that are well known to all of us.’ — Ilene O’Malley

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The translation of the Mexican cultural imaginary into an audiovisual grammar of national sounds, images and plot-lines owes much to the semiotics of nation-construction developed through the cultural policy of the Mexican Revolution and its posterior governments. An analysis of this period is particularly important, as more than any episode of Mexican history, the Mexican cultural imaginary is ‘intimately associated’ with both ‘the idea of

“Mexicanness”’ and the ‘images’ that were generated by ‘that disturbance’ (Aguilar Camín

1998, 713). Indeed, ‘Mexico’s self-conscious fascination with the 1910 Revolution’

(O’Malley 1986, 129) has ensured that the national symbols produced by this conflict continue into the twenty-first century.

Yet as a key site along the continuum of female mythification, which connects the present to the pre-Revolutionary past, the Revolution’s nation-building project ultimately ‘mixed and expanded upon the symbols of the past’ (Aguilar Camín 1998, 714). Indeed, in order to secure the Mexican state’s ‘institutionalisation’ over three decades of Revolutionary and

Post-Revolutionary conflict (O’Malley 1986) the same woman-as-nation-building logic evident in previous periods of unrest such as the Independence period was once again deployed. Thus contrary to its rhetoric, the ‘Revolutionary’ Mexican State made recourse to the gendered ideology of the past.

Initially proffering a revision of these gender norms, the Revolution brought feminist issues into the public arena as women actively engaged in the revolutionary fight for a better life.

In addition to the more traditional war-time work of women such as nursing, women were engaged in political activism and combat. The Soldadera (‘Female Soldier’) was a key

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figure in the Revolution. As ‘camp followers’, these women would follow the men into battle, nursing, cleaning, cooking, spying and smuggling arms — often with their children alongside them. These soldaderas often fought on the battlefield, and whilst historical accounts of the period have largely forgotten the names and faces of these women, several soldaderas are recorded as having been promoted to the rank of colonel (Macias 1980).

Ironically however, whilst ‘the demands and dislocations of the war forced many women out of their traditional roles’ (O’Malley 1986, 133-4) they did not achieve equal status with men. Here, the Government’s attempts to encourage nationalist sentiment through recourse to ‘deeper cultural constructs’ and ‘symbols of the past’ ensured that macho and marian ideologies remained largely unchallenged. In fact, one of the ideologies promoted as synonymous with Revolutionary nationalism was machismo, which through the mythification of the Revolution became synonymous with Mexicanidad (‘Mexicanness’).

Mythified as a quintessential feature of the Revolution, machismo had an ‘openly proclaimed status as part of a national identity’ (O’Malley 1986, 7) and effectively equated male ‘strength and political power’ with an exaggerated show of ‘sexual potency and masculinity’ (O’Malley 1986, 133-4).13

Ultimately, the endorsement of machismo within Revolutionary rhetoric served to consolidate traditional gender roles, which in turn facilitated the project of nation founding.

Evidently then, the Revolution’s struggle against the Church, both ‘as a religion and as a rival institution’ did not involve a rejection of ‘the patriarchal, authoritarian sociopolitical

13 For O’Malley, the manifestation of machismo during the Revolutionary period must be read as an assertion of male privilege after the ‘racist class oppression’ that had ‘emasculated lower-class men’ during Mexico’s century of post Independence (O’Malley 1986, 136). 103 | Page

mentality traditionally part of Catholic cultures’ (O’Malley 1986, 132). Rather, the

Revolutionary Government ‘merely sought to supplant the church as the supreme institution and so continued to promote those “Catholic” virtues that encouraged unquestioning popular faith in its doctrines’ (O’Malley 1986, 132). Consequently, in line with Catholic rhetoric, family values were promoted as revolutionary, and the fulfilment of patriarchal ideals became patriotic obligation (O’Malley 1986, 141).

Within this logic, citizens were alerted to the necessity of ‘strengthening the family’ in order to ‘restore the population’s physical and “moral” health’ (O’Malley 1986, 138).

Concerned with the ‘breakdown of the traditional family structure’ during this period of civil war (O’Malley 1986, 128) such ‘revolutionary’ ideology ensured the enforcement of traditional roles for women. Indeed, ‘strengthening the family’ ran counter to the introduction of feminist issues into the public arena. Not only would women ‘lose their femininity if they acquired political power, equal rights, or suffrage’ but the women’s movement in Mexico ‘ran counter to the national good’ (O’Malley 1986, 133-4). Indeed, the feminist struggle for equal rights threatened this nation-building project, as critics explained that Mexico ‘needed to increase its population in order to prosper, and birth control (a major feminist goal) would prevent that increase’ (O’Malley 1986, 124).

The El Democrata newspaper summarised these fears in 1923, after the Mexico City session of The Congress of the Panamerican League of Women. Stating that ‘we believe that […] patriotism is being forgotten in these discussions’ they asked ‘has the progress of feminism […] really diminished the idea of la patria among the people?’ (cited in

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O’Malley 1986, 124). Here, the feminist was framed within the logic of malinchismo, as her rejection of national ideologies and espousal of the foreign, referenced La Malinche’s betrayal to the conquerors. Discredited by El Democrata as ‘un-Mexican in character […] by virtue of the participation of several North American women’ (cited in O’Malley 1986,

123-4) the Mexican feminist movement was seen to compromise the government’s nation- construction.

To counter this threat, the Mexican Government called for women to reject feminism in order to continue their role in reproducing the nation.14 As such, Mexican ‘Revolutionary’ logic facilitated the mythification of the virgin/whore dichotomy, where ‘good’ woman carries out her national duty as chaste mother, and ‘bad’ woman seduced by grandiose ideas of equality, effectively threatening the nation with her independent, implicitly sexual agency. Nonetheless, it was one particularly insightful post-revolutionary government that arguably secured the success of official investment in female mythification through the pioneering of a national cinema.

In light of the mass migration of Mexican citizens to the US searching for opportunity after thirty years of civil conflict the Ávila Camacho government sought national unity via the assertion of government dominance as ‘the single authoritative apparatus guiding every aspect of Mexican life’ (Miller M.N. 1998, 143). To achieve this end, the Ávila Camacho

14 As O’Malley explains, ‘[i]n 1923 Cesar Morales of the Ministry of Public Education drew upon the stereotypes of the cold, mannish gringa to oppose feminism on the grounds that it would destroy “the ingenuousness and modesty of the Mexican woman, converting her into a virago just as is happening today to American women, who are different from ours”’ (O’Malley 1986, 123-4). 105 | Page

presidency was unprecedented in its use of the mass audiovisual media to reinforce nationalist ideals.

Known as Avilacamachismo (1940 - 1946) this government subsidised those media ‘whose characters and characterizations embodied values and virtues consistent with those of the state’ (Miller M.N 1998, 87) and consequently ‘determined and defined desired patterns in national opinion and attitude’ (Miller M.N. 1998, 93). Although this nation building project was ‘constructed at popular and high cultural levels ranging from radio, popular music, dance, musical theater, posters, film, and cartoon magazines to art, architecture, ballet, and classical music’ (Miller M.N. 1998, 1) film was the most successful medium for

Camacho’s strategy, as ‘[t]he great popularity of film personalities who represented the image of the nation pleased the state’ (Miller M.N. 1998, 91). Consequently, the funding of the most popular stars and production companies saw Ávila Camacho become ‘the man who made the “golden age” of Mexican movie making possible’ (Miller M.N. 1998, 87).

Known as the cine de oro (‘Golden Age of Cinema’ 1935-1959) this inherently nationalistic film industry first gained international success with following the reduced competition from the Argentinean, Spanish and US commercial film industries, which were invested in the production of Second World War films. Studios thrived as audiences flocked to the latest cinema offerings which ‘premiered in the capital at the rate of one per week’ (Dever 2003, 55). There was ample choice; from family melodramas and national history features to urban based comedies of error (Dever 2003, 55). Yet the most popular

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were the comedias rancheras (‘ranch comedies’) starring matinee idols such as Jorge

Negrete and Pedro Infante (Arellano 2007, n.p.).

Celebrating the antics of macho galáns in a world of ‘gentle patriarchs’, ‘fair maidens’ and

‘honour matters’ (Acevedo Muñoz 2004, 39) these films continued the mythification of the female dichotomy. Within what Rashkin has called the ‘countless patriarchal narratives of the classic Mexican cinema’ (Rashkin 2001, 190), women are ‘displaced’ as ‘historical subjects’ and ‘replaced’ with ‘symbolic figures whose repetitive trajectories were depicted as essential to the reproduction of the social order within the context of a clearly patriarchal nation-state’ (Rashkin 2001, 2). Charged with gathering ‘all Mexicans under the banner of a unified national subject’ (Dever 2003, 47) these women determined the success of this nation-building project. As Dever suggests, ‘female arbitration determined […] the filmic representation of Mexico’s national project’ (Dever 2003, 49).

Either venerated as the suffering mother or vilified as the treacherous whore, this

‘cinematic tradition of female objectification, erasure, and displacement’ saw ‘women’s erasure from the field of representation and their replacement by an iconic, passive image of Woman’ (Rashkin 2001, 2). Thus despite the wide variety of filmic texts during this prolific period of Mexican cinema, it is ‘the woman's body (through motherhood or prostitution/sex and violence)’ that ultimately ‘constitutes the site where the nation is articulated’ (Acevedo Muñoz 2004, 40). Combined with the popularity of this national storytelling apparatus, its iconography and its stars, this ‘celluloid patriotism’ (Dever

2003,) soon became synonymous with the version of Mexico that circulated within the

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cultural imaginary. As the continued presence of these films within the contemporary cultural sphere would suggest, this aging body of cinema remains synonymous with the national imagined community.

Consequently, the consolidation of the audiovisual grammar for nation-building within the form of a national cinema did not disappear with the demise of the cine de oro period at the end of the 1950s. Rather, the status of the Mexican Revolution as cultural archive continued with the shift from nationalist narratives of nation-building onto the small screen. Thus whilst the inception of television arguably facilitated the demise of the ‘golden age’ of

Mexican cinema, it also consecrated its iconography. This consecration has proven two- fold. Through the television syndication of classic Mexican cinema texts, regular programming of golden era cinema throughout the television week is testament to the continued resonance of this cinema and its iconography. The Mexican telenovela provides this other key site for the audio-visual narration of the nation-building project.

Thus rather than spell the demise of this narrative project, the end of the cine de oro augured a ‘new and improved’ era of national construction through popular cultural texts.

This shift to the small screen provided a more suitable platform for the dissemination of nation-building ideology for a number of reasons. Comparatively, television proved to be infinitely more accessible to the national audience than cinema. In a society where the cost of an adult cinema entrance is more than the minimum daily wage (approximately

$65MXN compared to $57MXN), television’s accessibility across socio-economic lines cannot be overstated. Its location in the intimate sphere of the home also consolidated its

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reach. Indeed, the telenovela’s ability to reach into the homes and hearts of the nation’s citizens has not been ignored by the government. The State’s reliance on the television networks to facilitate its presence in the Mexican home is particularly evident with nineteen-seventies presidential candidate Ernesto Zedillo’s assertion to Televisa that ‘I count on you for my campaign. I will be present in every house to which you carry my image. […] But more than anything, after the elections, if elected, I count on you for my presidency’ (cited in Fox 1997, 45).

As indicated in Chapter One, the nature of television scheduling also secures its status as ideal contemporary vehicle for nation-construction. Programmed for all hours of the day, television is infinitely more pervasive than the film texts that only a select few will ultimately view, on an occasional basis. Yet not only does this scheduling make the telenovela such as powerful nation-building tool. Furthermore, its repetitive Manichaean melodramatic narrative structure provides the ideal fictional context for the construction of an ‘ideal imagined’ community on the small screen (Estill 2001, 187), as female mythification follows this inherently dichotomous schema.

Evidently, the relationship the culture industries and the state that was established during the Avila Camacho era can be clearly traced into the television age. This was evident early on, with politicians of the PRI government presiding over the television conglomerate.

Perhaps most notable here is the political-entrepreneurial Alemán dynasty. Indeed, the wealth and political power of this family is inextricably linked with the culture industries.

Beginning with the ex- Miguel Alemán Valdés (1946-52) — whose

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presidency authorised the commercial model for — it is unsurprising that his son Miguel Alemán Velasco went on to preside within Televisa whilst occupying key positions within the PRI.15 Presiding over one of the richest families in Mexico,

Alemán Velasco only sold his 14.4% share of Grupo Televisa in 1999 for a reported $300 million dollars after becoming the Governor of . 16

The three generations of Televisa’s Azcárraga dynasty similarly illustrates this strategic partnership between the culture industries and the state. 17 As the majority owners of

Televisa, the Azcárraga family has long declared its loyalty to the PRI government. Dubbed

‘the country’s second Secretary of Education’ by renowned Mexican cultural critic Carlos

Monsiváis (Quiñones 2001, 56) second generation Emilio Azcárraga Milmo famously declared that he was first and foremost a ‘soldier of the PRI’ (Preston 2007, n.p.). Yet despite Televisa’s support for the cause, this relationship benefited both ‘parties’.

Arguably Televisa’s support of the PRI encouraged the government to legislate against competition within the industry, thereby facilitating Televisa’s monopoly for nearly half a century. Similarly, Televisa’s history as ‘propaganda arm’ for the PRI had clear benefits for the Government. Indeed, the government’s relationship with Televisa illustrates its faith in television to assist its maintenance of political power. Believing that it was ‘easier for a viewer to identify with an emotion than with an idea’ (Cueva 2001, 86) the PRI’s faith in

15 Including Secretary of Finance and Senator of the Republic. 16 In 1998 he also renounced his presidency of Televisa’s División de Noticieros e Informativos (‘Division of News and Current Affairs’) and chief spokesperson of the , to become governor of Veracruz. (Anon. n.d.b, n.p.). 17 Including the four generations of Azcárraga media moguls, beginning with 1930s XEW-AM radio station founder Raúl Azcárraga Vidaurreta; his brother and Televisa’s founder Emilio Azcárraga Vidaurreta; ex- Televisa president Emilio Azcárraga Milmo; and current Televisa head Emilio Azcárraga Jean. 110 | Page

television’s ‘ideological effects’ and in particular, the telenovela’s ability to impart ‘a value-laden message’ saw an investment ‘in about the early 1960s, to intentionally exploit melodrama’s power’ (Quiñones 2001, 57). By the 1970s the Government began to invest in the development of ‘pro-social’ entertainment-education telenovelas.

Here, the Mexican telenovela’s ‘excessive’ melodrama can be linked to its political origins in Mexico, as can the Manichaean nature of Mexican telenovela melodrama. Finding it roots in official censorship of television content during the PRI government’s decades in power, official script approval ensured allegiance ‘the ethical and moral rules stipulated by the secretariat to the Mexican government’ (Beard 2003, 75). Once scripts had been revised by the department, an agent for the Interior Secretariat was a permanent fixture at rehearsals and filming, to ensure that no unsound changes were made to the approved stories (Quiñones 1998b, 41). As famed telenovela writer Fernanda Villeli (accredited with creating the telenovela genre in the 1950s) explained in a 1979 interview, ‘[t]here are supervisors that read every last word and supervisors watching the screen to check that there has not been any disobedience’ (Arizpe and Grau 1979, 49).

Within this schema, any narrative that undermined government authority was avoided. As such, ‘no politician could be mentioned, least of all the president’ (Quiñones 2001, 56).

Similarly, harsh economic realities were prohibited as ‘the gap between rich and poor was a delicate issue for the regime and not to be broached’ (Quiñones 2001, 56). Under this censorship, ‘no barefoot children showed up on film, no character could discuss money, his salary, how much something cost, or ever enter a bank’ (Quiñones 2001, 56).

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Consequently, ‘social mobility, […] came through marriage and not through hard work or individual initiative’ (Quiñones 2001, 56). As Quiñones writes, the ‘classic telenovela plot’ that flourished under these limitations ‘quickly became the Cinderella story’ (Quiñones

2001, 57). The banning of drugs and alcohol, cursing, sex and nudity, birth control and abortion, as well as other morally problematic themes (Quiñones 1998a, 34) reflected this political and moral censorship, and as such the traditional telenovela rosa can be deemed the ‘legitimate offspring’ of the relationship between the culture industries and the state.

So fundamental has this relationship been to television’s development that its influence continues, even after ‘Mexico set out — as many would call it — to say good-bye to the

Mexican Revolution’ with its ‘serious attempt […] to modernize the institutional structure that had been created’ (Aguilar Camin 718). With the declaration in 1993 that ‘the government would no longer control the media’ (Quiñones 2001, 71) the PRI signalled the context for telenovela production that came with the move to a neoliberal economy in 1994.

This shift from the protectionism of the post revolutionary period was characterised by

Mexico’s signing of the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA) with Canada and the USA. In line with the move to make television content a free trade commodity, the PRI sold ‘two of its stations to a recently formed network known as Television Azteca’ and in so doing, significantly changed the landscape of the Mexican television industry (Quiñones

2001, 71).

This period constituted a turning point in Mexican telenovela history. Indeed, when then president of Mexico Carlos Salinas de Gotari signed the North American Free Trade

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Agreement in December of 1992, and privatised the government owned channels 7 and 13 in 1994, it heralded both political and economic change in the television industry. As Vera explained, ‘Televisa is the biggest television monopoly in the world because here monopolist practices are not restricted’ (2007 pers. comm., 22 January). Mexico is a nation characterized by a monopoly system of private ownership. Former Foreign Minister of

Mexico (2000-2003) Jorge Castañeda clarified the extent of this economic model in a 2006 interview;

We have a monopoly on television, a monopoly on telecommunications, a monopoly in cement, a monopoly in political representation, monopolies in the unions, monopolies in the bread and tortilla industry. Mexico is a country run by monopolies […] this corporate and this monopoly system that has been running Mexico for 70 years (Castañeda).

Effectively ending the monopoly that Televisa had held in the Mexican television industry since 1972, the deregulation in 1992 saw Televisa’s 12,000 annual hours of television (Fox

1997, 50) programming rivaled by new competitor Television Azteca.

Early on TV Azteca declared itself a producer of telenovelas that ‘make you think’. This conscious opposition to Televisa as ‘dream factory’ challenged the censored version of the nation characteristic of the PRI-Televisa era by incorporating previously inconceivable themes. The ‘new wave’ of telenovelas de ruptura that followed narrated the nation’s battle with drug trafficking, police corruption, urban violence and economic disparity. Female characters were complex and unpredictable, compared to Televisa’s virgins and whores.

Indeed, TV Azteca’s mandate to reflect Mexico’s newfound ‘democracy’ saw its telenovelas contrast greatly with those of Televisa.

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A key contributor to this process was TV Azteca’s early collaboration with the independent production house Argos Produciones to help fill its television quota. Headed by Epigmenio

Ibarra, 18 Argos remains the leading independent production company in Mexico, and the second largest in Latin America. Contracted by TV Azteca in 1995 Argos worked with the conglomerate until 2000, ‘charged with conceiving, developing, casting, and finally producing telenovelas on a project-by project basis’ (Hernández & McAnany 404).

Namesake of the Greek God of the thousand eyes, Argos provided a multifarious alternative perspective of the nation, in an obvious reference to that traditionally represented through the monolithic view from Televisa’s one-eyed logo. This new vision focused on the ‘many Mexicos’ beyond the borders of the tidy nation.

Largely responsible for the realism that infused many of the early TV Azteca telenovelas, it was Argos’ desire to alter the traditional Mexican telenovela schema that largely lead to the changes in the Mexican telenovela industry. Influenced by the Brazilian and Venezuelan telenovelas that they would watch as reporters on assignment in covering the civil war in

Nicaragua, Argos was later encouraged by Azteca to enter the telenovela industry, as part of Azteca’s attempts to ‘confront Televisa’ (Covarrubias & Uribe 2000, 118). As Ibarra explained, in Televisa ‘they looked for a moral order and we have been setting ourselves up to fight this’ (Covarrubias and Uribe 2000, 125). These telenovelas de ruptura (‘telenovelas de ruptura’) saw the inclusion of ‘social realism’ over fantasy. Epigmenio Ibarra, head of

Argos, Mexico’s largest independent production company explained in interview;

Army involvement in drug trafficking, [...] political crime and then in the context of the family, [...] homosexuality, abortion. [...] From the moral point of view we have touched

18 Initially with three joint owners in Ibarra, Carlos Payán and Hernán Vera. 114 | Page

everything. We married a priest, [...] made a fifty year old woman and a thirty-something guy fall in love, we did an abortion on the screen, we had a transsexual, we found that the root of corruption was the head of the secretary for public security, we denounced the drug trafficking cartels of Wall Street and New Orleans and said that drug traffickers are named Scout and MacKenzie Wallace instead of García or Fernández (2007, pers. comm., 9 February).

As ratings began to challenge the ‘Mexican Formula’ created by PRI-Televisa, scholars and critics alike hailed a new era of Mexican television. Yet despite its revolutionary promise, this movement to change the telenovela’s representational schema ultimately fizzled. This is particularly evident in the female characters. Despite stronger female characterisation, the dynamics of female mythification remain largely intact and as such, female citizenship within the Mexican telenovela reflected the same dichotomy of exclusionary dynamics that can be traced within the decades of Televisa telenovelas, PRI governance and their perpetuation of centuries-old nationalist sentiment.

Consequently, Mexican cinema’s successful ‘maturation’ during the 1990s creates an interesting contrast to the telenovela’s fate. As with the telenovela’s development, scholars of this ‘new wave’ of Mexican cinema identify the impetus for change as the ‘deep crisis in the unifying mythos of national identity’ within ‘the changing cultural geography’ of the time (Rashkin 3). Here, ‘[i]n contrast to classical Mexican cinema's attention to historic topics, mythmaking and epic national fictions’, the new wave of Mexican cinema provides a ‘new national identity equation in which the historic themes of sex, gender, machismo, and revolutionary ideology are faced with a more brutal, more honest reality’ (Acevedo-

Muñoz 41). Acevedo-Muñoz (2004) traces these changes within the female sexual and narrative agency of such cinema hits as Y tu mamá también and finds that it reworks those 115 | Page

gender narratives within the nation’s foundational myths, of which the stories of Malinche and Guadalupe are key.

The reasons why Mexican cinema has renegotiated the inherently misogynist monolithic notions of national identity whereas this study suggests that the telenovela has not are inherently complex. Yet an analysis of the production and consumption ‘values’ of the telenovela’s commercial industry suggests how such conservative nation-construction has survived on the small screen. Focusing on interviews conducted with Mexican telenovela industry professionals, scholars and critics in 2007 and 2008, the following chapter explores the ‘unofficial’ ways in which female mythification within the cultural imaginary continues to shape female characterisation and citizenship within the contemporary telenovela. This work is integral to tracing the myriad ways in which the past continues into the present, despite the promise of a different future.

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Chapter Three

Production and Consumption ‘Values’ within the ‘Bigger Picture’ Chapter Three: Production and Consumptioalues’ within the ‘Bigger Picture’ ‘Without generalisation there is no tradition’ — Cuauhtémoc Blanco, Televisa

This chapter explores the ways in which production and consumption practices of the contemporary Mexican telenovela are both shaped by and facilitate the processes of female mythification within the cultural imaginary. Specifically, an exploration of industry practices, beliefs, priorities and structures are considered in light of the historical precedents of female mythification that are explored in Chapter Two. Yet a careful analysis of the key aphorisms that telenovela industry professionals asserted during interviews in

2007 and 2008 — that Mexican telenovelas perpetuate conservative gender roles ‘because that’s the genre’, ‘because it’s a commercial industry’ and ‘because that’s what the public wants’ — highlights how the textual dynamics of the form as well as the ultimately fiscal incentives that drive telenovela production, facilitate the cultural imaginary’s shaping of both telenovela production and consumption practices.

Producing Company Values A perusal of the plethora of publicity available for Televisa and TV Azteca indicates the importance of social values to their brand. Indeed Televisa’s charity Fundación Televisa

(‘Televisa Foundation’)19 even has an annual National ‘Dia de los Valores’ (‘Values Day’)

19 Promoting social and cultural works that assist individual and community development , Fundación Televisa’s mission statement can be found at . 117 | Page

which it advertises using the catchphrase ‘¿Tienes el valor o te vale?’ (‘Do you have values or don’t you care?’). With a series of ad campaigns that advocate giving way to pedestrians and arriving to work early as well as refraining from littering, double-parking, using derogatory terms and lying, the ‘dia de valores’ is complemented by such product tie-ins as the ‘values wristbands’ which are modelled on the yellow rubber LiveStrong bracelet that was launched by the Lance Armstrong Foundation in 2004. TV Azteca also has its own foundation entitled

Fundación Azteca (‘Azteca Foundation’) which similarly advocates such values as honesty, effort and ‘love for Mexico’, and supports national social, cultural and ecological projects.20

Unsurprisingly then, for both of these conglomerates so heavily invested in the creation of an ethical brand image, both production values and content are influenced by these company

‘values’, as they produce the moral parameters that they themselves advocate.

Televisa’s particular repertoire of values is not surprising considering its decades of affiliation with the PRI and its nation-building ideology. Thus, although official censorship of television content has ceased since the PRI government’s defeat in 2000 (Ibarra E. 2007, pers. comm, 9

February) Televisa’s production of values continues largely unchanged. Indeed, its relationship with the Catholic Church has ensured that Televisa maintains the types of values that were advocated by the PRI-Televisa union.

Televisa’s particular repertoire of values is not surprising considering its decades of affiliation with the PRI and its nation-building ideology. Thus, although official censorship of television content has ceased, Televisa’s production of values continues largely unchanged. Indeed, its

20 See . 118 | Page

relationship with the Catholic Church has ensured that Televisa maintains the types of values that were advocated by the PRI-Televisa union. Scholar Jorge González spoke of this relationship when explaining;

In that time (1991) Televisa operated – de facto – as if it was the spokesperson for the Mexican Episcopate. That power relationship was clearly informal, but so effective and so strong, that with a simple phone call they were able “to suggest” to [Televisa’s] very owner (Azcárraga Milmo) to halt the telenovela’s broadcast when it was already on air: 'This scene is immoral,' and Mr. (one of the two most important producers at the time within the company) was obliged (against his will and vision) to advise the editor (Roberto Nino) to correct it’ (2007, pers. comm., 17 February).

In addition to such examples, telenovela industry writers, directors and producers from

Televisa, TV Azteca and Argos Productions have emphasised the ongoing relationship between

Christianity and Mexican telenovela values. For these professionals, this relationship is ‘utterly clear’ (Mejía M. 2007, pers. comm., 17 January). Televisa’s Cuauhtémoc Blanco explained that, ‘the telenovela is based upon a series of moral virtues […] [within which] is a fundamentally Western Christian vision […] of good and evil’ (2007, pers. comm., 17

January). Consequently, at the heart of the telenovela are ‘Judaeo-Christian values from more than two thousand years ago’ (Sanchez, L. 2007, pers. comm., 8 February). So strong is this foundation that ‘the rule has converted into a formula’ where ‘good and evil in constant battle

[and] at the end, exactly like a fable, good must receive its deserved reward and evil, its necessary punishment’ (Blanco, C. 2007, pers. comm., 17 January).

The strength of this formula is evident as ‘the audience knows what to expect from each character who will rarely display unexpected behaviour’ (Blanco, C. 2007, pers. comm., 17

January). Indeed, ‘even if the character has doubts. Even if they lose their way, there is a

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morality that will direct their conduct. And that morality will always determine the character’s personality’ (Blanco,C. 2007, pers. comm., 17 January). The relationship between this moral schema and television’s emphasis is to ‘consolidate good values’ (Blanco, C. 2007, pers. comm., 17 January) within society becomes clear here. Vera outlined the gendered nature of this equation when clarifying that the telenovela’s religious moral schema means that ‘men are allowed to have various relations; women are not. She must be a virgin; she must not sleep with anyone, except for the knight in shining armour; she must be a perfect mother’ (2007, pers. comm., 22 January).

Thus, although the fifteen-year-old TV Azteca does not share the same history of official censorship as Televisa, it would seem that it advocates a similar repertoire of values within its telenovela content. Indeed a 2001 TV Azteca publication entitled Los Valores de Grupo

Salinas (‘The Values of the Salinas Group’) explains that ‘ is not only a group of companies; it is a way of life. A way to view society’ (Grupo Salinas 2001, 76).

Mirroring the nationalist sentiment of the Televisa-PRI alliance, it is in fact ‘[t]he project of a nation sustained on concrete values’ (Grupo Salinas 2001, 76). This publication clarifies the types of values being promoted and the vision guiding the telenovela. Family is situated as the first value that needs to be celebrated. It is for this reason that family ‘deserves respect, value, and care’ (Grupo Salinas 2001, 9).

Whilst the publication does not stipulate what constitutes ‘family’ within this context, the subsequent assertion that values ‘are universal and permanent, that is, they transcend space and time’ (Grupo Salinas 2001, 86) suggests that the family promoted here is unlikely to

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deviate from those traditional configurations of the nuclear family, so endorsed within the traditional telenovela schema. As with Televisa, the manifesto of TV Azteca productions posits that ‘there is always a mission to maintain family unity’ (Serrano A. 2007, pers. comm., 23 January). Indeed, ‘The Values of Grupo Salinas’ explains the dangers of losing these values, and consequently the importance of maintaining their upkeep. Suggesting that

‘without values, we are at the mercy of fear, anxiety, exalted imagination and degradation’

TV Azteca rejects a ‘lack of values’, which would effectively ‘reduce our lives under the pressure for change coming abroad’ (Grupo Salinas 2001, 88). Exactly what this ‘change’ would bring is not articulated.

However, what was articulated within interviews with television industry professionals was the

‘self-censorship’ that operated within these conglomerates, which effectively replicated the official censorship from the days of the PRI. Describing how inappropriate issues and storylines would be discussed in house, Argos writer Laura Sosa explained that ‘more than a government mandate, I think it’s a question of self-censorship by the companies themselves’

(2007, pers. comm., 5 February). Epigmenio Ibarra declared this ‘process of self-censorship’ so

‘brutal’ that it had inverted the official hierarchy, such that ‘before the Mexican Government controlled and advised Televisa. Now television controls and advises the Mexican

Government’ (2007, pers. comm., 9 February). Although those interviewed at Argos were most candid about this process, TV Azteca producer Genoveva Martínez also clarified that ‘the company has its editorial line through which it can consolidate key points of the company’s philosophy’ (2007, pers. comm., 22 February). In addition to being ‘provida’ (‘pro-life’) which she clarified meant both ‘that we are against abortion and euthanasia’, she explained that ‘we

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are for the free market’ (2007, pers. comm., 22 February). It was this point which most resonated with others interviewed regarding the dynamics of ‘self-censorship’ within both

Televisa and TV Azteca.

Here, several candidates indicated that self-censorship was indicative not merely of conservative values within the companies themselves, but moreover of economic priorities.

For Laura Sosa, adhering to the status quo was motivated by ‘a certain fear of shocking and frightening off the public […] with themes that they might find confronting or unpleasant’

(2007, pers. comm., 5 February). Such production limitations are thus not entirely indicative of a ‘paternalistic’ concern for audience ‘tastes’, but moreover are motivated by the financial bottom line. Indeed, Martínez explained that one of TV Azteca’s most salient

‘production values’ was the ‘prerequisite that they have ratings, that the program is profitable’ (2007, pers. comm., 22 February). For Martínez this meant two things; ‘that it has ratings’ which ‘is totally up to the audience, because the audience is who gives you the vote of “I’m going to watch, I’m going to provide the rating”’ and that ‘there are sponsors who want to promote their products with us […] because the program has rating’ (2007, pers. comm., 22 February).

With this clarity of ‘production values’ in mind, the assertion by several interviewees that the Mexican telenovela maintained a conservative repertoire of values ‘because it’s an industry’ took on particular significance. Thus whilst, for scholar Ana Zermeño, ‘there are little lights every so often, of people who perhaps could contribute something [new]’ there

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is not however ‘enough force amongst those who produce and oversee, to imagine other alternatives’ (2007, pers. comm., 30 January).

Martínez provided one heartbreaking example of this when explaining the production saga around Tan Infinito como el Desierto (‘As Infinite as the Desert’ TV Azteca 2004). This mini-series attempted to address Mexico’s internationally recognised human rights emergency. Based upon the femicide in the Mexican border city of Juárez, it narrated the context within which over hundreds of young women and girls have been abducted, raped, murdered and their bodies mutilated since 1993, with thousands more missing. For

Martínez, the program was a deouncement, as ‘definitely we needed to denounce the situation in Juárez in order to pressure the authorities’ (2007, pers. comm., 22 February).

Furthermore, the series’ examination of the violence against women in Ciudad Juárez provided the public opportunity to counter the negative discourse regarding female sexuality that had marred the official response to these murders.

Traditionally the dead women of Ciudad Juárez have been painted by the Northern

Mexican authorities as irresponsible young women who have run off with their boyfriends, or as prostitutes who ran out of luck. Julia Monárrez Fragoso highlights this negligence in her article on serial sexual femicide in Ciudad Juárez when quoting the official assertion by the Chihuahuan Assistant Prosecution Office that

it is important to note that the behavior of some of the victims does not correspond with those established characteristics of the moral order, being there has been excessive frequenting into the late hours of the night of entertainment establishments not appropriate for their age in some cases, as well an inadequate care and abandonment of the family unit in which they have lived (Monárrez Fragoso 2002, 3).

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Even then President Vincente Fox ignored the importance of the investigations when he declared in 2005 that the majority of Ciudad Juárez cases of violence against women had been solved, and the perpetrators brought to justice (Ruiz 2005, n.p.). Accusing the media of ‘rehashing’ the subject of the unresolved murders, he declared that the crime in Juárez was not disproportionate to other parts of the country such that ‘the case of Juárez is one of those that we must attend to and that we are attending to […] [B]ut we also must look at it in its proper dimension’ (cited in Ruiz 2005, n.p.). Despite the ongoing fight for justice by their loved ones and human rights groups, the horrific violence against these young women had remained largely hidden from the public eye, and as such, national public pressure for their vindication remained negligible.

Furthermore, the potential for providing a televisual forum for such community- minded projects about the reality of violence against women in Mexico, and possibly a more complex representation of female narratives within television fiction, was compromised by the lack of financial support. Despite the critical importance of this project, which could have garnered positive publicity for its sponsors, this series failed to attract any sponsorship. Although the series went to air, the sponsors’ boycott proved disastrous, further ostracising the victims of this violence and compromising financial support for such community minded projects.

When asked why the sponsors refrained, Martínez diplomatically replied;

The truth is that I can’t speak for them, as an advertiser. What I saw was that they didn’t want to associate their product with something so tragic. If you sell beautiful blue earrings,

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you don’t want your blue earrings to be associated with such a dramatic and tragic issue (2007, pers. comm., 22 February). Identifying this phenomenon as ultimately a conflict of ‘intentions’, Martínez clarified that

‘television’s function is neoliberal, which means to earn the most that is possible (which is obviously the goal of the sponsor, because he wants to sell his product)’ (2007, pers. comm., 22 February). When such fiscal ‘intentions’ conflict with the educational

‘intentions’ of programs such as Tan Infinito como el Desierto, ‘this is a very difficult balance to deal with’ (Martínez G. 2007, pers. comm., 22 February). For Martínez ‘it was an altruistic program in the sense that TV Azteca incurred all of the costs, [and] never recouped them’ because ‘Ricardo Salinas is a very socially responsible person, who is very interested in México, who is a person who wants México to get better’ (2007, pers. comm.,

22 February). As such, ‘that program about the deaths in Juárez was something that he requested. And when he realised that it would not have any sponsors he said “go ahead, it doesn’t matter”’ (Martínez G. 2007, pers. comm., 22 February).

But it did matter, for despite this altruism, it was not a plausible business strategy for a commercial television conglomerate. Martínez reiterated this point, explaining that; ‘This television has to be a commercial television, our function is to entertain and inform the viewer but we can’t give ourselves the luxury of not having ratings, we can’t do that, that isn’t our role, we aren’t a state or educational channel or the like’ (2007, pers. comm., 22

February). Such sentiments are familiar within Televisa’s system of values, with Azcárraga

Jean on record as stating that ‘this is a business. The fundamental thing, the face of this company is the production of entertainment, then information. To educate is the government’s job, not Televisa’s’ (Sinclair 1999, 50).

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Once again, TV Azteca’s and Televisa’s ‘company values’ see an investment in the ‘value’ of high profit margins. Thus despite ‘good intentions’, the possibility of long-term investment in the representation of ‘alternative’ social and cultural issues such as the deaths in Ciudad Juárez, is effectively kept in check by the sponsors’ reticence to brand something so ‘tragic’.

‘Because it’s an Industry’-

Patronising Values of a Commercial Business

The commercial nature of the Mexican telenovela industry shapes the ideology reflected within the narratives of these cultural products. Álvaro Cueva explained that besides the power of the companies themselves is the power of the sponsors. They are very powerful, and they exert control over shaping the ideological parameters of telenovela content (2007, pers. comm., 12 January). As Vera said, ‘what predominates are the laws of the market’ and ‘the Money comes from the advertisers, doesn’t it?’ (2007, pers. comm., 22 January).

As the determining factor in the establishment of television in Mexico, the model continues to shape the contemporary televisual business in what might be considered its ‘raison d’être’. The pervasiveness of advertising within telenovela programming is evident of this industrial imperative. Counting for 60% of gross advertising spending in the mid nineties, commercial television is big business in Mexico (Winders et al. 2005, 89). Even with the more recently volatile state of markets, as evident with

Televisa’s reported downturn in advertising revenue in 2007 when ‘[s]ales at broadcasting

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unit fell 15.5% to $456.6 million’ (O’Boyle 2007b, n.p.) due to a drop in consumer spending, advertising remains a consistent for television viewers. In fact, with 18% of telenovela broadcast time allowed for advertising, it is no surprise that a 2005 survey conducted by Initiative Futures Worldwide found that Mexico has the fourth most

‘cluttered’ commercial television landscape in the world, after the United States, China and

Japan (Hughes 2005, 122).

This is glaringly evident when viewing Mexican television programming from morning talk shows to news hours and afternoon gossip programming where product placement and special sponsor spots are de rigueur. Yet even within afternoon, evening and primetime fictional content, advertising is rife and in particular ‘the blurring of the lines between advertisement and entertainment is common in the world of telenovelas’ (Beard 2003, 86).

Discussing this phenomenon in regards to the ratings hit La Fea más Bella (‘The Most

Beautiful Ugly Girl’ Televisa 2006) Laura Sanchez explained the logical relationship between high ratings, brand recognition and the fictional characters who engage in non- sequitur advertising through the dialogue. As she said, it’s a way to advertise everything, through the characters’ (2007, pers. comm., 8 February).21

Critics have long identified the power harnessed by the companies investing billions of pesos into the television industry as Le Gallo laments, ‘the great power the private sector

21 By likening the interview set up to a scene in the telenovela Sanchez explained ‘[i]t had very high ratings and suddenly advertisers became interested in say you and I- who are the secretaries- advertising in this conversation a product, say glasses. So I say to you “hey what gorgeous glasses you bought. Hey where… god they look great…hey tell me [where you bought them]”. “Hey thanks, I got them at the Optometrist Devlin” and so on. “So where is that optometrist?” “There’s heaps all over the place.” And we’re doing a commercial right?’ (2007, pers. comm., 8 February).

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has acquired bit by bit, has contributed to giving Mexican television its primary characteristic as a commercial enterprise, to the detriment of a public service television model’ (Le Gallo 1988, 20). However tangible evidence confirming the nature of this power in determining the parameters for telenovela production is relatively scarce. As such, the revealing anecdotes provided by telenovela producers throughout the interviews provide an unprecedented insight into the ‘patronising values’ of this commercial industry.

Amongst these, Hernán Vera described the conflict experienced with the principal sponsor

– a major international car company – during the filming of Argos’ La Vida en el Espejo,

(‘Life in the Mirror’) which aired on TV Azteca in 1999;

The moment that he says to his father, ‘look dad, I’m gay, I’m in love with him, that’s why I’m not going to marry the girl that you want me to marry’, in that moment; two days after we were invited to a meeting with the representative of [the car company] and the representative of the channel’s marketing department, where they asked us to please get someone to steal the car in the story because it was […] policy not to associate its brand with gay issues (2007, pers. comm., 22 January).

Argos experienced further censorship on behalf of its sponsors during the filming of its

1998 telenovela Tentaciones (‘Temptations’). Narrating the story of ‘a handsome priest whose religious vocation is endangered when he falls in love with a woman who turns out to be his half sister’ (Hernández & McAnany 2001, 408) the telenovela caused immense controversy in the Mexican Catholic Church. Taking to the streets in protest, many demanded it be taken off air. Sponsored by Ponds and Pan Bimbo —Mexico’s monopoly bread company which forms part of a right wing lobby group entitled ‘A Favor de lo

Mejor’ (‘For the best of the Media’) — the sponsors quickly mobilized. Exerting pressure on TV Azteca, they ensured that Tentaciones was canned. With an initial schedule of two hundred episodes, the controversial telenovela ended after just seventy seven, of which 128 | Page

forty were reshot to accommodate the sponsors’ concerns (Hernández & McAnany 2001,

408). According to Álvaro Cueva, ‘they didn’t even try to change it; they just took it off air’ (2007, pers. comm., 12 January).

Considering Argos’ experience negotiating the censorship of their ‘telenovelas of rupture’, it is not surprising they were most candid about the restrictions that a commercially conservative industry places on such content. For several of those interviewed, it is the obsession with ratings and profits, which creates such restrictions. Asserting that ‘we’re not part of a cultural industry; we’re part of an entertainment industry […] in which one invests money and expects a return’ Ibarra explained that ‘organisations like Televisa, like

Television Azteca […] are based upon the logic of repetition’ (2007, pers. comm., 9

February). Clarifying that ‘homogeneity is what makes Televisa successful’ (2007, pers. comm., 9 February) Ibarra argued that scope for innovation, including the revision of exclusionary gender representations, is limited within the telenovela industry. Paralysed by their quest for commercial success, the big conglomerates cannot ‘afford’ to revise the traditional ‘Mexican formula’ as ‘where there is not security is when one is experimenting, breaking [the rules] and without any certainty’ (Ibarra E. 2007, pers. comm., 9 February).

This industrial form is not however merely the product of a top-down mandate from executives. Rather, ‘fear of failure and fear of expressing new ideas and fear of confronting the television machine that ultimately dominates those who make telenovelas’ (Ibarra E.

2007, pers. comm., 9 February) sees writers internalise these restrictions. So whilst government censorship does not provide the impetus for fear in the newly competitive

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industry, ‘writers must offer […] solvency, security, [and] certainty that this story, complies with the minimum key requirements of what constitutes the telenovela format’

(Sanchez L. 2007, pers. comm., 8 February).

So fundamental is Televisa’s investment in the secure ratings of the ‘Mexican formula’ that for Ibarra ‘whoever tries something new at Televisa is destined to fail’ (2007, pers. comm.,

9 February). Yet according to Ibarra, ‘organisations like Televisa’ do not even have ‘the ability to change’ because ‘they have neither the flexibility […] the interest nor the capacity to imagine a different interaction with the public’ (2007, pers. comm., 9 February).

Emphasising the importance of size and time to this equation, he states that

A large structure is powerful, overwhelming, but slow. Azteca and Televisa are slow; in their production, in their ability to innovate. We are flexible, fast, small, we shrink and grow. And that allows us, even with the barrel of the budget pointing at our head, to work differently. And the main thing is that being small, there is a sense of creative ownership of the project that employees at the big channels don’t have (Ibarra, E. 2007, pers. comm., 9 February).

Álvaro Cueva argued that the speed required to produce endless hours of programming for the conglomerates’ various channels was the most notable commercial factor for the perpetuation of a dichotomous female characterisation within the contemporary telenovela.

As he explained, ‘what most favours the telenovela decree in Mexico is the vertiginous speed of their filming. Everything is so fast and so mechanical that there is no way to stop to think about making little changes’ (Cueva Á. 2007, pers. comm., 12 January). Indeed the use of the ‘apuntador’ (audio prompt) or ‘ciccaro’ (pea) that sits inside the actors’ ears and dictates their lines is indicative of this production line quality within these companies.

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Televisa’s self-nomination as the ‘fábrica de los sueños’ (‘dream factory’) takes on increased significance in this context.

In contrast to such ‘factories’, Ibarra argued that Argos ‘has time to experiment’ with new formulas of representation (2007, pers. comm., 9 February). Although conceding that the

‘commercial values’ to which Argos has been subjected by TV Azteca and in the United States have made them compromise their vision, Ibarra was adamant that ‘even making concessions, there are certain production values that you find in Argos novelas that are not in the novelas of TV Azteca’ (2007, pers. comm., 9 February). Thus ‘even though we tell a seemingly very traditional story, you’re always going to find [alternative] ingredients’ (Ibarra E. 2007, pers. comm., 9 February). In fact, Ibarra credits this as a powerful way of subverting the status quo as ‘one has to play them at their own game’ in order to come out the winner (2007, pers. comm., 9 February).22

This approach has seen Argos achieve such feats as inserting ‘the most progressive and polemic plot-line that we have ever done, in the most traditional novela that we have done’

(2007, pers. comm., 9 February). Inserting ‘not only a transsexual, but a transsexual and his boyfriend’ within Daniela (2002) Argos reworked the traditional Mexican family of this

Cinderella narrative (2007, pers. comm., 9 February). So canny was this approach that upon telenovela ending, ‘the father, the mother, the Virgin of Guadalupe, the transsexual, and his

22 In interview, Ibarra was proud of Argos’ independence, stating that ‘nobody in Mexico, nobody, has survived more that four telenovela outside of Azteca and Televisa’ (2007, pers. comm., 9 February). Indeed, according to Ibarra, ‘these are the rule of the monopoly’ because ‘when they see the gross profit and the risk, they decide to withdraw’ (2007, pers. comm., 9 February). 131 | Page

boyfriend’ all embrace and ‘nobody even realised’ (2007, pers. comm., 9 February).23

Stating that economic success is not important for Argos, Ibarra explained that the most important ideological and structural difference to the ‘big two’ is the creative, as opposed to financial bottom line; ‘we are crazy. I tell the writers and directors “let’s do what we like, so that we feel proud. If it is successful; great. If not, whatever”’ (2007, pers. comm., 9

February). As such, ‘we produce distinct telenovelas because we are distinct’ (Ibarra E.

2007, pers. comm., 9 February).

Yet regardless of this picture of subversion painted by Ibarra, the cooption of television by commercial interests is hard to fight. He clarified this when explaining the core flaws of the industry’s origins;

We made the box an idiot box through omission and action. Omission on the part of the left who thought it was a tool of imperialism. And action on the part of the right who converted a formidable tool for communication into the display window of their shops. Omission by the activists, action by the merchants. And all sanctioned by the government who wanted an instrument of ideological reproduction conducive to its image (2007, pers. comm., 9 February).

Comparing Mexico’s television history with that of and Colombia, both Ibarra and

Mejía outlined the importance of left-wing literary origins to a television industry capable of producing diverse narratives. As Mejía explained, ‘the Brazilian telenovela breaks all of the rules’ because ‘the success of Brazilian telenovelas, is that they are based on literature.

From the works of great authors’ (2007, pers. comm., 17 January). Consequently, ‘Brazil

23 In another example, ‘we did [‘Gypsies’] (…) and it seemed hyper-traditional but we added the story of a priest, who questions his calling. He falls in love, leaves the habit and gets married. In fact, he doesn’t just marry, he has a child. We made that plot acceptable. That same plot that four years before, caused us a spectacular failure. (Tentaciones.) Because we came at it directly. In Gitanas we came at it from the side’ (2007, pers. comm., 9 February). 132 | Page

has shown that it can have a prostitute as a telenovela protagonist and still have a powerful telenovela that captures the audience’ (2007, pers. comm., 17 January). In comparison, by

‘refraining from participating in the communication phenomenon of the twentieth century’, the left in Mexico enabled Televisa to become ‘the hired assassin of the Government’

(2007, pers. comm., 9 February).

Within these accounts, it would seem then that the government, the Catholic Church, and the commercial industry all determine the conservative values that continue to monopolise the exclusionary configuration of female characterisation/citizenship within the Mexican telenovela. However, to conclude this analysis here would patronise the millions of viewers throughout the world who everyday tune in to make the Mexican telenovela one of the most successful transnational programming forms in television history. Indeed, the importance of the audience in shaping the perpetuation of female mythification within the telenovela of the twenty-first century should not be undermined. Providing the ratings at this commercial industry’s heart, it would in fact appear to be the deciding factor in the telenovela equation and many interviewed confirmed this. The following section reviews the role of the audience as the vital component to a comprehensive understanding of those myriad factors contributing to the

Mexican telenovela’s perpetuation of female mythification within the contemporary telenovela.

Consuming Values- ‘Because that’s what the Public wants’

Integral to industry perspectives on the perpetuation of female mythification within the

Mexican telenovela is that they produce what audiences avidly consume. Indeed, the refrain

‘es lo que quiere el publico’ (‘that’s what the public wants’) appeared throughout the 133 | Page

interviews with Televisa and TV Azteca professionals. The logic espoused was that ‘If telenovelas didn’t give audiences what they want, they wouldn’t exist’ (Cueva 2001, 111).

Indeed, for Cueva, ‘the twenty-first century’ audience can ‘increasingly demand high definition, stereo sounds, star power, faster rhythm and drama per episode, more thematic variety, more respect for minorities, more human rights, and if desired, more recourse to tradition’ (Cueva 2001, 112). Adamant that ‘we know the audience’s tastes’ (Martínez G.

2007, pers. comm., 8 February) these professionals asserted that audience tastes are verified through ratings and study groups. Tracing what they deemed to be a direct correlation between Nielsen reports and public choice, they ‘base their criteria on these studies because they are a base that provide a sense of security’. As such, ‘those studies have a lot of influence, in terms of decision-making, when one is experimenting with something or when the story is not rating well’ (Sanchez L. 2007, pers. comm., 8 February).

Others however, were dubious about the relationship between ratings and audience ‘tastes’.

Cueva asserted that ‘it is very easy to talk about the people but where is the study that says what the people want? [And] when did they ask them?’ (2007, pers. comm., 12 January)

Marcela Mejía questioned the viability of the methodology for collecting ratings, saying

They just assume their ratings and the rating is very relative, such that in a country where there are one hundred twenty million people where at least one hundred million watching TV, the ratings are measured using a sample of 400 households (0.0004%). You cannot speak of a significant sample. Moreover, the sample is chosen [...] because those who are looking at the ratings are those advertisers checking if their products can penetrate the market. By no means can that be considered a target, a profile of an audience. And they make very few focus groups, of twenty or so people. No way is that representative. The sample is very insignificant. [...] And then your program is based on this rating, exclusively on these ratings (2007, pers. comm, 17 January).

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Questioning the validity of even measuring such a limited pool of options, some interviewees suggested that people watch because there is nothing else to choose from. As scholar Bustos Romero argued ‘if they have never been offered a different option… what can they say?’ (2007, pers. comm., 19 January). Ibarra agreed, stating that ratings are deceptive as ‘the people like what is on air, but the day that we give them a better television, […] the television that they deserve, they will like that too’ (2007, pers. comm.,

9 February). Mejía proffered that ‘when the public says: "This story is a bit more complex than what I am used to seeing but I understood it [...] then the viewer feels good knowing he is intelligent’ (2007, pers. comm., 17 January). For Serrano this goes against the ‘myth that the people are lazy, that the people are stupid, that the people don’t want to see more

[…] and that one has to give the people what they want’ (2007, pers. comm., 23 January).

However, despite these opinions, many of these same interviewees admitted that there is little opportunity to put them to the test.

To begin, the difficulty of providing a ‘better television’ for ‘the people’ is hampered by the ruthlessly commercial nature of the industry. Indeed, as González explained, audiences who are accustomed to one particular type of television have little time to adapt to new programming as ‘if the telenovela does not take off in the first fifteen episodes […] they either stage a complete intervention on the content and the structure or they terminate it’

(2007, pers. comm., 15 February).

Cueva has also highlighted the difficulty of reading telenovela ratings as an unproblematic reflection of ‘what the public wants’ due to this ‘absence of other genres within

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programming’ (1998, 174). For scholar Ana Zermeño this is a class issue relating to access to television beyond the free-to-air broadcast model, as ‘the percentage of the population that has cable in Mexico is low’ (2007, pers. comm., 30 January). In this way, it would seem that there is a bifurcation of the television public in Mexico, determined by ‘those that have and those that do not have access to pay television’ (Zermeño A. 2007, pers. comm.,

30 January). As such, many watch telenovelas because that is the programming available on free to air television. For Zermeño, until social equality changes, this population ‘is forced to watch the programming of Televisa and TV Azteca’ (2007, pers. comm., 30

January).

These insights assist a comprehensive picture of the audience’s role in facilitating the perpetuation of female mythification within the contemporary Mexican telenovela.

However, without further consideration of the dynamics of audience ‘tastes’, they risk denying audience agency in engaging with these texts by choice. This has been a common trope in narratives about audience engagement with telenovelas. Indeed, since structuralist discourses in the 1970s began to read media as an ideological state apparatus with direct effects on its audience, this issue of audience agency has been prevalent within analyses of telenovela content.

Those scholars working within the poststructuralist tradition have attempted to vindicate the telenovela audience from such causal models by framing them as a diverse group capable of polysemic textual readings. The emphasis on active audience reception over the past two decades has promoted audience agency, where critical and capable, albeit massive

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popular audiences replace passive reception models. According to this argument, they are able to ‘establish sufficient distance’ to ‘enjoy the realistic story as a fictional text’

(Miranda 2001, 193). Interviews with those involved in the Mexican component of the groundbreaking transnational study on audience reception that was carried out by scholars at the Center for Social Research at the University of in the nineteen nineties24 elucidated the logistics of this approach to audiences, as González explained

the idea was first to understand […] what the dynamic of daily life is within a Mexican home […] by an ethnographic study for approximately eight months practically living with those people […] in order to understand what happens with television and third, once established, to understand what happens with telenovelas (2007, pers. comm., 15 February).

For González, the findings of this study ‘exploded many myths’ about the telenovela, including the gender, socio-economic, and age demographics of its viewers (2007, pers. comm., 15 February). These researchers take pains to emphasise audience agency through the ways in which watching telenovelas is an active pastime. Here, emphasis on the negotiation of the telenovela viewing experience — such as the location of the television set, who watches what when, and whether other activities occur simultaneously with viewing — suggest that audiences actively engage with the telenovela form.

Yet despite the focus on an ‘active’ audience model, recourse to an effects model seems inevitable. In one example, scholars at the University of Colima argued for the possibility that the telenovela Mirada de Mujer (‘The Look of a Woman’) would enable female audiences to question ‘their role as wives and mothers […] as a means of conceiving

24 This study was conducted by various teams of telenovela scholars in Brazil, , Colombia and Mexico. 137 | Page

alternate ways of living their lives’ (Covarrubias and Uribe 1998, n.p.). Despite this obvious reference to the telenovela’s ideological effects, these were the same scholars who advocated for a rejection of the ‘effects’ model of audience reception when publishing their findings from the transnational study on telenovela reception. The lines between ‘passive’ and ‘active’ viewing seem somewhat arbitrary.

Here, despite their conflation of these ‘oppositional’ models, such studies do little to move beyond a reductionist model of audience textual engagement as either passive or active.

This is only exacerbated by contemporary cultural and media studies’ apparent trepidation in re-examining the logistics of television texts as ideological tools that might ‘affect’ certain social-cultural behaviours or beliefs. From the nineties onwards, the dearth of published works that examine the interface between specific telenovela content and audience viewing reflects this.

Unfortunately, this oversight prevents the development of a more nuanced and holistic reading of how viewers negotiate telenovelas within the ideological context of their everyday lives. Although these viewer voices have not been captured in this study, it is beneficial to flesh out this ideological context, as the ways in which viewing is shaped by the larger cultural context remains unexplored. Consequently, without a consideration of how audiences might actively negotiate ideological texts yet remain influenced by the ideological messages that they convey, audience reception theory does little to move beyond the construction of viewing as either conducting ‘semiotic guerilla warfare’ (Fiske

1989, 18) or as passive reception of dominant ideology. The following sections avoid

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recourse to passive or active models of audience reception, by situating telenovela viewing within the wider cultural context for viewing.

Because that’s the Cultural Imaginary

In the same way that the company and sponsor values found in telenovela production are shaped by the very cultural imaginary whose parameters they help to shape, so too does the audience influence what is available onscreen. Indeed, ‘meanings are not simply imposed on viewers’ (Martín-Barbero 1995, 281) such that even if viewers do not actively engage in

‘semiotic guerilla warfare’, they nonetheless negotiate these meanings within their own knowledge frameworks. Arguably, within this process, the parameters of telenovela ideology are further consolidated; consistent with the audience’s understanding of the cultural imaginary, these ideologies are legitimised as ‘natural’.

Vek Lewis’ work on telenovela content and audience reception is particularly useful here.

Acknowledging that ‘the issue of representation, these days, is infrequently addressed’

(Lewis 2008, 3) he confirms the apparent reluctance within academia to explore telenovela content and the ways in which notions of its ‘ideological effects’ might work alongside the active model for audience reception. To counter this he begins by referencing Stuart Hall’s model of active reception, through which ‘asymmetries of meaning may occur en route in the dispersal of a product and its reception’ and within which ‘oppositional or counter- hegemonic readings are always a possibility’ (Hall cited in Lewis 2008, 3).

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However, Lewis stresses that ‘this cannot discount instances in which the knowledge frameworks of dominant culture align with the viewing public’s own available frameworks, in which the visualising and interpreting of representational phenomena retain real symmetry’ (Lewis 2008, 3) (Italics not in the original). Important here is the notion that those frameworks ‘available’ to the viewing public may influence telenovela reception.

This is not an unprecedented notion, as Chris Barker suggests, ‘audience activity can deconstruct “preferred” meaning only when alternative discourses are available’ (Barker

2005, 329). Consequently, telenovelas ‘construct, authorise and activate established models of perception in their representational forms, as well as suggest certain ‘routes’ of interpretation’, because of the pre-existing ‘beliefs that people hold about phenomena’

(Lewis 2008, 3).

Thus by acknowledging that audiences acquire their ‘mental models’ and ‘strategies of interpretation from the discursive forms that structure their social and informational worlds’

(Lewis 2008, 3) of which the Mexican telenovela is but one, the stalemate between

‘passive’ and ‘active’ audience reception can be avoided. Indeed, this ‘holistic’ approach illustrates not an ‘ideological effects model’ for television content, but rather the role of the cultural imaginary in shaping audience engagement with telenovela content. Here, the cultural continuum that shapes both consumption and production practices becomes clear, such that the telenovela’s cultural ‘codings’ ‘might not obtain their power to frame and restrict meanings were it not for the shared […] commonality of mental models and interpretative routines shared by producers and consumers […] found in the context in which the novela was made’ (Lewis 2008, 15).

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Evidently, as both a product and proponent of those ideological parameters of the cultural imaginary, telenovelas become ‘intertexts for reading both other media texts and the social text’ (Lewis 2008, 24). Constituting an important cultural site ‘through which viewers make sense of modern life and current events’ (Lewis 2008, 24) they are for Christina Slade the ‘privileged form’ through which ‘human, emotional and domestic life’ can be understood (Slade 2003, 8). Such commentary is particularly insightful as it is here that the

‘domestic’ nature of this ‘emotional’ life is crucial to the place of the telenovela within the cultural imaginary.

The telenovela’s pervasive presence within television programming mirrors the inexorable passing of time throughout the day. Programmed from midday to midnight, five days a week, throughout the broadcast television spectrum, telenovelas and their stars also feature on morning, afternoon and evening talk shows, variety shows and gossip shows. They appear in cross-promotional material such as television commercials, charity drives, print publications and on billboards. They appear in music videos and make special appearances at shopping malls and inaugurations throughout the nation, which in turn are televised on daily gossip shows. Furthermore, this ‘insertion’ into the texture of daily life (Lopez 1995,

257) takes place through the months-long narrative trajectory that mirror ‘the slow, cyclical rhythms of family life’ (Allen 1995, 11). Yet arguably, it is the audience’s familiarity and engagement with the telenovela’s narrative structure and emotional excess that results from this pervasive domesticity, that best secures the its currency within the cultural imaginary.

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An analysis of narrative form and structure is crucial to understanding the ways in which exclusionary gender discourses continue to circulate within the Mexican telenovela, through both consumption and production practices. For audiences, an analysis of the

‘certain ‘routes’ of interpretation’ (Lewis 2008, 3) or particular viewing position encouraged by the narrative helps to clarify audience engagement with these texts. Here, what might be called the dynamics of ‘privileged reading’ within the telenovela genre are integral in shaping ‘what the public wants’. Consequently, an exploration of their dynamics assists an understanding of the audience’s contribution to the perpetuation of those conservative gender values inherent to nationalist narratives that continue within the contemporary Mexican telenovela. However, an understanding of these narrative dynamics also highlights production logic in relation to audience ratings and the commercial viability of the telenovela form.

‘Because that’s the Genre’

Audience engagement with telenovela texts is far more complicated, and is influenced by the narrative structure of the melodramatic telenovela genre itself. Indeed, the refrain

‘because that’s the genre’ appeared time and again throughout the interviews, from

Televisa, TV Azteca and Argos professionals, to explain the perpetuation of narrative tropes of good versus evil female sexuality within the contemporary Mexican telenovela.

At first this exhortation seemed to confirm the commercial industry’s reticence to risk new formulae that might not secure the ratings success of the ‘Mexican formula’. Recourse to the genre’s traditional formula signals this conservatism. However, upon closer

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consideration of the role of the audience in the continued mythification of women within the telenovela, it is indeed the audience’s engagement with “the genre” that facilitates this schema.

In order to determine the dynamics of this engagement, it is necessary to compare the narrative structure of the Mexican telenovela with that of Anglo soap operas. Taking her lead from the work of Western feminist scholars, Cynthia Duncan attempts this task in her

1995 study on ‘Hispanic Soap Opera and the Pleasures of Female Spectatorship.’ Situating the Anglo soap opera as a site of empowerment for female viewers, Duncan writes, ‘One of the most obvious contradictions of the genre is that while soap operas appear to support patriarchal authority on the level of plot and characterization, they function at the structural level to empower the female viewer’ (Duncan 1995, 85). Indeed for Duncan, the female viewer ‘possesses the kind of training and knowledge that is required to read the genre best’ as these narratives ‘encode feminine ways of seeing and knowing’ (Duncan 1995, 85).

Here, she is best ‘able to assume a privileged viewing position, or occupy a space to which she normally has little access’ (Duncan 1995, 85), thereby playing ‘an active role in the production of meaning’ (Duncan 1995, 91). This debate has long circulated within US and

British film and television scholarship; perhaps most famously in the discussion of the

Hollywood film Stella Dallas (1937) by many feminist scholars in the nineteen eighties

(Gledhill 1986).

Following this logic, Duncan argues for the empowerment of the telenovela’s female audiences through the engagement with form over content. However, there are key

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structural differences between Hispanic and Anglo soap operas that derail Duncan’s subversive reading of ‘patriarchal’ content against the ‘female’ form of the telenovela.

Specifically, Duncan’s fails to recognize the ways in which the closed nature of the

Mexican telenovela creates an entirely different structural dynamic than the open text of the

Anglo soap opera. Unlike the absence of fixed ideological meaning within the soap opera’s open narrative (in some cases over five decades) which enables a polysemic reading of content, the inherently ‘tidy’ nature of the telenovela narrative closes down such possibilities (Estill 2000, 76). Presenting ‘complete narrative closure’ with the ‘happy ending’ within which the good are rewarded and the bad punished, the telenovela largely discourages the audience from gazing ‘into the characters’ non-narrated future’ (Estill

2000, 76).

The dynamics of privileged reading facilitate this ‘closure’ of polysemic textual readings.

Suggesting ‘certain routes of interpretation’, the telenovela narrative is best viewed through a complicit gaze. Collectively, its facilitation of the audience’s emotional engagement with the characters through music, Manichaean characterisation, and ultimately moral justice, encourage the audience to follow the narrative conventions in order to receive a certain

‘satisfaction’ upon telenovela ending (Estill 2001, 172-3). Here, months of support for the protagonist are rewarded with the respective ‘happy ending’ granted the heroine. Audiences are similarly vindicated for their rejection of the villain when she finally receives her comeuppance. As Olguín summarises, ‘the happy ending for the good characters and the punishment for the villains, results in a clear morality for the viewer, who at telenovela end

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remains gratified and satisfied, because each has received what they deserve’ (Olguín 1993,

23).

Robert C. Allen suggests the drive towards the total narrative closure facilitates this viewer identification with the moral parameters of the ‘happy ending’, by privileging ‘the final episodes institutionally, textually, and in terms of audience expectation and satisfaction’

(Allen 1995, 23). Indeed, the particular teleological thrust of closed serials ‘offer[s] viewers the opportunity to look back upon the completed text and impose on it some kind of moral or ideological order’ (Allen 1995, 23). Aided by the Manichean moral prejudice that is inherent to the romantic love story’s ‘happy ending’, this order becomes increasingly normalised within the cultural imaginary. As Palmira Olguín writes, ‘this is how the telenovela maintains an implicit morality that whether intentionally or not, permanently reinforces traditional values’ (Olguín 1993, 23).

Evidently, despite Duncan’s claims, there is no ‘privileged’ or ‘emancipatory’ viewing position for female audiences. Rather, the narrative structure allows the form to facilitate audience engagement with the ideological content. Considering the relationship between these textual dynamics and the knowledge frameworks of the cultural imaginary, it is easy to see how exclusionary rubrics of representation may well be ‘what the public wants’.

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Because that’s the Genre… of a People

Further to the notion that telenovela industry professionals produce ‘what the public wants’, is the enjoyment that viewing these television texts provides, a dynamic that scholars have associated with the viewers’ purportedly cultural affinity with the melodramatic form.

Explaining their ‘cultivated love of melodrama and scandal’ (Lewis 2008, 19) many scholars and telenovela industry professionals have asserted that ‘Mexicans have melodrama in their blood’ (Ibarra E. 2007, pers. comm., February 9). Referencing Martin-

Barbero, Barrera and Bielby suggest that the reason for this is because melodrama

‘contemporizes the oral traditions of the continent that have existed since pre-Columbian times’ (Barrera and Bielby 2004, 5). Consequently, ‘the success and popularity of telenovelas throughout Latin America is due in large part to reliance upon a narrative form that deeply articulates the cultural imagination of the continent’ (Barrera and Bielby 2004,

5). Similarly for Cueva, the passion for melodrama is an articulation of the passion that has

‘dominated’ Latin American for centuries (Cueva 2001, 14).25

Without engaging with the romanticism of these narratives, it is possible to see how the

‘currency’ of the melodramatic form within Mexican cultural products could generate an affinity with the genre. Similar to Duncan’s assertion that audiences are empowered through their knowledge of the telenovela form and structure, it is possible to argue that telenovela audiences exercise ‘complicity’ with the telenovela narrative due to their

25 As Cueva writes, ‘Latin America has always been dominated by passion, the passion of those who arrived to conquer it, of those who liberated it, of these who fought to define it, to transform it, to challenge it. From the Rio Bravo to the Patagonia, from the Caribbean to the Andes, there is a land that lives eternally impassioned: the passion of Christ, revolutionary passion. The ties that bind Mexico with Colombia, Venezuela with and Cuba with Peru are none other than the ties of passion. (Cueva 2001, 14) 146 | Page

possession of ‘the kind of training and knowledge that is required to read the genre best’

(Duncan 1995, 85). Thus Duncan’s assertion that female viewers best read the genre is reworked here to include all ‘trained’ telenovela viewers. Here, the telenovela’s

‘permeability to the transformations of modern life’ (Martín-Barbero 1995, 281) only serves to facilitate this familiarity with the genre.

Arguably it is this affinity that tempers the paternalistic censorship of values that producers conduct on the television public’s behalf, as Martínez outlined; ‘we know that the audience does want to see itself reflected but we are careful not to offend any values that are ingrained’ (2007, pers. comm., 22 February). Thus, whilst telenovela producers may appear to ‘speak for’ audiences when they audit the ideological content of their programming, a more complete picture of the ‘ideological ecosystem’ of the Mexican telenovela is achieved if production is seen to work in relation to the audience’s expectations for and engagement with the textual dynamics of the genre.

So whilst this censorship, in conjunction with the commercial nature of the telenovela industry does undeniably limit the possibility for alternative systems of values to be introduced within telenovela programming and taken up by audiences, this is not the complete picture. Rather, audience affinity with the melodramatic narrative tropes of the telenovela creates a set of requirements that producers seek to fulfill in order to secure ratings. Ibarra acknowledges this role of the audience in determining the ideological parameters of the telenovela when he advises that ‘it has been around for so many years, that it has created a predilection which in turn established the ideal that now defines the

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rules’ (2007, pers. comm., 9 February). As such, it is only logical that audience ‘taste’ for those telenovelas that adhere to these rules creates an industry based upon ‘the cannon of repetition’ such that what producers create is not necessarily contrary to ‘what the public wants’.

To understand the extent to which consumption influences telenovela production an analysis of audience ‘needs’ and ‘desires’ is necessary. Such an investigation illustrates the ways in which ‘ratings’ are not simply indicative of a lack of choice, the limited

‘knowledge frameworks’ that are available to viewers within the cultural imaginary or a particular affinity with and knowledge of the genre’s melodramatic dynamics after years of viewership. Rather, audiences actively embrace those spaces within the telenovela that provide a sense of security, escapism and emotional justice; a phenomenon which scholars argue resounds with oppressed peoples throughout the world and which in turn, has facilitated the telenovela’s translation within diverse geo-linguistic markets across the globe.

Because that’s the Genre of the Oppressed

Audience engagement with telenovela texts has long been associated with the ‘security’ that their familiarity provides. Perhaps most infamously, Televisa’s late president Emilio

Azcárraga Jean fueled the debate when in 1993 he infamously declared that ‘Mexico is a country with a large class of people who are screwed’ (cited in Monsiváis 1997, n.p.).

Defending Televisa’s programming by asserting that ‘Television’s responsibility is to bring

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these people entertainment and distract them from their sad reality and difficult future’

(cited in Monsiváis 1997, n. p.) he framed Televisa as effectively carrying out a community service. Yet despite the indictment that this commentary incited, the same critics have qualified Azcárraga’s logic.

Cueva writes that telenovelas ‘are cyclical and repetitive enough to provide security to those who watch them’ (Cueva 1998, 71). Indeed, ‘in a context of violence and economic change’, in which ‘no one knows what will happen the next day’ it would seem that ‘there is nothing so rewarding as seeing a serial melodrama’ (Cueva 1998, 71). For a people ‘who have little control over their own life’, such televisual form allows them to ‘experience some authority and knowledge in light of the endlessly predictable plot of the telenovela’

(Cueva 1998, 71). In fact, this purported desire for familiarity qualfies the audience’s predilection for the Mexican telenovela ‘formula’, as Ibarra writes ‘the telenovela is also a matter of habit, not surprises. People are accustomed to seeing again and again the same

Cinderella story’ (2007, pers. comm., 9 February).

Adding to the appeal of the textual form is the narrative content itself. For many of those interviewed, the ‘rose-tinted’ narratives of such telenovelas rosa are successful for their provision of a utopian community in which a diverse people live in harmony. As feminist scholar Marisa Belausteguigoitia Rius explained, the telenovela ‘sells a scenario in which people come together’, be they ‘the plebs and the local community and the rich (for whom things do not always go so well)’ (2007, pers. comm., 6 February). Here, telenovelas provide a valuable space through which the hardships of everyday life can be escaped. As

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Laura Sanchez explains ‘it provides the means through which the people can momentarily forget their reality, the life which doesn’t treat them very well’ (2007, pers. comm., 8

February). In fact, telenovelas are a comforting indulgence, for ‘beyond any human suffering there will never be any person who is worse off, than the protagonists of these stories’ (Cueva 1998, 71).

For these reasons, Epigmenio Ibarra calls telenovela melodrama ‘the human genre’ because it grants the wishes of a people who ‘want a happy life’ (2007, pers. comm., 9 February).

For Ibarra, this desire for happiness complements the aspirational quality of many telenovela narratives and should not be disparaged as the whimsical desires of a ‘screwed people’ but rather recognised as something ‘authentic, real, [and] necessary’ (2007, pers. comm., 9 February). It is only logical that ‘if one does not get in his life, he wants to see others succeed, and dream that perhaps it might be him’ (Ibarra E. 2007, pers. comm., 9

February).

Consequently, audience ‘tastes’ often prevent attempts to change the formulaic happy ending. As Blanco explained, ‘there have been various attempts to change the traditional telenovela ending and the result has not always been so happy. In these attempts […] people have protested because they feel disappointed’ (2007, pers. comm., 17 January).

Blanco continued, explaining;

For me, a telenovela is like a story that a father or mother tells a small child to help them to sleep. […] And the day that the parent gets tired of telling the same story and changes the structure and the end of the story, the child automatically protests and says, annoyed:

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“that’s not how it goes”. And somehow that's what the telenovela is like. It is predictable, but people want to know what they already know will end up happening. […] And that causes [...] in my personal point of view, a kind of peace of mind based on the end of stories in which the world will remain the same, that things are going to be alright, that there is no conflict that causes irreparable change for the worse in our lives, that in the end things as we know and want them are going to end [...] and that the unknown turns out to be terrifying (2007, pers. comm., 17 January).

Consolidating this fairytale appeal is the triumph of good over evil. As Reginald Clifford suggests, ‘[t]he moral constraints within melodrama of the telenovela form the value core that audiences enjoy repeatedly’ (Clifford 2005, 365). Characters who deserve punishment receive it. Those who are humble and good win out. Here the moral justice of the happy ending equates to what Rowe and Schelling call ‘emotional democracy’ (Rowe and

Schelling 1991, 109) which indulges much of the viewing public’s desire for social accountability in their everyday life. Thus, ‘although there is an undoubted emotional self- indulgence in telenovelas, they have another, potentially more political, side’ (Rowe and

Schelling 1991, 109). Blanco explained that ‘as long as there are difficulties in the political, social, economic worlds, the telenovela guarantees that things will end up being good, manageable, balanced and ordered, even though in truth they are a disaster’ (2007, pers. comm., 17 January). As such, when framed within the cultural context, what is traditionally configured as ‘passive’ ‘escapist’ viewing for the ‘screwed masses’ becomes a vindication for the large majority of the population oppressed by the economic, political and social injustices of modern life.

Yet whilst the popularity of these tales makes sense within Mexico’s cultural context, it is because ‘people feel screwed in much of today’s world’ (Martínez A 2000, n. p.), that the

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Mexican telenovela transcends national borders. Mirroring Thomas Elsaesser’s observation that melodramatic production rises in turbulent times (Elsaesser 1991) Cueva asserts that ‘It is no coincidence that serial melodramas have accompanied Mexicans throughout recent years, just as it is no coincidence that they triumph in countries with the worst social problems’ (Cueva 2001, 142). Offering respite from the harsh realities of everyday life, the telenovela becomes not only the genre of a people, but moreover, the genre of the oppressed. Explaining the appeal of the Mexican telenovela Marimar to Filipino audiences, a Philippine newspaper argued that it allowed them to ‘escape from the ugliness of their surroundings, the ugliness of poverty, the ugliness of their public officials’ (Ortiz de Urbina and López 1999, n.p.). As one woman was quoted, ‘what I like about Marimar […] is that she has the same problems as we do. She’s poor like us. Her house was burned down. They mistreated her. They degraded her. She’s almost Filipina’ (Ortiz de Urbina and López 1999, n.p.).

Because that’s the Genre of a Trans/National Commercial Industry

The place of the nation in an increasingly transnational production and consumption context is a complex paradigm long debated by scholars and critics identifying the dilemma of negotiating local and global audiences. Several possibilities stand; should the national be emphasised, showcased as an exotic locale, as a means of differentiating from the other national television industries competing within the transnational arena, and in doing so, possibly isolate national audiences whose lived reality differs from that onscreen? (Murphy

1995) Should the nation be reinforced as a means of cultural protectionism in order to

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ensure the national audience remains loyal to ‘local’ products? (Waisbord 2004b) Or should the national be sidelined, to make way for a ‘delocalised’ (Straubhaar 1991) or ‘odourless’

(Iwabuchi 2002) product that can be marketed across borders?

Undermining the notion that in a globalised world, ‘there is one identity that is marketed and packaged for foreign consumption, especially for tourists, and there is another identity, marked as ‘real” and authentic, and lived out in a domain to which the foreigner is rarely privy’, (Miller N. 2006, 217) for the telenovela, none of these options prevail. In fact, the commodification of Mexico for diasporic and foreign audiences consolidates the Mexico that has long been commodified for national audiences. Here, it is ‘the availability of the telenovela in much of the world [that] can be considered to exacerbate the creation and re- creation of a Mexican imagined community when we view the telenovela as one more export that sells Mexico to other countries’ (Estill 2000, 85-6). Consequently, the telenovela’s transnational success plays an important part in the perpetuation of nationalist narratives within the contemporary context. An analysis of these markets highlights the type of Mexico on display within telenovela fare as one invested in nostalgia and

‘exoticised’ tradition, synonymous with those exclusionary nationalist narratives resonant during periods of nation-construction and prevalent within the contemporary cultural imaginary.

Ana Uribe’s work on the role of the telenovela in the lives of Mexican immigrants to the

US suggests that as an ‘invented tradition’, the telenovela’s homage to the past satisfies a need to engage with the homeland. Indeed, the telenovela’s commodification of the ‘ideal

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imagined Mexico’ (Estill 2001, 172) satisfies the often nostalgic urges of the Mexican

Diaspora due to its investment in what Uribe calls ‘geo-symbols’ (Uribe 2005, 20) that are synonymous with the homeland. Here, ‘Independent of the narrative plot that develops, the fact that they are telenovelas made in Mexico […] works to strengthen pride for the nation of origin’ (Uribe 2005, 22).

Interviews with the Mexican diaspora in the United States conducted by Barrera and Bielby confirm this equation, suggesting that whilst many of the women they interviewed sought telenovelas ‘with culturally transgressive female protagonists and non-traditional plots’, their ultimate desire to engage with national narratives trumped this preference (Barrera and

Bielby 2004, 12). Consequently, ‘names, places, or music of the past’ (Barrera and Bielby

2004, 8) as well as ‘religious practices and customs’ (Barrera and Bielby 2004,9) assist the maintenance of links with the homeland. Here, audience ratings may not necessarily reflect complicity with traditional models of gender representation, but instead a nostalgic desire to connect with cultural heritage.

Evidence of this can be found with the ratings failure of Telemundo in the nineties. As rival network to the Televisa affiliated it mirrored the initial strategy of its parent company in Mexico TV Azteca by attempting to reach a more ‘sophisticated’ audience through its ‘daring’ new programming.26 However, this rejection of traditional telenovela fare ‘bombed’ and Telemundo failed to dent Univision’s monopoly of the market. As such,

26 Indeed, ‘when media giants Sony and Liberty Media jointly acquired Telemundo in early 1998, they dismissed recycled Latin American telenovelas — however hip or daring the latest might seem to Mexican audiences — as a hopelessly outdated form of programming for the increasingly sophisticated Hispanic market in the United States’ and ‘to attract a younger audience, the assimilated generations’ (Martínez A. 2000, n. p.). 154 | Page

Telemundo resorted to a line up of more traditional telenovelas with a proven track record in Mexico. In response, ‘the results of Telemundo’s reversal testify to the telenovela's enduring allure: Prime-time viewership among adults ages 18 to 49 was up 122 percent […] compared with one year earlier’ (Martínez A, 2000, n. p.). So whilst Univision continues to monopolise the market, Telemundo’s adherence to traditional telenovela fare ensured its improved ratings.

Evidently, the Mexican Diaspora’s ‘Nostalgia for cultural coherence, [and] nostalgia for the culture of one’s community and home’ (Lomnitz-Adler 1992, 243) supports the reproduction of the ‘Mexican formula’. In this way, it mirrors what might be called the national telenovela audience’s own nostalgia for the ‘ideal imagined Mexico’ (Estill 2001,

172) that is synonymous with the past, as evident in Cueva’s analysis of audience ‘tastes’ in the 2008 ratings hit Fuego en la Sangre.

Yet further to this investment in nationalist narratives of the past, non-culturally proximate transnational markets also support this production. The appeal of the Mexican telenovela in so many distinct markets has been rationalised as a product of its ‘family-friendly’ content.

As Quiñones explains, the telenovela had family and romance but none of the gratuitous sex and violence from much US television drama (Quiñones 1998b, 42). Yet additionally, it is the ‘Latin exoticism and emotional exuberance’ within these serial melodramas that has been credited with the Mexican telenovela’s transnational success. As Daniel Mato explains, ‘it’s a fact that stories with lots of local colour, showing typical Latin American

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scenes and people, are most popular in the rest of the world’ (cited in Ortiz de Urbina and

López 1999, n.p.).

To summarise then, coupled with the Manichaean melodrama’s provision of ‘emotional democracy’ for an oppressed people, the ‘ideal imagined Mexico’ (Estill 2001, 172) finds resonance with foreign audiences, both as nostalgic articulation amongst the Mexican

Diaspora, and as ‘exotic’ commodity for transnational audiences. Arguably, this version of the nation gains even more currency for its wide appeal to diverse audiences, and the apparent congruence between foreign and domestic audience ‘tastes’ allows producers to cater to these diverse markets through this streamlined product. As producers invest in the melodramatic narrative tropes that facilitate audience engagement with the aspirational, escapist and moral justice elements of the narrative, cultural or geo-linguistic proximity can be negotiated.

Yet this product facilitates the perpetuation of nationalist narratives within the contemporary context. As Ana Lopez explains, ‘once export potential is taken into consideration when making production decisions, telenovelas can no longer address the nation too specifically and cannot afford to be insular, but they must still retain some national specificity in order to attract audiences’ (Lopez 1995, 265). Within this equation,

‘cultural difference’ within Mexico is commodified into ‘cheap and more profitable exoticism’ (Martín-Barbero 1995, 284). Within the trans/national telenovela text, cultural markers such as national architecture and landmarks, foods and music sell an ‘authentic’ yet ‘exotic’ version of Mexican iconography. As such, whilst paying homage to some form

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of national identity the Mexican telenovela does not go beyond the gloss of a tourist brochure. Their narration of stories that ‘do not imply concrete spaces nor specific sociopolitical moments’ but rather, ‘narratives that will work as well in Malaysia as in any other part of the World’ (Cueva 1998, 282).

Explaining that if a telenovela ‘maintains very local themes and issues, the people of

Ukraine won’t be interested’, Laura Sanchez emphasised the importance of the romantic love story to international currency (2007, pers. comm., 8 February). Indeed, for Sanchez,

‘with a love story, you can tell it anywhere, because humanity, essentially, is the same everywhere’ (2007, pers. comm., 8 February). Adamant that this desire is universal, she declared ‘that is the desire that we all have; the entire human race. And anyone who disagrees, well, I don’t believe them’ (2007, pers. comm., 8 February). It only follows that because ‘Televisa exports telenovelas throughout the world […] the most important thing

[…] is that you are telling a love story’ (2007, pers. comm., 8 February).

For Sanchez, these love stories transcended time as well as space. Asking ‘how old is

Romeo and Juliet? How old is One Thousand and One Nights?’ she explained that the enduring success within the trans/national telenovela market is determined by subscription to the love story (2007, pers. comm., 8 February). For Sanchez, stories that focused on current themes and issues will invariably lose relevance, as people forget or just don’t care

(2007, pers. comm., 8 February). Thus, with the ‘afterlife’ of telenovela reruns factored into a narrative’s validity, it seems that the telenovela love story provides the most viable option for telenovela executives.

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Yet as previously outlined, investment in the romantic love story leads to the perpetuation of an exclusionary representational schema. Indeed, despite Sanchez’s adamancy of the universality and durability of telenovela love, she revealed its exclusionary nature when insisting ‘most important is the clarity of that love story; those two pillars that are man and woman who will love and attempt at all costs, to consolidate this love’ (2007, pers. comm.,

8 February). Such heteronormative narratives reinforce the exclusionary nationalist ideology at its heart, which paints the female protagonist as ‘pure, good, happy’ and the galán ‘who will rescue her from everything in the world that controls her, so that they can live out their love’ (Sanchez L. 2007, pers. comm., 8 February).

Negotiating the ‘Tidy Nation’

As the genre of a trans/national commercial industry, the telenovela love story’s ‘tidy nation’ plays out within telenovela content over the industry’s fifty year history, as producers negotiate both changing consumer needs and tastes, and the constant fiscal prerequisites for telenovela production. The following chapters explore this negotiation of production and consumption imperatives within the commercial telenovela industry, tracking how trends play out within specific telenovela texts in light of the changing telenovela industry, and its reflection of those wider changes occurring within Mexico’s cultural and political economy. Reading the type of nation on display within these narratives, and the corresponding race, class and gender citizenship that it allows, these chapters provide a detailed insight into a changing yet ultimately recursive industry, where commercial imperatives seem to curb any potentially [melo]-dramatic change in the representation of the nation and its citizens onscreen. 158 | Page

Chapter Four begins this analysis in an exploration of the telenovela rosa. Through the close textual reading of Rosalinda it expands upon the narrative formula for ‘tidy-woman- as-nation-construction’ outlined in Chapter One and consequently provides insight into the textual logic against which all subsequent chapters are considered.

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Chapter Four Founding Female Citizenship within the Telenovela Rosa

Chapter Four: Founding Female Citizenship within the telenovela rosa ‘A child is the greatest blessing that God can give us’ — Fernando José, Rosalinda

This chapter explores the configuration of female citizenship within the Mexican telenovela rosa through an analysis of the textual dynamics conducive to ‘tidy nation’ construction. It catalogues the tropes of female characterisation necessary for the construction of female citizenship by observing their relationship with and execution of those values— virginity, matrimony and maternity— considered to be conducive to this nation construction, as discussed in chapters one and two. Brief reference throughout to Mariana de la Noche,

Destilando Amor and La Dueña assists this analysis but as more detailed analysis of

Rosalinda provides a comprehensive review of the dynamics of female citizenship within the Mexican telenovela rosa. Specifically, Rosalinda is chosen as a representative of the temporary historical ‘demise’ of the telenovela rosa in the mid nineties, when its ratings failure heralded audience dissatisfaction with its ‘tidy nation’ construction, and an impatience for stories reflective of the vast changes underway within the national space.

Each of the convoluted tales considered within this chapter — though set in the southern jungles of Mexico, further north in the tequila fields, on a picturesque ranch, and in the nation’s capital — narrates a similarly ‘tidy’ version of ‘the nation’. Each privileges the creation of a community that is conducive to the type of nation configured within 160 | Page

nationalist nation-building narratives. Thus despite the different setting and the non-specific temporality within each of these four narratives, the communities constructed within these texts have much in common; amongst similar racial and class configurations, the ongoing division of female characters into ‘protagonist’ and ‘antagonist’ remains integral to each of these narratives, and facilitates their consequent perpetuation of female mythification through the Mexican telenovela rosa.

Nation-Making in the Telenovela Rosa

As discussed in chapter one, through its formulaic creation of a particularly ‘tidy’ version of community, the Mexican telenovela rosa enables the ‘constant creation of nation-ness through the micro community’ (Estill 2001, 179). In so doing, this figurative national space serves as a contemporary site for the construction and perpetuation of the ‘ideal imagined

Mexico’ (Estill, 2001, 172) that is reminiscent of the Mexican government’s nationalist project during historical periods of ‘nation building.’ The common definition of the telenovela rosa as operative within a ‘vacuum’ of time and space (Martín-Barbero 1995 cited in Acosta-Alzuru 2003b) is undermined by an analysis of the telenovela’s parallels with the nationalist project of nation construction. Similarly, notions that the crudely

Manichaean one-dimensional social roles that configure telenovela characters act ‘purely

[as] signs’ (Martín-Barbero 1995, 280) obfuscate the reflections of nationally resonant discourses on race, class, gender and sexuality that these personalities present.

Class representations within the telenovela rosa situate the ‘honest, caring communities of lower-class people’ as examples of ideal citizens whose moral superiority ‘will always win

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out’ (Estill 2001, 180-1). In this schema, ‘poor people will be better neighbors and citizens than rich people’ creating a ‘nationness’ constructed by ‘decency, respect, and honor’

(Estill 2001, 181). Thus a situation whereby the rosa telenovelas ‘exalt poor people and, even though it appears to be to the contrary, condemn wealth’ is created (Cueva 2001, 18).

The telenovela (Televisa, 1998) provides a good example of this paradigm when it states that

[This telenovela] is about two very different worlds…behind its facade of poverty, one finds this picturesque neighborhood…where happiness and love reign. [On the other side one finds another world] which behind its face of abundance hides trickery and betrayal. The two worlds have nothing in common except one thing — Elena (Estill 2001, 177-8).

Like Elena, often it is the poor characters that are morally superior and have the most to teach the rich about life and love (Duncan 1995, 83). This trope often sees the protagonist originating from a poor upbringing and moving within the world of the wealthy. She often confronts a rich and powerful antagonist who sets about tainting her innocence and destroying her appeal. Ultimately though, many telenovela protagonists teach those wealthy characters who doubt them and actively seek their downfall, the importance of love, compassion and humility.

The fairytale Cinderella narrative at the heart of many telenovela rosa texts ensure that it is rare that a protagonist will end her telenovela days without financial abundance, either through marriage or inheritance. Here it would seem that ideal class citizenship within the

‘tidy nation’ of the Mexican telenovela rosa has little to do with the socioeconomic realities beyond the telenovela borders. In fact, Estill argues that such ‘empowerment’ of the lower classes ‘compensate[s] them for not having financial power’ serving as a distraction from 162 | Page

the real social and economic problems that constitutes their lives (Estill 2001, 181). Yet whilst this schema may be fantastical, these class dynamics are not divorced from a national reality. Indeed, as explained by Epigmenio Ibarra, audiences may want to see themselves ‘reflected in the mirror’, but that the reflection must be an improved version of the self. As he states, ‘there was a problem with the mirror, the mirror worked but not entirely. One wants to see oneself in another way, a little above what they are’ (cited in

Covarrubias and Uribe 2000, 124). Confirming this impression, Cuauhtémoc Blanco explained that

One does not want to look ridiculous. […] One does not want to see his own defects and misfortunes that he has to lug through life. One wants to be reflected a little better. That is the intention of the human being [...] and that obviously is the eternal rule of advertising. [These are precise rules dictated by the market] (2007, pers. comm., 17 January).

Similarly, the telenovela rosa’s race dynamics have much to say about exclusionary discourses of colonial origins that continue to resound within the national space. Indeed, within the Mexican telenovela, those ‘beautiful’ characters acting out the romantic love stories are invariably light skinned with more ‘European’ features. Inextricably tied up with class issues, ‘skin color typically dictates one’s social class, with dark skin characters relegated to servile roles and stars more frequently light skinned and blonde’ (Navarro 2000 cited in Glascock and Ruggiero 2004, 4). Further highlighting ‘the ever-present connections between darkness and poverty’ (Winders et al. 2005, 78) ‘lower class characters […] have noticeably indigenous or mestizo features, while rich characters […] have more European features’ (Estill 2001, 179). However, the connection between race and class rarely carries through to the realm of the protagonist, who despite her poverty has these physical markers of racial privilege. 163 | Page

These dynamics are evident within Rosalinda. Set in Mexico City Rosalinda moves through several locations including the poor neighbourhood, the rich mansion, several workplaces, the streets around these areas and public parks. It is in these spaces that the

‘tidy nation’ is constructed, in particular via the juxtaposition of the classes. The poor neighbourhood is continuously painted as ‘the place to be’, where family and friends unite in humility but in joy, as two of its residents affirm; ‘In this neighbourhood life is awesome! […] We’re a big family!’ The notion of unity as distinctive to the poor setting is shown throughout the telenovela, where family and friends live the rhythm of life and love together, in moments of high drama but similarly in those moments of simple pleasure, when they just enjoy each other’s company.

Indeed many scenes set within the neighbourhood serve dramatic purpose but rather imbue the poor district with a sense of celebration. As such they contrast sharply to the scenes set in the lavish mansion, with its many empty rooms and corridors. Here, the luxurious setting cannot compensate for the rich laughter and tears of the ‘hood, where life is set to truly reside. In this setting, the dirty walls and the absence of comfort such as a private signal the real ‘wealth of poverty’ that is advocated by the Mexican telenovela rosa. Race has less of a starring role in this novela, as in the majority of the Mexican telenovelas rosa.

Within Rosalinda, the only character that represents the racially ‘darker’ elements of the nation is the maid whose short, rotund stature, ‘dark’ features and tightly curled hair, differentiate her from the tall, lean and light skinned main characters. Only incidentally can a more inclusive configuration of the nation be seen, lingering on the fringes of the

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narrative; in the parks, streets, restaurants and market places of Mexico City, where curious passers-by stand and watch the telenovela being filmed before them.

Such exclusionary dynamics are also found in the configuration of female citizenship within these ‘rosa’ communities. Where woman symbolizes ‘the necessity of producing and reproducing the nation’ (Estill 2001, 172) the female characters within the telenovela signal which version of femininity is, and which is not, conducive to nation construction. As such female characters have much to say about traditional notions of ‘appropriate femininity’ that have been promoted throughout Mexican history.

As surveyed in chapter one, the principal tenets of ‘appropriate femininity’ within the

Mexican telenovela rosa are closely related to the process of ‘producing and reproducing’ the ‘tidy nation’ (Estill, 2001, 172). Based upon the ‘values’ of purity (virginity), duty

(matrimony) and procreation (maternity) (Le Gallo 1988, 235) notions of ‘appropriate femininity’ are the ultimate prerequisite for a female character’s designation as protagonist of the telenovela rosa narrative. Here purity, in the form of virginity, is key to this equation as related to nationalist narratives on female sexuality and colonisation. Matrimony is similarly an indispensable qualification within the female protagonist’s trajectory as it qualifies her orientation towards the domestic sphere and the family. Yet ultimately, fulfillment of maternity constitutes her achievement of ‘appropriate femininity’ and ‘ideal citizenship’ within the ‘tidy nation’. Motherhood thus becomes the ultimate rite of passage for female characters, and in turn reflects the function of ‘woman as nation’ that underlines the relationship between female characterisation and citizenship within the Mexican

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telenovela. Responsible for both its ‘production and reproduction’ (Estill 2001, 172), this is the protagonist’s link with the nationalist project of nation construction.

Yet this trilogy of values, representative of the different stages of a woman’s acquisition of citizenship within the Mexican telenovela rosa’s ‘tidy nation’, is further regulated by notions of their ‘appropriate’ execution. Hence ‘appropriate femininity’ is a two-fold character test, as an integral component of their fulfillment is whether characters relate

‘actively’ or ‘inactively’ to these values. Here, as Estill explains, the privileging of passivity/inaction within the telenovela rosa posits the antagonist as she who is ‘tainted by the reality or the insinuation of unfeminine ambitions’ (Estill 2001, 185-6). Thus ‘ambition’ equals transgression of ‘appropriate’ femininity. Such ambition manifests in relation to the values of ‘appropriate’ femininity in a variety of ways. Sexually, only ‘the villains give themselves over to passionate encounters without any type of repentance’ (Vela 2004, 2).

Similarly, the antagonist is she ‘who rejects the possibility of motherhood’ or she who

‘even with children, prioritises other activities or values over maternity’ (Olguín 1993, 23).

Within the Mexican telenovela rosa, it is not enough to marry and procreate. A woman must execute these processes ‘appropriately’. Thus a female character that actively seeks love and manipulates a situation in order to be married and bear children is artificial and

‘unnatural’. Due to this antagonism towards the ‘harmonious’ construction of the ‘tidy nation’, she is denied citizenship.

Consequently, the policing of ‘appropriate’ femininity is consolidated upon the narrative conclusion. Through death, insanity, incarceration and myriad other punishments, the

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antagonists are effectively exiled from their respective community. As such, the threat that their ‘inappropriate femininity’ poses to the ‘production and reproduction’ (Estill 2001,

172) of the ‘ideal’ community, is removed. In contrast, the protagonist’s inevitable victory sees her rewarded with the love of the telenovela galán for her execution of ‘appropriate’ femininity. Following this formula, permanent residency within the community is either granted or denied, effecting a form of citizenship of these figurative ideal versions of the national space.

Formulating Female Citizenship within the ‘Tidy Nation’

‘The unloved look heavier than the loved. Their eyes are sadder but their thoughts are clearer’ — The Unloved - Deborah Levy

In line with the telenovela rosa’s female dichotomy, female characterisation ‘fits’ into a

Manichaean melodramatic schema configuring women as oppositional via visual, behavioural, ‘trajectorial’ and ideological narrative tropes. Here the ‘positive’ and

‘negative’ status of these women is understood through an analysis of their characterisation and physical representation. Additionally, an analysis of their narrative trajectories, such as behaviour and interaction with other characters, informs this understanding. The consideration of this schema is posed as an inevitable dénouement of the Manichaean melodrama inherent to the telenovela rosa formula. The following table identifies the key factors that constitute each woman’s polarised characterisation and ‘appropriate’ ending within the telenovela rosa schema;

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An analysis of this table reveals how the narrative construction of the female characterisation and citizenship encourages the audience’s engagement with the dominant narrative, making it integral to the dynamics of privileged reading. Replicating the schema of a self-fulfilling prophecy, female characterisation and its dénouement in the granting or denial of female citizenship acts as ‘feedback loop’ within this equation. Following the path of good, the protagonist is chosen by the galán because she is good, but her goodness is facilitated by this choice. By the same logic, this ‘loved’ woman reinforces this choice by maintaining a positive relationship with love and the tenets of ‘appropriate femininity’.

Consequently, she embodies the values that are advocated within the heterosexual-love- relationship-as-‘tidy nation’-construction. Here, through the compliant execution of appropriate’ values, she is granted permanent residency within the ‘ideal imagined’ community that configured upon telenovela conclusion. Her citizenship follows.

Similarly the antagonist is unloved because she is bad and she is bad because she is unloved. Indeed, her rejection by the telenovela galán is caused by her ‘badness’, which is consequently exacerbated by this rejection. By the same logic, the ‘unloved’ woman reinforces this choice by maintaining a negative relationship with love and the tenets of appropriate femininity. Consequently, she threatens the values that are advocated within the heterosexual love relationship and ‘tidy nation’ construction through their ‘inappropriate’ execution and she is denied permanent residency/citizenship. The ‘necessary’ ‘reward’ and

‘punishment’ of the protagonist and antagonist at telenovela end thus concurs with the

Manichaean nature of the Mexican telenovela rosa melodrama and its construction of the

‘ideal imagined’ community as ‘tidy nation.’

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Evidently, within these formulae, the role of the galán sits at the heart of the Mexican telenovela rosa. As the arbiter of appropriate female ideological values and behaviour/activities, he forms the link between characterisation and trajectory. Here, his choice of one woman over another is not arbitrary, but rather is rational and functional. It is only logical that he would choose the protagonist over the antagonist. Thus love effectively becomes the construct against which all aspects of female identity are formed such that a female character’s visual and semiotic representation, values, behaviour— including activity/inactivity, relationship with knowledge and power, execution of female rivalry, and trajectory — including her transgression — can be determined by her relationship with love.

Within this schema, a female character’s relationship with love determines how her fate will unfold within the telenovela trajectory, and whether she is granted ‘citizenship’ within the ‘tidy nation’ constructed by telenovela end. Yet it also determines her characterisation throughout. A character that does not love or deserve to be loved will actively seek it. This is the unloved antagonist. A character that does love, and deserves to be loved, will patiently await its gifts. This is the loved protagonist.

Evidently, agency is a determining factor of each female character’s fate, as the galán’s choice is shaped by each woman’s engagement with dominant ideology and consequent behaviour. Indeed, this factor is fundamental to distinguishing the different fates of each character, as within any telenovela rosa narrative, both the protagonist and antagonist will marry and even fall pregnant. Here, they both engage with the values of marriage and

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maternity upon which the ‘tidy nation’ is founded. Yet in order to ensure the legitimacy of the nation space — and according to the logic of the pensadores, to maintain its integrity after the threat of colonisation — the fundamentally different ways in which they do so is emphasised. As dictated by their respective relationship to purity as virginity, they will either have a ‘natural’ or ‘unnatural’ engagement with marriage and maternity.

Here, the dichotomy of ‘action/inaction’ informs whether they have a ‘natural’ or

‘unnatural’ relationship with these values, such that active and inactive behaviour determines a woman’s value. A woman who actively seeks marriage and motherhood is considered ‘bad’ as she symbolises a contrivance or manipulation of these states through knowledge and power, for antagonistic means. Her accompanying disrespect of the galán’s authority to choose an ‘appropriate’ candidate for his love threatens the patriarchal power integral to the maintenance of the ‘ideal imagined’ community. An analysis of female rivalry as a manifestation of this antagonistic ‘activity’, and the threat of a transgression of polarised roles — that accompanies such melodramatic plot developments over the extensive narrative length — similarly indicates the parameters through which these dichotomous lines are drawn. In contrast, a woman who respects this role is a protagonist, as she correspondingly awaits her selection by the telenovela galán for marriage and motherhood, and effectively maintains the patriarchal hegemony within this eternal wait for fulfilment.

Thus inactivity and love by the galán go together such that any ‘transgressive’ activity within the narrative trajectory can provide narrative drama whilst not obfuscating the clarity

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of the characterisation. Thus although the protagonist may ‘lose her way’ in moments of transgression throughout the often complex and convoluted narrative — as necessary to create much of the narrative tension and complication throughout the average 120 episode length27 — her situation as ‘good’ at the telenovela beginning as proven through her selection by the galán, serves to prevent obfuscation of a polarised female characterisation.

Consequently, whilst the protagonist and antagonist’s occupation of sites of transgression creates moments of high dramatic tension, their classification by the galán’s romantic affections from the outset conveys their inherent value to the viewer from telenovela beginning. Univision’s head of development Patricio Wills indicated this dynamic when quipping that ‘A telenovela is all about a couple who wants to kiss and a scriptwriter who stands in their way for 150 episodes’ (Martínez L, 2008, n.p.). Yet more than a mere distraction from the story’s inevitable dénouement, the twists and turns of the telenovela plot justify the importance of the protagonist’s triumph and her nemesis’ destruction.

Inextricably tied up with the Manichaean morality and justice that ‘resolves’ those sites of female transgression, the galán thus provides the resolution that effectively closes down those ‘immoral’ interstitial spaces between the ‘primordial polarities’ of female characterisation by narrative conclusion (Bhabha 1994, 4). As the origin of this narrative

‘justice’, the galán forms a cornerstone of telenovela lore connecting heteronormative love, the reward or punishment of various forms of femininity, and patriarchal tidy-nation construction.

27 As Ibarra explains; ‘realistically, melodrama is what enables you to last 120 hours’ (2007, pers. comm., 9 February). 172 | Page

The Fates of Four Roses

This formula is evident in each of each of the telenovelas rosa considered here. Set in a community in the southern Mexican jungle, the dramatic ending of Mariana de la

Noche (‘Mariana of the Night’, Televisa 2003) exemplifies the appropriate narrative trajectory for female protagonists and antagonists within the traditional Mexican telenovela rosa. Mariana is a beautiful innocent schoolteacher who falls in love with the proud and tormented stranger Ignacio. But Ignacio has a past, and he returns to town in order to avenge his parents’ murder, which he witnessed as a child. However, fate intervenes, and

Ignacio soon discovers that the man posing as the father of his true love Mariana is actually the killer. Torn apart by their parents’ twisted past, Mariana and Ignacio are further tormented by Marcia’s obsessive pursuit of Ignacio’s attentions. As Ignacio’s boss at the mines, Marcia capitalises on every opportunity that she has to seduce the tormented

Ignacio. She finally beds the unsuspecting galán when he is incarcerated and blind then obliges him to marry her after feigning pregnancy.

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Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.

Figure 5- Pious Mariana Figure 6- Ignacio, Mariana Figure 7- Proud Marcia & Marcia

Heartbroken, Mariana renounces love and decides to work as a hostess at a casino. The fate of Mariana and Ignacio’s love seems dire. Yet against all odds, Mariana finally marries

Ignacio in a beautiful night wedding with the blessing of God and before the good people of her . She is the custodian of this community through her marriage to Ignacio and the mothering of his child. Conversely Marcia dies a slow painful death by gunshot. This is her punishment for such transgressive behaviour as ‘sexual promiscuity’, aggression, manipulation, and attempted murder — including infanticide. Designed to prevent the true love union of Mariana and Ignacio, these crimes are ultimately committed against the

‘ideal’ community configured by telenovela conclusion.

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Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.

Figure 8 — Marcia’s death by gunshot Figure 9- Ignacio and Mariana; happily ever after

Gaviota’s marriage to Rodrigo in (‘Distilling Love’, Televisa 2007) emulates the fate of Mariana before her. Gaviota is a beautiful and passionate seasonal worker who meets the ruggedly good-looking but sensitive Rodrigo whilst harvesting his tequila fields. They fall madly in love, and Gaviota proves to be the only woman who has ever been able to inflame Rodrigo’s passion after a life of sexual impotence. They promise to meet the following harvest, as Rodrigo must return to Oxford University to complete his master’s degree. Yet when Gaviota discovers she is carrying his child, she plans to surprise him in England and accepts the offer of a ‘model scout’, who in reality provides unsuspecting young women to a high-class brothel in Paris. Gaviota escapes and roams the

London streets, looking for Rodrigo. She spots him one day but as she rushes to cross the street, she is hit by a car and hospitalised in a convent. She has lost Rodrigo’s child.

Meanwhile, Rodrigo has returned home to propose to Gaviota. Yet the townspeople tell him of Gaviota’s prostitution and Rodrigo’s horror and heartache at her betrayal cause him to act irrationally; marrying another woman on the day that he and Gaviota had planned

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their reunion. Gaviota returns from London just in time to witness Rodrigo exchanging wedding vows with a stranger.

Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.

Figure 10 — Destilando Amor's Isadora, Rodrigo and Gaviota

Heartbreak, pride and torment ensue, preventing Gaviota and Rodrigo from reconciling the cruel obstacles and twists of fate that pulled them apart. Isadora’s manipulations cause further torment, as she obsessively seeks to seduce her husband despite his assertions that their marriage will stay unconsummated. Consequently, Isadora becomes obsessed with seducing her husband, and when he refuses her advances, she sates her desire in the arms of other men.

Following her promiscuity, Isadora falls from grace. Although she does not die, as do her antagonistic counterparts Marcia and Fedra, her status in the upper echelons of society disappears when Rodrigo divorces her, and she takes up a position as a teacher in a public school. Isadora is content with her new life. Yet in contrast to Gaviota who is deliriously

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happy as the wife of the telenovela galán, the mother of his adorable children, and correspondingly the custodian of the ‘ideal’ community configured at telenovela end,

Isadora’s happiness is less significant.

Regina’s characterisation within La Dueña (‘The Owner’, Televisa 1995) appears unconventional for a Mexican telenovela rosa protagonist. When her fiancé Mauricio abandons her at the altar, her perfect life begins to unravel. Once sweet and caring, she turns bitter and aggressive. She moves to the countryside to start a new life, where she becomes ‘La Dueña’ (‘the owner’) of a ranch that she inherited after the death of her parents. There she falls in love with José María but her fear of being hurt once again exacerbates her bitterness and she vehemently rejects his affections. In fact, Regina’s aggression sees her dubbed ‘the rattlesnake’ by many of the townsfolk. Yet José María falls in love with Regina's goodness when he learns that her anger is purely the product of a painful past.

Regina’s marriage to José María at telenovela conclusion does not include the white wedding dress that has been made for the occasion. Rather, she weds in her riding gear, as the cowgirl that her assertive persona embraces. Yet regardless of this semiotic diversity, the plotlines stay the same. As she is lead to their cabin in the final scene of the telenovela,

Regina becomes the custodian of the ‘ideal’ community to which she belongs.

Comparatively, Regina’s jealous cousin Laura has killed herself. After frantic attempts to separate the couple, including the falsification of a pregnancy, she cannot make José María love her. Hounded by the ghost of a dead lover — a married man who she accidentally

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killed when planning to run off with Regina’s fiancé Mauricio — she goes mad and hangs herself in a trance. In light of her crimes against the ‘tidy nation’, her fate is conventional.

Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.

Figure 11— La Dueña's Jose Maria, Regina and Laura

These tales all indicate the logic of Manichaean femininity within the Mexican telenovela however, it is the tale of a poor but beautiful florist girl who marries a handsome and wealthy lawyer that here provides a more detailed insight into the dynamics of this formula.

As namesake and heroine of Rosalinda (‘Pretty Rose’, Televisa 1999), this story’s protagonist is a pretty florist’s assistant who marries her one true love in a white Church wedding before the blessing of God. After the ceremony, a horse drawn carriage leads her towards her new life, and into the future— both her own and that of the ‘ideal’ community she has helped to sustain. This ‘happy ending’ celebrates her ultimate triumph as wife and mother within the telenovela narrative after such impediments as madness, amnesia, a career as a famous entertainer, and terminal illness. As expected, Rosalinda’s fate differs markedly from that of her half sister Fedra. Where Rosalinda marries and forms a family with her true love, Fedra dies in a hospital bed, without repentance to God. Fedra’s assertion that ‘I don’t regret anything. I did everything for the love of Fernando José’ is not enough to redeem her. Her mysterious illness and her ultimate death are punishment for her

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crimes against Rosalinda and Fernando as well as against the ‘ideal’ community consolidated upon narrative conclusion.

The following plot summary is accompanied by a detailed analysis of the catalogue of female characterisation within Rosalinda. Through textual examples, the following sections elaborate on the logic set out in the brief outline of casual relations above, ultimately revealing how characterisation leads to citizenship within a typical Mexican telenovela rosa.

Rosalinda and the Telenovela Rosa Formula

Whilst Rosalinda and Fernando’s first kiss seals their fate, they are unaware that the ties that bind will soon tear them apart. Fernando’s ‘mother’ Valeria refuses to accept Rosalinda into her family because she is poor. She seeks to separate the young family and investigating Rosalinda’s past, she discovers a terrible secret; Rosalinda is not who she thinks she is… twenty years before, her mother Soledad was falsely imprisoned for the murder of Fernando’s father. Soledad was pregnant and gave birth to Rosalinda in jail. Yet desperate to provide her daughter with a good life, she gives custody of Rosalinda to her sister Dolores. Believing that her aunt Dolores and uncle Xavier are her parents, and that her cousins Fedra and Lucy are her sisters, Rosalinda grows into a beautiful, happy young woman in love.

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Yet this is not to last. Valeria seeks revenge. Striking when Rosalinda is in hospital after

Erika’s premature birth, she reveals the truth and kidnaps the baby. In shock at the dramatic turn of events, Rosalinda has a nervous breakdown. As she searches the streets for her child, Rosalinda loses her mind. When the mental asylum in which she is institutionalised burns down, Rosalinda is the sole survivor. Yet she is officially confirmed dead. Living on the streets, she meets a homeless man who teaches her to steal. One night, as she is robbing a wealthy home, she is discovered by Alex Dorantes — talent agent. Alex transforms

Rosalinda into the beautiful star Paloma and helps her to recover from her ordeal.

Yet despite her fame and fortune, Paloma cannot remember her past. Eternally grateful to the man who changed her life, Paloma begins to fall in love with Alex.

However, this ‘happy ending’ cannot be, as Fernando cannot forget Rosalinda. Although he has since married Fedra in order to provide a mother for his child, he soon falls in love with

Paloma, who reminds him of his late wife. Fernando tries to woo Paloma but she refuses to destroy his young family. Fedra is also desperate to keep them apart, as she has discovered

Paloma’s true identity. Yet despite Fedra and Alex’s attempts to keep the truth hidden, fate intervenes. One night, when attending Fernando’s piano concert, Rosalinda’s memories come flooding back…

Still, Rosalinda and Fernando cannot reunite. Despite their love for each other, Rosalinda refuses to reunite with her husband or their child. Believing that she has a terminal illness after the results of Fedra’s medical tests are accidentally mixed with her own, she does not want to cause them the pain of her death once more. Fernando cannot understand her

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rejection and condemns her. When Rosalinda discovers that she is not dying, she rushes to

Fernando’s side, but it is too late. He refuses to listen. Rosalinda becomes bitter and seeks revenge on both Fernando and Fedra, whilst fighting to regain custody of her child.

When Fernando finally learns of Rosalinda’s true motivations, fate intervenes once more.

Fedra has become pregnant and lies that it is Fernando’s child. Rosalinda and Fernando seem destined to remain apart. Yet once Fedra dies of her terminal illness, and Rosalinda’s fiancé Augustín gives her permission to marry Fernando, they finally fulfil their destiny to live happily ever after…

Despite the complexity of this narrative, reading Rosalinda through the telenovela rosa formula reveals its inherent logic. Indeed, from the outset it is possible to identify which two women the telenovela will battle for citizenship within the ‘tidy nation’. There are four main female characters in this telenovela; Rosalinda, Fedra, Soledad and Valeria. Yet one way in which these women can be immediately divided is via their affinity with the lower socioeconomic level endorsed by the telenovela. Thus when discussing the neighbourhood,

Rosalinda’s affirmation that ‘you won’t find a better place than this’, and her mother

Soledad’s agreement, align them with good. Similarly, Fedra’s disdain for her poor upbringing, which involves contempt for her father’s job as a mariachi upon his return from a stint as an illegal immigrant in the United States, align her as a ‘traitor’ or malinchista with a preference for the foreign over the ‘truly’ Mexican. Valeria’s disgust for

Rosalinda and the other ‘dirty animal’ occupants of the poor neighbourhood similarly aligns her with ‘bad’.

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Further classifying these four women is age. Soledad and Valeria are in their forties.28

Rosalinda and Fedra are a generation younger, in their twenties. Due to their ‘viable age’ as potential love interests to the telenovela galán, Rosalinda and Fedra are the best candidates to vie for the galán’s love, and thus to adopt the central roles of the protagonist and antagonist within the narrative. Here, the romantic love story nominates from the very beginning who embodies good or evil. Yet the irreconcilable enmity of these two women is clarified semiotically even before the telenovela galán has fallen in love.

Audio/Visual Representations of the Female Dichotomy

From the outset, the audiovisual profile of each female character confirms her status within the narrative. For Cueva the ‘primitive, obvious and candid nature’ (Cueva 1998, 137) of this audiovisual language manifests in the female characters’ name, beauty, clothing, makeup, hair, stance and voice. Perhaps even more rudimentary, in his analysis of the semiotics of the Mexican telenovela, Cueva declares ‘the name of each character usually signifies something to the spectator’ (Cueva 1998, 106). Thus unsurprisingly, ‘the best thing that can happen to a woman in the world of serial melodrama is to be called…. María’

(Cueva 1998, 106).

28 Whilst marginalised, Soledad and Valeria reinforce notions of ‘appropriate’ and ‘inappropriate’ femininity within the narrative. Key to this is Valeria’s sexuality. Her competition with Rosalinda for her son’s attention and her belief that there is not room for the both of them in his life deems her femininity inappropriate due to her attempts to compete for the love of her son. As an older woman, past her sexual ‘expiry date’, she contrasts to Soledad, whose sexuality and desire have appropriately been shelved. Valeria’s improper sexuality is developed in her affair with the younger Beto. She is presented as lustful; in scenes that see her caress her breasts in front of the mirror and dream of making love to her son-in-law. Her behaviour as a sexually active older woman is at odds with the established order, which determines a woman’s sexuality as expired with age. 182 | Page

As namesake of the Virgin Mary, a protagonist christened María is the Virgin incarnate; charged with representing the epitome of goodness to which all other telenovela women are compared.29 ‘Las Marías’ are one of the most famous variations of the telenovela rosa’s

‘Cinderella’ narrative in which ‘a poor but virtuous maid, usually named María […] fell in love with the widowed, young head of the household’ (Quiñones 2001, 42). Similarly, a protagonist dubbed Guadalupe is responsible for conveying the good name of the Virgin, as do Angela, Angelica, Angelina, Rosangelica and Cristina. Rounding out the glossary of

Christian purity are Soledad (Loneliness), Prudencia (Prudence), Piedad (Piety), Dulcina

(Sweetness), Inocencia (Innocence) and Altagracia (High Grace) (Cueva 1998, 106).

Other symbolic names identified by Cueva as pertaining to the protagonist may be Estrella

(Star), Sara (meaning princess in Hebrew) or Cecilia (meaning ‘born to cry’) to show her subscription to ideal femininity (Cueva 1998, 107). Her striking beauty may label her Gema

(Gem), Esmeralda (Emerald), (Topaz) or Rubi (Ruby) (Cueva 1998, 106). Beauty that causes problems will dub a protagonist Elena (Helen as per ‘Helen of Troy’). Personal characteristics such as a fiery personality or fierce loyalty may see protagonists labeled

Leonora, , Leonarda, Leopoldina or Leonor, associated with the characteristics of a lioness (‘Leona’). A roughness, wildness and good-hearted independence that becomes tamed through suffering may be called Rosa (Cueva 1998, 107-8).

In contrast, the antagonistic characters often have names symbolic of their immorality, such as Malvina (from ‘evil’) or ‘exotic’ sounding names such as Aymee, Jessica, Pamela and

29 This blessing even extends beyond the fictional narrative, as according to Cueva ‘the presence of a character with the name María, or some derivative of this, is like a talisman for success’ (Cueva 1998, 107). 183 | Page

Jennifer (Cueva 1998, 107). Arguably indicative of their ambitious malinchismo, women with anglicised names ‘nominally’ oppose the ideal Mexican nation configured onscreen.

Cueva notes that these women often have strong vocal sounds such as Catalina, where martyr-like protagonists will have softer sounds such as Inés (Cueva 1998, 107).

To this list the female characters of Mariana de la Noche, Destilando Amor, La Dueña and

Rosalinda can be added. Mariana’s name is reminiscent of the Virgin Mary whereas

‘Marcia’ is a harsher sound and conveys her ‘outsider’ status through phonetic parallels with ‘martian’ (marciano). Gaviota — meaning seagull— alludes to her spirited independence and soaring beauty, though her real name Teresa is reminiscent of saintly compassion and pious duty. In comparison to Gaviota’s admirable independence, Isadora means emotional vulnerability and dependence on others (Princess Ale n.d., n.p). Regina may initially sound aloof and superior, in line with its regal origins, yet upon closer reflection, recalls Saint Regina — virgin and martyr of the fifth century. Laura joins the list of ‘exotic’ sounding names of ‘unnatural’ foreign origin. Finally, Rosalinda is a ‘pretty rose’ whereas Fedra — as a derivative of Fernanda — is a harsher and more masculine- sounding name.

Visual tropes follow this logic, with ‘positive’ female characters possessing a ‘soft’,

‘warm’ beauty compared to the ‘hard’, ‘cold’ beauty of their antagonistic counterparts.

Often dressed in light coloured clothes that are attractive and simple, protagonists wear light makeup and tidy hairstyles. In contrast, ‘negative’ female characters wear dark or

‘dangerous’ colours such as red. They wear ‘revealing’ or ‘masculine’ type clothing such as

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suits or pants, and heavy makeup, especially on their eyes. Their hairstyles are often unconventional. Hair colour is not codified for one particular type, yet the female dichotomy prevents the protagonist from sporting the same colour as the antagonist. This maintains a visual symbol of their polarity.

As such, Mariana’s long strawberry blond hair contrasts to Marcia’s dark locks, which are often tied back. Mariana’s simple pastel coloured knee-length skirt and top combos are as pure as her manner. In turn, Marcia’s pants, revealing clothing and cigarettes match her

‘inappropriate’ job as the boss of the mine. Gaviota’s cascading dark curls, natural beauty and peasant tops and skirts similarly contrast with Isadora’s straight platinum blond hair, glamorous make up and expensive designer clothing. Regina’s long flowing brown hair contrasts with Laura’s blond pixie cut and heavy makeup.

The physical incarnation of these opposing roles also serves as signs within the Mexican telenovela rosa’s semiotic schema. A protagonist has a markedly different stance from her negative counterpart. Often she does not occupy much space but maintains demure,

‘feminine’ movements. Within this dichotomy, the antagonist is more authoritative with her movements and stance yet this can vary. Despite the variations on the themes, the dichotomous schema remains. This is evident within Destilando Amor and La Dueña.

Whilst the ‘passionate’ protagonists Gaviota and Regina have a strong physicality, it is reminiscent of their affinity with the land, with Gaviota as agave harvester and Regina as cattle rancher. This ‘natural’, ‘earthy’ femininity, ‘appropriate’ for the rural setting, is also

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appreciated by the galáns who admire their uncontrived sensuality. In contrast, the antagonist within these tales becomes increasingly sexualised in a viperish and desperate manner. This emphasises her ‘unnatural’ femininity compared to the natural and rugged nature of the protagonist. Thus in opposition to the natural rugged beauty of Gaviota and

Regina, Isadora and Laura are highly sexualised. They are awkward within the country setting and slink around the domestic space to which they seek to bind the male hero, effectively threatening his emasculation. This ‘artificial’ sensuality is both unappealing and threatening to the galán, and assists in their configuration as antagonistic women.

Complimenting this visual divide are the audio qualities of the characters. A protagonist’s voice is ‘natural’. The demure protagonists do not speak loudly or deeply and their intonation is light and uncomplicated. Their ‘passionate’ equivalent are unaffected with a natural strength and authority that manifests in a beautiful singing voice, as with Gaviota.

The antagonist who executes a seductive femininity speaks in a more ‘mature’ and

‘worldly’ drawl. The antagonist who embodies a more ‘masculine’ persona speaks in abrupt, loud tones and uses brusque vocabulary and turn of phrase.

Following this tradition, Rosalinda’s role as the protagonist and Fedra’s role as the antagonist is clear from telenovela beginning. It is easy to see that Rosalinda’s pretty dresses, round features and warm, excitable manner are privileged within the narrative. She is an unassuming natural beauty, as reflected in her dress, makeup and hair. Her simple pretty dresses are made of pastel floral print and adorned with delicate bows. They have a chaste empire-line cut that skims her svelte curves, demurely highlighting her sun-kissed

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arms and legs. Her makeup is very light with only pale pink blush on her honey skin. She wears dusty-rose eye shadow on her big brown eyes and dark pink lip liner evokes her plump, naked lips. She wears small single studs in her ear lobes.

Rosalinda’s facial expressions are open and ‘inviting’. Rather than maintain direct eye contact, she often bows her head and looks up when talking to people. She frequently raises her eyebrows in incredulity, when talking animatedly. When not flashing in one of her frequent smiles, her straight white teeth and light pink tongue are seen, as she holds her mouth open in innocent expectation of life’s wonders. Her vocality is highly affected with the ‘sing-song’ quality of Mexico City’s working classes. The rapid lightness of this upwards-inflected dialect is enhanced by the breathy ‘baby’ quality of her voice. This vocal quality is pleasant and unobtrusive, aided by her frequent use of hushed tones to convey excitement and awe.

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Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.

Figure 12- Fedra, Fernando José, Rosalinda

Fedra’s darker clothing, sharp facial features, languid movements and acidic tone contrast greatly with Rosalinda. She wears dark grey and black as well as harsh yellows and reds.

Fedra’s clothes are often ‘showy’, in sheer and sparkly fabrics. Her long limbs and sleek physique are often revealed in short skirts, long pants and tight fitting tops. Fedra’s tall, erect posture contrasts to Rosalinda’s petite curves. Her physicality is stiff and jarring, 188 | Page

contrasting to the flow of Rosalinda’s energetic yet elegant movement. She frequently crosses her arms in moments of confrontation or heightened emotion, such as at her mother’s funeral. These ‘unnatural’ mannerisms profile her ‘superior’ self-regard.

In further contrast to Rosalinda’s round and open features, Fedra’s face lends itself to a comparatively angular and uninviting beauty. Her facial features and gestures are sharp and controlled. Her long, wide forehead, piercing eyes and arched eyebrows, point down to her sharp cheekbones and disproportionately small, thin-lipped mouth. Exaggerated by her pale foundation, heavy eyeliner and red lipstick, the angles of her face are sharpened by frequently raised eyebrows and pursed lips. Fedra’s hair is long, straight and dark. She never wears it up, as its cascading length forms part of her artillery in gaining leverage over others. Yet such efforts are futile. Consolidating the logic of this audiovisual formula,

Fedra’s and Rosalinda’s ideological values, appearance and behaviour — determined by their relationship with love — establishes their status within the romantic/nation-building narrative.

The Tenets of ‘Appropriate Femininity’

Love, Ideological Values & Behaviour

The connection between love, ideological values and behaviour — including relationship to knowledge and power — can be seen within the characterisation and narrative trajectories of Rosalinda and Fedra. When Rosalinda first meets the telenovela galán Fernando José, her status as the ‘loved’ woman is instantly confirmed. Fernando falls instantly in love with

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his ‘pretty rose’ and the narrative follows this rightful path to the union of protagonist and galán ‘happily ever after’. Yet the narrative that plays out simultaneously to this passage of true love tells a story of hatred and revenge. Having set his sights on the beautiful and sweet Rosalinda, her older, more cynical cousin Fedra has no chance of capturing his heart.

However, as per the telenovela rosa schema, this is not the whim of cupid’s arrow.

Rosalinda follows the formula for female characterisation as citizenship within the telenovela rosa narrative, highlighting several components of the equation through particular character and plot dynamics.

Fedra’s status as the ‘unloved’ woman is determined by her lack of appeal to Fernando

Jose. Yet rather than be unlucky in love, Fedra’s status is a natural consequence of her antagonistic relationship with love. Her ambition for personal betterment through wealth rather than love thus aligns her with the ‘unloved’, to the extent that even her father and brother assert her inability to love. As her father Xavier says, ‘I doubt that Fedra is capable of loving anyone’ and her brother Beto later warns her boyfriend Anibar ‘Hey dude, don’t beg Fedra so much. That one doesn’t love anyone.’

This obsession with wealth and power sees Fedra reject the love that Anibar proffers, and actively seek to appropriate the love of the wealthy galán;

Fedra: Rosalinda, without even fighting. Without making the least effort, she’s going to reach all that I’ve ever aspired. Lucy: She doesn’t aspire to anything Fedra. She sincerely looked for the care, the love of a good man. Fedra: And found him super rich, and now she’s going to marry him Lucy: You can get married too! Fedra: What! With Anibar? […] Lucy: I don’t understand why you reject him Fedra

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Fedra: He’s a pauper, a Mr. Nobody. Fedra obsessively recounts what life with a rich man would be like; ‘I’d have everything. A mansion, cars, jewels. Ah, if only it were true, if only it were true.’ Consequently, Fedra rejects Anibar’s love, playing ruthlessly with his feelings and mocking his declarations that

‘I’m no more than a common and ordinary man, I can’t give you luxuries, but I can give you a great, sincere and faithful love. If you knew the number of times that I have dreamt with you by my side as my wife, as the mother of my children.’

Set in stark opposition to Rosalinda’s ‘appropriate’ form of loving, Fedra’s ‘romantic prostitution’ shapes her consequent relationship with the values of ‘appropriate femininity’ and her execution of these tenets of ‘nation building.’ Indeed, whilst both Fedra and

Rosalinda marry and become pregnant within the narrative, only Rosalinda does so

‘appropriately.’ As such, her relationship with the tenets of ‘appropriate femininity’ is

‘natural’, due to her passive execution of these values. Thus her ‘passive’ behaviour endorses but also secures her choice by the telenovela galán.

Thus the primary logic of Fedra’s characterisation posits that;

Fedra does not benefit from Fernando’s choice of love interest. ⇓ She desires his wealth and power yet he does not choose her. ⇓ Her ambition and self-righteousness thus motivate her lack of complicity with this choice. ⇓ She consequently deploys her inherently ‘unnatural’ activity to appropriate this love for her own perceived benefit. ⇓ 191 | Page

Fedra’s activity mars her relationship with all aspects of the established order and sees her corresponding corruption of the tenets of ‘appropriate femininity’.

Fedra’s active relationship with the values of virginity, matrimony and maternity can be seen throughout the narrative. To begin, her active sexuality is an affront to the values of virginity, which posit purity, passivity, insecurity and sentimentality as the correct mode of behaviour in relation to this sphere. The corruption of Fedra’s virginity comes with her activity. Even at telenovela beginning, Fedra’s virginity is questionable within her disregard for the schema of ‘woman + money + public space = prostitution’ (Castillo D.

1998, 13). She embraces the sexual attention that she receives from her boss, who she calls

‘the yobbo.’ Her encouragement of this sexual economy sees her willingly accept to accompany him on a trip to New York, and allow him to pay for her expenses, including an extensive new wardrobe. Respectively Rosalinda and Lucy worry about the implications that this trip, and the dangers that it poses for her ‘virginity’, as Rosalinda says ‘Oh God, I hope that this trip doesn’t give Fedra any problems. It’s not that I don’t trust her, but, well, because she feels so sure of herself here, it might be an absolute disaster for her.’ Upon

Fedra’s return, her glamorous new wardrobe impresses them but is tangible proof of her

‘inappropriate femininity’.

Fedra’s decisions throughout the telenovela are motivated by the disregard that she has for notions of ‘purity’ and is particularly evident when she moves into Fernando’s apartment in a plan to seduce him, shortly after Rosalinda’s reported death in the sanatorium fire.

Achieved after a drunken night out, the jarring electric music signals the dangerous sexuality that Fedra uses to seduce Fernando. Without the romantic tropes of candlelight 192 | Page

and soft music, Fedra’s seduction of Fernando is portrayed as a carnal act. Her active pursuit in bedding the telenovela galán is evident as the couple embraces drunkenly and lurches towards the bed. The next morning, as the camera pans from the clothes and shoes strewn across the floor, it settles on Fernando. As he puts on his shirt and staggers out of the room he shakes his head in disappointment, chastising himself ‘What happened

Fernando José? What happened?’ In a red sepia flashback, the haunting events come crashing back to him. Fedra is out of shot, insignificant to the moral dilemma being played out in Fernando’s groggy head. This absence in the aftermath of the night signals her antagonistic relationship with virginity by recasting the galán as Fedra’s sexual prey.

Fedra’s use of sexuality to secure a privileged socio-economic position betrays the passivity required for ‘appropriate’ feminine behaviour. Articulating the severity of this

‘inappropriateness’ is Rosalinda’s shock when she finds out that Fedra slept with Fernando before their marriage, ‘You… you gave yourself to Fernando José, before marrying him?’

When he later proposes, she has no qualms about marrying a man who does not love her;

Fedra: You say it with a face that doesn’t have anything to do with a declaration of love Fernando Jose: I suppose that is not cause for you to reject me Fedra: Of course not my darling, it’s my greatest desire in the whole world! Give me a kiss… Consequently, Fernando flouts the traditional by simply informing Fedra’s father that she will be his wife. As he tells them; ‘I’m going to marry Fedra. […] I think that Fedra is an adequate mother for my daughter. At least Erika loves her. She calls her ‘mum.’ She is used to her. And she won’t be with a stranger but with someone that has so much love for her, like her true mother.’

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Fedra has a similarly ‘inappropriate’ relationship with motherhood. To begin with, she is not a devoted daughter. At her mother’s bedside vigil she seems unconcerned and falls asleep while Rosalinda and Lucy sob. Her crossed arms at her mother’s funeral further illustrate this lack of personal investment. This translates to her contempt for children, as she warns; ‘Over my dead body am I going to have children’. Her decision to use Erika as a tool for manipulating Fernando’s love exemplifies this dynamic, as she says; ‘you’ll be the most important weapon in conquering your dad. It won’t take long for me to win his gratitude and love.’ As in all her dealings with the tenets of ‘appropriate femininity’, Fedra keeps the child. Thus her true motivations are finally revealed when Rosalinda finally regains custody of Erika and Fedra states ‘I couldn’t care less if that brat stays at

Rosalinda’s place for ever.’

Fedra’s antagonistic relationship with maternity characterises her own attempts at motherhood. She is not a natural mother, having to seduce Anibar — who is now married to her sister Lucy — to finally fall pregnant. So desperate is Fedra to manipulate motherhood to her own ambitious means, that she disowns her family rather than be forced to confess the truth about the paternity of her child; ‘I reject you as my family. YOU are no longer my father, YOU are no longer my sister […] I told you to get out!’ Finally, her failed pregnancy becomes synonymous with her imminent demise, as she augurs; ‘It’s so horrible being pregnant. I feel, like I am dying. Honestly, I really feel like I’m dying.’

Rosalinda’s characterisation and narrative trajectory stands in stark contrast to her cousin

Fedra. Where Fedra’s love is motivated by personal agenda or greed, Rosalinda’s is

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unfettered by it. Rosalinda discovers Fernando’s wealth only after falling in love with him as a poor pianist, and is subsequently unsure if they will be happy together because of their differences. Her reward for her genuine humility is the adoration of the galán and the increased social and economic capital that follows. This positive relationship with love follows through to her positive relationship with the tenets of ‘appropriate femininity’.

Unlike Fedra, she exudes passivity throughout the telenovela, which only serves to confirm her status as the ‘loved’ woman. This inherently natural relationship that she has with the tenets of ‘appropriate femininity’ is evident throughout the narrative trajectory.

Rosalinda is a twenty-year-old virgin when she meets Fernando. She is both sexually and romantically ‘clean’, as inferred when she enthuses ‘I love him so much. I have never fallen in love before. It’s the first time.’ Rosalinda’s behaviour confirms her positive relationship with ‘virginity’. Indeed when Rosalinda and Fernando have their first date in the park, she gives him a high five. Rather than present herself to him with ‘active’ sexual premeditation, her awkwardness and ‘inactivity’ translates into this ‘tomboy’ gesture. This innocence at his advances further concretes her virginity. Initially her romantic and sexual ‘virginity’ sees her too shy to kiss Fernando and this coyness is slow to disappear.

Even after their elopement Rosalinda covers her face in embarrassment as Fernando jokes about their impending wedding night. Yet in opposition to Fedra’s carnal relations with

Fernando, the couple is shown lying in front of an open fire, with candles and romantic music, discussing their elopement. Framed by two candles, they begin to kiss, as the camera fades out of focus. No flesh is shown, and the camera stays above waist level. Rosalinda’s

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virginity is given as a gift in marriage to her true love. Her wedding night is the only time that she is seen in a love-making context, thus maintaining her ‘purity’ throughout the telenovela trajectory.

Rosalinda’s relationship with matrimony similarly subscribes to the inactive paradigm required for ‘appropriate femininity’. As the galán’s chosen woman, she is rewarded with a white church wedding by story’s end, and visual clues signal this destiny from telenovela beginning. Rosalinda is framed gliding down the grand staircase of the restaurant, clutching a posy of roses, to Fernando awaiting her below. Shot from Fernando’s view, Rosalinda is seen through his eyes, as his future bride. Yet despite her right to happiness through marriage to the telenovela galán, Rosalinda is humble in the face of destiny, passively awaiting her calling. This lack of agenda is evident with her initial rejection of Fernando’s desire to rush the wedding because, as she explains ‘It’s better if we wait to get married

[…] I need to be sure of you. Even more so that now we are so different […] So that tomorrow, well, there’s not a little baby that suffers a divorce or a failed marriage, right?’

Rosalinda’s esteem for motherhood informs the reverence that she holds for her own mother, asking her ‘what more can you give me of value that exceeds a mother’s love?’ Her maternal respect translates to other mothers. Despite Valeria’s cruelty towards her,

Rosalinda encourages Fernando to overlook these indiscretions, telling him ‘Even if your mother doesn’t want me, you should not stop going to see her […] a son should not hold a grudge against his mother. You have to forgive her my love. She gave you life, she is your

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mother!’ Naturally Rosalinda is complete upon the birth of her daughter. As she says;

‘could there possibly be any greater happiness than this?’

The strength of Rosalinda’s maternal instinct even manifests in Paloma — the pop artist that she becomes upon losing her memory. Although unaware that she has a daughter,

Paloma remains adamant that a child is the ultimate source of happiness in life, chastising

Fernando José who will give up his daughter in order to be with her on tour; ‘How can you say “I’m giving up my daughter?” It’s like saying “I’m going to let go of my heart, of my eyes, half of myself” […] There is no love in the world that compensates for the love of a child.’ When she regains her memory Rosalinda’s decision to renounce her daughter is further evidence of her maternal instinct, as she says; ‘I asked Fedra to keep looking after her because I feel that she loves her like a mother and I can’t separate them.’

When Fernando begs Rosalinda to take him back she further sacrifices her happiness for the well-being of her daughter. Believing that she has a terminal illness, she cannot bring herself to reconcile with her family; ‘They’ve already cried for me. They’ve already buried me. I don’t want to cause the pain of my death again. […] For my little daughter and for my

Fernando José, I make this sacrifice of love […] I love them so much, that I give them up.’

Only when she is finally given a clear bill of health, Rosalinda vehemently fights to win back custody of her child.

Such inactivity is key to Rosalinda’s characterisation and confirms her position as the suffering female protagonist. In addition to her suffering through madness, ‘death’ in the

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sanatorium fire, memory loss, and the loss of Fernando after his wedding to Fedra and refusal to leave her due to her terminal illness, Rosalinda’s suffering is also self-imposed.

She continually sacrifices her own happiness for others. Perhaps the scene most indicative of Rosalinda’s altruism occurs at telenovela end when Fedra has died and there should be nothing that keeps her from her true love with Fernando José and her daughter Erika. Yet

Rosalinda cannot bring herself to break her engagement with Augustín. As they stand before the altar, she says ‘I will not be able to be happy if you are unhappy Augustín. No.

My conscience won’t permit it. The memory of having hurt you will hound me all the time, for my entire life Augustín. No.’ It is only when Augustín allows her to marry Fernando

Jose that she does so.

Knowledge as Power Following their inherent active or inactive nature, Fedra and Rosalinda relate to power and knowledge in different ways, which in turn determines their opposing fates within the narrative. Reminiscent of a list of ten religious ‘commandments’, the telenovela rosa formula for female characterisation and citizenship is a self-fulfilling prophecy which states;

1. A protagonist will not use her intelligence to question social norms or manipulate

her place in the social order.

2. Her intelligence is not confronting to the telenovela galán, but rather is cooperative

and complicit.

3. She does not seek to prove herself as she benefits from a self-abnegation that

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4. As she benefits from the galán’s choice of love interest, she is complicit with his

authority to choose.

5. Her approval by the telenovela galán further secures her inactive relationship with

knowledge.

6. She is thus inactive and has neither the desire to question social norms nor need for

knowledge to manipulate her place within the social order

As the suffering protagonist, Rosalinda remains ignorant of integral facts surrounding her existence including that of her paternity. Similarly, her madness, consequential memory and identity loss and moreover her belief that she is dying from a terminal illness, epitomize the lack of knowledge that characterizes her persona. In relation to the concept that ‘knowledge is power’ this ignorance exemplifies Rosalinda’s passivity, ‘appropriate femininity’ and ironically, her ultimate access to the site of empowerment via the love of the galán. Indeed, characterising the ‘feedback loop’ of female characterisation within the

Mexican telenovela rosa, the inherent power that accompanies Rosalinda’s position as the

‘chosen/loved’ woman determines her passivity.

Thus Rosalinda ‘is GOOD because she is LOVED’, and does not resort to ‘active’ methods to win the love of the telenovela galán. Indeed, her inherent ‘goodness’ and positive relationship with the tenets of ‘appropriate femininity’ would never lead to such activity.

Thus the ‘Protagonist is ‘LOVED because she is GOOD’ such that Rosalinda’s position as the loved woman is a self-fulfilling prophecy.

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In contrast;

7. An antagonist is cunning and manipulative, using her intelligence as a weapon to

confront social norms and manipulate her place in the social order.

8. As she does not benefit from galán’s choice, she is not complicit with his authority

to choose.

9. Her self-righteousness and desire for power motivate her to actively seek to

appropriate his love, which in turn determines her pursuit of female rivalry within

the narrative.

10. This antagonistic desire for power is driven by her status as the ‘unloved’ woman

within the narrative, and thereby necessitates her cunning and manipulative use of

knowledge and corruption of the tenets of appropriate femininity to gain leverage

over others.

Within her analysis of the telenovela’s power dynamics, Cynthia Duncan provides a psychoanalytical insight into the antagonist’s plight. For Duncan, ‘The typical love triangle which forms the basis for so many telenovela plots […] can easily be read as a reenactment of Freud’s oedipal drama’ (Duncan 1995, 91). Here, ‘the strong male hero can be seen as the representative of phallic power, as the all-powerful, all-knowing Father’ (Duncan 1995,

91). Within this schema, ‘males, by the privilege accorded their gender, are seen as already in possession of the Phallus, but females can only acquire the illusion of access to it by harnessing themselves to a powerful male’ (Duncan 1995, 91). Aware that the galán is powerful and respected, the antagonist’s desire to appropriate his love is a desire for access to this site of empowerment for her own perceived benefit.

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Fedra’s obsessive desire to appropriate Fernando’s love away from Rosalinda can be understood as a desire for access to the phallic power held by this male figure. She is active because she does not have access to this power. Intimately aware that ‘knowledge is power’, Fedra uses gossip and insinuation to manipulate situations in order to secure more privilege within the ‘tidy nation.’ Fedra’s secret knowledge of Rosalinda’s biological parentage, her knowledge that Rosalinda did not die but is in fact the famous singer

Paloma, and her deception of her own child’s paternity, all indicate the level of deception that she deploys throughout the telenovela. Fedra’s use of lies enables her to manipulate perceptions of herself and others, such as when she tells Anibar that Fernando beats her, in order to seek his consolation and to seduce him.

Here, Fedra is ‘BAD because she is UNLOVED’. Yet her self-righteousness and negative relationship with the tenets of ‘appropriate femininity’ are not merely the result of this position. They also motivate it. Thus she is ‘UNLOVED because she is BAD’. Her position as the unloved woman is a self-fulfilling prophecy, making her fate inevitable despite her fight to change it. Her execution of female rivalry throughout the narrative is testament to this plight.

Trajectories of the Female Dichotomy Rivalry

Rivalry is evident early in the narrative, when Fedra snipes that Rosalinda was always

Xavier’s favourite. This ‘complex’, conceivably the origin of her quest for empowerment

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via association with male authority, sees her compete with Rosalinda throughout the narrative. Initially, Fedra’s jealousy originates from Rosalinda’s ‘perfect’ beauty, optimism and altruism. She despises Rosalinda’s ‘goodness.’ Upon discovering Fernando’s wealth,

Fedra becomes further infuriated that Rosalinda is unfairly blessed with good fortune. As the opportunity to appropriate Rosalinda’s happiness becomes available, Fedra pounces.

Thus, Fedra finds it difficult to hide her delight when she discovers that Rosalinda has gone mad, as she brags to Lucy; ‘Hey, what do you think Fernando José will do if Rosalinda never gets better? […] He will divorce her. I am sure, and then, he’ll be free to marry…another…’

Rosalinda’s subsequent ‘death’ in the sanatorium fire further facilitates Fedra’s plans, and she sets about helping Fernando to forget Rosalinda. Yet when Paloma captures the affections of her new husband, Fedra’s rivalry is reborn and she hides the singer’s true identity. When Rosalinda’s memory returns, Fedra resorts to making her life miserable by preventing a reunion with her daughter, feigning pregnancy to the telenovela galán and

30 flaunting her ‘happiness’ with Fernando.

Playing on the male fears of sexual betrayal by woman that are found at the core of machismo and the virgin/whore dichotomy, Fedra attempts to sully Rosalinda’s purity by emphasising her transgressions to Fernando. This is a common trope within female rivalry, as to appropriate the position of the ‘chosen’ woman, the antagonist attempts to disqualify

30 As she brags to her in the following exchange, when she comes over to Rosalinda and Augustín in the restaurant; ‘I won’t deny that I live very happily. I have EVERYTHING; comfort, a husband that adores me, who showers me with attention and gifts. But above all else, I have the enormous pleasure of awaiting the child born form the deep, intense love that there is between Fernando José and myself.’ 202 | Page

the protagonist as a legitimate option for marriage and motherhood. Correspondingly,

Rosalinda cannot understand his mistrust and deems his allegations a betrayal of their true love.

Yet whilst the protagonist may be heartbroken, her dignity prevents her from actively pursuing the telenovela galán. Her passivity within such narrative developments contrasts sharply with the antagonist’s activity, as does her failure to engage with the female rivalry that destabilises her world. Thus whilst the galán is disenfranchised by his true love’s

‘betrayal’ and the protagonist is wounded by his rejection, the antagonist cunningly uses this moment to appropriate the heroine’s place. Usually vigilant towards the unwanted advances of the antagonist, the galán’s devastation sees his judgment lapse. Fedra’s

‘pregnancy’ to Fernando illustrates this perfectly, and acts as a key site of the female transgression that follows the melodramatic developments of female rivalry within the

Mexican telenovela rosa.

Transgression

Female transgression is key to the melodramatic stamina of the telenovela rosa, as blurring the Manichaeism of the female dichotomy causes much anxiety within the narrative.

Rosalinda invests heavily in narrating the disruption caused when circumstance sees these characters’ expand beyond the respective roles assigned them within the narrative. Posed as dangerous terrain, whereby the essentialist dichotomy becomes blurred, Rosalinda flirts with Fedra’s dissimulation of the virgin role, as well as Rosalinda’s slide from grace. This phase of the telenovela narrative, whereby the female characters transgress their polarised

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role, creates moments of high dramatic tension as the established order falls apart. The discordant music that accompanies these scenes conveys the chaos that such a disruption of the ‘natural order’ entails.

Aware that she must operate under the virginal guise of the protagonist, the antagonist attempts to dissimulate. Curbing her ‘inappropriate’ hunger for power, she presents an

‘inactive’ façade to the galán. Fedra attempts to appeal to the male characters who she believes that she can benefit from simulating passivity. This inactivity translates into both visual and behavioural characteristics. When Fedra first begins to seduce Fernando, she curls her hair in an apparent attempt to ‘soften’ herself according to his tastes. Her facial expressions also become softer as she tries to win over Fernando’s heart. Fedra changes her fixed stare, simultaneously lowering her gaze with her status. In place of her usual sideways sneer she smiles openly, and her movements become lighter. She attempts to animate her entire face in order to appeal to Fernando. Her usual facial expression, which see the stillness of her upper half and exaggerated use of her mouth and teeth in articulating her words, is replaced by a synchronism between her features, as they work towards conveying a light, uncalculating ‘innocence’. Fedra’s voice similarly changes to what she considers to be an inoffensive ‘girly’ tone.

Fedra’s dissimulation manifests in her romantic relations with Fernando when she tells him

‘I’ll know how to wait. I’m sure that some day you will end up loving me, as much as I love you.’ It also manifests in supposed maternal instinct, as she tells him; ‘I would do anything for your daughter.’ This is further evident when she tells Rosalinda that she would

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be thrilled to take custody of her daughter; ‘There’s no need to ask me Rosalinda. I do it with such pleasure. I love Erika as if she were my own.’ Yet, despite the success of Fedra’s virginal guise her true intentions remain clear throughout the telenovela narrative.

Indeed, the passivity that Fedra feigns upon marrying Fernando is not confused with that which Rosalinda displays in relation to love. Similarly, Fedra’s newfound maternal instinct is understood as leverage over both Rosalinda and Fernando José. Thus whilst Fedra may simulate ‘virginity’ within the telenovela, her loaded remarks, private monologues, smirk and raised eyebrows reveal her true antagonistic ‘activity’.

However whilst the transgression of the antagonist causes much drama within the melodramatic plot — and helps to maintain suspense throughout the lengthy narrative — it is the virgin’s plight that really concerns the telenovela story. Often due to the injustice that she feels when the galán questions her purity, the virgin becomes cynical about love. This transgression of innocence may be accompanied by an abandonment of other key aspects of

‘goodness’ such as cooperation and gentleness. She may become more masculine in her dress, and adopt a stronger more demanding character. She may lean towards those other tropes of the ‘whore’ such as heavier make up, elaborate hair designs and revealing clothing. Often due to her different role in the public sphere, this physical change may occur as she takes up a job that requires her to dress in a more provocative manner, as evident when Mariana is employed as a casino hostess in Mariana de la Noche and

Rosalinda becomes a famous singer.

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Whilst the story of the “fallen woman” is ‘one of the most common literary devices in world fiction’ (Leal 240) and found its forte in the Mexican context within the popular

Cabaretera dance hall films of the 1940s31, the Mexican telenovela does not narrate the demise of the essentially ‘good’ woman due to circumstance. In terms of the leading female roles, telenovelas operate within the notion that essentially ‘good’ or ‘bad’ women may become momentarily waylaid due to circumstance. Thus whilst the protagonist may transgress some aspects of ‘appropriate femininity’, she stays true to her status as the virginal woman. She may become cynical about love, but she does not abandon her maternal instincts, kindness or inherent goodness. Most importantly, she does not abandon her sexual purity. Ultimately, she finds her path again, back to her true love and destiny within the ‘tidy nation.’

Due to the particularly convoluted nature of Rosalinda, there are four stages of protagonist transgression throughout the narrative. These stages, which include Rosalinda’s mental breakdown; her memory loss and time as Paloma; her subsequent memory gain and belief that she has a terminal illness; and finally her attempts to regain custody of her daughter, all mark subsequent stages of transgression in her relationship with the tenets of ‘appropriate femininity’. Each of these stages is significant and contributes to the last and most profound stage of transgression within the narrative.

31 Dolores Tierney explains this construct; ‘The archetypal figures of the cabaretera film were defined through the sacrifice of their bodies as sexual objects for men and for their families: in Salon Mexico, Mercedes literally gives her life for her sister […] as a ‘fallen woman’ Mercedes is excluded from, rather than recuperated by, society’ (Tierney 1997, 353-4). 206 | Page

When Rosalinda goes mad, she becomes a wild woman. She is not weighed down by social graces but is often mean, selfish, suspicious and angry. So lost from her true self is this

Rosalinda that she rejects her daughter when presented with her at the hospital, shouting ‘I don’t want it! That isn’t her. That is not my daughter.’ Upon returning home, Rosalinda oscillates between childish vulnerability and wild rage. At one point she throws Fernando to the ground and bares her teeth at him. All maternal and matrimonial instinct appears lost.

Paloma is, as Fernando puts it, ‘a woman of the world.’ Rosalinda’s pretty clothes are left behind, as Paloma’s glamorous wardrobe reflects the impending ‘worldliness’ that comes with her increasing fame. Her transparent and satin clothing, her elaborate evening gowns and expensive jewels are worldlier than Rosalinda’s feminine garb. Paloma has a different beauty to Rosalinda. She is seen carefully applying makeup, and when Fernando asks her on a date, she tells him she will take a long time to get ready, as opposed to the uncontrived

‘natural’ beauty that he first fell in love with. Her elaborate makeup and hairstyles show this more contrived femininity. Paloma’s sexuality confuses Fernando who chastises her inconsistency; ‘At times you appear to be a romantic young woman, a dreamer. Other times a happy little girl. Other times an intense and passionate woman. Tell me, which of these women are you really?’

Yet despite the apparent transgression of the protagonist’s maternal instinct, ‘virginity’ and passivity during these narrative developments, the dramatic tension that they cause is contextualised by Rosalinda’s altered state of mind. Indeed, Rosalinda may appear to corrupt the notion of ‘appropriate femininity’ when she rejects her daughter, yet her mental

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illness explains this temporary lapse. In fact, this insanity comes as a result of Rosalinda’s deeply maternal instinct. According to the hospital’s psychologist, when Rosalinda ‘turns mad’ it is because of the corruption of this ontological state. So pure and vulnerable after the birth of her child, Rosalinda is not able to process the terrible family secrets that Valeria reveals. So when Valeria steals her baby, Rosalinda becomes insane. Consequently, this memory loss justifies Paloma’s occupation of the public sphere. Whilst her fame among male fans and her use of elaborate and revealing showgirl costumes is considered impure by Fernando, Rosalinda’s transgression is contextualised by the ‘forgetting’ of her true identity.

Rosalinda’s third stage of transgression is also justified when she regains her memory yet believes that she has a terminal illness. Despite Fernando’s pleas, Rosalinda refuses to give up her career as Paloma. Fernando’s world turns upside down when he finally admits to himself that his precious Rosalinda is not the virginal girl that he once thought; ‘I’ve been such an idiot. […] All my life I’ve had it there right in front of me! There, right in front of my eyes, but I have denied seeing it; Rosalinda, Rosalinda is nothing more than a whore.’

Fernando’s feelings are confirmed when he disgustedly watches her performance in front of a sea of male fans. His confrontation of Rosalinda sees him denounce her supposed preference for the public sphere and ‘the admiration and the company of various men, instead of the love of a husband’.

Unable to understand Rosalinda’s preference for what he deems to be a ‘cheap circus […] over being a wife and mother!’ Fernando concludes that ‘for any decent woman the most

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important thing is to be a wife and mother, but there do also exist some women like you who prefer to show off half naked in a theatre and reap applause instead of enjoying love and motherhood.’ This preference for the public sphere over domesticity remains unfathomable for Fernando who declares ‘Now I see what you swapped me for, what you exchanged your daughter for. […] everything is so clear, vulgar, that clothing that you use, your image. What pity I feel for you Rosalinda’. Rosalinda’s transgressions are an affront to Fernando’s masculinity, such that

I feel pity for myself, for having been so naïve, so stupid! […]My mother was right; you don’t deserve my love, nor my respect, nor my affection. And much less, much less my . […] I realise that what I think means nothing to you, but I won’t keep it to myself, I’m going to shout it in your face, because you deserve it; you are a cheap whore.

Fernando José’s corresponding revenge is to prevent her from having contact with her daughter, in order to prevent ‘contamination’ of her bad values; ‘I’m not going to expose my daughter to your bad example. I would prefer for her to grow, thinking that you are dead, before, before having the shame of knowing, of knowing what type of woman you are.’ He promptly tells her that he will give her the divorce that she deserves; ‘Tomorrow, at first light, I will begin divorce proceedings.’

Yet unbeknownst to Fernando José, Rosalinda’s transgression is a façade. She tries to explain but cannot, saying ‘What I want most in the world is to go back to having a family with you, with my little girl, to have a home, you have to believe me’. Indeed, Rosalinda’s moments alone and conversations with Soledad confirm that she would prefer Fernando to think she is a whore, rather than suffer the ‘impending death’ of her ‘terminal illness’. Thus whilst Rosalinda’s transgression may be problematic for the telenovela galán, her essential 209 | Page

‘virginity’ remains clear. Indeed whilst Fernando José may condemn Rosalinda for being lured by the bright city lights, Rosalinda’s commitment clearly lies with the private sphere throughout the telenovela. She does not seek the limelight, and lingers only to prevent the pain of her loved ones.

The next stage of Rosalinda’s transgression, however, is the most problematic. Upon realising that she does not have a terminal illness, Rosalinda runs to Fernando’s side, desperate to fulfil her role as wife and mother. Yet Fernando’s refusal to listen to her explanation disenchants her. As he tells her; ‘I don’t want to listen to you. Don’t you remember how you treated me? You must have felt so proud having me begging at your feet. Of course, surely that is your tactic for manipulating all of the men chasing you. […] I don’t want to hear even one more of your lies Rosalinda. […] don’t bother. Don’t even bother making something up. Whatever you say, I’m not going to believe you. Anyway, what kind of value can the word of a whore like you have?’ She feels betrayed by his belief that she is truly a whore and so becomes cynical about love, declaring; ‘I’m warning you

[…] the Rosalinda that you once knew, well you’ll never see her ever again. Because I will drown this love. I will drown it in the depths of my pride. And now you will know who I really am, when I am hurt in the depths of my soul.’

This antagonistic relationship with love forms her genuine engagement with the sphere of activity. Adopting a more professional and calculating manner towards Fernando, she attempts to regain custody of her daughter;

To you I’m the worst type of woman. Without even giving me the chance to explain myself you have condemned me. […] Just know that I am going to fight with all of my strength to 210 | Page

get my daughter back by my side. You are entirely in your right to reject me, but my daughter, you will never take my daughter away from me.

Rosalinda’s newfound activity manifests in a desire for power, which informs her friendship with the businessman Augustín. She admits that she is attracted to Augustín

‘Because he has a lot of money and enormous power’. This terrifies her mother who warns

‘you have never been interested in that.’ Fernando shares Soledad’s concern about

Rosalinda’s integrity, asserting that ‘everyone has a price, including Rosalinda’. Despite

Soledad’s assertion that ‘My daughter is not for sale, nor does she receive gifts from some vulgar unknown guy who thinks that just because he has money he has the right to buy her’, Rosalinda compromises her integrity. Effectively selling herself to Augustín, she trades a date for expensive jewelry. Here the equation of ‘Woman + Money + Public space

= Prostitute’ comes into play. When Rosalinda dines with the businessman she plays up to

Fernando’s fears; as the rubies flash around her neck, she giggles and talks animatedly with the businessman, staring languidly at Fernando and relishing his disgust.

This stage of transgression is the most profound and Rosalinda’s existence in the public sphere no longer appears to be motivated by self-sacrifice. Rosalinda seems far from the sweet and honest protagonist that she has truly been throughout the previous stages of transgression. It would seem that her rage cannot be mollified, and she threatens the passivity once characteristic of her status. She seeks revenge on Fernando José and Fedra such that she plans to teach them ‘A lesson that they will never forget.’

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Yet despite her transgression within this phase of the telenovela, Rosalinda’s maternal instinct, kindness and inherent goodness are not abandoned. Whilst she may continue to denounce love, telling Fernando José in resignation that ‘our love, that is something of the past’, she does not condemn her daughter or family, and her self-sacrifice continues in her decision to marry Augustín in order to provide a father for her daughter. As she explains to her sleeping daughter; ‘My little girl. I’m going to marry Augustín. […] So that you can have a home, a real family […] I am prepared to do anything for you little one. Even marry without love.’

Thus despite Rosalinda’s desire for revenge against Fernando José and abandonment of love, her core remains ‘appropriately feminine’ as she is motivated by self-sacrifice and the happiness of others. Despite her activity, Rosalinda’s essence remains faithful to the private sphere. She maintains that her happiness lies in making a home and gives up her career in order to mother her child without disturbance. Indeed, as easily as fame came to her she gives it up, telling her manager ‘you won’t have to keep representing me anymore […] I am going to abandon my artistic career.’ It is clear that even in the moments of transgression when Rosalinda strays from her path, she will return to her destiny in the arms of Fernando

José, and the ‘production and reproduction’ (Estill 2001, 172) of the ‘tidy nation’.

By telenovela end, there are no vestiges of the transgressive Rosalinda left behind. Despite once voicing to Lucy that ‘he has insulted me, he has offended me in the worst way possible for a woman’, she is able to forgive Fernando José’s betrayal completely. She resorts to her passive nature and correct execution of the tenets of ‘appropriate femininity’.

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She is worthy of the white rose that Fernando José tucks behind her ear on their wedding day, as they ride into the distance.

The narrative relief occasioned by the ‘happy ending’ consolidates this schema. Here, where mistaken identity, miscommunication and ill twists of fate are finally eradicated, so too is the potential for female transgression to break with the dichotomous schema of female characterisation and citizenship. Framed as threatening sites of melodramatic tension that must be closed down, this threat is explicitly conveyed within the narrative; from the ominous music that underlies these scenes, to the dialogue that conveys the concern of members of the community, female transgression serves to highlight the danger of a breakdown in the female dichotomy.

The telenovela’s ‘flirtation’ with these ‘dangerous’ sites of transgression is thrilling but ultimately serves to consolidate traditional Manichaean configurations of characterisation and citizenship. Indeed, the ‘happy ending’ that sees the closure of these transgressive sites, and the galán’s relief at his protagonist’s return to ‘normal’, provides a fundamental means for constructing the ideal community by telenovela end. Integral to this reinforcement of the Manichaean female dichotomy is female rivalry. By playing women off against each other throughout the transgressive moments within the narrative trajectory, a Manichaean female characterisation remains intact and the possibility of a ‘union’ between the ‘good’ and ‘bad’ aspects of femininity is denied.

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As the narrative concludes, both the protagonist and antagonist are relegated to their role and the rejection of ‘interstitial’ spaces sees any potential sites of resistance or change swept away (Robolin 2004, 79). It is this prevention of the ‘union’ of ‘opposing’ femininity that relates so closely to the exclusionary discourses surrounding femininity that links the maintenance of the ‘tidy nation’ onscreen to Mexican Government policy during periods of nation-construction.

The ‘Morality’ & ‘Justice’ of Female Citizenship

Despite Fedra’s and Rosalinda’s transgression, it is the telenovela rosa’s emphasis on morality and justice that resolves these sites by telenovela end. Rosalinda bids farewell to an immoral active public life as the famous singer Paloma, regaining her position as wife and mother within the domestic sphere. Fedra’s fraudulent relationship with the tenets of

‘appropriate femininity’ spells her doom. Where Rosalinda is married in a white Church wedding to her true love, before the blessing of God, the Virgin of Guadalupe and her family and friends, Fedra dies in a hospital bed without repentance. She is correspondingly exiled from the telenovela’s ‘ideal’ community before childbirth. Both Fedra and her child die; representing an end to the potential disturbance to the ‘tidy nation’ that the whore mother entails.

This moral and just ending exemplifies the process of female citizenship within the idealised national space. Yet just as the qualities of women are signaled by audio/visual traits, their relationship with the national space is codified throughout. Rosalinda’s affinity

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with ‘Mexicanness’ is evident throughout the telenovela via her inadvertent endorsement of nationally resonant iconography. Unlike Fedra whose identity involves a rejection of the

‘truly Mexican’, Rosalinda is often framed within the national space; whether visiting her dad at the Plaza de Garibaldi in Mexico City, where mariachi sing the hymns of the nation, or in her endorsement of the neighbourhood, as the best place to be. Her use of colloquialisms and her accent — on par with the ‘popular’ classes of Mexico City — show her affinity with the nation. Unlike Fedra whose ambition rejects her humble upbringing,

Rosalinda is proud of her ‘people’.

Furthermore, Rosalinda’s affinity with the Catholic Church and in particular, the Virgin of

Guadalupe, aligns her with the national iconography of ‘appropriate femininity’.

Rosalinda’s positive relationship with virginity is confirmed through the ongoing appearance of the image of the Virgin in her daily life. Evident when she meets with

Fernando José in front of a shrine to the Virgin of Guadalupe in the marketplace where she sells flowers, the Virgin effectively consecrates their love. Yet it is also reinforced by her conscious supplication to the Virgin throughout the telenovela, as is seen when she thanks the Virgin for saving her from her terminal illness; ‘Oh mum, I want to go and give thanks to the virgin. Only she and my father could have given me this miracle.’

Even during the stages of Rosalinda’s transgression, the presence of the Virgin ensures that her true essence remains clear. This is evident when her church attendance is casually dropped into conversation, (‘is it true you ate something when you left church?’) and when she begs the Virgin to help her. As Antonio Serrano explains, within Televisa telenovelas,

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‘all problems are resolved by praying to the Virgin’ (2007, pers. comm., 23 January) and true to form, Rosalinda prays;

Sweet Virgin of Guadalupe, help me, please, please don’t abandon me in those moments when I need you. You are the mother of all Mexicans and you understand my pain without my daughter by my side. Even though I prefer this so that she doesn’t suffer my death. Give me strength. Give me strength and give me resignation mother of mine. Protect my daughter, my mother, all of my loved ones, including Fernando José, even though he looks down on me. Please don’t forget about me sweet Virgin. Please, guide my path, please. Compared to such piety, Fedra’s refusal to repent to God even on her deathbed sees her unfit for citizenship within this ‘ideal imagined’ Mexico.

A ‘Break’ from the Telenovela Rosa?

‘All that we are looking to do is sell a fantasy to the people’ —Salvador Mejía, Producer of Rosalinda

The publicity leading to Rosalinda’s debut on the first of March 1999, pinned its impending success on both its star power as well as its subscription to a proven formula. Indeed, the El

Universal newspaper proclaimed ‘Rosalinda will become a success, just like “Marimar”,

“María Mercedes” and “”’ (Anon. 1999a, n.p.). Invoking these three

Thalia-driven successes known as ‘Las Marias’, producer Salvador Mejía confirmed that the success of this trilogy starring Mexico’s then telenovela sweetheart, guaranteed that of

Rosalinda (Jessica 1999, n.p.). He explained that the formula was in place, such that they would ‘present the public with a telenovela full of romanticism, because it is what telenovela audiences most love’ (Jessica 1999, n.p.).

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Mejía explained that this romanticism was in line with the times, as ‘we have tried to stick with the Hollywood trend, where the public has shown a preference for everything romantic, with films such as ‘Romeo and Juliet’ and ‘Titanic’’ (Jessica 1999, n.p.). This international scope was an inherent part of Rosalinda’s conceptualisation, with Mejía pronouncing that ‘we don’t only address the Mexican public, but also the foreign, which is why we have given a more international touch to the story’ (Jessica 1999, n.p.). The sale of

Rosalinda to over one hundred countries before filming began confirms the appeal of this romantic formula. Declaring that ‘for a novela to work’ — both at home and internationally

— ‘it needs to have a combination of drama, reality and fantasy’ Mejía assured that

Rosalinda ‘has all of these ingredients’ (Jessica 1999, n.p.).

Yet the failure for Mejía’s prophecies to transpire in Mexico— despite the success of the novela transnationally— speaks volumes about the changing climate within the Mexican telenovela industry at the time of its production. Soon after its debut, the press began to criticise Rosalinda’s formulaic nature. Suggesting that ‘Thalia returns with a conventional story’, and that Rosalinda ‘is a copy of "María la del Barrio", "María Mercedes" and

"Marimar"’ (Anon. 1999b, n.p.) critics problematised the novela’s subscription to the traditional rosa formula. According to the critics, it was the ‘abundance of “close ups” of raised eyebrows and the gesticulaciones of an explosive villain’ that ‘came straight from the manual’ (Rondero 1999, n.p.). Similarly, Rosalinda was ‘a script determined to bombard us with […] [colloquialisms] that were made famous in the films of [Pedro]

Infante […] over fifty years ago’ (Rondero 1999, n.p.).

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Such criticism was unprecedented, targeting key aspects of the formula such as ‘The rich boy with the double-barrel name who pretends to be poor, the sweet and beautiful young woman, more innocent than a girl from kindergarten […] in love with the galán […] and of course the irreplaceable stepsisters taken straight from ‘Cinderella’ version ’

(Rondero 1999, n.p.). Suddenly it was deemed negligent to rely on the success of previous hits, such as the ‘Las Marias’ trilogy, to justify a project. Somewhat unprecedented in an industry of remakes and adaptations, this criticism was vehemently rejected by Mejía.

Declaring that the press had ‘tried to boycott his melodrama’, and that his colleagues had

‘tried to campaign so that my novela would be moved to another timeslot’ he accused them of tall poppy syndrome (cited in Mendoza González 1999, n.p.).

However, fiction soon met reality. Rumours circulated that Rosalinda would be cut by seventy episodes — which equated to 28% or three months on air. Mejía denied such a reduction, declaring 'I do not know where they got that from, I have never spoken to anyone about it and in fact, this is the last interview I’ll give about the novela’ (cited in

Mendoza González 1999, n.p.). However, despite the bravado, Mejía could not deny that

Rosalinda had failed to fulfill its expectations. In its first week, Rosalinda reached an average rating of only 29.2 points, which placed it in fifth place of the top ten programs, and in third place for telenovelas (Anon. 1999c, n.p.). Ratings during Rosalinda’s last week only reached 28.4 points, compared to 44 points for its predecessor (Anon. 1999c, n.p.).

With certain ‘modifications’ to its plot to make it ‘more agile and dynamic’ (Anon. 1999c, n.p.) Rosalinda ended on the eighteenth of June 1999, after less than four months on air.

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Admitting that ‘nobody is a prophet in his own land’ (Mendoza González 1999, n.p.) Mejía finally seemed to admit defeat.

Whilst not performing terribly, Rosalinda’s ratings did not reflect its star power or its

‘privileged’ position during telenovela primetime, as co-producer Antonio Quintana admitted, ‘they’re not bad but you always expect more when working with a figure like

Thalia’ (Anon. 1999c, n.p.). Critics were more candid, declaring that ‘far from benefiting

Thalia’ the novela ‘had damaged her image by being the worst telenovela that she had starred in’ (Anon. 1999d, n.p.). Indeed, Rosalinda saw the end of Thalia’s career as

Mexico’s telenovela sweetheart. She never returned to the telenovela genre, deciding instead to focus on her singing career, which involved a high profile wedding to the US music producer Tommy Mottola.

However, most interesting about the critics’ reaction to the failed telenovela, was their assertion that ‘the formula ran out’ (Anon. 1999e, n.p.). Whilst not explicit within these reviews, the notion that Rosalinda was out of touch with the desires of the telenovela audience was ever present. They seemed to enjoy the failure of this ‘Cinderella’ narrative, declaring that ‘Rosalinda’s failure to meet expectations proves that remakes of remakes don’t get you very far’ (Anon. 1999e, n.p.).

Produced in the same year that Televisa’s competitor TV Azteca produced its famous telenovelas de ruptura, El Candidato (‘The Candidate’) and La Vida en el Espejo (‘Life in the Mirror’) Rosalinda seemed remarkably obsolete. Furthermore, in light of Televisa’s

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efforts to conform to the ‘rupturous’ times via telenovelas such as (‘Three

Women’), Rosalinda’s faithful adherence to the traditional rosa formula was arguably the reason for its failure. As such, Rosalinda provides an interesting development within the changing context of the Mexican telenovela industry. As pertinent precursor to the study of the telenovela de ruptura in the following chapter, Rosalinda proves that even the prettiest rose has its thorns.

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Chapter Five The Limitations of Resistance within the

Telenovela de Ruptura

Chapter Five: The Limitations of Resistance within the telenovela de ruptura

‘Life is more complicated than it seems’ — Theme Song of Vivir Sin Ti (‘Living Without You’)

In light of the ‘rose tinted’ telenovelas studied in chapter four, this chapter looks at the extent of ‘rupture’ within those so called telenovela de ruptura texts that ‘burst’ onto the

‘scene’ in the mid nineteen-nineties, yet which arguably declined less than a decade later.

By theorising the demise of this ‘revolutionary’ genre, this chapter seeks to understand not only the context for its downfall, but also the extent to which these texts were truly

‘rupturous’ of both form and content. Thus whilst the ‘type’ of ‘nation’ constructed within these texts may have been promoted as a ‘realistic’ revision of the ‘tidy nation’ found within the more traditional telenovela form, a closer examination of the race, class and gender dynamics of El Candidato (‘The Candidate’- TV Azteca 1999) and Mirada de

Mujer (‘The Look of a Woman’- TV Azteca 1997) explores this ‘reality’. This analysis ultimately reveals little challenge to the representational dynamics of the telenovela de ruptura’s predecessors.

By providing a more ‘nuanced’ understanding of what is meant by ‘rupture’, this chapter questions the possibility of even ‘rupturing’ the telenovela’s representational schema, due to both genre prerequisites and industry imperatives. Here an understanding of the thematic 222 | Page

and structural dynamics of the telenovela de ruptura —specifically the maintenance of the romantic love story at the heart of these texts —helps to explain their subscription to a

Manichaean melodramatic narrative structure. The exclusionary citizenship and ‘tidy’ versions of ‘the nation’ that this perpetuates follows. As such, this chapter explores the

‘limitations’ to a revision of female citizenship within the telenovela de ruptura texts surveyed.

But first, in order to gauge the female citizenship at play within the telenovelas examined here, it is crucial to determine the type of ‘nation’ that is on display. Is it a ‘tidy’ nation? Is it a nation more attuned to the ‘social reality’ beyond the borders of the ‘ideal imagined’

Mexico? In contrast to the ‘blurred or neutralized’ reference to ‘places and times’ (Martín-

Barbero 1995, 279) often configured within the traditional telenovela text, does this nation

‘rupture’ such ‘anonymity’ via an articulation of ‘a specifically national reality’ (Martín-

Barbero 1995, 279)? Certainly the origins and promotion of the telenovela de ruptura suggest the importance of a specific time and place to its representation of the nation.

The Rise of the Telenovela de Ruptura

As outlined in chapter two, the ‘birth’ of the telenovela de ruptura in Mexico can be attributed to important developments throughout the nineteen-nineties. The end of two powerful Mexican regimes came during this period and helped to shape the changing face of Mexican telenovela production. In fact, the demise of these two regimes are inextricably intertwined, as TV Azteca’s 1993 arrival on the monopolistic landscape of the Mexican

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telenovela industry marked the end of an era within Mexican politics, when the newly elected president Ernesto Zedillo announced that ‘the government would no longer control the media’ (Quiñones 2001, 71). This acknowledgement of the new playing field came with the move to a neoliberal economy in 1994, which, as part of Mexico’s signing of the North

American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA) incorporated television content as a free trade commodity. As part of the same democratic drive that ultimately marked the end of the PRI government’s 71-year rule in 2000, the government sale of ‘two of its stations to a recently formed network known as Television Azteca’ (Quiñones 2001, 71) was to create a different social and cultural context for telenovela production. Indeed the realist bent of these ‘new wave’ telenovelas became ‘a barometer of the slow crumbling of a tired regime’ (Quiñones

1998b, 45).

Alberto Barrera, author of Nada Personal and Demasiado Corazón, argued at the time that

‘Mexico is oxygenating’ (cited in Quiñones 1998b, 45). Stating that ‘Five years ago we could not have done [these shows]’, he identified the rise of the telenovela de ruptura with that of democracy within the political sphere; ‘I think right now in Mexico there’s a kind of anxiousness for democracy. Before it was a society unaccustomed to competing, in politics, television, anything. Now its beginning to get used to it.’ (cited in Quiñones 1998b, 45).

Indeed other social commentators confirmed this connection. Film actress turned politician

Maria Rojo suggested that ‘Society has demanded change, politically, economically, as well as in the telenovela’ (cited in Quiñones 1998b, 41). Similarly, scholars Rowe and

Schelling suggested that ‘it is in the changing styles of the telenovelas themselves that the

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pressures of changing contemporary social history are manifest’ (Rowe and Schelling 1991,

109).

With hits like Nada Personal (‘Nothing Personal’ 1996) Al Norte del Corazón (‘North of the Heart’ 1997) Demasiado Corazón (‘Too Much Heart’ 1997) El Candidato (‘The

Candidate’ 1999) and La Vida en el Espejo (‘Life in the Mirror’ 1999) TV Azteca filled the small screen with a vastly different version of Mexico than audiences had seen for the past four decades. Indeed the titles of these texts reveal the conscious revision of the romantic love story (‘Nothing Personal’, ‘North of the Heart’ and ‘Too Much Heart’) to include more political issues (‘The Candidate’) and honest reflections of ‘Life in the Mirror’.

Yet far from abandoning the love story purportedly vital for the life of the telenovela, these telenovelas incorporated love at the heart of their narratives, and sought to temper its usually traditional romantic execution with ‘realistic’ elements. Serrano explained this approach as ‘do[ing] love stories rosa, but with a bit more subtlety, through metaphors, poetry [and] complexity’ (2007, pers. comm., 23 January). Following this vision, TV

Azteca telenovelas gave an insight into different versions of love, perhaps most famously in

Mirada de Mujer (1997). For Serrano, ‘Mirada de Mujer was a love story but […] much more evolved’ (2007, pers. comm., 23 January) because it told the story of Maria Inés, a middle aged woman who falls in love with a man sixteen years her junior, after her husband of twenty seven years abandons her. Shifting the lens to find love stories other than those of nubile young protagonists proved controversial, was evident with the successful lobbying by Catholic groups to remove Tentaciones — the story of a priest who falls in love with his

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half sister — off the air. Within such commercially risky content, the possibility for a revision of female characterisation and citizenship within the Mexican telenovela text seemed inevitable. The following analysis provides a comprehensive exploration of this prospect.

Finding Female Citizenship within the Telenovela de Ruptura’s

‘Untidy’ Nation

To begin, an analysis of the telenovela themes can provide an indication of the ‘type’ of nation on display in the telenovela texts and helps to frame the level of ‘rupture’ within race, class and gender representations of the narrative. Secondly, an analysis of race and class dynamics within the narrative suggests the extent of ‘rupture’ from the traditional representational schema. Finally, an analysis of the female characterisation must consider its relationship to the telenovela form. Does this characterisation extend beyond that ‘one dimensional’ (Acosta-Alzuru 2003a, 271) ‘crudely Manichaean’ characterisation often found within traditional telenovelas, where characters serve ‘purely [as] signs’ (Martín-

Barbero 1995, 280)? Are they ‘complex, ambiguous and unpredictable’ (Acosta-Alzuru

2003a, 271) characters? As per the telenovela rosa formula, an observation of their relationship to the tenets of ‘appropriate’ femininity assists such an analysis. Furthermore, a focus on the female characters’ narrative trajectory helps to determine whether they are

‘liberated’ from the ‘weight of destiny’ (Martín-Barbero 1995, 280) that traditionally closes down such sites of transgression and ambiguity. An analysis of their ‘treatment’ within the

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melodramatic plot helps to determine the fate-as-citizenship that is granted to each of these women by telenovela end.

Ultimately, the benefit of this analysis is threefold. It helps to gauge whether the ‘type’ of nation within the telenovela de ruptura provides a space for a ‘rupture’ of female characterisation and citizenship beyond that permitted within the telenovela rosa’s ‘tidy nation’. It assists an inventory of those narrative tropes that facilitate the revision or perpetuation of particular modes of female characterisation and citizenship found within the traditional formula. Finally, the continued presence of these tropes clarifies why these modes continue to exist within many different types of telenovela texts.

‘The Candidate’ for Love

From the opening credits, the type of nation configured within El Candidato looks remarkably different from that ever seen within the traditional Mexican telenovela. Set to the soaring urgency of an original score by the renowned Hollywood composer Hans

Zimmer,32 the telenovela’s apparently ‘rupturous’ themes are quickly conveyed as the images that burst into frame signal a vast shift from the ‘vacuum’ of time and space

(Martín-Barbero 1995, Acosta-Alzuru 2003b) traditionally configured within the romantic telenovela love story. Here, famous Mexico City landmarks are interspersed with images evocative of politically turbulent times. As spectacular explosions — first a building then a bus — cut to images of car crashes, flashing police sirens, seething traffic, trains,

32 Composer of The Da Vinci Code, Batman, The Last Samurai, Black Hawk Down, Thelma & Louise, Pearl Harbour, Gladiator, Mission Impossible, The Thin Red Line, The Power of One and Driving Miss Daisy, among many others. 227 | Page

helicopters and airplanes, a sense of frenetic movement and urgency is evoked. Amongst images of riot police, fire fighters and traffic cops- jumping out of helicopters or running through the streets of the seething metropolis- the camera shifts to capture shots of the people; of mass political rallies, of civilians in confrontation with riot police, of bus loads of student protestors from the infamous UNAM strike of 1999. The people in these shots are all ages, all sizes, all colours; from the indigenous woman selling her wares in the heart of the city, to the student protestors, to the throngs of commuters on Mexico City’s busy streets.

Only sporadically, superimposed over this seething mass of ‘untidy’ national images, are transparent shots of the telenovela characters. Gazing longingly into the distance or directly into the camera lens, it would seem that the ‘personal’ here is replaced by the political.

Indeed, within this homage to the ‘untidy’ national reality at play, the subject seems to shift from that of the telenovela characters to the nation itself. No longer a ‘vacuum’ of time and space (Martín-Barbero 1995, Acosta-Alzuru 2003b), the nation itself takes centre stage and challenges its ‘tidy’ configuration. Correspondingly, the type of female citizenship possible within such a ‘realistic’ version of the nation seems highly promising.

The nation does indeed figure as a key subject within El Candidato. Although its producers reiterated throughout the publicity that this telenovela was a work of fiction and that ‘Any resemblance to reality is purely coincidental’ (as the final credits remind the viewer) the parallels between the nation configured within the telenovela’s narrative and that beyond its borders appears remarkably similar. Set during the lead up to a presidential election in

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which Mexico attempts a democratic transfer of power after a long period of one-party rule, the historical context on screen and off found unprecedented parallels. As scholar Arnoldo

Varona writes, El Candidato narrates ‘the melodrama, situated in Mexico’s present-day context, […] [of] the course of a country’s attempts to arrive at the democratic election of its next president’ (Varona 1999, n.p.).

Broadcast from August 1999, the telenovela’s popularity saw it extended from five to ten months, to end just three weeks before the ‘real’ Mexican presidential elections were to take place in July of 2000. Mirroring the ‘real-life’ events that arose in the lead up to these historical elections, in which the 71 year rule of the Revolutionary Independence Party

(PRI) was defeated by the National Action Party (PAN), the telenovela included issues of political corruption such as embezzlement, vote buying, political assassination and consorting with powerful drug traffickers (Tegel 2000, 44). As one review stated, ‘In an attempt to reflect the times, [TV Azteca] presents a telenovela whose story will go hand in hand with what is happening in the Mexican electoral process’ (Bárcenas 1999, n.p.).

The depiction of a national reality within the fiction of El Candidato was conveyed in the dialogue between the characters as well as within political speeches. This occurred most profoundly in the presidential candidates’ final pre-election speeches, where they referred to current domestic and foreign policy, in an open critique of seven decades of PRI governance. As one of the fictional politicians explains;

We inherit a country that has for seventy years suffered deception, treachery and theft. Our country is a geographical space that has since the conquest been continuously plundered.

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Presidency after presidency has left a legacy of corrupt officials made wealthy off the back of a people plunged in misery and despair. Furthermore, in an attempt to reflect the real life presidential election process, ‘scenes were often shot just hours before transmission and incorporated into late-breaking news’ (Tegel

2000, 44) thereby providing a challenge to the often static insularity of the telenovela community. Further to this was the ‘opening up’ of the narrative, as Mexico’s ‘first ever interactive telenovela’ (Bárcenas 1999, n.p.). Through communication with the telenovela writers and producers- whose email address flashed up in the final credits of each episode

— viewers could provide feedback and suggestions for future narratives. The production team reportedly received as many as 300 emails per day (Tegel 2000, 44).

This dramatisation of ‘real life’ within the fictional world of El Candidato served to create a sense of vitality, relevance and urgency not only to those events playing out onscreen, but also within the nation beyond. With the goal to motivate an opening up of democracy so that ‘this country finally has the government that it deserves and which leads us towards progress’ (Bárcenas 1999, n.p.) — El Candidato’s lead actor and producer

— explained that the telenovela did not seek only to entertain, but also to challenge the history of election fraud within Mexico. As Zurita disclosed; ‘In the novela we want to challenge what has for seventy years of governance in México been the imposition of an official candidate by the outgoing president, “the tap on the shoulder”, and posit that it is possible to compete openly without fear of fraud or censorship’ (Bárcenas 1999, n.p.).

This attempt to ‘create a public political conscience’ arguably shaped the telenovela’s narrative conclusion. According to Zurita, there were two possible endings on which the

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audience could vote; effectively emulating the very message of democracy that the producers sought to instill in their viewers. As he said;

I will put up for election the telenovela’s ending, I have a tragic end and a happy, commercial, traditional, orthodox ending. I wouldn’t like Mexico to have a tragic ending. The public will be able to vote through email, and say which ending they would prefer (Mendoza de Lira 2000, n.p.).

This democratic contract was ultimately configured within the narrative conclusion itself, as the last episode terminated before the results were announced. As Zurita explained; ‘We want people to vote and we hope that El Candidato will encourage them. Of course, it’s up to them who they vote for’ (Tegel 2000, 44). In one interview he confirmed the importance of this didacticism;

I think that it is very opportune because right now all Mexicans should become familiar with the political issues, get to know the candidates, find out what the parties are, and then make the decision ourselves and know once and for all that the democracy that this involves is about freedom, and that freedom is growth because you can be, express, imagine, dream and make those dreams come true’ (Mendoza de Lira 2000, n.p.).

Such examples suggest the status of the nation-as-subject within this telenovela, as it constitutes a fundamental character within the narrative. However, despite such first impressions of the provocative opening credits, El Candidato is very much concerned with narrating a traditional love story. It may be situated in the ‘realistic’ world of politics, however the characters framed within the narrative are not those diverse citizens glimpsed in the opening credits. They are those who constitute the core community within the traditional telenovela narrative; whose privileged racial and class identities have little to do with the reality beyond the borders of such an ‘ideal imagined’ community.

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Somewhat flouting the speeches throughout which espouse the symbolic defeat of the old guard — represented by death of the corrupt politician Juventino — the exclusionary configurations of race, class and gender citizenship are alive and well within El Candidato.

Key to this exclusionary representational schema is the production’s continued investment in the traditional narrative tropes of telenovela fiction. Although the stories told have

‘touches of reality’, the telenovela is still ‘a series that has very much to do with fiction’

(Bárcenas 1999, n.p.). This is clear within much of the publicity surrounding El Candidato.

When promoting the telenovela, Zurita confirmed that ‘this telenovela has no claims to didacticism; it only seeks to entertain, to provide fun, but with a profound, transcendental theme’ (Bárcenas 1999, n.p.).

This emphasis on the fictional nature of the telenovela is particularly important for understanding the perpetuation of an exclusionary female citizenship within El Candidato.

Clarifying the production’s commitment to maintaining the melodramatic structure and content of the telenovela, Zurita explained that ‘it is very important that people understand that […] we always wanted to maintain the melodramatic line, just adding facts and incidents that arose at the time, without converting it into a political programme’ (Mendoza de Lira 2000, n.p.). Yet more than an artistic choice, this commitment to the melodrama was borne of necessity, as ‘Whenever we have tried to thematically move away from melodrama it is very hard to recoup the audience’ (Mendoza de Lira 2000, n.p.).

Emphasising the popularity of the romantic love story as the heart of the melodrama, Zurita clarified; ‘The principal element is the love story that will live on throughout the entire

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novela’ (Bárcenas 1999, n.p.). In fact, much of the publicity suggests that the ‘realistic’ elements serve as context only for the main story as ‘The only thing that we are doing is mix a current day theme with a beautiful love story’ (Morales Martínez 1999a, n.p.).

Following the exclusionary dynamics of the telenovela love story, the level of ‘rupture’ in

El Candidato seems somewhat limited.

A closer analysis of the opening credits reveals these limitations. The final image within these credits is a ballot card with four boxes; three of these are the fictional political parties represented within the narrative. The fourth is a red love heart. As the music reaches its crescendo, a black cross is placed over the heart. Love, and the ‘tidy’ configurations of the nation that it traditionally facilitates, have been elected. The final credits confirm this familiar tale. Unlike the series of ‘graphic’ national images within the opening credits, only the characters within the love triangle are portrayed here. Superimposed above a cloudy night sky, the transparent figures of half sisters Beatriz and Marycarmen hover near the figure of Ignacio, the telenovela galán. Ignacio and his discriminating love are indeed the authorised ‘candidate’, as the final image of his penetrating gaze confirms. In fact,

Ignacio’s political status consolidates this galán’s relationship to the state even more explicitly than in the telenovela rosa schema. The type of community and female citizenship that his president as lover’s gaze permits follows this tradition.

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Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.

Figure 13- Marycarment, Ignacio Figure 14- Ignacio’s penetrating gaze & Beatriz

Despite the novela’s ‘revolutionary’ role in promoting democracy in the lead up to the 2000 presidential elections, El Candidato performs the same policing of femininity that can be found within its traditional counterpart. By telenovela end, Beatriz has occupied the role of wife and mother; as Ignacio’s chosen companion and the guardian of his children. In contrast, Marycarmen is dead. After her rejection by Ignacio, Marycarmen’s demise involves a transgression of the tenets of appropriate femininity with an extramarital affair, abandonment of her children, alcoholism, drug addiction and a drug overdose. Only after such a spectacular fall from grace is Marycarmen finally shot dead. It would appear that

‘the political’ is still very much ‘personal’ within El Candidato and its perpetuation of the telenovela rosa formula for female characterisation and citizenship has remarkable parallels with Rosalinda. A tabulation of Marycarmen and Beatriz’s characterisation and trajectory reveals this congruence.

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Just like Fedra, Marycarmen is the unloved woman and this forms the core of her

‘inappropriate femininity’. Principally, her unnatural relationship with love, marriage and maternity begins early in the narrative when she marries Ignacio, not for love, but for ambition. Indeed, this fraudulent relationship with love sees her acceptance of a marriage of convenience, whereby Ignacio benefits from the political connections that her family name provides and Marycarmen strategically secures a future of wealth and recognition with the future president of the nation. Yet further to this antagonistic preference for money and power over love, Marycarmen is aware that Ignacio and her half-sister Beatriz are in love.

This makes for a disastrous equation, as unable to ever win her husband’s love,

Marycarmen’s pride is wounded and correspondingly, her ambition and activity are further ignited. Exacerbating her inherent corruption of the institutions of marriage and maternity,

Marycarmen’s preference for the public domain follows.

In the vein of traditional telenovela antagonists, it is Marycarmen’s ambition that prevents her satisfaction with the role of wife and mother. This is signaled throughout the narrative.

Numerous characters — all of them members of her family — comment on her selfishness, ignorance, superficiality, vanity and ambition. As Ignacio accuses; ‘you can keep appearing in the papers, at your charity benefits, even though there is nothing altruistic about you.’ He is disgusted by this feigned altruism, scoffing that ‘you feel so important rubbing elbows with the first lady and the ministers’ wives’. Later he scoffs at her self-importance taunting

‘What type of problems do you have?! Deciding between wearing the green or the blue dress, or if you’ll use the car or the van? They’re problems you invent! That you put in your little head to keep it busy.’

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This torments Beatriz who laments ‘it makes me so sad, honestly, it makes me so sad that

Ignacio, deserving all the love in the world, only has your ambition, cynicism, and your coldness Marycarmen’. Even her grandmother reprimands Marycarmen for her inability to perform her roles as wife and mother well lamenting ‘Ah Marycarmen, don’t ask girl, give!

[…] Share his doubts, make him feel that you’re interested in what he does, what he says, and what he thinks. And after […] you transform into a seductive lover, full of sexual innovation.’ Yet when Marycarmen continues to disappoint she is warned that ‘You should be more concerned about him. Look after your relationship and don’t lose time on your brunches and absurd social occasions.’

Yet despite attempts to remedy the situation by quelling her aggression and resentment towards her husband,33 Marycarmen’s pride and self-righteousness prevent self-abnegation.

Seeking more from life she explains ‘Honestly, I’d like to feel that I am still attractive, that

I still catch people’s eye, that they recognise what I do. I want them to say “that woman is worthwhile” and not just because I am the daughter of Don Juventino or the wife of the politician Santoscoy.’ Yet as per the telenovela’s narration of phallic supremacy, her desire to do more with her life is ill-executed and she relies upon her marriage to quench this thirst for recognition; ‘If my marriage ends, then everything that matters to me disappears; my status, my social standing, and of course, my family, my children’.

This unnatural relationship with love, marriage and maternity translates into aggression and arrogance. Not complicit with male authority, Marycarmen’s ‘inappropriate’ aggression

33 As she begs; ‘Give me the chance to fix my mistakes. I have been selfish, moody, stubborn, but because I love you I am prepared to change. Don’t deny me the opportunity. Can you forgive me?’ 236 | Page

towards her husband attempts his emasculation. Despite Ignacio’s attempts to salvage their marriage for the sake of his political career, as well as their children, Marycarmen is irreconcilably unlovable. Thus in addition to her inappropriate execution of the roles of wife and mother, it is Marycarmen’s status as the ‘unloved woman’ that seals her fate.

Ignacio simply cannot love Marycarmen, as he reminds her throughout the narrative; ‘I don’t owe you a thing, except for my unhappiness. […] If I’m still here it’s because of our children. […] Our marriage is the worst mistake that we have ever made’. Yet rather than fight for her love, she fights for her social status, further confirming her ‘inappropriateness’ as a ‘candidate’ for the galán’s love; ‘Ignacio is what least matters to me […] What I am not prepared to lose are my privileges from this marriage. My position as a respectable wife.’

As such, Marycarmen’s ambition and pride see her pursuit of rivalry with Beatriz, in order to secure social status through marriage to Ignacio. Thus as soon as Beatriz returns home from abroad, Marycarmen defends her territory as Ignacio’s wife; ‘Listen to me closely you cunning brat. […] I am not going to let you steal him from me, you got it? […] Ignacio owes me a lot and it’s going to be me who enjoys his success not you.’ Blaming Beatriz for her marriage problems she becomes increasingly incensed when the old flame between her sister and husband reignites. Embodying the despised ‘loca’ (‘crazy woman’) so hated within the Mexican telenovela schema, she becomes increasingly irrational, as Ignacio rails; ‘First you shout, then you offend, you insult, and then you start crying […] the few moments that we have together you ruin.’ Ultimately, it is the loca’s jealousy that leads to

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her demise; tormented by Ignacio’s rejection, Marycarmen’s twisted values lurch from promiscuity to addiction before death by stray bullet.

Here Marycarmen’s threat to the ‘production and reproduction’ (Estill 2001, 172) of the

‘tidy nation’ (particularly significant considering her marriage to the president of Mexico) is removed. She is not granted permanent residence within this ‘ideal imagined’ community, the integrity and reform of which is championed throughout the narrative. Her citizenship is denied.

Beatriz’s replacement of this ‘wicked’ half-sister follows. In direct opposition to

Marycarmen’s demise, Beatriz is rewarded for her ‘appropriate femininity’. Her ability to fulfill the role is signaled from telenovela beginning, when despite her love for Ignacio, she has no intentions of breaking up his family, as she tells him; ‘I am not going to hurt anybody […] not your political future nor Marycarmen nor my niece and nephew’. Beatriz is a spirited protagonist and like her half-sister, she is proud. Yet her positive relationship with love and the institutions of marriage and motherhood means that this pride is not a corrupting force, as she tells Marycarmen; ‘I want you to remember that besides the great care that I feel for Ignacio, I am not a “second best” woman, you got me?’ This reticence to rival Marycarmen for the galán’s love only serves to confirm her status as the ideal

‘candidate’ and like her selfless counterpart Rosalinda, it is only when the antagonist dies that Beatriz takes up her rightful role as wife and mother of the galán and his progeny.

Thus when Beatriz ends the telenovela in the arms of ‘the candidate’, her status as the chosen women is entirely warranted.

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Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.

Figure 15- Clarifying the narrative drive Figure 16- Embracing in the surf

The Look of a Woman… an Alternative Vision?

The alternate vision proposed in the title Mirada de Mujer, suggests a move away from the telenovela’s traditionally phallocentric framing of female characters. Translated as the

‘look’, ‘perspective’ or ‘gaze’ of a woman, the new subjectivity and agency promoted within this title suggests the possibility of revising the traditional male perspective that is framed even within the telenovela de ruptura, El Candidato. In sharp contrast to El

Candidato’s credits, the female gaze that dominates the opening credits of Mirada de Mujer suggests a break from such policing by the penetrating male gaze and the exclusionary female citizenship that this perspective entails.

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Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.

Figure 17 – Maria Inés’ penetrating gaze

Not unusually, Mirada de Mujer tells the story of an upper middle class family living in

Mexico City. Yet at the heart of this story are not the romantic misadventures of nubile young lovers, but the failed relationship of a middle aged couple Maria Inés and Ignacio.

Married for twenty-seven years, Ignacio’s infidelity with his thirty-something colleague

Daniela is a slap in the face for Maria Inés, who has given her life to her husband and family. Yet, Maria Inés’ role as a ‘madre sufrida’ who forgives her husband’s infidelity is short lived. Introduced to a journalist sixteen years her junior, Maria Inés falls in love, and the traditional trajectory for a female character in her predicament begins to unravel. Her refusal to reconcile with her husband despite his repentance and desire to reunite the family further flouts the traditional roles afforded women within the Mexican telenovela, through its emphasis placed on family unity at all costs.

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Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.

Figure 18 – Ignacio, Maria Inés & Alejandro Figure 19- Maria Inés & Alejandro

In this telenovela, a different sense of female identity is developed and encouraged. To begin, Maria Inés’ love affair with a younger man proposes a break from the ageism found within traditional configurations of the telenovela protagonist. Here, the camera lens shifts, as rather than tell her more sexually viable daughters’ stories, Maria Inés, a ‘matronly’ fifty year old housewife, lives the passion traditionally denied her. This sexualisation of the mother figure proved confronting for many viewers. Álvaro Cueva explained the reaction of the conservative media, when the newspaper El Norte launched a campaign against what they deemed this ‘scandalous’ telenovela. To mitigate this negative press, ‘the actors and the producer had to go to […] a ‘round table’ in the editorial office of El Norte, to make the publication’s reporters and editors understand what [the telenovela] was all about; that it wasn’t an offense to housewives, nor an invitation for them to go out and search for lovers’

(2007, pers. comm., 12 January).

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However, despite attempts to have the series banned, Mirada de Mujer continued to break down taboos. Epigmenio Ibarra explains one of the most groundbreaking moments of the novela as ‘the first abortion that has been done on Mexican television’ (Covarrubias and

Uribe 2000, 132). The treatment of issues such as AIDS, breast cancer, rape and anorexia similarly pushed the boundaries of traditional telenovela fare. This newfound ‘reality’ was coupled with the ‘concept of the hidden camera’ whereby ‘one scene could start in the elder daughter’s bedroom, pass to the other bedroom, then to the other, go into the passageway and then end up on the staircase’ (Covarrubias and Uribe 2000, 122). Designed to ‘make the spectator feel present: within the conflicts that were produced in the intimacy of the family’ (Covarrubias and Uribe 2000, 122) this cinematography worked towards rupturing the intimate space of the domestic sphere.

Arguably more confronting than the political corruption that flashed across the screen with

Nada Personal the year before, the once safe ‘bosom’ of the Mexican home became a hotbed of gender politics. So new was this approach, that academics hailed the new spaces opening up for female subjectivity onscreen and off. Here female audiences would be encouraged to question ‘their role as wives and mothers (of their subordinate position in relation to their husband and the possibility of existing beyond their personal lives) as a means of conceiving alternate ways of living their lives’ (Covarrubias and Uribe 1998, 3-

4).

First airing to great success in 1997 on TV Azteca’s channel 13 and most recently broadcast in the US in 2006, Mirada de Mujer appeared to provide a financially viable yet

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socially progressive update of the traditional formula. Yet as with El Candidato, a closer examination of the ‘type’ of nation and female citizenship ultimately configured within

Mirada de Mujer reveals the inherent limitations of this ‘resistance’.

Re-viewing Race and Class within the National Space

Mirada de Mujer’s setting in an upper middle class family in Mexico City prevents the story from providing an alternate space to those already privileged as the site of narrative importance within the traditional telenovela schema. Thus whilst race and class alternatives do exist, they remain peripheral, often superfluous to the narrative thrust, never threatening to destabilize the privilege experienced by the San Millan family.

Race issues are foregrounded in only one narrative thread when Maria Inés’ son, marries

Ivanna; a ‘negra’ (‘black girl’). This union is problematised by various members of the family, disgusted by the inclusion of a ‘negra’ in the family tree. Yet whilst this racism is weighted by the portrayal of Ivanna’s family as similarly unhappy with the union, the privileged position experienced by the majority of the light skinned telenovela characters remains unchallenged. Here the inclusion of exclusively light skinned actors within the principal cast perpetuates the normalization of whiteness.

Within Mirada de Mujer, the darker skinned characters look on. As maids, waiters, removalists, extras, or the general public lingering in the background, these figures are superfluous to the main story. The darker skinned maid working for the San Millan story

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has a name, Elvia, and a speaking part, yet her presence is only functional. As the maid, she makes life easier for the members of the family yet remains peripheral to the story. Her body is in a constant state of tension, and her own ‘mirada’, often downcast or appealing for instructions during the various family crises, indicate her role. Elvia’s perspective is never included within the narrative, as reflected in her framing within the scenes, which often show the back of her head, or her blurred figure in the background. She exists on the periphery, beyond the borders of the particular nation privileged within this narrative. How this equates to a ‘rupture’ of the exclusionary representational schema does not follow.

The class representations within Mirada de Mujer also problematise the notion of ‘rupture’.

The San Millan family is a wealthy family, with a mansion in Mexico City, a country house and ranch, apartments, cars for each member of the family and trips overseas. Ignacio is a successful lawyer and Marie Inés does not work. Neither do her friends Paulina and

Rosario.

Yet rather than question the class dynamics that this entails, the importance of wealth is reaffirmed throughout the narrative as those key events that compromise the stability of this economic status are resolved by telenovela end. When Ignacio threatens to withdraw financial support of his family during the divorce from Maria Inés, she finds the possibility of job-hunting beyond comprehension. She has no skills, no experience and middle age to contend with. Yet rather than explore the reality that would destroy the luxurious world within which she resides, Mirada de Mujer resolves this potential class conflict through

Ignacio’s continued support.

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Consequently, the only class conflict within the foreground surrounds Alejandro Salas;

Maria Inés’ younger lover. Alex is considered a poor bachelor with little financial security to offer Maria Inés. Yet whilst this causes him much anguish, Alex’s finances are not so limited as to communicate those class struggles prevalent beyond this upper echelon. He is a well-educated and articulate freelance journalist. Throughout the telenovela his earning power increases as he is offered work as a magazine editor and wins a prestigious international book prize. Whilst he may not reach the heights of wealth enjoyed by the San

Millan family, he is by no means representative of the poverty of the working class majority in the Mexican national space. As a young male professional he has the world at his feet.

Consequently Mirada de Mujer ‘ruptures’ neither the race nor class parameters of traditional narrative schema. Indeed, this telenovela de ruptura represents a ‘reality’ that arguably has very little to do with many of its viewers. Subsequently Argos’ desire to represent ‘what is happening in the nation’ (Covarrubias and Uribe 2000, 121) seems at odds with Mirada de Mujer’s particular community.

Scholars at the University of Colima discussed this contradiction in a 1998 interview with

Epigmenio Ibarra asking ‘Why frame in particular the life of the middle class, upper middle class, in a telenovela like Mirada de Mujer […] [as] the majority of those that watch ‘telly’ and have a significant telenovela culture don’t represent that social stratum [?]’

(Covarrubias and Uribe 2000, 123) Ibarra defended Argos’ work by explaining the difficulty of representing a wider social demographic beyond that framed within the

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traditional telenovela schema. Arguing that ‘in reality the worker doesn’t have time to go around thinking if he’s going to divorce or not, because he is worried about his stomach’ he admitted that ‘We are confronting the task of providing the most transparent vision on air that requires- among other things-, universality in the sense that all of the classes are there, but it is a monumental task’ (Covarrubias and Uribe 2000, 123-4) Thus whilst Ibarra confirms the importance of a multivalent social reality to Argos’ mission, their ongoing discrepancies remain evident.

Here, the ‘social and cultural issues taken from Latin American reality’ (Acosta-Alzuru

2003a, 271) that are apparently ‘typical’ of the de ruptura genre appear somewhat limited in their scope. Despite the notion that telenovelas de ruptura ‘rupture’ the anonymity of telenovelas rosa by contrasting to the ‘vacuum’ of time and space (Martín-Barbero 1995,

Acosta-Alzuru 2003b) found within the traditional formula, Mirada de Mujer provides no such narrative. Originally produced as a fifty-two episode mini-series in Venezuela, Señora

Isabel was brought to Mexico and adapted for national audiences. Yet apart from brief geographical mentions, the adaptation does not call the nation into being. Rather a

‘specifically national reality’ (Martin-Barbero 1995, 279) remains absent and like many

‘delocalised’ telenovelas formatted within the transnational television industry, Mirada de

Mujer could translate to a multitude of different national contexts.

Similarly, the potential to revise traditional ideologies from within the bosom of the family

— the very apparatus traditionally used to perpetuate patriarchal versions of the ‘tidy nation’ within the traditional telenovela formula — fails to transpire. Here the ‘look within’

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endorsed by Mirada de Mujer reinforces the insular dramatization of individual dilemmas as the theme of romance takes precedence. In this way, the old adage ‘love is blind’ rings true, as the importance of romance to the narrative creates a figurative blind spot, seemingly obliterating the other themes competing for airtime. As in the traditional telenovela formula, the love story determines the amount of ‘rupture’ to female characterisation and citizenship.

The following sections carefully consider the dynamics of this narrative trope. Indeed, an analysis of female characterisation as per the telenovela rosa formula effectively determines if these female characters “of rupture” are ‘liberated from the weight of destiny’

(Martín-Barbero 1995, 280) by telenovela end. Here, the focus on each character’s

‘destiny’ is necessary to gauge whether the shift from the male to the female ‘perspective’ avoids the policing of ‘appropriate femininity’ within this telenovela de ruptura.

Ultimately, this focus on narrative conclusion explores whether a reworking of female representation/citizenship within the telenovela community is even possible, as melodramatic tropes create both conflict through complicating binary opposites, then resolution through closing those sites of female transgression. This consideration of an enduring female ‘look’ — beyond the rolling credits — determines whether the telenovela de ruptura creates mere surface changes or allows a deeper restructuring of those traditional narrative tropes founded on female mythification.

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First Impressions; Privileging the Female Perspective

The ‘look’ privileged within Mirada de Mujer is cleverly presented. Rather than potentially ostracise audiences by suddenly presenting a different perspective and set of values than those traditionally portrayed within the Mexican telenovela, Mirada de Mujer gradually leads the audience to the new viewpoint. This journey effectively follows the characters’ steps towards ‘enlightenment’ whereby their understanding of the world is challenged and they are forced to extend their boundaries of tolerance. The telenovela begins with the normalised ‘male’ perspective, epitomised by the patriarch Ignacio San Millan, limiting the lives of many of the characters within the narrative. As these characters become increasingly frustrated with this schema, they fight against its logic. Throughout the narrative, some characters serve as activists for the ‘new order.’ Still others actively resist it, trying to protect the moral stability they fear is threatened by this new vision. Yet in line with the narrative thrust advocating change beyond the strictures of patriarchal rule, it would seem that this order is eventually replaced with the newfound vision of the ‘mirada de mujer’.

Maria Inés’ journey throughout the telenovela epitomises the shift from a male to female perspective. As the female protagonist, her perspective is privileged such that, it is her

‘look’ that forms the name of the telenovela. Correspondingly, Maria Inés is the first character to adopt the new female perspective. Her discovery of her husband’s infidelity subverts her world; a world within which male dominance is normalised, and which she, as wife and mother, helped to perpetuate. The telenovela’s first scene illustrates this order. As

Maria Inés dresses for an evening in which she will accompany her husband to a work

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dinner, she listens supportively to his complaints about the workers’ strikes, and keeps family politics at bay. Acting as mediator between father and son, she is the peacekeeper; moving through the mansion’s rooms and passageways, she is smiling, democratic, unobtrusive, expressing concern. She exudes the traditional values of wife and mother. She is good.

Yet the traditional telenovela formula is soon compromised. At the end of this scene, desire stirs. Maria Inés may be a middle-aged wife and mother but she is also a woman; she seeks validation from her husband’s gaze and when he fails to take interest in her physically, her untapped sexuality is revealed. Here Maria Inés begins to diverge from her traditional configuration. Whilst in Rosalinda, the viewer is encouraged to read the sexuality of the middle-aged Valeria as pathological, here it is normalised through Maria Inés’ role as protagonist. Thus rather than advocating her rejection by the viewer, Maria Inés’ desire is presented as an acceptable characteristic of this unique heroine.

This apparent privileging of a new order continues through Maria Inés’ narrative trajectory.

Maria Inés is initially deterred by the negative reactions to her desire for independence. She continues to live with Ignacio and does not openly challenge his conclusion that they are too old to divorce. Even after she becomes aware that the affair has lasted for two years, she waits for him to make a decision regarding her future. Yet this inaction is not privileged within the narrative as Maria Inés’ unhappiness motivates a desire for her, as telenovela protagonist, to awaken to the new perspective. Thus rather than condemn Maria Inés’ activity when she final awakens to the injustice of her situation, the narrative demonises

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those who defend this misogynist order. This includes her daughters’ and mother’s assertion that Ignacio’s cheating was actually Maria Inés’ fault.

This is emphasised when Maria Inés meets Alejandro Salas, whose qualitative gaze is vastly different to the traditional gaze that frames her as Ignacio’s wife and the mother of his three children. No longer restrained by her husband’s agenda, she adopts a newfound agency, and her corresponding sexual and emotional empowerment helps her to confront those threatened by this new perspective. Increasingly affronted by her sexuality, the characters ridicule Maria Inés’ potential to be sexually attractive. Here, Maria Elena and

Ignacio reason that Alejandro can only be interested in her money, and warn him off through attempted bribery. Even her best friend Paulina confirms the exceptional nature of her relationship with a younger man, repeating throughout the novela that Alejandro is an

‘extraterrestrial’; able to love Maria Inés despite temptation by younger more viable candidates for his affections.

Later when the family realises the strength of Alejandro’s affections, they attempt to sabotage their ability to be together; first by getting Alejandro fired, then by cutting off

Maria Inés’ financial support so that she is forced to reunite with Ignacio. Yet most significantly, Maria Inés’ values are questioned, as the strength of her union with Alejandro threatens the order that she is charged with maintaining. Her sexuality, once the subject of ridicule, is now portrayed as lustful, grotesque and irresponsible, for a woman of her age and social status. She is charged with responsibility for her (adult) children’s personal problems, due to her ‘transgression’ of ‘appropriate’ motherhood. Unlike Ignacio’s

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immunity to blame for his infidelities, Maria Inés is liable for Monica’s neurosis and anorexia, for Andrea’s pregnancy out of wedlock and for Andres’ heavy drinking and affair with Paulina.

However, the patriarchal order does not stand. Maria Inés’ role as telenovela protagonist maintains her integrity and ostracises those characters trying to limit her independence.

This transgressive order is consolidated as the narrative continues and each of these ‘bad’ characters submits to the logic of the ‘female’ perspective. Integral to this transition process is Ignacio’s admission of guilt. When he finally takes responsibility for his actions, likening his power to Mexico’s corruption, it seems that the male order is officially deposed. This allegory between family politics and the deposed rule of the father calls for a new order within the national space. Later, Ignacio’s handing over of the divorce papers signifies his entrusting the reigns of this ‘nation’ to Maria Inés. Symbolising the ‘rupture’ of the ‘tidy’ national space, it would seem that a more inclusive female citizenship would follow this transfer of power.

Just as Maria Inés transgresses the female dichotomy so too do the other female characters.

Here, the ‘good’ characters Andrea, Consuelo and Paulina exhibit ‘bad’ characteristics like ambition, divorce and promiscuity. Likewise, despite the injustices that they commit against Maria Inés, those who most vehemently oppose her happiness are also contextualised. Mamalena and Monica are depicted empathetically as psychologically complex yet understandable women who only seek to secure their family’s unity.

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Daniela’s complex characterisation epitomises this schema. Everything about Daniela depicts her as a ‘scarlet woman.’ She is first seen in the opening credits lying in bed kissing

Ignacio. Lithe, young and beautiful, she whispers to the protagonist’s husband ‘leave her’.

Further to this rivalry, her position as an intelligent career woman, threatens Maria Inés’ domesticity. In contrast to the protagonist, Daniela lives in the public sphere as a lawyer in a successful firm and her home is clean and empty. As she stands in her kitchen with her best friend Marcela, the bench tops and appliances gleam with lack of use. There are no children, maids or relatives to invade this space. She is sleek and sexy; a lover.

Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.

Figure 20 — Daniela in bed with Ignacio.

Yet whilst within a traditional telenovela schema, Daniela would be depicted as the antagonistic ‘whore’, Mirada de Mujer’s female perspective appears to afford her a different role. Despite her credentials as the female antagonist, Daniela is portrayed as a reasonable and kind person. The gentle music that often punctuates her scenes works towards facilitating this shift for viewers, accustomed to the antagonism of the ‘other 252 | Page

woman’. Further complicating this characterisation is Daniela’s relationship with maternity.

She desperately wants a child yet her active pursuit of maternity comes from a genuine desire rather than a tactic to ensnare her man. Indeed after Ignacio abandons her, Daniela rejects his decision to return as the father of her child. Not only does this undermine the traditional formula’s investment in heteronormative configurations the family unit, it also shows her personal integrity.

It is this desire for true love that complicates Daniela’s role as the ‘other’ woman. Indeed, she may be the ‘unloved’ woman but unlike the antagonist, her status does not translate into an active pursuit to access this love. Not once does she become the irrational, despised

‘loca’ that threatens the male order in her desperate attempts to appropriate this site of empowerment. Indeed, whilst Daniela has a fraught relationship with love, she knows that she deserves it.

Following this complex characterisation, Daniela does not pursue a rivalry with Maria Inés for Ignacio’s love. In fact, she defends Maria Inés from his criticism. Here the lines between protagonist and antagonist become blurred. As each woman is characterised beyond the strict parameters of the female dichotomy, it would seem that her transgression is encouraged rather than problematised. This investment in the interstitial existence of its female characters should equate to an inclusive female citizenship upon telenovela conclusion. However, when the ‘female’ perspective is given a closer look these first impressions do not last.

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…Towards an ‘Ideal Imagined’ Conclusion

Despite Mirada de Mujer’s complex female characterisation, none of these women is

‘liberated from the weight of destiny’ (Martín-Barbero 1995, 9) that typically determines the conclusion of their narrative trajectory. Whilst the female characters are not demonised or reified from telenovela beginning to end, certain women remain within the telenovela community, whilst others are removed. The extent of this ‘exile’ is quite remarkable, as each of these ‘problematic’ women either state that they must leave the community, are physically harmed, or are killed. Thus, the same formulaic parameters that police femininity within the traditional telenovela can be applied to each of these women.

Monica’s rape and Mamalena’s return to the United States illustrate this logic but it is

Daniela’s, Paulina’s and Marcela’s fate that exemplify its patriarchal hegemony. Daniela decides that she must leave Mexico City, where her career, family and friends are based, because of the harsh judgments levelled at her. As she tells Ignacio ‘I’m going to leave

Mexico City […] It wasn’t easy making the decision, but I have had to confront very uncomfortable situations; from the pain that I have caused my family, to, well, the very cruel comments in the office.’ Run out of town, Daniela’s exile can be read as a repercussion of her transgression of ‘appropriate’ femininity. Thus whilst she is not judged by the female ‘mirada’, the traditional male perspective prevails. As a single mother, who has rejected the salvation offered her through marriage, she has no place within this ideal community.

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Paulina’s death clearly indicates the extent of this ‘policing’ of ‘appropriate femininity.

Despite gaining integrity through her friendship with the telenovela protagonist, Paulina’s sexual ‘promiscuity’ determines her fate. As a sexually active blond divorcee in her forties,

Paulina operates as a free agent. This independent activity means that she does not spend time with her daughters, who remain absent onscreen. Maria Inés is often shocked by

Paulina’s sexual antics and vanity, but still loves her dearly and thus humanises her antics.

Further to this concession by the female gaze, Paulina’s passivity tempers her transgression, as despite her ‘promiscuity’, she is a weak person who cannot say ‘no’ to the often- aggressive men in her life.

However, despite support by the female protagonist and a desire to change her abusive relationships with men, Paulina’s demise follows. Repeatedly beaten and later raped by her lover, she is punished throughout the narrative then ultimately denied citizenship when diagnosed with HIV near telenovela end. Her subsequently speedy death ensues. The fact that she always used protection and only ever had unprotected sex when her violent boyfriend Marcos raped her seems a moot point. This is not enough to save her.

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Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.

Figures 21&22- The correlation between Paulina’s sexuality and her death is inevitable

Paulina’s disease physically articulates her ‘inappropriate’ femininity within this community, yet the intimate relationship between Paulina’s transgressed sexuality and her maternity is nowhere more apparent than when she is deemed incapable of motherhood, and her children are removed from her care. As her husband comes to take them away, she begs him to believe that she was a good mother, to no avail. Paulina’s humanity is taken away with her children and she becomes a monster, reminiscent of La Llorona, the horrific

‘crying woman’ whose act of infanticide has been immortalised in urban mythology as the aberrant whore mother. As Paulina screams in grief at the end of this scene, her hands claw at her hair and her mouth gapes open, horrified by this image of herself. Like a scene from a classic horror film, the camera quickly pans out long and low, and stops abruptly, hiding behind a chair. Framed as abject female aberration, Paulina is a monstrous threat which must be removed from this ideal community.

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Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.

Figures 23-29 -- Paulina is framed as abject ‘other’, as she loses her children for being a bad mother

Throughout their interviews, telenovela academics and professionals, including those Argos executives involved in the project, described the negative reaction by many of Mirada de

Mujer’s viewers to Paulina’s death. They also articulated their own discomfort with

Paulina’s fate. Marcela Mejía was a producer on the telenovela and she explained how

The whole cast, and all the women crew, began to protest when they read the scripts. They said ‘No, because it is a punishment, killing her is a punishment. A woman freely exercising her sexuality will be killed by the author’. [...] So then I got all of the protestors together at a dinner with the author – Bernard Romero – who was the only man at the dinner. And then he started talking [...] 'I'm not punishing Paulina because she exercises her sexuality. I'm punishing her because she is a woman who thinks that sex is love. A woman who has failed to look for love but who has sex thinking that it is love. That is her punishment’ (2007, pers. comm., 17 January).

Antonio Serrano was also a producer on the telenovela and he critiqued the writer’s perspective, arguing that the wrong woman died within this telenovela;

If you want to talk about AIDS, then you’re better off giving it to the housewife who lives locked up with her husband; married, conservative, thinking and doing nothing and whose husband is the one who cheats on her and sleeps with women and men and whoever he 257 | Page

wants […] it is the husband that infects her. That is more realistic and I think it has many more implications than the other version which is once again the puritanical take that says “don’t be free because you will […] end up in the ground” (2007, pers. comm., 23 January).

Bustos Romero shared this reading and argued that Paulina’s death highlighted the maintenance of the patriarchal order within this novela. Those interviewed who rejected this reading of Mirada de Mujer were most insightful to the pervasiveness of the traditional schema. Defending the moral logic behind Paulina’s death, Ibarra emphasised that ‘Paulina was the villain’ (Covarrubias and Uribe 2000, 132). Arguing that the ‘complexity’ of her character was an unplanned mistake, he asserted that ‘the writer was always against

Margarita Gralia’s interpretation of the role, because she did it in such a nice way: she created a Paulina that was very charismatic and beautiful’ (Covarrubias and Uribe 2000,

132).

These comments are particularly revelatory, as it seems that Paulina was never meant to be more than a whore. She was written and produced to be unwanted, unloved and expendable. The fact that she was, according to Ibarra, miscast and misinterpreted, by the actress as well as the audience, suggests that they were wrong to think they were watching something that ‘ruptured’ the conventional execution of female citizenship within the

Mexican telenovela. As Ibarra explained;

I was very surprised about the reaction from all of the liberal sectors of the nation, because if there was a slave-like, retrograde, reactionary, anti liberation of the woman character in that novela it was Paulina. […] Paulina got involved with a crazed macho that beat her, she stayed with him despite his beating her, he raped her, she didn’t use a condom […] To the feminists that came out in defense of Paulina I told them “the first that should crucify her are you” and it was the complete opposite (Covarrubias and Uribe 2000, 131). 258 | Page

This ‘justified’ punishing of the sexually active woman and the removal of her threat to the

‘ideal imagined’ community, suggest that this ‘telenovela de ruptura’ invests in the same narrative dynamics that facilitate the construction of a ‘tidy nation’ as ‘ideal imagined’ community within the traditional Mexican telenovela text. However, this is not unprecedented as both El Candidato and Mirada de Mujer simply reflect a flaw in the de ruptura formula.

Upon defining the telenovela de ruptura genre, Jesus Martín-Barbero inadvertently highlights this flaw as not breaking with the melodramatic model entirely (Martín-Barbero

1995, 279). Here loyalty to the melodramatic model, which in the Mexican telenovela assures the drive for a ‘tidy’ narrative resolution, compromises the potential that this revisionist genre has for a more complex female characterisation. This is evident in both telenovelas surveyed here. As the melodramatic drive for conflict resolution lends itself to the reward or punishment of certain types of women by telenovela end, it contradicts attempts at creating an inclusive female citizenship within the telenovela community. Thus, whilst the female perspective within Mirada de Mujer would seem to promote transgressive spaces within the narrative, this telenovela de ruptura follows formulaic tradition by ultimately closing down sites of resistance.

Here, Mirada de Mujer’s investment in ‘Manichaean melodramatic’ closure signals the ultimate triumph of the male gaze-as telenovela galán. However, unlike the traditional formula, the power of this gaze is initially hidden. From the outset, Alejandro’s position as

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‘extraterrestrial’ appears to promote the alternative female perspective yet this status ultimately serves his endorsement of those same parameters of exclusionary female citizenship by telenovela conclusion. This sensitive hero is uniquely placed, as the bridge between a male and female perspective. Yet coupled with Alejandro’s powerful status as telenovela galán, he effectively colonises the female space, serving as a point of entrance for women to gain access to the female ‘mirada.’ This creates a false economy, as the women continue to depend on patriarchal authority for their sense of self.

First evident with Maria Inés’ validation through Alejandro’s gaze, the protagonist suffers tremendously when his gaze is averted. She tells Alejandro that she cannot live without him and that she has lost any sense of self outside of their relationship. Alejandro similarly provides access to the female perspective for Monica and Marcela. He informs Monica of her options regarding her unborn child. He also teaches Marcela how to be a ‘real’ woman, leading her to a more ‘appropriate’ model of femininity. Inevitably, Alejandro’s promotion of the female perspective is not always inclusive of difference. His treatment of Paulina confirms this limited view.

It is through Alejandro’s gaze that Paulina’s demise is played out as a logical result of her promiscuity. Indeed, Alejandro’s indictment of her behaviour conveys this notion that she was “asking for it”. At first, he jokes about her beating by Marcos and implies that her life is a ridiculous disaster. Upon her rape, he articulates this more clearly, asserting that whilst she did not ‘deserve it’, she was effectively ‘asking for it’ because she didn’t stop the violence the first time. When they are later reporting the crime, he jokes with the male clerk

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that Paulina thinks that a guy shows he is in love if he beats her. Maria Inés briefly chides the inappropriateness of this commentary but Alex’s authority as the telenovela galán endorses this reading of Paulina within the narrative.

Ultimately though, it is Marcela’s characterisation and narrative trajectory that best illustrate this novela’s recourse to the traditional demarcations of ‘appropriate’ and

‘inappropriate’ femininity, as directed by the galán’s gaze. Here, the delayed rivalry between Maria Inés and Marcela for Alejandro’s love corrects the apparent absence of the female dichotomy at the beginning of the telenovela. For whilst many women within

Mirada de Mujer can act as antagonistic obstacles to Maria Inés’ happiness, they remain peripheral to the central female rivalry at the heart of the narrative schema. Similarly, their

‘revision’ remains somewhat peripheral to the narrative dynamics. An understanding of

Marcela as ‘other’ to the real love story played out within this telenovela, between

Alejandro and Maria Inés, clarifies the perpetuation of the patriarchal schema within the narrative.

Marcela is introduced as a key character part way through the telenovela narrative. At first she is just Daniela’s friend; another young, independent working-woman who actively vocalises her disregard for patriarchy by criticizing love and affirming her completion without a man. Yet despite her cynicism she is not initially ostracised. Rather, she is an advocate of the female perspective; defending her own and her friend’s interests. Marcela’s subsequent characterisation within the narrative trajectory thus comes as a shock.

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Despite her status as an unlikely candidate for the active pursuit of love, Marcela soon becomes ‘the other woman’ to Maria Inés’ relationship with Alejandro. Such is Alejandro’s magnetism that upon meeting him, Marcela abandons her fierce independence and personal agency, in pursuit of his love. Where Marcela’s activity once focused on her career and personal independence, it refocuses entirely on Alejandro, as Daniela tells her, ‘Marcela you always said that you didn’t need any man in order to live. And now you want to keep one by force. You pursue him, you hunt him, you’re always behind him.’ Marcela is animalistic; a woman possessed. This unnatural relationship with love emphasises her deviant behaviour, quickly escalating to sexual perversion, as she tells him ‘I want to possess you […] I’m not going to stop until I get you in my bed.’

Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.

Figures 30-31 – Marcela tries to seduce Alejandro at work

Marcela’s obsession leads to her active rivalry with Maria Inés. Arguing that the protagonist is more mother than lover, Marcela is convinced that she, a real woman, is the correct recipient of Alejandro’s affections. In true antagonistic style, she manipulates

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knowledge in order to secure her victory. When Marcela slips her lingerie into Alejandro’s suit jacket (inevitably found by Maria Inés) she exemplifies the antagonist’s repertoire of deception. The discordant music that marks these scenes articulates her crazed state as do

Alejandro’s claims that he is victim to her sexual obsession. As he tells Maria Inés;

‘Marcela is crazy Maria. She doesn’t stop at anything. I even went to see the Virgin of

Guadalupe to ask her to protect me’. His invocation of the Virgin of Guadalupe inverts the gender roles, aligning him with the passive female schema that Marcela’s activity betrays, and condemning her transgression of ‘appropriate femininity.’

Fittingly, Marcela is ‘punished’ by the male perspective. This is most evident when she attempts to seduce Alejandro in his home. Telling her to lie on the bed he lectures;

What a pity that I don’t have a mirror on the ceiling. Because then you could see how ridiculous you look. […] What a pity, really, that there isn’t a mirror, because then you could feel the same pity that I feel for you. You know why I couldn’t sleep with you? Because I respect myself. Because if I slept with you I would degrade myself and I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror. Through this humiliation, Marcela learns that ‘love comes before sex’ and, ashamed of her transgressive behaviour, she sets out to right her wrongs. Telling Maria Inés that she wants to ‘clean up the damage […] that I caused you both’ she is pardoned by the protagonist.

Here it would seem that the female perspective redeems Marcela yet her transgression must be punished and she is exiled upon narrative conclusion. The final humiliation within her self-imposed exile occurs when she hands her career over to Alejandro, effectively relinquishing her status as a career woman to the telenovela galán.

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Evidently, the women within this story do ‘serve as signs’, much like their Manichaean counterparts within the traditional Mexican telenovela. The final scenes of the telenovela consolidate this traditionalism. Set one year after Maria Inés’ decision not to marry

Alejandro, her nursery is flourishing and she is a happily independent businesswoman.

Alejandro has returned for a few days from his job in . They stare into each other eyes and he tells her that he loves her. She has never stopped loving him, yet turns her cheek when he tries to kiss her. She tells him that she will always be his safe harbour. Yet he drives away from her, down the hill and out of sight. Viewers are momentarily vindicated when Alejandro is seen running back to Maria Inés in slow motion. Her face lights up, they embrace and the camera circles around them. It is a moment of dizzying relief as the protagonist falls into the embrace of her true love…

Yet the moment that Maria Inés opens her eyes and registers that she is alone, in the street, staring into the distance, Mirada de Mujer resorts to the traditional telenovela schema.

Undeniably, the narrative does provide a refreshing alternative to the premise that love with the telenovela galán equals ultimate happiness. Outside of an association with the galán’s love, Maria Inés is independent of the male gaze, and can be considered free to live her life beyond the constraints of prescribed femininity. Yet this ‘revision’ of the protagonist’s fate is not as disruptive as it may seem. Effectively reproducing the same ageist parameters policing female sexuality within the traditional schema, Maria Inés’ solitary figure at telenovela end indicates her illegitimacy as a sexual and romantic being, as a middle-aged, divorced mother of three.

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By denying fulfilment of Maria Inés’ love relationship with the telenovela galán, the protagonist is discounted as a winner within the telenovela narrative. Exacerbated by the fact that Maria Inés still loves Alejandro, this ending reads as a non sequitur. Marcela

Mejía argues for the congruence of this ending with the narrative theme. Here María Inés’ assertion that ‘through the love of Alejandro, I learnt that I am a woman, regardless of having a husband or not, I am a woman’ is enough to justify her single-status upon narrative conclusion (Mejía M. 2007, pers. comm., 17 January). However Mejía also understood the audience’s reaction, as ‘the public had got to know the character […] and by the end she does something that does not make sense’ (2007, pers. comm., 17 January).

This is not just a perceived ‘betrayal’ of the character but also of the audience.

Maria Inés’ unfulfilled fate at the conclusion of Mirada de Mujer equated to a betrayal of the promise made to telenovela viewers. Predicated on the ‘happy ending’ promised at narrative beginning, telenovela lore states that the protagonist and galán will end the telenovela in each other’s arms. This is not merely the domain of the rosa text, but any telenovela subgenre within the Mexican repertoire. Consequently, audience investment in

Maria Inés’ well-being throughout the 121 episodes may have seemed fruitless by telenovela end.

Furthermore, the uproar did not preclude those academic followers tracing the development of this purportedly new model for femininity within the Mexican telenovela. Some read

Maria Inés’ single status at the end of Mirada de Mujer as the silencing of the alternative vision endorsed within the ‘female mirada’, in aid of the ultimate privileging of the

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traditional schema. Perpetuating the same conservative parameters of ‘appropriate’ femininity that traditionally accompany this role, Maria Inés’ age and civil status seem to deny a revision of the conservative parameters of female citizenship within the Mexican telenovela formula. This was confirmed by some in the production team, as Argos writer

Laura Sosa explained in interview that ‘I fought a lot about the ending of Mirada de Mujer, let me tell you. Because it seemed a bit of a macho vision […] that at the end of the day

[…] a fifty year old woman cannot end up with a thirty year old man’ (2007, pers. comm.,

22 January).

These various forms of feedback came through loud and clear for TV Azteca. The airing of a teaser episode three days after the initial final showed Maria Inés and Alejandro meeting in a travel agency, and suggested their possible reunion. Yet for many, this was not enough.

As one blogger explained;

The ending itself leaves you with a cliffhanger [sic] whether they will stay together after their assence [sic] from each other or continue seeing each other as friends. I hate to admit it but I am a helpless romantic.. [sic] So I go with the option that Maria Ines [sic] and Alejandro will continue together after this meeting in the travel agency (alecey, 21 January 2002).

Despite the eventual onscreen reunion of Maria Inés and Alejandro in TV Azteca’s Mirada de Mujer El Regreso (‘The Return’, TV Azteca 2000) viewer doubts regarding the relationship between the story’s protagonists were not completely alleviated. Deemed an inferior sequel to the Argos hit, TV Azteca’s follow up was derided by critics, academics and viewers. Consequently, for many viewers Mirada de Mujer exists as a stand-alone text and as such, this telenovela de ruptura reiterates the ‘tidy’ version of the nation that

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complies with the traditional formula. The story of a middle aged ex-wife and mother who is removed from the sexual economy only confirms her illegitimacy as a candidate for romantic love with the telenovela galán.

The Limitations of Resistance within the Telenovela de Ruptura

Both of the telenovelas de ruptura surveyed within this chapter revert to the construction of a ‘tidy’ version of the nation by narrative conclusion. Thus what exactly it is that they

‘rupture’ remains unclear. The limitations to ‘resistance’ within these narratives are however evident. Tied to the dynamics of the romantic love story, the Manichaean melodramatic tropes that constitute rivalry for the galán’s love lead to an exclusionary configuration of female characterisation and citizenship within both of these narratives.

Yet although these narrative tropes disappoint the ‘rupturing’ of the traditional telenovela schema, it is important not to view this as an equivocal failure of the de ruptura movement or an indictment of the intentions behind its development. Rather, this era within the

Mexican telenovela's fifty-year history must be understood within the dynamics of the industry itself. As outlined in Chapter Three, consideration of those tenets of the Mexican telenovela industry that hinder change ‘because that’s the genre’ and ‘because it’s a commercial industry’, must follow.

Epigmenio Ibarra highlighted these limitations when arguing the importance of fidelity to the Manichaean melodramatic form in defence of Mirada de Mujer’s controversial female characterisation. Amongst his arguments was the assertion that Paulina had to die, as

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‘dramatically her death was inescapable because without that blow, Maria Inés would not have been able to turn her life around, the ending would not have been possible’

(Covarrubias and Uribe 2000, 131). Similarly, among Álvaro Cueva’s most resounding criticism of the Mexican telenovela form is the impermeability of the melodramatic format.

This was not always his contention.

Writing optimistically in 2001 he celebrated the telenovela de ruptura’s tendency to break with the schema of the traditional telenovela rosa and its Manichaean narrative mode.

Specifically, he praised its ‘tendency […] to annul values, to break with the schema of the heroine, the galán and the villains, and to put together beings with multiple characteristics and values where it is difficult to differentiate between good and bad’ (Cueva 2001, 82).

Cueva suggested that;

because of this, it is no longer possible to talk about the fight between good and evil. Any character that goes forward or backwards is going to be considered a victim or villain depending on the context; so much so that some reaction that before could only have been considered negative, like revenge, have become positive and even desirable with time (2001, 82-3)

Yet proving to predict the inherent downfall of this form, Cueva acknowledged that ‘it is not possible to suggest’ that the rise of the de ruptura movement saw ‘all telenovelas entirely abandon the traditional melodramatic Manichaeism’ (Cueva 2001, 84). Rather, he suggests that ‘despite the changes, many of them, the majority, continue to maintain moral, emotional, Christian, musical and structural elements that tie them to their past’ (Cueva

2001, 84). As is evident from both of the telenovelas de ruptura surveyed here, despite the

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complications in the characters’ personae and the inclusion of controversial themes, morality is often unambiguous and the female dichotomy remains.

However, whilst fidelity to these narrative tropes can be attributed to the demise of the telenovela de ruptura, in Mexico it would seem that their economic viability constitutes the bottom line. Here those values that are inherent to the narrative form and that are promoted by the sponsors and networks involved in financing, producing and broadcasting the project, as well as endorsed by the viewers through affinity with the genre and the cultural imaginary from which they manifest, all combine to consolidate this schema.

Consequently, the inclusion of particular ‘social and cultural issues taken from Latin

American reality’ (Acosta-Alzuru 2003a, 271) may be ‘revolutionary’ in scope, yet does not necessarily translate to a long-term financially viable product.

To begin, such ‘localised’ reality may not resonate beyond national borders. Telenovelas must avoid national specificities to ensure transnational ratings success. As discussed in

Chapter Three, the requirement for the telenovela de ruptura to present ‘reality’ yet ensure a sufficiently relatable story for diverse audiences throughout the world, has seen an investment in the telenovela love story. Here, the maintenance of the popular romantic narrative is perceived to secure the currency of these telenovelas de ruptura within a transnational context. El Candidato and Mirada de Mujer thus reflect this narrative prerequisite.

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Further ‘ideological censorship’ of these telenovelas de ruptura is evident with the outcry that many of Argos’ telenovelas have caused within certain conservative circles. Here the intricate relationship between production conglomerates, sponsors and the Catholic Church, highlight the limitations to constructing alternative female characterisation on the small screen. In interview Epigmenio Ibarra alludes to the economic limitations placed on ideological ‘creativity’ within the production process;

We have limitations because the television isn’t our own and when we launch something, many stop us […] things get hard with the structure of media ownership, where the desire of one or a few individuals prevails above what should be the mission of television in Mexico (Covarrubias and Uribe 2000, 126).

By identifying Argos’ dependence on the networks for airtime and the consequent limitations that transpire from this equation, it is possible to see how the modification of female characterisation and citizenship within the telenovela de ruptura may be limited.

Argos’ defection from TV Azteca to Telemundo in 2001 highlights these inherent limitations within the Mexican telenovela industry. Seeking to ‘formally become a producer of content that maintained unconditionally its authorial rights’ (Fernández 2000, n.p.)

Argos signed a three-year, nine telenovela contract with Telemundo in the United States. It would seem that telenovela production within the Mexican industry could not satisfy

Argos’ vision for a ‘realistic’ televisual nation.

Despite Argos’ return to TV Azteca in 2007, its vision remains abstract. As evident in the publicity material for the 2008 telenovela Vivir Sin Ti (‘Living Without You’) Argos seems destined to reproduce the same romantic narrative typical of traditional fare.

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Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.

Figure 32—Natalia, Juan Carlos and Mariana.

The image is familiar; flanked by his wife Natalia and his young lover Mariana, Juan

Carlos embodies the site of rivalry for two women over one man. One woman wears white, the other wears black. One woman is the good wife and mother; the other is the morally ambiguous younger lover. Like Mirada de Mujer before it, Vivir Sin Ti reproduces the story of a wife and mother dealing with her husband’s infidelities. However, this Argos telenovela seems more prescriptive than its equivalent from over a decade earlier. Unlike

Mirada de Mujer, Vivir Sin Ti does not indulge Natalia’s independence. By telenovela conclusion, she returns to Juan Carlos’ side — reclaiming her position as wife and mother despite his numerous infidelities. The death of Mariana, Juan Carlos’ twenty-four year old student lover confirms this traditional schema. Although Mariana is somewhat unconventional, ‘because she is not a frivolous woman and it bothers her that Natalia suffers so much’, she faces the familiar destiny of the telenovela antagonist. Shot dead by

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the jilted lover of another of Juan Carlos’ conquests, her exile from the telenovela community allows Natalia to return to her husband’s place.

Despite the new contractual between Argos and TV Azteca, which give full ownership of authorial rights to the independent producer, Argos remains limited by its ongoing reliance on TV Azteca for airtime. As early as 2000, Epigmenio Ibarra argued for the need of a third channel, acknowledging that Argos’ relationship of convenience with

TV Azteca was not ideal his company’s desire to challenge Mexico’s commercial television . He suggested that Televisa would do a service to the nation, relinquishing one of the many channels that it has within its portfolio; ‘I say that a patriotic gesture and entrepreneurial sensibility would be for Televisa to get rid of one of its channels that don’t have rating or even infrastructure’ (cited in Fernández 2002, n.p.).

However, even following such an act of ‘patriotism’ the possibility remains dubious.

Lamenting the high start up costs of a television channel in Mexico, which was suggested by Hernán Vera to be in the 600 million US dollar range (2007, pers. comm., 22 January),

Ibarra confirmed these inherent limitations of a commercial television industry when interviewed in 2007 (pers. comm., 9 February). Stating that it is not even possible to label

Mexico’s television system as an industry, Mejía argued that ‘there are two very important family businesses but an industry so to speak, does not exist. They do not operate as an industry […] they make no effort to improve the product […] they are two families that desire control over certain things’ (2007, pers. comm., 17 January).

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This reiteration of the ultimately commercial and conservative nature of the Mexican telenovela industry highlights those factors that were key to the ‘demise’ of the telenovela de ruptura. The seemingly limited compatibility between the commercial industry and this

‘revolutionary’ form has lead many scholars and critics to declare their disappointment with the industry. Many others who dedicated pages to espousing the new era of Mexican television have merely turned to other fields in light of its purported failure.

Álvaro Cueva was one of those few who have analysed its demise. Writing in 2001 at arguably the height of the ‘new wave’ of Mexican telenovelas, Cueva saw a bright future ahead. He argued that the Mexican telenovela was finally of age, ‘perfectly cooked’ and ready for ‘the true spectacle of serial melodrama’ to begin (Cueva 2001, 138) such that

‘what we have seen since 1950 to date will be nothing in comparison to what we will see within a few years’ (Cueva 2001, 138). He even ventured ‘I will put myself out there and say that fifty years later, telenovelas are, for the first time since their birth, the contemporary of international communication’ (Cueva 2001, 139). Yet less than a decade later he questioned ‘what’s wrong with us? What’s happening to out television?’ (Cueva

2007, n.p.). Stating that ‘I’ve become pessimistic about the future of Mexican television’

Cueva confirmed the Mexican telenovela’s inherent recourse to tradition as ‘the more time that passes, the more I realise that instead of going forward, this medium of communication goes backwards’ (Cueva 2007, n.p.).

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The Demise of the Telenovela de Ruptura…?

Considering the inherently cyclical nature of the Mexican telenovela industry helps to frame the ‘demise’ of the telenovela de ruptura era as somewhat inevitable. Epigmenio

Ibarra suggested as much when critiquing Televisa’s attempts to engage with the telenovela de ruptura movement, arguing that fiscal incentives meant recourse to traditionalism as

‘[what] they know how to do makes them a lot of money and gives them a lot of success, but there is a problem with inertia’ (Covarrubias and Uribe 2000, 134). For Ibarra, this

‘inertia’ has meant that in the aftermath of the de ruptura movement, Televisa telenovelas became even more traditional. Yet such assertions can be made about the industry as a whole, as this tendency to return ‘like a pendulum, even more so, to the traditional schema’

(Covarrubias and Uribe 2000, 134) has paralysed the ability for ‘rupture’ to occur beyond the short-term. This confirms what Álvaro Cueva has referred to as the ‘frivolous vision’ of television in Mexico, where ‘everything revolves around the day’s ratings’, to the detriment of a ‘telenovela proposal’ to ‘take the telenovela in this direction’ (2007, pers comm., 12

January).

Despite the various trends in innovation throughout the Mexican telenovela’s fifty-year history, the ‘pendulum’ has inevitably swung back to more traditional — and more financially viable — telenovela fare. In 2007 Laura Sosa stated that ‘in recent years there has been a tendency towards a very strong conservatism in Mexican television’ which has lead to ‘a tendency for censorship’ (2007, pers. comm., 5 February). Consequently, ‘if in

2003 […] one spoke of a homosexual relationship in La Vida en el Espejo (‘Life in the

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Mirror’), now it is impossible to speak of a homosexual […] unless he is being ridiculed’

(2007, pers. comm., 5 February).

It would seem that the ongoing commercial viability of the ideologically ‘sound’ romantic love story ultimately undermines any permanent change that may accompany such

‘movements’ as the telenovela de ruptura. Whilst articulating a certain national mood or sentiment, and providing variation to the formula, they are ultimately only trends within a long trajectory. Invariably described as ‘a parade of masks, certainly renewable but invariably destined to an old comedy’ (Le Gallo 1998, 359) it would seem that the Mexican telenovela cannot avoid its fateful recourse to traditionalism. Consequently, the future of

Mexican broadcast television, its telenovela favourite, and the civil status of those protagonists that have graced its narratives look remarkably ordinary.

Yet like all good telenovela narratives, it is always darkest before the , and the trajectory of the Mexican telenovela and the citizenship afforded its leading ladies does not end so tragically. Whilst the telenovela de ruptura may not have ‘created the sea change in the telenovela that some people expected’ (Estill 2001, 170) this does not mean that there is no trace of the de ruptura movement in what can be considered the gradual but ongoing transformation of the telenovela form and its contemporary manifestations, despite frequent recourse to tradition. Nor does it mean that the commercial nature of the industry will only secure recourse to traditionalism.

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Here, the notion that the Mexican telenovela history is cyclical must be problematised.

Whilst it is inherently useful for complicating the notion of a linear model, which may accompany a consideration of the fifty-year history of the Mexican telenovela, the notion of the cycle lends itself to a simplified model of the evolving form. Certainly this discourse of a reversion to tradition is evident throughout much critical writing on the demise of the telenovela de ruptura and its aftermath, as well as within the interviews conducted with academics and some industry professionals. Yet in order to understand how this form has changed over time, and may continue to do so, this model must be refined. Following this revision, the notion that the industry’s commercial nature leads only to tradition must be reconsidered.

Working with the logic of a cyclical industry, yet one that incorporates change within its repetitious repertoire is the notion of spiraled history. Within the model of a spiral, telenovelas develop outwards through time and with the political, cultural and industrial changes that accompany the historical circumstances of each era. Yet they also radiate around a core, which constitutes those ideological values at the heart of the cultural imaginary, which are inherent to the Manichaean melodramatic form, and which for audiences, are synonymous with the viewing experience.

Yet to illustrate the ways in which ‘failed’ telenovela ‘movements’ can continue to resonate throughout the form’s history, the analogy of an is useful. Here, as the political and cultural landscape changes, so too does the face of the telenovela, although in response to the deep seeded cultural imaginary of which female mythification is a key component, its

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core remains relatively intact. Nonetheless, with these ‘quakes’ come the ‘aftershocks’, and as such the changes manifested within particular ‘movements’ continue to ‘tremor’ within the contemporary context.

This model of both a spiraled and ‘seismic’ history of the Mexican telenovela illustrates how those movements, subgenres and trends that have developed throughout its past as a manifestation of a particular mood or time may maintain a link to tradition, but nonetheless change the landscape of the form. Consequently, the new spaces for female characterisation which open up within ‘movements’ like the telenovela de ruptura may often be closed down upon narrative conclusion, but they remain forever imprinted in the annals of female characterisation and the archive of narrative possibilities for future ratings success.

Arguably through time, they may enable a ‘rupturing’ of the dichotomous schema at the telenovela’s heart.

This dynamic is evident within the much loved telenovela (‘Den of

Wolves’, Televisa 1986-7) which is a particularly fitting example for its relationship to the devastating 1985 earthquake in Mexico City (Cueva 2006, 14). The success of this telenovela has been much touted in the press. In a 2006 publication celebrating the 20th anniversary of Cuna de Lobos, Álvaro Cueva recounts how’

all of Mexico turned inside out to watch this telenovela. People left work early to tune in to Cuna de lobos; men and women interrupted their daily activities to avoid missing any detail. Bars and restaurants, that normally played sports on their TV screens, changed channels to tune in to Cuna de lobos. The streets emptied, the subject was even discussed in the Chamber of Deputies, and declarations of popular support were the order of the day, not for Leonora, the heroine, but for Catalina Creel, the villainess (Cueva 2006, 17).

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Yet this success was also unprecedented. It was not, according to the actress playing its protagonist, a ‘stellar’ telenovela in the Televisa line-up. As she recalls, it was ‘a strange novela. That had nothing to do with the criteria of the time. It was not a star-studded telenovela. It was not a melodramatic telenovela, it was a type of thriller’ (cited in Cueva

2006, 45).

As a result of such success, Cuna de Lobos endorsed the production of similar ‘thrillers’ as

‘Mexican telenovelas started to fill up with psychopaths, short scenes, false leads and an infinity of malevolence’ (Cueva 1998, 203) Yet although these psychotic and socially disturbing stories which painted such ‘unfamiliarly’ cruel portraits of the ‘great Mexican family’ (Cueva 2006, 14) soon gave way to the traditional romantic love story once more

(Cueva 1998, 203) the popularity of Cuna de Lobos left a legacy that continues to resonate today. Indeed the unprecedented popularity of the telenovela’s villainess Catalina Creel, and the ratings success of a narrative that undermined the protagonist’s ‘sacred’ engagement with the institutions of marriage and maternity, proved the financial viability of such unconventional telenovela narratives. Stored within the archive of narrative possibilities for future ratings success, the financial viability of this unconventional female characterisation remains.

Testament to the seismic and spiralling nature of the Mexican telenovela industry, the following chapter explores the legacy of the ratings success of the telenovela de ruptura movement and the thriller subgenre, through an analysis of the teen and comedic subgenres.

Specifically, it explores how the quest for new ratings hits in an increasingly threatened

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industry can ultimately undermine the exclusionary configurations of female citizenship within the heterosexual love story. Ironically, despite the limitations that the conservative and commercially orientated Mexican telenovela industry can pose on the ‘rupturing’ of an exclusionary female citizenship, such commercialism can provide their unexpected configuration within these alternative narratives. How these new subgenres enable new configurations of female characterisation and citizenship constitutes the focus of Chapter

Six.

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Chapter Six The ‘Tyranny of the Ratings’:

‘Post Romantic’ Narratives within the

Teen and Comedic Subgenres

Chapter Six: The ‘Tyranny of the Ratings’: ‘Post Romantic’ Narratives within the Teen and Comedic Subgenres ‘Love and hate- how they tore her asunder! Surely it was time someone invented a new plot, or that the author came out from the bushes…’ — Between the Acts, Virginia Woolf

The effect of a profits-driven approach to telenovela production is not necessarily the closure of unconventional yet non-financially viable narratives and characterisation. As seen with Cuna de Lobos (1986) it can in fact lead to the experimentation of new telenovela

‘types’ which provide the opportunity for executives to capitalise on trends, often linked to

‘national sentiment’. This market logic is rabid within the contemporary transnational telenovela industry, as television producers negotiate the changing demands not only of local national television audiences, but also those foreign audiences whose preference for cultural proximity is accommodated by increased local production. As O’Boyle wrote in

2007, ‘the market for finished telenovelas is getting tighter [as] more territories that were once telenovela dumping grounds […] produce more of their own content’ (O’Boyle

2007a, n.p.).

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Countering this threat to the transnational currency of the Mexican telenovela, executives search out texts which capitalise not just on ‘national sentiment’ but also niche markets, and global and local trends. Testament to this ‘tyranny of the ratings’ (Corral 65) Álvaro

Cueva has listed what in 2001 he deemed to be at least the 45 different telenovela subgenres to date. Whether biographical, historical, didactic, thriller, comic, child, teen, class room, medical or police novela (Cueva 2001, 41-56), each of these subgenres is a product of this commercial industry. Clearly what appeals most to executives about the myriad subgenres is the potential for ratings success with an increasingly fragmented audience. Yet most importantly here is the potential for these different narratives to break with the process of female mythification inherent to the traditional formula.

This chapter explores texts from particular telenovela subgenres whose alternative narrative focus derails the exclusionary characterisation and citizenship tied to the love story traditionally at its heart. An analysis of those texts which do not ensure narrative drive through female rivalry for the telenovela galán, reveals how female characterisation can exist beyond the strictures of the traditional love story. The teen novela Rebelde (‘Rebel’

2004 Televisa) and the comedic novela La Fea más Bella (‘The Most Beautiful Ugly Girl’

2007 Televisa) do invest in the romance narrative. Not to do so would be to defy the telenovela’s raison d’être. Yet they provide alternative configurations of female characterisation and citizenship through the inclusion of core non-romance oriented plots.

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By displacing female rivalry and its dichotomous femininity, the characters within these telenovelas embody different relationships with the traditional tenets of ‘appropriate femininity’. Effectively illustrating the ways in which the ‘tyranny of the ratings’ (Corral

2007, 65) can trump the ‘tyranny of the plot’ (Du Plessis 1995, 56) Rebelde and La Fea más Bella highlight the benefits of commercial logic to an inclusionary female characterisation and citizenship within this narrative form. Yet further to this phenomenon, the extraordinary ratings success of both narratives illustrates how telenovela subgenres can challenge the notion that female characterisation is a prescriptive formula that must remain intact ‘because that is what the public wants.’

Here the potential for commercial logic to displace the Manichaean moral equation is consolidated by the success of such ‘post-romantic’ subgenres. Following this lead, an analysis of the ‘post romantic’ drive found within Rebelde and La Fea más Bella benefits from Rachel Blau Du Plessis’ study on how writers have formerly negotiated the prescriptive romance narratives at the heart of many narrative texts.

‘Post Romantic’ Strategies for ‘Writing beyond the Ending’

In Writing beyond the Ending- Narrative Strategies of Twentieth-Century Women Writers

(1985) Rachel Blau Du Plessis argues that ‘all forms of dominant narrative, but especially romance, are tropes for the sex-gender system as a whole’ (Du Plessis 1985, 43). Founded upon ‘extremes of sexual difference […] the romance plot muffles the main female character’ in several ways (Du Plessis 1985, 5). By promoting ‘individuals within couples

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as a sign of their personal and narrative success’ it not only ‘evokes an aura around the couple itself’ but also represses female quest, of which independent agency is key (Du

Plessis 1985, 5). Further consolidating ‘the sex-gender system’, the romance plot endorses heterosexual over homosexual and sororal ties (Du Plessis 1985, 5). Finally, this ‘narrative as ideology’ (Du Plessis 1985, 45) is ultimately secured through its investment in ‘the end’, which seals the fate of female characters within ‘patrisexual’ (Du Plessis 1985, 37) romance narratives.

For Du Plessis, the inevitable ‘marriage/death closure in the romance plot is a “place” where ideology meets narrative and produces a meaning-laden figure of some story’ (Du

Plessis 1985, 19). Where marriage represents ‘a successful integration with society, in which the gain is both financial and romantic success in the “heterosexual contract” […] death is caused by inabilities or improprieties in this negotiation, [as] a way of deflecting attention from man made social norms to cosmic sanctions’ (Du Plessis 1985, 4). Speaking to the logic of the telenovela’s Manichaean configuration of female citizenship, female characters are rewarded or punished for their ‘ability to negotiate with sexuality and kinship’ (Du Plessis 1985, 19).

Yet beyond mirroring the traditional telenovela’s narrative schema, Du Plessis suggests how such narrative tropes can be destabilised. By focusing on those ‘postromantic’ narrative strategies deployed by such ‘twentieth-century women writers’ as Virginia Woolf,

Alice Walker, Adrienne Rich and Margaret Atwood, Du Plessis reveals how these women

‘call narrative form into question […] [through] a complex of narrative acts of psychosocial

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meanings […] [offering] a different set of choices’ than marriage and death (Du Plessis

1985, 4). In so doing, these women negotiate the ‘tyranny of the plot’ (Du Plessis 1985, 56) and its ‘avalanche of events moving to “satisfactory solutions”’ (Du Plessis 1985, 50). Yet their strategies do not pertain exclusively to the narrative’s conclusion. In order to ‘change fiction so that it makes alternative statements about gender and its institutions’ (Du Plessis

1985, x) the romance plot as a whole remains a ‘site for their interpretation, scrutiny, critique, and transformation of narrative’ (Du Plessis 1985, 4).

This project, which Du Plessis calls ‘writing beyond the ending’ takes ‘ending as a metaphor for conventional narrative, for a regimen of resolutions, and for the social, sexual, and ideological affirmations these make’ (Du Plessis 1985, 21). Attacking both the

‘tyranny’ of the conventional heteronormative ending as well as those narrative tropes which facilitate its construction, this ‘writing beyond the ending’ is achieved through ‘the transgressive invention of narrative strategies […] [that] sever the narrative from formerly conventional structures of fiction and consciousness about women’ (Du Plessis 1985, x).

At the heart of these ‘postromantic’ strategies ‘to break with the script of romantic thraldom’ (Du Plessis 1985, 80) is a break from the tradition of marriage as an ideological and narrative aspiration/denouement. For Du Plessis, ‘the resistance to marriage was the resistance to the production of women by gender polarization, gender asymmetry, gender limitations’ (Du Plessis 1985, 148). As a means of resisting such narrative tropes the tactics of ‘breaking the sentence’ and ‘breaking the sequence’ are introduced. Similar in their

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attempts to break with conventional narrative codes, these strategies nonetheless work at different scales within the text.

‘Breaking the sentence’ works on the micro level and invokes Virginia Woolf’s notion of the ‘woman’s sentence’ as well as Luce Irigaray and other feminist psychoanalytical work on the ‘blanks’ of a particularly ‘feminine’ language (Du Plessis 1985, 33). On a macro level ‘breaking the sequence’ involves ‘restructuring’ the ‘order and priorities’ of narrative itself (Du Plessis 1985, x). This tactic sees a ‘rupture in habits of narrative order, [in] that expected story told when “love was the only possible interpreter” of women’s textual lives’

(Woolf in Du Plessis, 1985, 34). This refusal to end in the ‘happily ever after’ of marriage and maternity, sees such narrative drive rejected as the only ‘means to an end’ by these women writers.

Thus ‘breaking the sequence’ delegitimates the romance plot through alternate configurations of human relations such as ‘reparenting in invented families’ (Du Plessis

1985, xi), ‘mother-child dyads’ (Du Plessis 1985, 35) ‘fraternal-sororal ties’ (Du Plessis

1985, xi) and ‘emotional attachment to women in bisexual love plots, female bonding, and lesbianism (Du Plessis 1985, xi). Here, the importance of female relationships in their many forms is emphasised through the text, with female erotic, platonic and kin relationships configured as one of the key areas in which ‘the Gordian knots of both heterosexuality and narrative convention’ can be cut (Du Plessis 1985, 149).

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A final key strategy that speaks to the logic of female mythification within the Mexican telenovela form, involves engaging with mythic narrative to reveal those ‘culturally repressive functions of narrative’ which ensure ‘the illusion of a timeless, unhistorical pattern that [in fact] controls reality’ (Du Plessis 1985, 134). Yet for Du Plessis, the process of ‘narrative displacement’ within each of these strategies, involves the retelling of a familiar story from a noncanonical perspective (Du Plessis 1985, 109). This ‘giving voice’ to the ‘muted’, ‘despised’ and/or ‘marginalized’ ‘Other’ side of the story’ is considered to be the ‘woman’s side’ which ‘offers a third way, beyond the antimonies of gender polarization’ (Du Plessis 1985, 151).

Although the Mexican telenovela does not provide such conscious strategies for ‘writing beyond the ending’, it does inadvertently parallel some of the approaches identified by Du

Plessis. In particular it is the use of stories that ‘have nothing to do with our accepted gender roles’ (Russ in Du Plessis 1985, 182) such as a focus on ‘detective stories, supernatural fiction, and science fiction’ that mirror the potential for telenovela subgenres to open up alternative configurations of female characterisation and citizenship (Du Plessis

1985, 182)34. The teen and comic telenovelas explored within this chapter illustrate the ways in which these subgenres can ‘write beyond the ending’ of the romance plot to

‘displace’ marriage and maternity as the ultimate endeavour for female characterisation.

The emphasis on friendship, the collective protagonist, the ability for quest and romance to

34 Russ writes; ‘of all the possible actions people can do in fiction, very few can be done by women.’ Thus because ‘culture is male [and] our literary myths are for heroes, not heroines,’ she suggests that women writers develop plots which go beyond the romantic love story and ‘have nothing to do with our accepted gender roles’ (Russ 1995, 90). 287 | Page

coexist and on comedy’s indulgence of transgressive behaviours, helps to ‘displace’ the traditional telenovela formula.

Teenage Rebellion

“’Cos I’m rebellious, when I don’t follow the crowd” — RBD lyrics

True to its provocative title and song lyrics, the teen novela Rebelde challenges the traditional Mexican telenovela focus on ‘romantic thraldom’ (Du Plessis 1985, 80) in several ways. Here, it is Rebelde’s endorsement of rebelliousness and its focus on facilitating the crossover success of the band RBD, which destabilise the schema of romance narrative as telenovela core. Consequently, the female citizenship within this narrative community is altered, as female rivalry and the policing of ‘appropriate’ femininity are displaced as the source of narrative drive. Furthermore, Rebelde’s ‘post romantic’ narrative places emphasis on quest, thereby denying ‘marriage and maternity as the ultimate endeavour for female characterisation’ and therefore ‘“love [as] the only possible interpreter” of women’s textual lives’ (Woolf in Du Plessis 1985, 34).

Ultimately, the phenomenal success that followed Rebelde’s appeal to teen markets provides a profound example of how the ‘tyranny of the ratings’ (Corral 65) can trump the

‘tyranny of the plot’ (Du Plessis 1985, 56). Specifically, the global ‘RebeldeMania’ (Kun

2006b, n.p.) that Rebelde generated, suggests the commercial viability of alternative narratives within the Mexican telenovela. Achieving an average 23 percent of audience 288 | Page

share (Kun 2006b, n.p.) over its three season-440 hour-long episode run, Rebelde was one of the longest running telenovelas in Mexican history.

Further to its commercial viability, ‘RebeldeMania’ extended beyond borders. As New

York Times journalist Josh Kun writes, Rebelde became ‘the blueprint for the transnational age of the telenovela: financed in one country, broadcast in another, and then franchised to more than 50 different international markets’ (Kun 2006b, n.p.). Narrating the sufficiently

‘local’ story of a group of boarding students at the exclusive Elite Way School where

Mexico’s trust fund children receive an exclusive education and social contacts that will pave their future success, this telenovela included a crucial element key to its transnational success. Leora Nir- vice president for television programming within Dori Media, the

Israeli Production company that funded Rebelde- explained that ‘The idea was to enter the international marketplace through a good, high values teen telenovela which would incorporate one of the most important elements of youth lives — music’ (Kun 2006b, n.p.).

It is precisely Rebelde’s narration of six ‘rebellious’ students who form the pop band RBD which lead to global ‘RebeldeMania’. The formula at play within this teen enterprise was so perfectly ‘tuned’ that Rebelde/RBD expanded exponentially. This included a successful spin-off series in 2007,35 numerous ‘Gold’, ‘Platinum’ and ‘Diamond’ ,36 as well as sold out concerts throughout Latin America, Europe, Asia and the United States. One much cited statistic describes how ‘when the group played the Los Angeles Coliseum in April

[2006], it drew 65,000 fans and earned a total of $3.1 million, the second highest-grossing

35 Entitled RBD: La Familia (‘RBD: The Family’) it follows the lives of the ‘real world’ band members. 36 Including Rebelde (2004), (2005), Celestial (2006) the Rebels (2006) and (2007) 289 | Page

concert in the stadium's history (ahead of Madonna and U2, just behind the Rolling

Stones)’ (Kun 2006b, n.p.). Only when the group announced its split on the 4th of August

2008 did the phenomenon pause for breath.

Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.

Figure 33- Guadalupe, Diego, Mia, Miguel, Figure 34- English-language album cover Roberta & Giovanni

Critics and producers alike have attributed this unprecedented success to the cross promotional platform, provided by the relationship between the ‘fictional’ and ‘real’ worlds within the television show and music group. As Pedro Damián, the mastermind behind the phenomenon explained, ‘The group started as a fiction on the show and then it became real life […] Now the real life has surpassed the fiction. When they decided to make a record on the show, they had already sold three million records in the real world’ (Damián in Kun

2006b, n.p.). The marketing blitz that accompanied the phenomenon from the beginning was crucial to its power. As Damián clarified, ‘we knew we had to create a lifespan for

'Rebelde' that would go beyond the soap opera […] We talked about a magazine, a radio

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program, merchandising, sponsorships, a musical group, concerts. It was a whole ‘Rebelde’ concept’ (Damián in Kun 2006b, n.p.). Yet the particularly innocuous nature of this rebellion was most important in attracting audiences and investors alike.

Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.

Figure 35- A Variety of Rebelde/RBD merchandise and product endorsement

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Differentiating rebellion from its socialist roots, in particular the Zapatista rebel movement that began in the Chiapan jungle in 1994, Damián clarified that ‘to be rebelde used to mean you had to have a mask and a gun and come out of the jungle’. In the new version, the balaclava synonymous with Mexico’s previously most famous rebels was replaced with a new symbol of disobedience; the Elite Way School uniform. Exactly what this

‘rebelliousness’ entailed seemed irrelevant to the ‘concept’. No political parties were named or shamed. No civil or international conflicts were cited. Here rebellion was shifted from the public sphere into the personal realm, as a ‘lifestyle and an aesthetic’ free from political persuasion (Kun 2006b, n.p.).

Appealing to teenage viewers, the rebellion promoted was that which endorsed rebellion within the confines of an institution, by questioning authority (parents and teachers), and fighting for justice (the right to choose one’s own future, including the right to sing in a band). Arguing that ‘it doesn’t matter if it is an authentic rebelliousness or if the characters rebel against something which is worth rebelling against’ scholar Guillermo Orozco Gómez identified the dynamics of this leitmotiv as hanging ‘vaguely on the interpretation of all the characters’ (21). Here rebellion meant freedom to be an individual, which as Damian clarified ‘is something that everyone wants to be’ (Kun 2006b, n.p.).

The synonymy between rebellion and individualism only served to propel the attractiveness of the ‘rebelde concept’ to advertisers. Keen to cash in on the ‘rebel’ leitmotiv and its teen market, sponsors jumped on board. Thus in addition to ‘the usual merchandising onslaught of T-shirts and ring tones’ (Kun 2006b, n.p.) the faces of the sextet representing the

Rebelde brand could be found in a ‘manga comic book series, [on] chewing gum, handbags, 292 | Page

candy and stationery’ (Kun 2006b, n.p.). Each had their own perfume or cologne and

Barbie doll in their likeness. Adding to the extensive product placement throughout the television show, RBD’s promotional portfolio ranged from restaurant chains to personal hygiene and beauty products, as well as food and beverage brands. Such was the promotional power of this group that US guest artists such as Lenny Kravitz, Gorillaz and

Hilary Duff appeared on the television show to gain access to Latin markets. The power of the ‘Rebel’ ‘leitmotiv’ was perhaps most apparent when in 2005 Enrique Peña Nieto used the teen hit ‘Rebelde’ as his campaign song for election as Governor of the , and won (Kun 2006b, n.p.).

Reconceptualising the RBD Nation

Despite the impressive nature of this marketing prowess, not all telenovela critics were encouraged by the ‘rebel concept’. Orozco Gómez has identified Rebelde as perhaps the most pertinent example of what he considers to be a worrying trend within the contemporary industry. Suggesting ‘we are at the dawn of a new, intensely commercial social contract, between television melodrama and audiences’ (Orozco Gómez 2006, 19) he proposes that ‘telenovelas and those who create them now seem solely concerned with their saleability’ (Orozco Gómez 2006, 17). Consequently, like ‘‘brand name’ merchandise’

(Orozco Gómez 2006, 16) for exportation, the telenovela’s increased globalisation fails to reflect ‘an adequate interpretation and recreation of culture’ and ultimately leads to loss of

‘cultural specificity’ (Orozco Gómez 2006, 17).

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For Orozco this formula of cultural ‘standardization and profitability’ (Martín-Barbero in

Orozco Gómez 2006, 17) is merely a vehicle for consumption of ‘attractive images’ around the world. However his indictment of the contemporary industry overlooks two important aspects of this trend. Firstly, his identification of Rebelde as culturally vacuous and

‘inauthentic’ through its standardisation, marketability and commodification gives unchecked authority to the cultural representation within those more traditional telenovela texts that he compares it with. Although Rebelde may not include such cultural markers as the mariachi (Rosalinda) the charro (Fuego en la Sangre) or the tequila fields (Destilando

Amor) it perpetuates the same exclusionary raced and classed nations at play within these more ‘authentic’ cultural texts. Secondly, Orozco does not account for how such a

‘culturally odourless’ (Iwabuchi 2000, 55) and ‘delocalised’ text (Straubhaar 1991) as

Rebelde can provide alternative possibilities for the symbolic demography of Mexican citizenry, including gender dynamics.

It is Rebelde’s focus on the transnational teen market that erases those markers of cultural specificity, which replicate female mythification. This ‘odourlessness’ then paves the way for narratives devoid of the cultural ‘baggage’ evident in the traditional form.

Consequently, it is precisely those characteristics within Rebelde that Orozco identifies as

‘culturally vacuous’, which allow it to incorporate different configurations of femininity.

Specifically, via the investment in the rebel leitmotiv over nationally resonant narratives,

Rebelde breaks with the exclusionary female characterisation and citizenship evident in its more mature form.

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The following analysis considers how the ‘rebelde concept’ destabilises this traditional narrative formula via a ‘teenage’ visual aesthetic, the intense commercialisation of the

Rebelde brand, the multiple teen protagonists, the investment in a rebel consciousness, and finally, the alternative narrative drive provided by the band’s quest for success. Within these manifold narrative elements, Rebelde undermines both the Manichaean melodramatic narrative, as well as the traditional tenets of appropriate femininity and female rivalry that are inherent to the traditional form.

Rebelling against Female Mythification

Key to Rebelde’s appeal to the teen market through the ‘rebel’ leitmotiv is its semiotic portrayal of rebelliousness. This ‘teen’ filming style is marked by a ‘narrative explosion’ through what Orozco Gomez criticises as a ‘multitude of simultaneous storylines, tacked together at whim, almost in the style of a “video clip”’ (Orozco Gomez 2006, 30). Stating that ‘the story is interrupted, remaining nothing more than a pretext for disconnected narrative fragments, which are only plausible because of their vague reference to a supposed central, non narrative theme’ (Orozco Gomez 2006, 31) Orozco inadvertently identifies how narrative ‘vacuity’ can lead to a break in the traditional formula. Indeed, ‘in this type of story, the melodrama is toned down whilst the ‘special effects’ through which they seek to capture the viewer’s attention are increased’ (Orozco Gomez 2006, 31).

Exacerbating this schema is the ‘commodification’ inherent to the Rebelde brand. Through the inclusion of multiple advertising slots that incorporate non-narratively specific dialogue

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around product placement, the Manichaean melodramatic narrative is sidelined by the logic of brand recognition.

This fragmentary, ‘chaotic’ form of narration is invaluable to Rebelde’s ability to ‘write beyond’ the prescriptive telenovela ending. Indeed, by ‘exploding’ the narrative in such ways, Rebelde ‘explodes’ the melodrama’s ability to execute a dichotomous representation of its female characters through a centralized female rivalry. The teens live a plethora of momentary yet intense rivalries within their platonic and familial relationships.

Consequently, female rivalry is a relatively momentary and secondary thread within the narrative.

This is evident upon considering the many complicated and transitory configurations of rivalry within the telenovela. Mia is pitted against Roberta from telenovela beginning and rivals her for the role of most popular girl in school. Yet Mia also rivals Sol for the same reason. Similarly Mia rivals her future stepmother Valeria for her father’s love, as well as

Sabrina who attempts to steal her boyfriend Miguel. Likewise Roberta rivals Sol for

Diego’s love, but mostly for influence over her classmates. Roberta later rivals Diego’s girlfriend Paola as she tries to win his love. Conversely, she then rivals Raquel for stealing her best friend Luján’s boyfriend. Clearly Luján rivals Raquel too, as do Mia, Vico and

Celina who think she is a snob. Sol rivals all of the girls bar Raquel for the same reason whereas Pilar rivals them all because she has no friends. Guadalupe tries to avoid rivalry but nonetheless rivals her sister Lola, who also rivals Roberta for Diego’s affections. Celina similarly tries to avoid rivalry but is forced by Mia to take sides as a part of ‘Mia’s Club’.

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This means that Roberta rivals Celina and Vico, who in turn rival Luján…. and the list goes on.

Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.

Figure 36- Lujan, Pilar, Mia, Guadalupe, Celina, Roberta and Vico (on bike) as seven of the multiple female protagonists

Perhaps best articulated by the boys who wonder; ‘dude, really, I don’t understand why chicks always fight with other chicks, what’s up with that?’ it is clear that Rebelde’s female rivalry has little logic. To this confusion is the added difficulty of determining who is the protagonist or antagonist within the narrative. When Roberta rivals Paola, she exhibits all of the attributes of the antagonist by manipulating knowledge about Diego’s feelings for

Paola, and exhibiting an extreme agency that involves compromising perceptions of her own virginity in order to end the relationship. Conversely, Roberta then fights Raquel for

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doing the same thing to her best friend Luján. The fierce loyalty that she shows to her friend follows the schema of the heroic protagonist.

Consequently, not only are there countless trivial conflicts between the complex female characters, but the existence of multiple protagonists further complicates the ‘essentialism’ of these rivalries. The three female protagonists within the ‘rebelde concept’ are Mia,

Roberta and Guadalupe (Lupita) who form the female contingent of RBD. Yet the telenovela also narrates the stories of Vico, Celina, Luján, Sol, Pilar, Sabrina, Julia and

Alma Rey, among others. Criticised by Orozco Gomez as multiple stories ‘which culminate in a variety of melodramas encapsulated within one major melodrama’, this may well be an attempt to ‘diversify the protagonists’ and so ‘proportionately increase audience identification’ (Orozco Gomez 2006, 30). However, Orozco Gomez does not account for the transgressive power of this unique narrative formulation. In addition to this increased appeal to audiences through multiple protagonists, the inclusion of many key female characters clouds the narrative’s ability to effect a dichotomous battle between ‘virgin’ and

‘whore.’ Indeed the range of character trajectories throughout the telenovela explodes such

‘linear’ polarity.

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Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.

Figure 37- the rebellious students of Elite Way School

Even if Mia and Roberta are situated as the two main female protagonists due to their role as love interests to classmates and fellow band members Miguel and Diego, they do not execute the same female rivalry and consequent dichotomy within the traditional formula.

In fact, their relationship develops from rivalry to harmonious coexistence. Initially, the two clash due to their different philosophies on life. Mia wants to give the ‘trashy’ Roberta a preppy make over whilst Roberta sees Mia as a life-sized Barbie with brains to match.

Their rivalry as the leaders of opposing groups escalates throughout the semester and culminates in an unauthorised boxing match. As the two rivals beat each other to exhaustion, they epitomise the symbolic battle between the traditional telenovela’s protagonist and antagonist.

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Following the tropes of female mythification, a traditional reading would place Mia as the virginal protagonist. She is a pretty blonde who wears natural makeup and neat clothes, and whose sweet and bubbly demeanour endears her to her teachers, family and friends. In contrast, Roberta’s punk style, demanding personality and active agency, align her with the figure of the aggressive antagonist. Yet the very premise and status of Rebelde as teen novela undermine these traditions.

At times both Mia and Roberta appear as the typical protagonist. As children of single parent families, both are reminiscent of the protagonist whose unknown parentage is revealed throughout the narrative. Similarly, both are well-intentioned, honest and positive influences on the people around them. However, they both exhibit antagonistic traits. Mia is a spoilt brat whose sheltered life lends her a prejudice against those less privileged. Her sense of elitism translates to a ‘malinchista’ rejection of the ‘parochial’, for more ‘cultured’ tastes. It is not uncommon for Mia to insult her on-again/off-again boyfriend Miguel as a

‘second rate redneck from nowhere’. In a similar criticism of her ‘lower class’ status,

Roberta is often defined as ‘the queen of the rednecks.’ Roberta’s brash bossiness, tomboy style and status as the daughter of a famous showgirl whose body is showcased in revealing outfits, is similarly antagonistic. Her self-assurance borders on arrogance and she projects a sense of worldliness that extends to sexual experience, as Mia speculates ‘you’ve already done it, right? […] Obviously.’

Yet far from occupying the role of the antagonist, Roberta’s rebelliousness, personal agency and challenge to authority are encouraged within the ‘rebelde concept’. Her attitude

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is celebrated throughout the telenovela narrative as an admirable and altruistic trait, as her mother Alma explains; ‘You have always been impulsive, restless, , a little stubborn but above all, very much a rebel.’ Even her beleaguered class and band mates concur, conceding that ‘Despite the fact that you are crazy and nobody can stand you, you are a chick that always fights for what you want and who never gives up. Don’t ever change

Roberta, seriously.’

Thus far from provoking a rivalry with the more passive Mia, Roberta’s rebelliousness is framed as a positive influence on her female ‘counterpart.’ By challenging authority and developing a sense of justice, Mia matures to become a more complex persona.

Consequently, by telenovela end the vastly different personalities of Mia and Roberta are configured as complimentary. This unity is symbolised by their shared birth date and one excited guest at their party exclaims; ‘One is impulsive and energetic like the wind, and the other is attractive and seductive like a summer night. Together they are the force and the passion of youth!’ Their ultimate union as stepsisters confirms this equation, and the one- time rivals finally concede that ‘Even though we may be so unlike and have such enormous differences, you will always be with me. I love you so much.’

Finally, despite Orozco’s indictment of rebellion as an innocuous theme, it mounts a serious challenge to the perceived corruption and cynicism of the established order.

Whether through the students’ general ‘right to demand our rights’ or more specifically within Diego’s decision to expose his corrupt politician father, rebellion poses a threat to

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authority’s established norms. Examples of this fight can be found within the alternative configurations of female characterisation and citizenship throughout the narrative.

When Celina gets pregnant and is expelled from school, the students protest in demand of her reinstatement. Even Vico, who has a reputation as a ‘bit of a slut’, is not painted as a

‘whore’ or prevented from being one of the most popular girls in school as a member of

‘Mia’s club.’ Vico can talk openly to her best friends about sex and has trouble understanding why Mia is so unsure about sleeping with Miguel. When Mia finally decides to have sex with her boyfriend, it is portrayed as a natural step in their relationship.

Similarly, Roberta’s sexual antics are not demonised when she attempts to seduce her mother’s suitor with such lines as ‘Look, I’m not the little girl that you think I am, ok?’

Instead, her antics are framed as a part of growing up.

These characters are not forced to adhere to the tenets of ‘appropriate femininity’ or to occupy the restrictive roles inherent to female mythification. Rather, they exist in those

‘interstitial’ spaces of transgression that are traditionally closed down as problematic sites that threaten the established order. This applies to even those more archetypal antagonists like Sabrina, who rivals Mia for Miguel’s love by fabricating rumours of sexual relations and pregnancy. Although she is ultimately forced to leave the country by her father, this stricture is lost in the extended narrative, multiple storylines and myriad rivalries between the characters. As the daughter of Johnny Guzman, RBD’s manager, Sabrina’s presence is secondary to the narrative surrounding the band’s struggles and ultimate success.

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Consequently the female rivalry between her and Mia exists as an adjunct to this more pressing plotline.

Here female rivalry is destabilised as the source of narrative drive as quest for the band’s success destabilises the romance plot. Furthermore, the focus on ensuring crossover success for RBD into the ‘real’ world prevents Mia and Roberta from becoming true rivals within the narrative. Thus telenovela lore may state that they cannot be rivals because they do not share the same love interest. Mia loves Miguel and Roberta loves Diego. Yet following the more pressing commercial logic, they do not share the same love interest because they are both members of the same band, and neither within the ‘fictional’ nor ‘real world’, can

Roberta and Mia be rivals. To compromise the success of RBD through such rivalries would be counter productive to the branding of the ‘rebelde concept’.

Furthermore, the fact that these female characters are equal members of RBD alters the dynamic traditionally configured within the telenovela love story, whereby the protagonist is legitimised through the love of the telenovela galán. Neither of these protagonists relies upon the love of Miguel or Diego to legitimise their status.

Although the love stories between the members of the fictional band have fuelled RBD’s

‘real world’ success and have been used as a selling point throughout publicity and performances, they exist as an adjunct to the central narrative of the pop group’s success.

Here, the existence of the band as central protagonist emulates Du Plessis’ emphasis on the collective protagonist as a means of ‘writing beyond’ the prescriptive ending of the

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heterosexual love story. As the heterosexual couple is displaced as the ultimate configuration of human interaction and consequently, the female protagonists are free to transgress the parameters of ‘appropriate femininity’ within this new equation. As international stars in their own right, ‘Mia’ and ‘Roberta’ can exist in those ‘interstitial’ sites of ‘appropriate’ femininity traditionally closed down by the Manichaean narrative.

Finally, the emphasis on friendship between the large group of school students continues this notion of the collective protagonist as an alternative narrative drive. In addition to the desire for the individual love stories to be consummated and for the pop group to succeed, it is the desire for friendships to triumph, which creates new narrative equations. Friendship is a recurrent theme throughout the novela, as Mia states; ‘above and beyond all of our differences, the immense friendship that brings us together is the most important thing of all’. This emphasis on friendship is evident within the platonic relationships that are formed between the female and male members of the band, as well as the wider group of classmates. These platonic male-female relationships are unprecedented within the traditional formula, as tenets of ‘appropriate femininity’ and female rivalry rule such relationships out. Within each of these equations, narrative drive assists the move away from the heterosexual love story as the only way of telling women’s lives.

The End…?

The ending of Rebelde confirms how the collective protagonist of this teen novela helps to create an alternative configuration of ideal community upon narrative conclusion. Rather than focus on the traditional white wedding or image of the happy family, Rebelde ends in 304 | Page

the empty hallways of the ‘Elite Way School’, as the voices of various cast members explain; ‘the most important thing that I learnt in those days was the value of friendship.

Those friends, for good or bad, at the best and worst of times.’ Only then do they include

‘And love, first love’. Yet this is only in passing, and the value of friendship is confirmed;

‘friends, it doesn’t matter how far away they are, they are always with me.’

Following tradition, the word ‘Fin’ (‘The End’) punctuates the end of the telenovela. Yet true to Rebelde’s provocation, it morphs into a question mark. Here the sustainability of the

‘rebelde concept’ via the ongoing life of RBD beyond the telenovela’s ‘happy ending’ is implied. Yet this question mark also symbolises Rebelde’s ability to ‘write beyond’ the prescriptive ending of the traditional telenovela text. Within this ending, female citizenship is not cemented within the mould of female mythification, as determined by the telenovela galán. Rather, possibility lurks around the corners of the hallways for these students, with the promise of a successful future beyond the tenets of marriage and maternity. Thus whilst a traditional ending remains possible, as the teen protagonists pair off with their respective galáns, it remains unwritten; constituting only one of many possibilities awaiting these young rebels. As the parameters for ‘appropriate’ female citizenship opens up within

Rebelde’s commercial imperatives, the ‘tyranny of the ratings’ (Corral 2007, 65) trumps the

‘tyranny of the plot’ (Du Plessis 1985, 56).

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Comic Relief

“Calm Down! Lower the tragedy. It’s not a six o’clock telenovela man. Enough already!” — Fernando, La Fea más Bella

The comic tendencies resonant within the hit telenovela La Fea más Bella (‘The Most

Beautiful Ugly Girl’) illustrate another way in which telenovela subgenres can ‘write beyond’ the exclusionary female citizenship of the Mexican telenovela. This occurs in several ways throughout the narrative. As evidenced by Fernando’s words above, La Fea más Bella’s rejection of the heavy melodrama typical of more traditional fare, paves the way for the deft comic touch which provides both an alternative narrative drive. As the desire to incite laughter takes over as narrative focus, it displaces the romantic narrative as the story’s sole raison d’être. Within this comic equation, the seriousness of the traditional formula is compromised; for although the ugly duckling narrative champions the triumphant marriage of the protagonist to the telenovela galán, it is heavily warped by its comic treatment. Specifically, by positing humour as an inversion of the traditional gender norms, La Fea más Bella complicates the parameters of female mythification inherent to the traditional form. Finally, La Fea más Bella’s phenomenal success, both nationally and internationally, as well as the successive comic telenovela boom that it has spawned, provides another example of the ways in which the ‘tyranny of the ratings’ (Corral 2007,

65) can trump the ‘tyranny’ of the traditional plot.

As part of the ‘Ugly Betty franchise’, La Fea más Bella’s ratings ‘pedigree’ is more than certified. Ratings success for the original Colombian version (Yo Soy Betty la fea, 1999)

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has occurred in over seventy countries, from , China, , Hungary, Indonesia,

Israel, Italy, Japan, , , The Czech Republic, , Russia and

Yugoslavia, to the United States and throughout Latin America (Anon. 2006b, 7). Yet global ‘Betty Mania’ has superseded the more rudimentary forms of localisation via dubbing or subtitling, with the adaptation of what has now become the ‘Ugly Betty format’ in over twenty local versions to date, as evident in the following diagram;

Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.

Figure 38— ‘Ugly Betty’ around the world.

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Following this phenomenon, La Fea más Bella defied initial criticism about its validity as a remake of a remake. From the outset the telenovela was a hit. Premiering in January 2006, the telenovela smashed the customary 10-point ratings average for the 4pm timeslot, with its 24-point debut. Executives capitalised on this success, twice rescheduling to six o’clock in the evening where it debuted with 30 points, and later to prime time at eight o’clock at night (Anon. 2006b, 93). Subsequently, La Fea más Bella’s extended narrative run was a natural development of this commercial logic, finally ending on the twenty-fifth of

February 2007, after 270 hour long episodes and thirteen months on air. The public support for this telenovela was rewarded by Televisa’s motorcade of the cast through the streets of

Monterrey. Ending in an open-air concert in which the cast and special guests sang for over

250 000 fans, scenes of the day’s festivities were included in the final episode (Anon.

2007a, n.p.).

With up to 48.3 ratings points in , the final episode of La Fea más Bella reached

67% of the audience share to become the highest rating programme in Mexican television history (Anon. 2007b, n.p.). Rating at a national level of 43.3 points, it loses only to the

1999 final of the Latin American Confederation Cup (Anon. 2007b, n.p.). This success equated to more than half of Mexico’s population of 105 million sitting down to watch the final fate of ‘the most beautiful ugly girl’ (Valdés Doria 2007, n.p.). Further to this phenomenon was the final episode’s protracted length and unprecedented scheduling. At three hours and twenty minutes in length, it was broadcast in the ultimate of prime time slots on a Sunday evening. This made La Fea más Bella the longest episode in telenovela history and the first telenovela programmed in this weekend prime-time slot (Anon 2007c, n.p.). This success

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was only intensified by its triumph over the live telecast of the 79th Academy Awards

Ceremony which gained only 9.5 ratings points, yet in which Mexican cinema was nominated for a variety of awards including best motion picture, best achievement in directing, best original screenplay and best foreign language film (Anon. 2007b, n.p).

Unsurprisingly, La Fea más Bella won the award for best Mexican telenovela of the year

(Gutiérrez Segura 2007, n.p.) yet its success was not limited to national borders. It was billed as the highest rating Spanish-language program in US history, even beating programs from key English speaking networks. According to Nielsen ratings reports, the final episode of Univision’s La Fea Más Bella beat all five of the English-language broadcast networks (Anon. 2007d, n.p.). Yet perhaps most indicative of the telenovela’s cultural impact were the accusations in a federal election tribunal by the 2006 leftist presidential candidate Andrés Manuel López Obrador that La Fea más Bella was biased in favour of his opponent and the subsequent president elect, Felipe Calderon (Ramos and Castillo 2006, n.p.).37 Beyond the courtroom, the national and geo-linguistic resonance of this telenovela was reiterated when just days after its conclusion, executives programmed its retransmission for two-hour blocks on Saturday afternoons.

Keen to capitalise on these phenomenal ratings, the reasons behind La Fea más Bella’s success have been widely discussed throughout the industry. Some have argued that it is the

37 During the June 28th episode, a week before the July 2nd presidential vote, two characters discussed their preference for Felipe Calderon as ‘el presidente del empleo’ (‘the president of employment’). Widely interpreted by Obrador and his supporters as propaganda for the conservative candidate who was eventually declared victor of the fraught elections by a margin of just 0.6%, this accusation was one among several made by the leftist party that were unanimously dismissed by the election tribunal (Clemens 2006b, n.p.). The other accusations of election fraud made by Obrador included the ‘unfair’ use of scare tactics comparing Obrador to the ‘socialist’ Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez, and the ‘subliminal’ messages sent by Pro-Calderon businesses in their television commercials (Gutiérrez Vidrio 2007). 309 | Page

‘ugly duckling’ story at its heart that inspires audiences around the world. As Marcela

Mejía explained, the telenovela dictates that ‘the protagonist has to be young, nineteen to twenty-five years old, pretty, and helpless’ (2007, pers. comm., 17 January). In comparison, ‘Lety from La Fea Más Bella is ugly, is not exactly young, but is smart and very sensitive and these are unprecedented values not archetypal forms, which people recognize’ (Mejía M. 2007, pers. comm., 17 January).

Ocampo explains that this atypical protagonist makes people realize that ‘you don’t need to have a pretty face or shapely body to make it’ (Anon. 2006b, 7). As ,

Ocampo’s fellow producer at Televisa suggests ‘The fact that here is a disadvantaged and ugly person who can find happiness in life with a good-looking and wealthy person, is — I think — a hope we all have all throughout the World […] so I think that the success of this novela comes down to that’ (Anon. n.d.e, n.p.).

Yet further to the telenovela’s ability to articulate represent the wider female audience it is

La Fea más Bella’s comic tendencies that are deemed key to its success. As Ocampo explained, ‘The message is very clear [ …] the people don’t want to cry anymore and if they do it is because something marvelous has happened, not something tragic’ (Anon. n.d.f, n.p.). This ‘light’ treatment of melodrama tempers the typically tragic love story.

As telenovela/sitcom hybrid, La Fea más Bella has been described by Ocampo as

‘innovative and risky’ (Anon. 2007e, n.p.). The potential that the relationship between comedy and melodrama has for ‘writing beyond’ an exclusionary narrative ending follows

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this innovation. Kathleen Rowe highlights this potential when suggesting that ‘romantic comedy […] offers an alternative to the passive and suffering heroines of melodrama’

(Rowe 1995a, 56). Indeed, ‘unlike comedy, which addresses a more active spectator, these forms position the spectator as powerless to avert the catastrophes they enact, and in fact produce their tears out of that powerlessness’ (Rowe 1995, 40).

In this way, ‘melodrama not only teaches that a woman’s lot under patriarchy is to suffer, but makes that suffering pleasurable’ (Rowe 1995a, 51). In comparison, romantic comedy provides pleasure yet avoids what Rowe calls ‘the suffering femininity affirmed by melodrama’ (Rowe 1995a, 41) by demanding ‘a place for women, in the narrative and in its vision of a social order that is not only renewed but also, ideally, transformed’ (Rowe

1995a, 44). Mirroring the transgressive potential of rebelliousness in the teen genre, it is comedy’s ‘assault on authority’ that facilitates this alternative configuration of femininity, as evident through an understanding of laughter’s ability to create more inclusive versions of community.

‘Laughter as Feminine Power’38 ‘At the height of laughter, the universe is flung into a kaleidoscope of new possibilities.’ — Jean Houston

The potential for laughter to ‘foster new and more inclusive images of community’ has long been associated with the comic genre’s drive to ‘break taboos and express those impulses

38 Elsley J, 1992 “Laughter as Feminine Power in ‘The Color Purple’ and ‘A Question of Silence’” In New Perspectives on Women and Comedy, ed. Regina Barreca. Gordon & Breach,Philadelphia, pp.193-199 311 | Page

which are always outside social norms’ (Rowe 1995a, 56, 44). Indeed for Rowe, ‘almost all comedic forms- from jokes to gags to slapstick routines to the most complex narrative structures- attempt a liberation from authority’ (Rowe 1995, 44). Traditionally, this antiauthoritarianism pits ‘youth’, as ‘the small, the petty and the powerless’, against ‘old age’, as ‘authority, repression and the law’ (Rowe 1995, 44). Yet the transgressive tools embodied within this confrontation are ‘also available to women […] to express aggression and rage at the forces of the father’ (Rowe 1995a, 44) and consequently, to make way for more egalitarian versions of community. Numerous feminist theorists have identified this potential for gender equality through laughter. From Luce Irigaray’s suggestion in ‘This

Sex Which is not One’ (1985) that ‘laughter [is] the first form of liberation from a secular oppression’ (Irigiray 1985, 163)39 to Helene Cixous’ notion in the ‘The Laugh of the

Medusa’ (1976) that laughter is conducive to a transgressive ‘woman’s space’, feminist writers have long identified laughter as ‘a catalyst in women’s journey to self- empowerment’ (Elsley 1992, 193).

To trace the transformative potential of female laughter within the telenovela’s traditionally patriarchal form, it is necessary to consider the role of excess. Here, it is comedy’s celebration of excess that carnivalises sexual identities and gender hierarchies to create ‘a more inclusive basis for community than the social order it takes as its point of reference’

(Rowe 1995a, 42).

39 As Irrigaray writes; ‘isn’t laughter the first form of liberation from a secular oppression? Isn’t the phallic tantamount to the seriousness of meaning? Perhaps woman, and the sexual relation, transcend it first in laughter? (Irigaray 1985, 163) 312 | Page

A key member of this ‘carnival’ is the ‘female grotesque’. Embodying the notion of carnivalesque excess, this ‘unruly’ woman signifies the inversion of gender norms through her common status as ‘woman on top’. Constitutive of the ‘larger issues of social and political order that come into play when what belongs ‘below’ […] usurps the position of what belongs ‘above’’ (Rowe 1995, 76) this woman is seen as dangerous; for her

‘disobedience’ and defiance of social hierarchies and taboos.

Historically, the negative discourses that have surrounded such ‘excessive’ women originate from her transgression of what Rowe calls the ‘unspoken feminine sanction against ‘making a spectacle’ of herself’ (Rowe 1995b, 76). In particular, the notion of spectacle manifests through her ‘appropriation of space’ such that being ‘grotesque’ equals being ‘too fat’, ‘too ugly’, ‘too loose’, ‘too manly’, ‘too loud’, ‘too brusque’, ‘too frigid’,

‘too old’ and numerous other violations of the tropes of ‘appropriate femininity’. As Rowe explains;

femininity is gauged by how little space women take up. […] In our culture both fatness and looseness are violations of codes of feminine posture and behaviour. All women of ‘ill- repute’ are described as loose, their bodies, especially their sexuality, seen as out of control. […] Fat females are stigmatized as unfeminine, rebellious, and sexually deviant (under or over-sexed) (Rowe 1995b, 79).

Challenging both the sincerity of heroic masculinity and its ‘appropriate’ female counterpart, this ‘unruly’ femininity manifests within the active female desire of the traditional telenovela antagonists. As such, the telenovela battle between female antagonist and protagonist effectively articulates what Rowe calls ‘the conflict between female unruliness and the ideology of ‘true womanhood’’ (Rowe 1995b, 75) but which is

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nominated here as ‘in/appropriate femininity’. Here the logic of the telenovela formula equates the female antagonist’s punishment within these texts as a resolution of ‘the ideological tension surrounding the “excessive” woman who “desire[s] too much”’ (Rowe

1995b, 41).

Importantly though, within comedies of ‘excess’, the unruly woman is celebrated. Indeed, the carnivalesque inversion of gender norms endorsed within such comedies provides a

‘safe house’ for these women and a celebration of their transgressions. From a history of female icons as diverse as Lucille Ball, Miss Piggy and Roseanne Barr (Rowe 1995b, 76) the story of Lety, ‘the most beautiful ugly girl’, follows this celebration of the ‘unruly’ woman.

Laughing with the Most Humorous Ugly Girl

Leticia Padilla Solis is the ‘female grotesque’ who manifests ‘transgressive’, ‘unruly’ qualities. Especially evident when she takes up the position of the ‘woman on top’ as head of production agency Conceptos, this power is nonetheless established from the telenovela’s first sequence. Framing Lety from the perspective of others forced to cross her path, this sequence confirms Lety’s monstrosity even before she is ever seen. As she enters the gates of this exclusive community, the security guard crosses himself in shocked horror.

This is soon articulated when Luigi, the highly camp creative genius behind Conceptos’ success, gasps ‘Oh my God! What on earth is this? […] You do not belong here so please, get out! You fail all of the requirements. Let’s go! Get out! Out! And don’t ever return.’

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Lety does not belong. When received in the interview room, the extent of her grotesqueness is finally evident; she is seated next to her traditional counterpart; the magnificently beautiful buxom blonde Alicia Ferreira, against whom she is competing for the position as secretary. For despite her superb qualifications as an economist, her ugliness renders her unemployable.

Throughout the narrative, Lety’s monstrosity is reiterated. She is labelled the ‘Queen of the ugly women squad’; so ugly that ‘even her own gynaecologist wouldn’t undress her’, and

‘even her own boyfriend would hit her.’ From a ‘gargoyle’ and ‘monkey’ to ‘hairy street food’, the attempts to define ‘Leticia “Pesadilla” (Nightmare) Solis’ are prevalent throughout the novela, and are principally motivated by what is perceived to be her transgression of the appropriate tropes of femininity. Indeed Lety takes up too much space.

Not only is she fat with a gratingly whiny voice, but her braces, acne, oily hair, frumpy clothing and childish accessories further her ‘unruliness’ and marginalisation within this community. In addition to the labels proffered to define her unruliness, Lety’s colleagues try to literally tame her excessive use of space; by placing her in a tiny storage cupboard in the guise of an office, she is effectively exiled; removed from view.

Conceptos president and telenovela galán Fernando most ruthlessly executes the treatment of Lety as abject other. After a number of shady deals, which see Lety become the legal owner of Conceptos, Fernando and his best friend Omar, hatch a plan. They figure that ‘a chick as ugly as Lety would sell her soul to the devil as long as he’d perform the miracle of finding her a husband.’ So by making Lety fall in love with Fernando, they figure that she

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will relinquish ownership of the company. Unaware that she has long been in love with

Fernando, their task is easier than expected. Assuring that ‘there is nothing happier than a fat chick after making love’ Omar convinces Fernando to seal the deal by bedding Lety.

Their ruthlessness is a product of Lety’s position as the female grotesque. Even when

Marcia begins to suspect that her fiancé Fernando is having an affair, Lety’s ugliness disqualifies her as a candidate; ‘A romance with Lety? No! It’s more likely that he’d be gay. […] Fernando would fall in love with a guy before Leticia Padilla.’

Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.

Figure 39- Leticia Padilla Solis as the female grotesque, and the telenovela galán Fernando Mendiola.

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Yet despite her rejection within the narrative, the comic nature of this telenovela champions her transgressive state. The celebration of ugliness is evident from telenovela beginning, with the lyrics to the hit song ‘The Ugly Women Club’ declaring ‘This club reserves the right to admission, and to all of the beauties, it’s pure rejection. Ugly girls, ugly girls, united in the fight. Pretty girls are few, uglies there’s a lot’. Here the inversion inherent to the ‘comedy of excess’ finds humour in the contradiction between Lety’s status as a protagonist and her transgression of the norms usually configured within this role. Thus rather than laugh at her, as her colleagues do, it laughs with her, as both Lety and her audience know that she is ugly and find humour in her situation. Consequently, rather than discount her as a legitimate protagonist, this appreciation of Lety’s ugliness only serves to highlight her humility and true ‘inner’ beauty.

This inclusive configuration of the female protagonist translates to the construction of a more inclusive community. The portrayal of Conceptos as cruel and exclusionary contrasts sharply with the fun and inclusive ‘Ugly Women Squad’ (‘El Cuartel de las Feas’).

Membership for this community includes those women whose various ‘assaults’ on the tropes of appropriate femininity confirm their bond. Sara is ‘too tall’, ‘too toothy’, ‘too butch’ and ‘too single.’ As a highly sexual single mother on the look out for Mr Right,

Paula Maria is ‘too loose’. Lola is ‘too bitter’ from her husband’s infidelities and abandonment. For her insatiable appetite for junk food and gossip, Martha is ‘too fat’ and

‘too loose’. As the mother figure of the ‘squad’, Irmita is ‘too old’ and ‘too matronly’. As the mystic fortune-teller who learnt the art from her grandmother, Juana is ‘too weird’.

Finally Lety is their self-declared ‘queen’— the ugliest of all.

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Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.

Figure 40- El Cuartel de las Feas; Juna, Irma, Paula Figure 41- Alicia Maria, Martha, Lola & Sara

Further to the endorsement of an alternative community of inappropriate femininity, these women reappropriate the cruel taunts levelled at them. Their archenemy Alicia may call them a ‘Bunch of apes’ and ‘mob from the ghetto’, but their ‘Ugly but United’ catchcry illustrates the collective power generated by their transgression. Consequently, they are not a minority within the world of Conceptos, but a strong force of resistance. For although their positions as secretaries, receptionists, personal assistants and cleaners does not provide them with any explicit authority, it is their collective flouting of the company’s work ethic, their role as gossip mongers, and the ferocious friendship that unites this effort against their critics, which secures their role within this community (Rivero 2003, 73).

Reminiscent of feminist theorist Luce Irigaray’s work on the power of a ‘feminine language’, the shared laughter of these unruly women marks the creation of a more inclusive community. Yet whether this unruliness is subject to the traditional closure of 318 | Page

such sites of resistance requires closer consideration. An analysis of the characterisation and narrative trajectory of key female figures is necessary to understand the ability for comedy to transcend even the most apparently formulaic ending.

The Most Beautiful ‘Tidy’ Nation?

As fate would have it, Fernando falls in love with Lety’s true inner beauty and throughout the narrative he attempts to convince her that she is the love of his life. Yet humiliated at his betrayal, Lety cannot trust Fernando and seeks to forget him. She meets ‘Aldo from

Acapulco’, who falls in love with Leticia- braces, acne and all- and asks for her hand in marriage. Lety accepts but cannot shrug her lingering feelings for Fernando. So after a thrilling period of indecision, Lety finally tells Aldo that she cannot marry him and instead, in a beautiful white wedding ceremony, marries the love of her life; the telenovela galán.

An initial reading of La Fea más Bella’s ending suggests an investment in resolving female transgression through the reinstatement of ‘appropriate femininity’, including conventional notions of beauty as well as romantic love and marriage. Indeed, Lety’s unruliness seems to finally be contained by her legitimisation via the telenovela galán’s love. The values that

Fernando most admires in Lety are those that mark her as a traditional telenovela protagonist; her honesty and unwavering loyalty to him. At one point when he compares her to a dog, marveling that ‘she blindly obeys me’.

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Consolidating the eradication of Lety’s inappropriate femininity is her physical transformation, in time for her white wedding and ‘happily ever after’. By narrative ending

Lety is no longer a fat, pimply, and greasy haired girl with braces. She has been transformed, under the watchful gaze of Luigi who marvels;

Finally. At long last; my masterpiece. The perfect recreation of natural beauty. Now, yes, Luigi Lombardi shall create the face of the most beautiful ugly girl […] Perfect, perfect; ah, my queen, you look so beautiful, you look divine. And now Leticia Padilla Solis; can you tell me what you will do now? Now that you have discovered yourself, now that you have discovered your beauty […] will you be you now? Lety’s humble reply confirms this transformation: ‘I want to be like this forever. Now I do feel good about myself inside and out. I am happy with what I am, because I learnt that we can all become beautiful.’

Confirming its importance, this transformation of ‘ugly Lety’ is pending throughout the narrative and takes on increasing significance. Lety’s transformation was eagerly awaited throughout its many months on air, as press surrounding the ‘event’ confirms; ‘Finally, the long-awaited change of ‘Leticia Padilla Solis’ arrived and those made desperate by the wait saw her transform from the most beautiful ugly girl to a gorgeous, modern young woman.

Just like you wanted her to!’ The fetishlike documentation of this process throughout the popular press explains the trajectory of this passage of self discovery,40 before concluding that ‘Yesterday, finally, “Luigi” presented his masterpiece: “Lety Padilla” transformed into a modern woman, feeling good insight and out, winning over all and providing all of those

40 As one article raves; ‘the first change was when she turned up with an accessories laden look, the next in Acapulco, when she showed off arms and legs, but her clothing was still outdated. A little later we saw a change in personality; more self-assured, she took on the role of president of ‘Conceptos’; her eyebrows were less bushy, the acne had cleared up but her tailored suits were still out of fashion. The big change came with ‘Aurora’, when with a look from the 1940s she made a big impression, but alas, several bought this decoy and believed that it was the definitive change (Romero Corral 2007, n.p). 320 | Page

who had anxiously waited for her to emerge, with an enormous sense of happiness’

(Romero Corral 2007, n.p).

The conditional temporality of Lety’s transgression mirrors the dynamic so resonant within the traditional Mexican telenovela text, in which the female protagonist temporarily ‘loses her way’, through her expression of traditionally antagonistic character traits. In the same way that these transgressive sites are closed down so too does Lety’s transgression as an ugly/unruly woman seem resolved. In this way, the comic subgenre’s potential to present more egalitarian versions of community appears undermined.

It is hard not to read Lety’s transformation as anything but recourse to traditional configuration of the race, class and gender parameters of the ‘tidy nation’. To begin, when

Lety’s ‘true beauty’ is finally revealed at telenovela end, and the message that ‘we can all become beautiful’ is imparted before a range of strategically placed brand name beauty products, the race and class prerequisites surrounding admission into this ‘tidy’ national community become all the more explicit. Here, the dichotomy between beauty and ugliness moves beyond facial hair and acne.

As Yeidy Rivero’s work on the original Colombian version of the telenovela suggests, ‘the narrative’s aesthetic divisions centred around class and […] reflected Eurocentric racial and patriarchal discourses of what is generally considered “beautiful” or “ugly” in Colombia and other Latin American cultures’ (Rivero 2003, 71). Consequently, Lety’s ascension from the lower middle class Padilla Solis family to the echelons of the elite Mendiola family

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involves the acquisition of cultural capital via ‘beauty’ that reflects what Rivero calls those

‘Eurocentric, patriarchal, racial, Western/Christianized ideologies of primitivism/ civilization and class’ (Rivero 2003, 68).

Within this narrative of the ‘ugly as the ‘popular’ classes, Lety is ugly because not just because of her appearance, but because of her socio-economic origins. In the same way that she and her fellow members of the ‘ugly women squad’ are ‘too tall’, ‘too fat’, ‘too old’, and ‘too sexual’; they are ‘in sum, too lower class’ (Rivero 2003, 70). Thus Lety’s transformation incorporates the abandonment of the physical traits associated with her working class roots and the simultaneous acquisition and performance of bourgeois ‘good taste.’ Accordingly by narrative end her issues with personal hygiene have disappeared, as have the hunched physique, grating voice and irritating laugh. Lety is no longer a

‘gargoyle’, ‘monkey’ or ‘hairy street food.’ In her place is a woman whose clothing and communication skills showcase the ‘good taste’ imparted to her from such trained specialists as Luigi. Yet the meta-narrative of ‘tidy’ nation-construction posits the most crucial element to Lety’s acquisition of beauty as the ‘lightening’ of her appearance.

Complying with those racial parameters of ‘whiteness’ that resonate within the majority of

Mexican telenovela ‘casting’, Lety’s hair and skin lighten in tone, and she is finally, truly

‘beautiful.’41

41 This is well articulated by María Isabel Belausteguigoitia Rius, the director of the Women’s Studies Department at Mexico’s largest public university la UNAM. Describing the ‘popular’ response to Lety’s transformation she said ‘my mother’s servant, the cook, […] when [Lety] transforms and whitens; [her answer was] “Wow! She’s not a darky anymore!” She’s not black anymore or brown, right?’ (2007, pers. comm., 6 February). 322 | Page

Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.

Figure 42 -43— Lety ‘Before’ and ‘After’

Finally, this very temporary status of Lety’s unruliness appears to damage the potential for the ‘comedy of excess’ to create a more permanently inclusive community of female citizens. Feminist theorists argue that a key tenet for such comedy to successfully open up new spaces of female subjectivity and self-empowerment is the permanent configuration of

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such transgressive communities. As Judy Little explains;

comedy in which the liminal elements are never resolved, comedy which implies, or perhaps even advocates, a permanently inverted world, a radical reordering of social structures, a real rather than temporary and merely playful redefinition of sex identity, a relentless mocking of truths otherwise taken to be self-evident or even sacred — such comedy can well be called subversive, revolutionary, or renegade (Little 1983, 2).

In this way, ‘certain forms of comedy can invert the world not only briefly but permanently; can strip away the dignity and complacency of powerful figures only to refuse to hand them back these attributes when the allotted time for “carnival” is finished’

(Barreca 1992, 6). As Barreca continues; ‘Comedy can effectively channel anger and rebellion by first making them appear to be acceptable and temporary phenomena, no doubt to be purged by laughter; and then by harnessing the released energies, rather than dispersing them’ (Barreca 1992, 6). Such a ‘strong, rebellious humor empowers women to examine how we have been objectified and fetishized and to what extent we have been led to perpetuate this objectification’ (Merrill 1988a, 279). It is ‘this kind of comedy [that] terrifies those who hold order dear’ (Barreca 1992, 7). Yet it would appear that the comedy configured within La Fea más Bella is not one of these.

La Fea más Bella’s humour and celebration of transgressive elements seem incidental. It does not appear to address the cultural construction of gender at any critical level nor to endorse the creation of new versions of community, despite its endorsement of the ‘ugly’ protagonist and the collective unity of the ‘ugly women squad’. Consequently, it appears to be laughing at, not with, the transgressive female protagonist. The increasing presence of melodrama throughout the narrative seems to confirm this.

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As Lety’s trajectory becomes increasingly focused upon her relationship with Fernando, so too does the narrative’s melodramatic tone. One critic of the Colombian version explains this trajectory, suggesting that ‘Of course the humour […] in accordance with the plot’s focus on the relationship […] gets less and less’ (Ulchur Collazos 2000, n.p.). Thus Lety’s ultimate ascension as the telenovela galán’s wife is not only accompanied by her physical and emotional transformation, but also the melodramatic tone. Here the relationship between melodrama and ‘appropriate femininity’ augurs the apparent recourse to tradition within this narrative and rather than a ‘comedy of excess’, La Fea Más Bella produces a

‘Cinderella with excesses’. As Cuauhtémoc Blanco reasoned;

[Lety is] a Cinderella with excesses, but nonetheless that: it is a "Cinderella" and even if they are modifying the plot and filling it with apparent novelties, its essence is the same. It is dancing to the same song and the same "song" is called morality and that "morality" has very deep patriarchal traits that are quite recognisable at least in our part of the world (2007, pers. comm., 17 January).

However, the heterosexual couple standing at the altar upon telenovela conclusion is not as prescriptive as it may seem. Despite recourse to traditional configurations of race, class and femininity within the imagined national space of La Fea más Bella, a closer look at the comedy of inversion within the narrative, as well as the dynamics of female rivalry, complicates this picture. Although love may be how the story of Lety’s life is told, it does not necessarily translate to an exclusionary tale of femininity, or submission to phallic supremacy. Nor does it deny those alternative configurations of female relationships that are celebrated within the narrative. Within the conventional structures of telenovela fiction, there is great potential for ‘rewriting’ the story from the ‘inside-out.’

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The Comedy of Inversion

Despite Lety’s marriage to a man who humiliated and abused her, there is much more to this white wedding that traditional would tell. Neither Fernando’s masculinity is not left intact nor Lety’s femininity made to order. Where the comedy of excess provides an important but nonetheless transitory narrative arc within La Fea más Bella, more permanent alterations of the telenovela formula are made through the comedy of inversion’s designation of humour as the inversion of gender norms. Here, humour abounds in Lety’s appropriation of the power traditionally afforded the telenovela galán, as well as his emasculation via relegation to the space she once occupied. This shifting power dynamic is literally played out when Lety emerges from the storage room office and

Fernando takes her place. The humour configured within the image of a traditionally powerless figure giving orders from behind the customary oak desk is accompanied by the figure of the galán scurrying into his ‘closet.’

As the ‘woman on top’, Lety controls the narrative in a way previously denied her. Yet unlike her traditional female counterparts, this narrative weight is not based exclusively on her role within the heterosexual love equation. Lety’s role as Conceptos president entails a newfound power exceeding that of the female love interest. She becomes the source of phallic power, which determines the viability not only of Conceptos, but also the telenovela galán. This inversion of the gender norms affords Lety access to the active gaze.

Appropriating the galán’s authority to legitimise one form of femininity over another,

Lety’s active desire sees her fall in love with two men before deciding between them.

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Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.

Figure 44— Lety desires both Fernando and Aldo

In response to this gender inversion, Fernando begins to embody those female characteristics usually configured within those women rivalling for the galán’s love. His plan to seduce Lety in order to reappropriate his power mirrors the tactics of the telenovela antagonist. Yet his plans go awry, as he follows the protagonist’s path and falls desperately in love. Here Fernando’s status as the galán is further emasculated, as he waits; at the disposal of Lety’s desire. Taking up the diary writing begun by a lovesick Lety, his documentation of a broken heart mirrors the more passive role usually afforded his female love interest. Only after Lety falls in love with Aldo does she finally legitimise Fernando’s place beside her.

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The comedy inherent to this inversion invests in the emasculation of the telenovela galán.

Fernando is subject to an almost ritualistic humiliation — professionally, personally and sexually — which effectively serves as a punishment of the exclusionary tactics deployed by the hegemonic patriarchal order. Unlike the narrative’s endorsement of Lety’s empowerment, Fernando is ridiculed throughout for his vulnerable ‘feminine’ traits. This is perhaps best articulated when he loses a bet to Luigi and is initiated as a drag queen named

Lily. With shaved legs, plucked eyebrows, heavy makeup, bright pink wig, towering heels, and floor length gown, Fernando’s masculinity is belittled as a sea of drag queens chant

‘Lily for queen of the gays!’ Such mocking of the telenovela galán’s masculinity is exacerbated by Fernando’s characterisation as neurotic and insecure. Unlike the ruggedly masculine calm of Aldo, whose affinity with the ocean and good food and wine, paint him as the ideal telenovela galán, humour is found in the figure of the ‘anti galán’.

Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.

Figure 45— Fernando as ‘Lily the Queen of the Gays’

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Consequently, the position of the ‘woman on top’ is firmly established. For although Lety’s narrative trajectory ends in marriage to the telenovela galán, this position is not closed down. Rather, these spaces for female empowerment are handed down to other women.

When Leticia returns the presidency to Fernando, he acknowledges his inability to run the company and nominates Marcia as president of Conceptos; the same business that she once warned Lety was misogynist. Similarly, the marriage of Lety and Fernando does not so much pay homage to the established order of patriarchal hegemonic tradition, but rather signals a new equation. As Rowe, quoting Laura Mulvey suggests, ‘the triumph of the Law of the Father represented in narrative isn’t always absolute. Especially during times of social transformation, and especially in the genres of laughter, narratives can reabsorb “the abnormal back into a sense of an order that is altered”’ (Mulvey in Rowe 1995b, 107).

Clearly this inversion of gender roles through the comic figure of the ‘woman on top’ and the ‘man down below’ opens up the types of femininity permissible within this ‘altered’ community and the heterosexual couple that it champions.

This carnivalesque community also alters the types of female relationships allowed within this world. Neither female rivalry nor dichotomous characterisation marks female characterisation within this narrative. Unlike the essentialised women within the more traditional telenovela text, La Fea más Bella’s comic tones find humour in those transgressive women whose contradictions fuel their appeal. Consequently, female transgression does not lead to ostracism, punishment or exclusion from the community.

Rather the comic nature of the narrative revels in their inversions, transgressions and

‘mistakes.’ It finds humour in their petty rivalries yet compassion in their contradictions.

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Palmira Olguín, the writer responsible for adapting La Fea más Bella from the original explained that ‘the characters are created so wonderfully that it isn’t necessary to have great villains in order to create conflict’ (Olguín in Anon. 2006b, 95). Specifically, it is the humour here that creates such characters, giving them the scope to transgress through its accommodating tone. Thus characters that display such excessive antagonism within the narrative, are brought back into the fold of the telenovela community at narrative end. The female rivalry framed within this telenovela is thus compromised as the would-be essentialist antagonists are tempered with humour, and so emphasise the ridiculousness of such Manichaean characterisation. Within this equation, even enemies can appreciate the complexity of their female counterpart, as Lola considers her ‘enemy’ Alicia; ‘sometimes her life makes me feel so sad and poignant’ (Anon. 2006b, 37).

Most crucially within this new world, even those female characters in competition for the telenovela galán’s love defy tradition. Initially Marcia resents the devastating effect that

Lety’s arrival at Conceptos has had on her professional and private life. Yet her apparent antagonism is not unwarranted, as Lety’s affair with Marcia’s fiancé Fernando, and suspiciously speedy assumption of the Conceptos presidency are particularly antagonistic themself. This narrative equation complicates the traditional female dichotomy, in two key ways. Lety’s status as the protagonist does not match her sexual relations with an affianced man, or her inability to choose between two men. It is even further compromised by her status as a non-virgin before the narrative even begins. Complicating the traditional formula further, Lety’s mistakes are met with Marcia’s ability to forgive her behaviour, and see her for the genuine and kind person that she is. By telenovela end, the rivalry between Lety and

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Marcia has been resolved; not by the exile of one of these women but through comprehension and compassion.

Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.

Figure 46- Marcia as Lety’s would-be rival

The ideal community configured upon narrative conclusion has room for such transgressive female behaviour. Here, La Fea más Bella does not discriminate between ‘appropriate’ forms of femininity. By telenovela conclusion, citizenship is afforded all of these women, whose comic tendencies provide a relief to the traditional configuration of ‘appropriate’ and

‘inappropriate’ femininity within the narrative. Indicative of the truly inclusive configuration of female citizenship within this comic line-up, there is nothing ‘routine’ about the similarly ‘happy ending’ for Lety, and the variety of women she befriends.

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‘Writing Beyond’ with the Telenovela Subgenre

Just as the ‘rebel leitmotiv’ opens up new spaces for female characterisation and citizenship within the teen telenovela Rebelde, the comedy within La Fea más Bella serves to indulge those transgressive female characterisations found within Lety and her colleagues. Here, the rebellion and laughter within these narratives provide a means through which gender roles, female rivalry and dichotomous characterisation are challenged, and a more inclusive community is formed. Facilitated by these specific narrative ‘themes’ that ‘have nothing to do with our accepted gender roles’ (Russ 1995, 90) there are various ‘strategies’ evident within these telenovelas which assist in the ‘writing beyond’ of the heterosexual love story and the exclusionary female characterisation and citizenship that it traditionally affords.

Amongst these are;

1. The focus on an alternative narrative drive beyond the heterosexual love story,

which sees Rebelde’s teens strive for the success of their pop band rather than solely

the union of protagonist and galán.

2. The move away from female rivalry for the love of the telenovela galán as a

principal means of narrative drive. This is facilitated by La Fea más Bella’s

investment in unruly women, as well as Rebelde’s alternative narrative focus of

securing the band’s cross over success.

3. The collective protagonist, which destabilises the centrality of the heterosexual

couple within the narrative, as evident with the RBD pop group and the ‘ugly

women squad’, thereby facilitating strategies 1 and 2.

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4. The investment in friendship, which opens up alternative relations between both

women and men, as facilitated by the pop group and school ties of Rebelde and the

laughter within La Fea más Bella, also facilitating strategies 1 and 2.

Securing this new equation, the phenomenal popularity of each of these telenovelas provides a principal means through which the telenovela subgenre can ‘write beyond’ the traditional telenovela formula for characterisation and citizenship. Indicative of this ability for the ‘tyranny of the ratings’ (Corral 2007, 65) to trump the ‘tyranny of the plot’ (Du

Plessis 1985, 56), telenovela executives have since capitalised on the success of La Fea más Bella through the production of several comic narratives including Yo Amo a Juan

Querendon (‘I Love Loveable Juan’ Televisa 2007), Las Tontas no Van al Cielo (‘Dumb

Women Don't Go to Heaven’ Televisa 2008), Un Gancho al Corazon (‘A Hook to the

Heart’ Televisa 2008) and Hasta Que El Dinero Nos Separe (‘’Til Cash Do us Part’

Televisa 2009).

Yet such possibilities ‘beyond’ the traditional formula are not themselves exclusionary. The following final analysis considers where these narrative ‘strategies’, linked to the inherently commercial nature of the Mexican telenovela industry, follow within telenovelas that do not subscribe to any distinct subgenre. Indeed, in line with the ‘spiral-like’ nature of

Mexican telenovela history, trends such as the popularity of the comic subgenre within the latter half of the ‘noughties’ are unlikely to last, with a reversion to the more traditional telenovela love story to follow. As such, an analysis of non subgenre specific fare posits

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increased cast size and narrative extension as two more general ways in which producers may both create and capitalise on successful ratings, to the detriment of the traditional plot.

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Chapter Seven The Melodramatic Downfall: ‘Disturbing’ the Narrative Formula in the ‘Telenovela de Alteración’

Chapter Seven: The Melodramatic Downfall: ‘Disturbing’ the Narrative Formula in thelenovela de alteración’ ‘They've got to learn that extending a novela is a bad, bad thing, and hey, let's call a moratorium on crazy characters, okay?’ — Robin N @Telenovela-world.com

This chapter seeks to negotiate the limitations posed by the equation of Manichaean melodrama with the commercially viable genre of the Mexican telenovela industry. Indeed, the failure for both the traditional and de ruptura texts surveyed to break with traditional versions of the nation and female citizenship via the adherence to the Manichaean melodramatic formula motivates the search to identify those texts which do not fail. By identifying those telenovelas that seem to ‘rupture’ the textual form itself, this chapter proposes an original telenovela type; the telenovela de alteración or telenovela of

‘disturbance’, named so after the ability to ‘disturb’ the narrative form itself.

The inherent value of identifying this new category is its pervasiveness and prospective longevity. For although the nature of the genre is itself fluid and transitory, as evident in the many interconnected subgenres and trends spawned throughout its fifty-year history, the telenovela de alteración is not just another developing varietal of storytelling tropes.

Rather, it flags a different type of telenovela phenomenon, external to narrative type. This classification riffs on the notion of a common external force shaping these two supposedly 335 | Page

opposing telenovela types, reflecting an increasingly powerful overarching commercial logic that affects telenovela genres, irrespective of their particular ‘rose-tinted’ or

‘rupturous’ aesthetic equation. Serving as a ‘meta’ classification mode, the telenovela de alteración positions rosa and de ruptura telenovelas not in opposition, but as subjects of the same industry conditions, and with the same scope for subverting the genre’s narrative schema, from within.

Importantly here, this new ‘type’ of telenovela does not seek to ‘break’ with traditional narrative forms, as did the telenovela de ruptura movement. Ironically, it follows the same commercial logic that saw the ‘demise’ in the telenovela de ruptura’s production, due to its purportedly ‘limited’ commercial viability, and manages to ‘break’ the traditional schematic strictures. As such, the ‘incidental’ ruptures that occur within this newly defined telenovela category are arguably more sustainable from a production perspective, because the ‘disturbances’ that they make are themself commercially motivated. Therefore, identifying this classification mode is useful for completing the picture with regard to the telenovela rosa and telenovela de ruptura continuum, with the potential to render their supposed distinctions void.

Before outlining how these ruptures occur, it is important to understand the significance of this new telenovela term in signifying the numerous ways in which ‘disturbing’ the narrative form can disturb the ‘tyranny’ of the traditional plot. In accordance with the definition of the Spanish term ‘alteración’, the telenovela de alteración first signifies the

‘disturbance’ of order or routine, and thus symbolises an upsetting of the traditional

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Manichaean melodramatic telenovela form. Yet it also signifies the ‘disturbance’ of public peace or the status quo, which can be interpreted as a potential ‘disturbance’ of the ‘type’ of nation and female citizenship configured through the execution of this prescriptive narrative form. Indeed, within this ‘disturbance’ of form, the ‘tidy’ nation and its exclusionary female citizenship can be disordered.

Following this logic, the term signifies the ‘disturbance’ of a state of being, of agitation, shock or excitement. In this way it represents the potential for a ‘disturbed’ state of being within those transgressive female characters traditionally labeled as the ‘loca’. Ultimately, the potential that this ‘crazed’ state has for ‘disturbing’ the traditionally ‘tidy’ configurations of the nation, its female characters and their prospective citizenship are harnessed within this term.

Exactly how the ‘disturbance’ of the Manichaean melodramatic form can occur, and effect a revision of the nation, female characterisation and citizenship, is considered in relation to the ultimately commercial logic of the Mexican telenovela industry. Within the telenovela de alteración, both the casting of multiple protagonists in order to increase the potential appeal of the narrative, and the narrative extension of successful telenovelas are deemed true to the commercial logic of the industry, yet responsible for the (incidental)

‘disturbance’ of the narrative form and its generic configurations. Indeed, Marcela Citterio, one of the original writers of Amor en Custodia explained; ‘the key for me was that there was more than one central couple. When there are so many stories, at least one has to appeal’ (Anon. 2005, n.p.). The casting of two protagonists within this narrative is not

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evidently related to a desire to ‘revise’ the genre and its limitations. Yet nonetheless, it facilitates the ability to experiment with protagonists that appeal to various demographics, rather than those that adhere to a narrative formula.

Similarly, the commercial logic motivating narrative extension leads to ‘incidental’ disturbance of the narrative formula. Described as the ‘tyranny of the ratings’ by Manuel de

Jesús Corral Corral (Corral 2007, 65), this concept has been used in Chapter Six to identify the ways in which the quest to capitalise on a successful formula sees an investment in subgenres to satisfy niche markets and national mood. Yet writing on Amor en Custodia,

Corral identified this ‘unbridled commercialism’ as indicative of a ‘lack of respect for the televisual public’ through the sacrifice of narrative coherence via narrative extension

(Corral 2007, 4). Here, ‘the ultimate explanation for this weakening of both the plot and the actor’s performances, can be found in the predominance of the economic interests that come into play upon the show’s transmission’ (Corral 2007, 4).

However it is exactly the ability for such commercialisation to ‘disturb’ the ‘tidy’ execution of the plot that challenges the traditional formula. Indeed, it is the existence of many characters and subplots, as well as the extension of episode runs due to popularity, which invariably ‘weigh down’ the formula responsible for the tightly strung telenovela formula.

Unlike the ultimately Manichaean formula found in both the traditional mode and the telenovela de ruptura, the ‘out of shape’ telenovelas that result from ‘unbridled commercialism’ present opportunities for a more permanently transgressive female characterisation. With more narrative space to fill, storylines and character trajectories

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become increasingly convoluted. In a bid to maintain audience interest and high ratings, character transgressions become increasingly transgressive and ‘unruly’ existence is routine. The possibility of a more inclusive female citizenship within these narratives follows.

This chapter thus engages with these telenovelas de alteración, by exploring the ways in which they ‘disturb’ not only the Manichaean melodramatic narrative form but also its ability to construct a ‘tidy’ version of the nation and the female citizenship that it affords.

This ‘disturbance’ is explored in the popular telenovelas Tres Mujeres (‘Three Women’

Televisa 2000) and Amor en Custodia (‘Love in Custody’ TV Azteca 2006). Chosen for their casting of multiple protagonists and extended narrative length, these telenovelas effectively ‘disturb’ the execution of the Manichaean trajectory through their ‘weighing down’ of the traditional formula.

Evidence of this ‘tyranny of the ratings’ (Corral 2007, 65) trumping the ‘tyranny of the plot’ (Du Plessis 1985, 56) can be found with the inclusion of fan comments posted on the

TelenovelaWorld forum.42 The comments posted in online forums give an indication of audience reactions to the developing themes, characters and narrative structure of Tres

Mujeres and Amor en Custodia. They also show the audience’s feelings about conventional telenovela plots and thereby assist an analysis of how these two narratives differ from more traditional telenovela fare. Often struggling to align the female characters within the traditional configurations of the telenovela formula, the inclusion of these comments

42 From this Online Forum (), the Tres Mujeres sub forum () and the Amor en Custodia sub forum () are referenced throughout the chapter. 339 | Page

confirms the ability for multiple protagonists and narrative extension to alter the traditional formula.

“Three Women’s a Crowd”

‘It is not always how they portray it to be: they got married and lived happily ever after, like in the telenovela’

—Renata, Tres Mujeres

Tres Mujeres tells the story of three generations of women from the wealthy Uriarte family.

Greta is the wife of a wealthy businessman Gonzalo and the mother of Bárbara, Fátima and

Santiago. Bárbara is the wife of Mario and the mother of a young daughter Montserrat.

Fátima is engaged to marry Adrian, an up and coming businessman. Yet the seeming perfection of their lives betrays the complexities beyond the happy ending and its traditional schema of love, virginity, marriage and maternity…

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Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.

Figure 47- Tres Mujeres’ Barbara, Greta and Fatima

Greta harbours a deep longing for her teenage sweetheart Federico and a deep resentment for the man who took her as his wife. Upon her husband’s death she is ready to move on with her life. The reappearance of Federico after so many years seems to fulfill her destiny yet he is uninterested and unavailable. She becomes obsessed, competing with Federico’s partner Renata for his love. This obsession leads to violence, culminating in several attempts on Renata’s life including a hit and run. In Greta’s ‘crazed’ state she renounces her children and manipulates the truth about her children’s paternity in an attempt to win over

Federico’s love. When Greta finally accepts Federico’s rejection, she makes peace with her past and moves on with a new love, Frank. Despite cheating allegations against Frank and accusations that he is a ‘gigolo’, Greta embraces her new life, and learns to provide the support that her children always sought from her.

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Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.

Figure 48- Greta in one of several attempts to murder Renata

The facade of Bárbara’s ‘perfect’ marriage begins to crack when her desire for a second child goes unrequited. Upon meeting her husband’s cousin Daniel, she is forced to reassess her life. Barbara soon falls for Daniel and despite carrying her husband’s child she seeks a divorce. Yet Barbara’s new marriage quickly turns sour from Daniel’s lack of paternal instinct and cheating ways. She quickly finds comfort in Manuel, yet Manuel’s obsessive ex-girlfriend Yamile, who convinces Bárbara that he has been unfaithful, threatens this newest relationship. Bárbara becomes disenchanted with love upon the breakdown of so many relationships. She denounces love and decides to focus on motherhood and financial

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independence. Yet she cannot find happiness and on her deathbed, after being stabbed by

Yamile, she laments that she could never be happy with her one true love.

Fátima’s obsessively jealous and often violent fiancé Adrian is not the man she thought him to be after he forces himself on her several times. Fátima desires independence and respect and she soon abandons her engagement, after falling for Sebastian. Despite Adrian’s attempts at sabotage, her mother and sister’s ill wishes, and Sebastian’s numerous admirers,

Fátima fights for her new love. Yet when Sebastian goes missing and is presumed dead,

Fátima falls in love with Ramiro, the handsome doctor who diagnosed her breast cancer.

They elope and when Sebastian ‘returns from the dead’, she must decide who she truly loves. Her pregnancy to Ramiro temporarily decides her fate yet when she miscarries, she reconsiders. However female rivals such as Sebastian’s ex-girlfriend Brenda steps in her way. In conjunction with Brenda’s attempts on Fatima’s life, her rape by Leonardo seems destined to prevent her union with Sebastian. Yet she becomes stronger and follows

Sebastian to Canada, where they kiss at Niagara Falls, as the telenovela concludes.

Following the convoluted trajectories of these three women, Tres Mujeres complicates the

Cinderella formula in several key ways. To begin, it follows attempts to ‘rupture’ the traditional schema, by distancing itself from the traditional formula. Writing such comments as ‘One of the reasons I'm so excited about this novela is that I heard it dealt with contemporary issues in a different way from the average novela cinderella [sic] story’

(Lupita, 16 September 1999) viewers discussed the appeal of this approach within the online forum TelenovelaWorld. Others quipped that this telenovela portrays a place where

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‘the sensationalistic storylines, overly dramatic crying and over the top villians [sic] are not present’ (isto, 22 November 2006) and where ‘people actually have jobs, and things to do’ and don’t ‘live off the magic of novela land’ (Alexis, 28 May 2006).

Furthermore, following the logic of Mirada de Mujer, Tres Mujeres attempts to open up the age and sexual mores surrounding female characterisation. Indeed, like Maria Inés these women are complicated protagonists, whose lives do not comply with the ‘appropriate’ trajectory of correct femininity found within the protagonists of the traditional telenovela schema. The inclusion of a sexually active older woman; of protagonists who compromise the polarities of the virgin/whore dichotomy; and the treatment of these existences as more than temporary sites of transgression for melodramatic effect, reflect this similarity.

However Tres Mujeres differs considerably from the telenovela de ruptura in several key ways and it is in these ways that Tres Mujeres can be categorised as a telenovela de alteración in its ability to rupture the traditional schema whilst following commercial logic.

To begin, the characterisation of the female protagonists within Tres Mujeres is more complex and contradictory according to the still relatively Manichaean representation of female identity found within Mirada de Mujer. The protagonist Maria Inés is inherently

‘good’. Despite her ‘transgressions’, ‘goodness’ radiates from Maria Inés throughout the telenovela. Her grace, dignity and generosity indicate her alliance with the Virginal figure throughout. Whilst she may already have ‘fucked’ (in the words of producer Hernán Vera)

(2007, pers. comm., 22 January), she is the figurative Virgin, a beacon of integrity, altruism and abnegation not unlike the Virgin mother herself. Maria Inés’ personal rejection as a

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candidate for romantic love with a younger man sees her embody the asexuality of the

Virgin figure more so than any nubile young protagonist could.

The protagonists within Tres Mujeres complicate the inherent ‘goodness’ found at the heart of the telenovela protagonist. The myriad transgressions of ‘appropriate’ femininity found within the three protagonists’ relationship to love, virginity, marriage, maternity, personal agency, knowledge and female rivalry, complicate the role of the protagonist as traditionally configured. Such are the transgressions of the female protagonists that they often resemble the antagonist figure. In fact, their behaviour incorporates some of those most despised characteristics within the antagonistic figure of the telenovela’s bad woman.

In addition to their transgression of the norms of love, virginity, marriage and maternity, these women exercise personal agency and at times instigate a female rivalry typical of the antagonist figure.

Whilst none of the three female protagonists within Tres Mujeres emulates the impassive suffering found within many traditional telenovela protagonists, it is Greta’s personal agency which is most indicative of antagonistic prowess, as Federico tells her; ‘I can’t believe that you are prepared to destroy everything, everything in your path to get what you want.’ Throughout the narrative, Greta’s manipulation of knowledge to garner empowerment exemplifies the measures she is willing to execute in order to win over her galán’s love. Her vicious rivalry for Federico’s love sees her personal agency lead to violence. As she storms Renata’s party and takes aim with her pistol, she is the true image of a telenovela villain. In a full-length fur coat, sparkling jewels, a blond bouffant and

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glamorous make-up she references innumerous female villains before her. Greta’s crazed antics contrast to Renata’s great composure and compassion, and in these scenes it is difficult to read Greta as anything but the ‘Other’ woman to Renata as protagonist. As the unloved woman in her battle for Federico’s love, her status as protagonist is compromised.

Facilitating this complication of the formula, and key to Tres Mujeres’ definition as a telenovela de alteración is the narrative’s profound ‘disturbance’ of the Manichaean form through the inclusion of multiple protagonists. The exponential effect this has both on the cast and the narrative trajectory cannot be denied. Telenovela lore follows that for every female protagonist there must be a female antagonist, who rivals for the male protagonist’s affections. Tres Mujeres further complicates the equation as each of the three female protagonists has several possible galáns and consequently several female rivals. This tripling of the female protagonists enables female characterisation and citizenship to become more ‘experimental’, and thereby to provide more ‘disturbance’ of traditional configurations than those within the de ruptura narratives surveyed in Chapter Five.

The protracted length of the telenovela further confounds the possibility of maintaining a strict Manichaean trajectory. Tres Mujeres aired in 1999-2000 on Televisa’s Canal 2 and had its most recent rerun in the United States on Univision in 2007. As one of the most successful and longest running Mexican telenovelas of the nineties, Tres Mujeres had an original episode run of 160 half hour installments but was twice extended to a total of 220 hour long episodes, and thirteen months on air (Anon. 2004, n.p.). The success of this

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novela came as a shock to producers who had not anticipated such high ratings of up to 30 points in its five pm time slot (Morales Martínez 1999b, n.p.).

If Epigmenio Ibarra highlighted the need for melodrama in order to maintain audience interest over the usual 120 episode run (2007, pers. comm., 9 February), the need within

Tres Mujeres is further compounded. Throughout the twice extended, year-long narrative trajectory, plot and characterisation become increasingly convoluted. In this way, the protracted nature of Tres Mujeres facilitates the ‘disturbance’ of the strict Manichaean form. Consequently there is much room for transgression within the ‘good versus evil’ paradigm as the protagonists and antagonists oscillate between ‘good’ and ‘bad’ behaviours.

Following this confusion, these three women’s status as protagonists does not entail the right to be loved, nor guarantee that that love is always true. It does not secure that marriage lasts ‘til death do us part’ or that motherhood provides the ultimate fulfillment.

This can be seen initially with the basic telenovela tenet of a protagonist’s ‘right to be loved’. Greta and Bárbara, though protagonists, are largely ‘unloved’ throughout the telenovela. Greta’s pleading at Federico’s feet for him to love her and her eventual marriage to an aging ‘gigolo’ indicates the sullied nature of love within this novela, far from that espoused within the traditional formula. Similarly Bárbara’s tarnished love story across three failed romances is testament to her status as the unloved. Time and again she is confronted by betrayal and allegations of infidelity such that upon her deathbed she is

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alone, without love. Here her status as the unloved is all the more poignant as she gasps her last breath; ‘I could never be happy with the love of my life.’

Even Fátima, arguably the central protagonist, who does end up with the galán Sebastian, has an overly fraught relationship with love. In accordance with the trajectory of the impossible love story, Fátima and Sebastian are subject to sabotage and misunderstandings that tear them apart until the final scene where they are united underneath the words Fin

(The End). However her protracted love story is a complex repudiation of the existence of a fairytale true love. Beyond the undulations of her relationship with Sebastian, it is

Fernando’s love for Ramiro that disturbs the formula.

To begin, Fátima’s decision to forget Sebastian in order to ‘live life in the present’ by marrying Ramiro derails the traditional promise of eternal happiness through suffering and sacrifice. Yet more profoundly it clashes with the traditional narrative formula of one true love when Sebastian later reappears. Indeed Fátima cannot decide who to choose, as she tells Greta ‘I love both of them. They are both wonderful men.’ Whilst such honesty is beyond reproach, the love between Fátima and Sebastian hardly fits the fairytale mould.

The corruption of fantasy within Tres Mujeres continues within the ranks of marriage.

None of the protagonists have a successful relationship with this traditionally sacred institution. Even Fátima, the one woman whose narrative trajectory ends with a telenovela galán, is cursed, as her mother complains after another thwarted marriage attempt;

‘something terrible always happens with Fátima at her wedding.’ Thus rather than

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symbolise the culmination of love’s triumph, marriage becomes another failed enterprise for these women, a symbol of the failure for love to provide eternal happiness. As Renata explains ‘living together, routine, monotony all take their toll on any relationship […] and it can become a living hell.’

Furthermore, the sacred institution of motherhood is problematic for these three women, without guarantee of eternal fulfillment as the ultimate tenet of ‘appropriate’ femininity.

Greta is a condemned mother for the majority of the telenovela. She is cruel, manipulative and irrational, as Federico accuses ‘you are the most despicable mother that I know.’ Her renunciation of motherhood confirms this transgression of telenovela lore, evident as she shouts ‘I am not going to give my life up for a bunch of children that don’t know how to appreciate my sacrifice! I’d rather be alone than put up with you.’

Bárbara’s execution of motherhood is similarly complex. From trouble with conceiving a second child to feigning pregnancy, renouncing custody of her children and having her womb removed, Bárbara is far from the image of the ideal mother so celebrated within the traditional schema. So transgressive is her execution of ‘appropriate femininity’ that her sexual desire remains unabated throughout her pregnancy, and pregnant to one man, she passionately engages another.

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Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.

Figure 49- Daniel, Barbara Figure 50- Fatima & Ramiro Figure 51- Fatima & Maria Sebastian

Fátima is not excluded from this state of ‘unnatural’ motherhood. She falls pregnant to

Ramiro, the man she later abandons after loosing the baby. Similarly, when she reunites with Sebastian at telenovela end, there is no child to symbolise their union and her fulfillment as a woman. There is not even a wedding with promises of maternity to come.

Consequently, there is no assurance that this union will last. Her trajectory into ‘happily ever after’ remains unresolved.

In sum, all three protagonists are sexually transgressive. Yet it is Bárbara’s status as a sexually active mother figure that is largely unprecedented within the telenovela cannon.

Most noticeably it is the image of a mother and pregnant woman cavorting with a man other than the father of her children which is perhaps most unconventional. By sexualising its protagonists Tres Mujeres complicates the parameters of ‘appropriate’ femininity.

Consequently, female sexuality within this narrative is not a taboo issue. In one key scene,

Renata explains the positives that can come from having sex before marriage; ‘it is very important to get to know your man intimately. […] that is where you really realise what he

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is like. There are men that seem kind, gentlemanly and attentive but who are violent and selfish in bed.’

By focusing on issues beyond the fairytale romance, Tres Mujeres exposes the negligence of a strict dichotomy constructing female sexuality. This is most evident in the narrative treatment of Fátima’s rape by Adrian. Tres Mujeres does not treat the rape as an unfortunate and shameful situation, which is referred to as an ‘Elena’ (Tuly, 14 September

1999) by some viewers within the Tres Mujeres forum who allude to the telenovela Vivo

Por Elena. In this telenovela, the protagonist ‘feels she cannot have a relationship with anyone else now because she's already "ruined" herself.’43 Rather, Tres Mujeres uses the storyline to convey information regarding female sexual rights, which is reinforced by

Fátima’s decision to end her engagement with Adrian and move on with her life.

Audience Reactions to the ‘Transgressive’ Protagonist

Throughout Tres Mujeres viewers must continually negotiate the protagonists’ status as transgressive women. Yet this new equation provided a dilemma for many viewers.

Struggling to determine the status of the protagonists in the face of their antagonism, one viewer writing on the TelenovelaWorld forum explained;

I firmly believe that the audience must sympathize and like characters involved in a romance to make it a successful storyline. And right now […] we need to feel more empathy with the characters than we currently do. Something better change pretty quick

43 As the viewer comments state; ‘If she pulls an "Elena" (as in Vivo Por Elena) where she feels she cannot have a relationship with anyone else now because she's alreadoy [sic] "ruined" herself? I don't care for those types of storylines at all’ (Tuly, 14 September 1999). Another viewer responded; ‘I HATE when women do that to themselves! I just hope it doesn't go in that direction, either. We need some strong women who are secure and independent. Let's hope we find it here in Fátima’ (Charma, 14 September 1999). 351 | Page

regarding Greta and Bárbara, because right now I despise them both (Connie C, 24 September 1999).

Many viewers found it hard to identify with such ‘unlikable’ characters, stating that ‘This novela has more villains than heroes, and I fail to see why I should be at all interested in what happens’ (dd, 31 October 1999). They took issue with the inconsistent nature of the characters, arguing that ‘Mature adults don't fall in and out of love, they don't change from good to bad and back again’ (dd, 2 November 1999). Yet others found the complexity of the protagonists refreshing. Stating that ‘they act like real, complex people’, one viewer applauded that ‘Nothing in this novela is cut and dry, black or white. A character can be noble one day and an idiot the next. Say one thing and do another’ (Lupita, 1 November

1999). Indeed, ‘the complexity of human behaviour is surely brought out in this novela’ such that ‘No one is just a "villano" or an unbelievably good person in this novela.’ For this viewer, ‘that's what keeps me coming back’ (Tuly, 1 November 1999).

Still other viewers commented on the ‘transgressions’ of particular tenets of ‘appropriate femininity.’ Some celebrated Fátima’s sexuality and search for true love, yet others lamented her sexuality;

Personally, I will NEVER understand her getting married only 3 MONTHS after Sebastian's supposed death. I will never forgive her for that. Also, I hate that she slept with Ramiro shortly after her return and before they got married. In my opinion, when Sebastian supposedly died, she became a slut, easy and just plain corriente [cheap]. She's no price, [sic] not any more (Tina, 17 August 2000).

This brief insight into viewer interpretation of the protagonists’ behaviour illustrates the difficulty of a Manichaean reading of the characters’ trajectories. Yet regardless of

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audience taste, the potential that this telenovela held for a more inclusive female characterisation and citizenship cannot be denied. In fact, this same dynamic is evident within TV Azteca’s Amor en Custodia.

The ‘Tyranny’ of Narrative Extension

Described by TV Azteca as ‘a breakthrough in the history of telenovelas in Mexico’ (Anon. n.d.g, n.p.) Amor En Custodia ran from July 2005 to August 2006, totaling 560 half hour episodes (Anon. 2006, n.p.). Initially programmed for three months, the telenovela achieved such ratings success that it was twice extended. For a telenovela initially criticised as a mere adaptation or ‘refrito’ of an Argentinean novela, Amor en Custodia’s phenomenal success was unprecedented, especially considering that ‘its most recent and successful productions did not reach even 14 ratings points daily’ (De Cecco, 2005, n.p.). In fact Amor en Custodia was not only the most successful television product in TV Aztecan history, but for only the second time, since Mirada de Mujer, it achieved the ‘impossible’ of seriously competing with Televisa’s ‘Channel of the Stars’ fare (Anon. n.d.g, n.p.).

Never before in Mexican television history had TV Azteca forced the hand of its competition ‘to shake up or take out telenovela prime time on the Channel of the Stars’

(Anon. n.d.g, n.p.). Dubbing Televisa ‘El Imperio del Mal’ (‘The Evil Empire’) Martin

Luna, director of Estudios Azteca, affirmed the triumph, stating that ‘the plastic artists lost out, our talent triumphed’ (Anon. n.d.h, n.p.). This challenge was further reinforced by

Mario San Roman who emphasised that ‘yes it is possible and yes we can beat Televisa as many times as we want’ (Anon. n.d.h, n.p.). 353 | Page

Yet despite the rhetoric, not all were pleased. The ‘chaos’ that this narrative extension reaped on the sensibilities of telenovela lore has been documented in the press and online telenovela forums. As early as February 2006, the newspaper La Vanguardia wrote ‘we hope that they don’t stuff up the best that TV Azteca has on offer by extending it now until

June […] when “Amor en Custodia” celebrates one year on air’ (Anon. n.d.i, n.p.). In retrospect, upon its much delayed grand final, one press release suggested that the novela

‘was ruined bit by bit, until it ended up becoming a telenovela made up of several telenovelas’ (Anon. n.d.j, n.p.). So convoluted was the storyline of Amor en Custodia that one viewer on the TelenovelaWorld forum suggested it should be distinguished into two separate products of the ‘original’ and the ‘extended’ versions; ‘If they bring this out in

DVD, I sincerely hope they will give us the condensed version, ending it where it ended in the original’ (dd, 2 June 2006).

Viewers on the forum discussed this commercialism with regard to issues of narrative coherence and suggested Amor en Custodia suffered ‘what most novelas go through, not knowing when to end’ (Jess*, 2 June 2006). Stating that ‘TV Azteca just doesnt [sic] know how to have a hit’ they declared that ‘it is just so unusual for them to ACTUALLY have a hit novela, one that has caused Televisa to rearrange their primetime, that when they actually have one in their hands they ruin it’ (Paulo, 15 April 2006). Stating that ‘it is a shame that TV Azteca gets drunk on the success of a telenovela like this’ one online community set up an ‘Anti-Amor en Custodia’ forum. Members of this forum stated that it was ‘Created by all of us who think that this telenovela has lost its way, that it laughs at its audience with the illogical twists and turns of its storyline’ (Lesterol500, 28 June 2006) and

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equated the commercially-motivated narrative extension with “substandard storylines” and consequently a “lack of respect” for its audience.

Certainly the frustrations of such economic rationalism are clear. Yet ironically, the female citizenship that such ‘tyranny’ affords is egalitarian, as narrative extension ‘disturbs’ the

Manichaean melodramatic form and its ability to execute a ‘tidy’ version of the nation.

Indicative of this potential are viewer comments that the characters had ‘completely lost direction’ due to changes which ‘occurred solely to add drama to the extended novela’ and which were ‘obviously a gimmick to keep the novela going’ (dd, 12 April 2006). Their critique of the telenovela’s inclusion of ‘absolutely every ridiculous novela cliche [sic] you can think of into the last 2 months!’ (Robin N, 3 August 2006) such as the ‘number of unknown and/or illegitimate children’ and the ‘number of dead who are not dead’ (dd, 23

June 2006) highlights this disturbance of the traditional plot. This disruptive relationship between the narrative length and character trajectories was clarified when one viewer complained ‘They've got to learn that extending a novela is a bad, bad thing, and hey, let's call a moratorium on crazy characters, okay?’ (Robin N, 13 April 2006).

Thus despite this ‘tyrannical’ ratings pursuit, the effect of Amor en Custodia’s seemingly eternal prolongation is the ‘disturbance’ of the Mexican telenovela’s typically Manichaean plot. Despite its name, love is not the custodian, it does not ‘imprison’ its female characters, such that who is and is not loved by the telenovela galán, and who does and does not adhere to traditional configurations of ‘appropriate’ femininity, does not determine her citizenship within the ‘ideal imagined’ community of this telenovela’s happily ever after.

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Coupled with the existence of two protagonists within the central narrative frame, the

‘disturbing effects’ of narrative extension are explored in the following analysis.

In the Custody of Love?

‘That’s love. When it comes into our lives it’s like a hurricane that completely destroys all of our expectations.’ —Juan Manuel, Amor en Custodia

Narrating the story of Paz and Bárbara, mother and daughter of the wealthy Achával Urién family, Amor en Custodia may not appear to ‘completely destroy all of our expectations’ of the traditional love equation seemingly inherent to the Mexican telenovela form. Amor en

Custodia appears to be a traditional story of love conquering all obstacles, of class ascendance, of the sorrows of the wealthy and their ‘salvation’ by the poor. Moreover, love constitutes the narrative drive. Throughout the narrative, the respective love stories of the two protagonists play out.

Despite her marriage to Alejandro, Paz falls in love with her bodyguard Juan Manuel

Aguirre when she discovers her husband’s infidelity. Similarly Bárbara falls in love with her bodyguard Nicolás. Throughout the telenovela they must confront the many obstacles that compromise their love, often caused by the antagonists. Yet by telenovela end they are both married to their respective bodyguard galáns, and are the proud mothers of numerous children. As protagonists, they are rewarded with the gift of life ‘happily ever after.’ For

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Bárbara, this even includes the inheritance of a castle in France, to complement her fairytale ending.

The final scenes confirm the traditional fates meted out to the protagonists and antagonists respectively. Paz and Bárbara are shown celebrating with their husbands and happy family.

In contrast are the fates of Carolina and Tatiana. Killed in a car accident towards telenovela end, Carolina pays for her crimes to this ‘ideal imagined’ community, presented at the narrative conclusion. Tatiana, who is revealed to be a long lost Achával Urién, is present at the celebrations yet she sits quietly with her daughter. By her side is Pedro ‘The Monkey’, a man in a leather jacket and long hair, who was once a criminal and prisoner. Although

Tatiana is a wife and mother, her fate does not resemble the fairytale of Bárbara’s life.

Consequently, Amor en Custodia appears to be a typical love story in which the protagonist wins the heart of the telenovela galán, and is rewarded with her happy ending of marriage and motherhood. In contrast, the antagonist is exiled from the telenovela as ‘ideal imagined’ community, through death, internment in a mental health institution, or marriage to a second rate male character, who himself once formed a threat to the ‘tidy nation.’

However despite its resemblance to the traditional formula, this narrative ‘destroys’ such first impressions. Closer examination of the inversion of traditional character traits reveals how this narrative ‘untidies’ female characterisation from telenovela beginning, and consequently opens the prerequisites for female citizenship within this telenovela de alteración.

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Who’s ‘Right’ To Be Loved?

Amor en Custodia provides an interesting revision of the well-worn narrative of class ascension. Into this world where the rich are humbled by the poor (who ultimately enjoy a newfound wealth to confirm their worth) there is an inversion of gender roles. Bodyguards

Juan Manuel and Nicolás move from their status as employees to male fixtures at the head of the Achával Urién household. Just like their antecedents Cinderella and Maria, they hold no financial incentives. Rather they are awarded this position through their role as the

‘chosen’ or ‘loved’, and so similarly enjoy the incidental acquisition of great wealth and power.

This narrative development provides an interesting dynamic in relation to the telenovela galán as source of empowerment for female characters. Typically this site is accompanied by the wealth of the male figure yet it is displaced here. Paz and Bárbara’s wealth undermines this site because they are not financially dependent on the male figure through romantic ties. Consequently this reversal of financial independence gives the women the power to choose which male attributes are worthy in the figure of the telenovela galán. By emasculating the power and independence of these typically impenetrable figures, the characteristics of the male galán become less prescriptive. Yet more importantly, this inversion facilitates a shift in power dynamics between the male and female lovers.

Removing female dependence on financial support from the male figure ‘disturbs’ the discourse surrounding the tenets of female passivity and personal agency and marks the beginning of Amor en Custodia’s ‘disturbance’ of the traditional protagonists. This is 358 | Page

subsequently evident in the existence of the ‘mature’ couple Paz and Juan Manuel at the narrative core. The inclusion of a female protagonist whose age defies the conventional parameters of romantic and sexual citizenship contrasts with the fate of Maria Inés (Mirada de Mujer) and Valeria (Rosalinda) before her. Paz is passionate and sensual, where Maria

Inés is timid and cool. Furthermore her sexuality is incarnate as the flesh of her body is presented onscreen, not hidden like that of Maria Inés. Unlike the horrifying image of

Valeria’s promiscuous body, Paz’s sexuality is emblematic of her namesake. Meaning

‘Peace’, Paz is a serene and upright figure in this ‘ideal imagined’ community.

Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.

Figure 52- Aguilar & Paz

This inversion of the tenets dictating who is and is not worthy of the telenovela galán’s love is facilitated by the co-presence of two female protagonists. Allowing for more experimentation and transgression within their ranks, this ‘double act’ ‘disturbs’ the traditional parameters of ‘appropriate’ femininity. Thus in addition to the mature

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protagonist Paz, the younger protagonist Bárbara also defies tradition. A comparison of

Bárbara with the antagonist Tatiana reveals her ‘disturbance’ of female characterisation and citizenship within the Mexican telenovela.

Tatiana is first introduced as Juan Manuel and Gabriela’s loving daughter. She lives with her mother and father in the countryside. Tatiana is a sweet, humble and sensitive young woman who is very close to her family, as she says; ‘The most important thing is that all three of us are together. Besides, you have always told me that material things don’t matter.’ It is in fact ‘impossible not to fall in love with her’, as Paz concurs. Tatiana’s beauty is simple and natural. She has a magical touch with plants, who she considers her friends, giving them names such as Lola. As Paz explains, ‘I know that Tatiana has a special touch with plants. It must be because of her great sensitivity.’

Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.

Figure 53- Barbara, Nicolas & Tatiana

In contrast, Bárbara is superficial, vain, manipulative, spoilt and arrogant. She constantly squabbles with her mother, father and housekeeper. Bárbara’s beauty is edgy. Yet her

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‘alternative’, highly constructed hairstyles are only the beginning of her ‘unnatural’ beauty.

Bárbara’s twisted relationship with her self-image culminates in bulimia. She is shown bingeing on sweets and pastries, then vomiting into the toilet bowl of her private bathroom.

Her torment is discovered by Nicolás who she too involves in her ugly unruliness by threatening him; ‘I hate you! Right now I’m going to get you fired! […] If you say anything

I’ll kill myself. I swear that I will. I swear to God.’ Yet ultimately Bárbara’s banal narcissism is farcical, as evident when she outlines her passions; ‘I love to swim, I like to go shopping. I like to talk to my friends, to go out with my friends. You know, like, lots of things.’

This is eclipsed by Tatiana’s quiet calm. Indeed Tatiana is special. She has a gift, as the psychic tells her father; ‘We know that your daughter is special. There are people that see things that others don’t see and they are chosen souls.’ By all accounts, Tatiana, the ‘chosen soul’ should be the protagonist. Her sweet nature, altruism, loving relationship with her family and endearing quirks set her up as the epitome of the ‘good’ ‘virgin’ protagonist.

Her unknown parentage, which sees her class ascension into the Achava Urien family, only confirms this suitability as the Cinderella protagonist in the tradition of ‘Las Marias.’

However it is when Tatiana saves Nicolás’ life that she best illustrates her aptness for this role. As Bárbara laments;

I lost credibility. […] Like, you know; the biggest proof of love that you can give someone

is to give your life to them, right? That squirrel face […] stole it from me, ok? She beat me.

Like now I can’t prove to Nicolás that I love him like she does […] she took that away

from me, she snatched it away, once again. Squirrel face.

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Nicolás acknowledges this trope and agrees to marry Tatiana on her deathbed, effectively enacting her passage as the protagonist of the narrative, and seemingly enforcing traditional telenovela lore.

Yet Tatiana is not the protagonist of his heart. As the telenovela galán, Nicolás’ preference for Bárbara as the ‘love of his life’ complicates the traditional equation. Tatiana has in fact manipulated the situation such that she presents an ongoing obstacle to the fulfillment of

Nicolás’ true love with Bárbara, as she tells Nicolás, ‘The only thing that I regret is not making my dream a reality; marrying you. […] Because I love you.’ Tatiana is thus repositioned as an active antagonist, desperate to win over Nicolás’ affections, which

Bárbara is powerless to prevent. Here Tatiana’s ‘goodness’ becomes problematic, as her act of self-sacrifice threatens the true love equation between Bárbara and Nicolás.

Amor en Custodia’s inversion of these traditional tropes sets up an interesting paradigm, within which Bárbara and Tatiana are rivals for Nicolás’ love, but in which the ‘bad’ woman has all the traits of the traditional protagonist and the ‘good’ has the traits of the bad. In addition to Bárbara’s flawed character, her relationship with Nicolás is unconventional. To begin, Bárbara is not a virgin upon meeting Nicolás, who she sets out to torment. Indeed, their relationship is not built upon the conventional trope of ‘love at first sight’ but rather bickering, insecurity and hard work. Bárbara emulates the role of the

‘unloved’ antagonist, telling Nicolás ‘It seemed impossible to me that someone like you would be interested in me. It seemed impossible to me that someone like you could want me.’

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However Bárbara’s status as the chosen recipient of Nicolás’ love endorses her unconventional status as the protagonist. Her self-deprecating humour and crassness soon become endearing, as one viewer writing in the TelenovelaWorld forum confirmed;

She seemed rather despicable in her brattiness and self-centeredness, but she somehow manages to be charming and vulnerable at times, and I confess there are moments when I like her. … Her character’s not that simple – sort of a mess and not completely good or bad (Janet, 1 September 2005).

Bárbara is framed through Nicolás’ eyes and although her ‘uselessness for housework’ posits her as a ‘monster’, he states at the end that she is ‘the monster that I love.’

Consequently, rather than ostracise her as an unnatural woman, Bárbara’s ‘monstrous’ version of femininity, approved by the galán’s gaze, provides a revision of the formula. By telenovela end Nicolás jokes that ‘I’m not really sure that you are the perfect woman’ but she has his love and his declaration that ‘I know that we are going to be together for the rest of our lives’. Accordingly, Bárbara is rewarded with her dream of happily ever after just as she once hoped; ‘I dreamed about this Nicolás. I’m happy. I am completely happy for the first time in my life.’

In contrast Tatiana gets the ‘second best’ ending, with her marriage to the ex-con Pedro

‘The Monkey.’ In fact Tatiana’s status as a ‘good’ woman is not enough to prevent her descent into ‘evil’ during the telenovela, as her friend Lili tells her; ‘you hide behind that angel face of but deep down you are a traitor.’ In addition to her manipulation of

Nico’s affections, she does all that she can to separate him from Bárbara. She feigns pregnancy to Nicolás and later, when institutionalised for postnatal depression, she fakes her cure to ensure release. As one viewer writing in the Telenovela-world forum exclaimed; 363 | Page

‘Were I Tati's family, I'd be looking to lose the key! The key to her own little padded cell in the asylum, that is!’ (Robin N, 4 April 2006).

Tatiana’s unprecedented transition, from the ‘good virgin’ robbed of the telenovela galán’s affections to a vindictive villain, illustrates this ‘disturbance’ of the traditional tenets of

‘appropriate’ femininity. Indeed Bárbara’s unprecedented popularity confirms the appeal of the unconventional protagonist and its ability to secure the telenovela’s success within a wider demographic. As the actor Sebastián Estevanéz explained ‘compared to the

Argentinean version, in Mexico teenagers were very fanatical and they even copied some of the characters’ idiosyncrasies’ (Anon. n.d.k, n.p.). In particular Bárbara’s irreverent persona as a ‘chica fresa’, literally translated as ‘strawberry girl’, had the most influence on teen culture at the time. Adopting a ‘bored rich girl’ accent and procuring such meaningless idioms as ‘equis’ (‘whatever’), she articulated a popular attitude that spoke directly to its teenage audience.

However neither Tatiana nor Bárbara, nor their fates, can be reduced to the ‘pure’ (albeit inverted) Manichaean characterisation so typical of traditional fare. They are complex, flawed characters who ‘disturb’ this formula. Both are redeemed within their narrative trajectory and neither is exiled from the ‘ideal imagined’ community composed by narrative end. Both appear in the final scenes of the telenovela, which show the festivities of this community’s ‘happy ending’. The female citizenship thus endorsed within this version of the ‘nation’ emphasises inclusion over exclusion, with an array of characters welcome to stay.

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The protracted length of Amor en Custodia only serves to assist this ‘disturbance.’ By unraveling the tight structure of the melodramatic core, ‘anything goes’. In this ‘fast and loose’ context, the Manichaean dichotomy is undermined such that female characters become complex subjects, situated in between the polarities of ‘good’ ‘virgin’ and ‘bad’

‘whore.’ This is evident not only with the inclusion of the antagonist Tatiana in the final

‘happy family’ scenes, but also the failure to deliver a genuine rival to Paz for Aguirre’s love.

Whilst Carolina’s rivalry for Alejandro’s love proves impotent in light of the true flame Paz holds for Juan Manuel Aguirre, mirroring the position of Daniela in Mirada de Mujer, there is no equivalent of Marcela within this narrative. Furthermore, despite attempts to create narrative drive with this melodramatic role, the embodiment of these rivalries (in Paz’s blind daughter Millie and her evil twin sister Samantha) lack credibility. By the time that

Millie unsuspectingly falls in love with Juan Manuel when he moves to the same centre for the blind in Switzerland and Samantha enters the narrative, the plot and characterisation have become so complex that their authority as true love rivals fails to overcome the farcical nature of the extended narrative.

Following this reading of the narrative and its characters’ trajectories, the title of the telenovela is misleading. The female characters are in fact free from the ‘custody’ of the love paradigm inherent to the traditional formula. Thus in the same way that Amor en

Custodia’s love is said to ‘destroy all certainty’, challenging the lives of all in its path, it too destroys a certainty about who is and is not ‘loved’ in the Mexican telenovela.

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‘Disturbing’ the Traditional Formula

The inclusive female citizenship within both Tres Mujeres and Amor en Custodia is directly related to the ‘disturbing’ effects on the Manichaean melodramatic form of both narrative extension and increased cast size. Indeed, the ability for these narratives to provide a complex female characterisation ‘beyond the status of a ‘symbol’ or ‘sign’ (Martín-Barbero

1995, 280) cannot be ignored. Furthermore, the ratings popularity of these telenovelas de alteración confounds the notion that a tight Manichaean melodramatic narrative is inherent to the genre of a commercially viable industry. The success of these narratives verifies the ability for non-formulaic versions of the fictional nation and its female citizens to meet the industry’s financial imperatives.

However, in a dramatic final twist, the intense ‘stretching’ of this formula that accompanies the ‘unbridled commercialism’ of excessive narrative extension seems to have self imploded, undermining the very foundations that it relies upon. Indeed, unlike the popularity of the ‘post-romantic’ investment in telenovela subgenres, which accommodate both niche markets and national mood, the telenovela de alteración may not be a viable long-term option for ‘disturbing’ the traditional form. With audiences taking issue with the

‘tyrannous’ extension of popular narratives, and calling for a ‘moratorium’ on the consequently ‘crazy’ characters that this creates, capitalising on the financial success of popular narratives may in fact turn audiences away. As one viewer articulated this process;

they pad them with lots of wasted time, and drag them out to increase profits - and it's what has made me abandon most of them. The plot moves at a glacial pace, and they throw in crappy subplots which serve no purpose but filler. Contrast to the short, tight novelas, where there is always progress and the subplots actually support the main plot. […] Given 366 | Page

a choice, a padded 200-cap novela with money to spend on production quality, or a tight 100-cap (95, 130, thereabouts) novela on a budget, I like this way better (Paula H, 2 March 2010).

Evidently the prolongation of a telenovela’s episode run is a fine line for producers to tread; negotiating how to capitalise on a successful product whilst avoiding the ‘betrayal’ of faithful audiences through excessive narrative extension. This constant negotiation of audiences ‘tastes’ with industry imperatives is motivated by fear of losing ratings and consequently the hesitancy to create a new product, especially when such logic as ‘because that’s the genre’ prevails.

Perhaps more than ever this negotiation continues, with audiences defecting to other means of entertainment with the ease of access facilitated by the diversification of distribution platforms and pirated goods. Azcárraga’s 2008 comments that the Mexican free to air television industry had effectively ‘reached its potential’ and that Televisa would focus on new horizons such as pay television and transnational co-production partnerships, indicate industry frustration accompanying the waning popularity of telenovelas at home and abroad

(AMAP 2008). It also explains the apparent lack of investment in revising the genre. A brief review of recent developments in this uncertain industry concludes this study, and helps to consider what future may lie beyond the Mexican telenovela’s scripted ‘happy ending’.

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Conclusion Beyond the ‘Happy Ending’? Conclusion: Beyond the ‘Happy Ending’? Several recent programming ventures at Televisa and Argos indicate a revision of the free- to-air television portfolio, which responds to the changing media landscape. The investment in internationally co-produced cross-platform mini-series like Televisa’s S.O.S. Sexo y otros Secretos (‘Sex and Other Secrets’ 2007 & 2008) and Mujeres Asesinas (‘Women

Murderers’ 2008 & 2009) reflect Azcárraga’s 2008 announcement that the conglomerate would develop ‘a plan to expand into international markets based on relationships with strategic partners and packaged content’ as well as national pay television markets.

Produced for HBO Latino, Argos’ own mini-series Capadocia (2007 & 2009) is also indicative of this industry trend.

All three programs promise possible growth areas for telenovela content as new ‘gritty’ opportunities for female characterisation and citizenship within Mexican television follow.

A brief review of their narrative content certainly confirms this prospect. However, a consideration of the publicity and industry dynamics surrounding this recent programming trend raises questions about the ultimate sustainability of revising the telenovela’s narrative schema, beyond the ‘happy ending’.

Sexo y Otros Secretos constituted one of the four mini-series made under a new programming initiative dubbed Series Originales- Hecho en Mexico (‘Original Series-

Made in Mexico’). Narrating the story of ‘five women, with totally different ways of seeing and living life, whose only tie is the friendship that brings them together’ (Anon. 2007f, 368 | Page

n.p.), Sexo y Otros Secretos introduces new character types and configurations of community to the Mexican television screen. This is facilitated by the large cast, the lack of a clear female protagonist or antagonist, the comedic tone and the emphasis on female friendship over heterosexual romantic relations. Accordingly, the narrative focus shifts to a more inclusive trajectory for the female characters who have ‘learned to live with the good and the bad that life gives them, to laugh at the dramas that life presents them, to confront the ghosts and taboos, to get carried away by their desires, dreams and passions’ (Anon.

2007f, n.p.).

Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.

Figure 54- Sexo y Otros Secretos Season 1 Figure 55- Sexo y Otros Secretos Season 2

Each of the female characters illustrates this wider scope. Tania is a married lawyer who has a six-month-old baby, who loves her husband, but can’t decide ‘what is it that is more important to her: passion or love’ (Anon. 2007g, n.p.). Maggie is the single mother of a

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teenage daughter. As a telenovela writer, her work ‘leads her to live great romances in her imagination, which, no matter how hard she tries, never eventuate in real life’ (Anon.

2007g, n.p.). Irene is a housewife who discovers that her husband is cheating on her and decides that her ultimate revenge will be to make him fall madly in love with her without ever being able to have her. Pamela is a beautiful and intelligent young woman who falls in love with her married boss. Sofía is a sexually independent executive who is confident she could never fall in love with just one man, so enjoys many. The theme song for the series introduces the ideological terrain explored here when it states that;

There are women thinking of committing suicide They never thought about what a hell it would be to get married There are women who always like to pretend At the end of the day it isn’t a lie And don’t take advantage We’re lovers not servants Ah women

Reviews were mixed. Sexo y Otros Secretos was criticised by many bloggers as a rip off of

HBO’s Sex and the City for its similar cast of thirty-somethings whose mishaps in life and love in the big city provide the fodder for the storyline. Yet other viewers embraced the series, and commended its thematic and aesthetic distinctions from the traditional telenovela. Benjamin Cann, producer and director of the series further clarifies the move away from the telenovela stating that ‘the characters have other scenic objectives, they have other things to do, very different from the basic preoccupation of the telenovelas which is I suffer or I don’t suffer’ (Anon. 2007h, n.p.). He assures that the show ‘will really interest the women of this generation’, even though ‘it will hurt’ (Anon. 2007h, n.p.). The notion that this new type of representation has to be cruel to be kind is accompanied by

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disclaimers, which reassure that ‘there won’t be any strong scenes even though the title is provocative’ (Anon. 2007i, n.p.).

It would seem that the moral parameters of the telenovela love story continue within this new world. Yet whilst such disclaimers may compromise Televisa’s first contemporary attempt to ‘dirty’ the traditional narrative schema, the investment in ‘gritty reality’ to diversify Televisa’s production portfolio is consolidated within the hit three-season mini- series Mujeres Asesinas (‘Killer Women’ 2008, 2009, 2010). Based on real-life events in which thirteen different women murder the source of their oppression, Mujeres Asesinas is the Mexican version of Argentina’s wildly successful four-season mini-series of the same name. This original version has become a transnational format, within which the murders perpetrated are adapted to real-life cases from the different countries in which it is produced.

With critically acclaimed ratings successes in Argentina, Colombia, , Spain, Italy and Mexico, Mujeres Asesinas ‘has become a major TV hit and a minor pop-culture phenomenon in certain Spanish-speaking parts of this hemisphere’ (Johnson R, n.d, 1). An

English-Language US version is in the pipeline after the exceptional ratings success of

Mexico’s first season on the Univision network in early 2009 when ‘the first episode of the internationally acclaimed mini-series captured the #3 spot for the 10:00-11:00 pm time period among Adults 18-34, Women 18-34 and Persons 12-34, beating CBS among all viewers, not just Hispanics’ (Seidman 2009, n.p.).

With each of the thirteen episodes named after the woman and her crime, such titles as 371 | Page

‘Patricia Avenger’, ‘Martha Suffocator’ and ‘Margarita Poisonous’, signal the transnational appeal of such sensationally sexy “super villains”. The publicity surrounding the Mexican version plays up to this femme fatale logic by sleekly packaging the image of

A-list actresses in elegant white blood-spattered attire on billboards across the country.

Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.

Figure 56- Mujeres Asesinas Season 1

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Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.

Figure 57- Mujeres Asesinas Season 2

Such is the sex appeal of this advertising that actresses have lined up for a chance to star in their own episode. It would seem that every article promoting the series lists the stellar cast and revels in the participation of such Mexican sweethearts as , who played

Guadalupe in the Rebelde/RBD franchise. As one article proclaims, ‘Maite Perroni has mastered the art of playing la niña buena [‘good girl’] role […] but the angelic actress is surprising telenovela fans with a new murderous role’ (Anon. 2008, n.p.). Another enthuses that ‘actress Mary Sorté, who has typically characterised sweet and affectionate roles in telenovelas such as Fuego en la Sangre, turns her back on tenderness to become a bloodthirsty woman’ (Ramírez, n.d., n.p.). This meta-textual narrative of ‘good girls go bad’ only serves to increase the potent combination of star power, via what seems to be the show’s investment in the type of blood-spattered voyeurism typical of ‘yellow journalism’.

The show’s provocative advertising tag lines exemplify this sensationalist approach,

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warning ‘Beware! Don’t let your woman watch this new series’.

The notion that such programming might ‘incite women to commit more acts of revenge- fueled [sic] violence’ has been promoted in the wider media, with its frequent recourse to the misogynist logic of machismo (Anon. n.d.l, n.p.). Thus, although the series’ sensationalist approach seems an insincere engagement with the tragic origins of each episode, it nonetheless highlights the ways in which this narrative challenges the traditional gender tropes of prime time telenovela fare. Integral to the series’ promotion is the explication that the female characters are not Manichaean replicas of telenovela lore, as

Univision’s website clarifies ‘female murderers are very common in telenovelas, but one does not expect a noble heroine to brandish a weapon’ (Venant n.d., n.p.).

In this way, Mujeres Asesinas’ principal marketing approach is to acknowledge the traditional parameters that would judge these ‘killer women’, but then debunk it.

Univision’s tagline ‘13 stories of passion, revenge and… justice?’ (Carillo n.d., n.p.) exemplifies this. Indeed, much of Mujeres Asesinas’ publicity emphasises the diversion from a dichotomous representational schema of ‘killer’ and ‘victim’. Instead,

what is novel is that they are women who are not ready to kill, but who do it in search of a better life. They are women who suffer and who have arrived at such a degree of suffering that they feel the only way to stop the cycle is with such a final and terrible act (Rivero n.d., n.p.).

This multivalent potential plays out through the cross-platform invitation for increased audience participation in determining the innocence of the protagonists. Asking ‘do you think it’s possible to feel sorry for a murderer?’ the series’ webpage provides an online bonus feature through which viewers must ‘decide if the assassin of the week is innocent or 374 | Page

guilty’ (Anon. n.d.N, n.p.). This process occurs in two stages. Predicated on a recognition that ‘coming across 12 women who are capable of committing the most horrific of crimes might confuse you’, the webpage invites ‘a responsible public; possessing a perspicacity capable of dealing with strong episodes’ to ‘enter The Consultation Room where experts will outline for you the factors that constitute the psychosis of these Killer Women’ (Anon. n.d.M, n.p.). This forum allows viewers to ‘read the analysis that our psychologist gives for each of the assassins’ (Anon. n.d.m). Viewers are then encouraged to enter ‘the jury’ where they can take justice into their own hands by voting for the prosecution or defence, thereby choosing from the two opposing narrative frameworks for her crime.

A review of the verdicts for each episode of the first season evidences this shifting narrative focus towards the open interpretation of transgressive women, with viewers decreeing five murderers ‘innocent’ and the remaining eight ‘guilty’ (Anon. n.d.N, n.p.). Whilst some of the guilty parties attracted very little empathy from the viewers who almost unanimously voted them so, other cases divided viewers more evenly. Consequently, it is through this contextualisation of their crimes that the framing of these ‘killer woman’ as the product of female oppression can be seen. Univision’s webpage for the program further indicates this recognition of the wider socio-cultural issues motivating these crimes, with hyperlinks to such articles entitled ‘Violence against women’ and ‘Violence is suffered in silence’ (Anon. n.d.N, n.p.).

This shift in Televisa’s narrative repertoire is significant. It illustrates the ways in which the

‘gritty realism’ of such stories can create female characters beyond the exclusionary

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representational schema of the Manichean melodramatic trajectory and its ultimately

‘happy ending’. Yet the break that Argos/HBO’s International Emmy Award winning mini- series Capadocia (2007) makes with this traditional narrative schema is even more profound.

Capadocia is a hard-hitting 13-part mini-series set in a women’s prison in the bowels of

Mexico City. Narrating the systematic corruption that mars attempts to set up a rehabilitation program within the prison, the prisoners are exploited for the cheap labour that provides a cover for illegal drug trafficking. To this macrocosm, which finds parallels with Mexico’s systematic corruption, Capadocia narrates both the individual circumstances that lead to the prisoners’ incarceration and the reality of their lives on the inside.

Amongst those women is Lorena, who is jailed for murder, when after discovering her husband and best friend having sex, accidentally pushes her down the stairs. Because the victim was the daughter of a high court judge, her trial is a mere formality. Her cellmate

Magos is jailed for the murder of her children, whom she attempted to ‘protect’ from her abusive husband. Antonia is a post-op transsexual jailed for fraud committed to pay for her surgeries. Guadalupe is an indigenous maid framed for the murder of her employer. As with

Mujeres Asesinas, Capadocia ‘presents in detail those incredibly painful circumstances for women in [Mexico], as in all of Latin America, [which arise] due to economic and gender injustice’ (Ibarra in Vértiz de la Fuente 2008, n.p.). Similarly, Capadocia illustrates this injustice by undermining the traditional ‘happy ending’ relegated to ‘good’ versus ‘evil’ characters. Ultimately, such Manichaean characters do not exist within this narrative, as the

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mini-series focuses on the extremes to which women are pushed, both inside and outside of the prison walls. Consequently, there are no ‘happy endings’ for any of these women.

Figure has been removed due to Copyright restrictions.

Figure 58- Capadocia (Series 1)

Where the traditional telenovela framework would have ensured the rightful justice of these 377 | Page

protagonists by narrative end, Capadocia’s corruption of this schema provides a bitter antidote. Here Argos is finally afforded the freedom to narrate the stories previously denied them at TV Azteca and Telemundo. Unlike the limitations inherent to the telenovela as genre of a commercial industry, working on a mini-series for the non-commercial HBO

Latino has changed Argos’ playing field. Indeed, Capadocia ‘is a completely different story from what has until now been seen on television’ (Ibarra in Vértiz de la Fuente, 2008, n.p.).

For Grillo in Time magazine, this ‘grim, bloody and chaotic’ series ‘doesn't look like the usual Mexican telenovela, packed with scantily clad girls, dashing macho men and unceasing melodrama’ (Grillo 2008, n.p.). It is ‘groundbreaking’ in its lack of narrative convention, as one viewer from an online forum explains ‘most of the dialogue and plot is moved by the women, something unheard of in Mexican TV’ (ciscokidinsf, 11 May 2008).

Consequently, for Ibarra, ‘one sees the Latin woman as never before on television’ (Ibarra in Vértiz de la Fuente 2008, n.p.).

According to Ibarra Capadocia has ‘establish[ed] an important precedent for the Mexican industry’ (in Cruz Bárcenas 2008, n.p.). The ratings success of Capadocia confirms this.

Considering its limited ratings potential on pay television, it has proven to be an unprecedented achievement that rivalled its free to air equivalents (Cruz-Bárcenas 2008, n.p.). Such success has secured a second season of the mini-series, which airs in 2010. With the series’ exceptionally speedy transmission on HBO in the US, Capadocia’s producers assert the project is so hot that ‘if you ask […] any [actor], director or producer if he wants to be in Capadocia, he would say yes’ (‘Premian a Capadocia en Monte Carlo’ 2008).

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Yet not so certain is what this latest trend in the Mexican television industry means for the telenovela. Describing Capadocia as ‘the most important [project] that Argos has done in its

16 years of existence’ (in Vértiz de la Fuente 2008, n.p.) it is clear that Ibarra and Argos are currently invested in the production of mini-series with independent channels over commercial telenovela fare. Identifying the current trend in television series, Ibarra asserts that ‘Mexican television must advance in this direction because the public’s tastes are more varied and sophisticated’ (in Vértiz de la Fuente 2008, n.p.). Further distancing Argos from telenovela production, Ibarra explains that ‘television cannot just exist as an escape’ (in

Cruz Bárcenas 2008, n.p.). Consequently, ‘if we just focus on the production of light telenovelas, we are doing a disservice to the audience and even more damage to the industry’ (Ibarra in Cruz Bárcenas 2008, n.p.).

Argos’ recent deal ‘to produce original television movies exclusively for Cinelatino’ would suggest that there are no immediate plans to translate the ‘gritty reality’ depicted within

Capadocia to the telenovela format. Considering their struggle to achieve this with TV

Azteca and Telemundo in the past, it is not surprising that they emphasise a desire to continue working on independent projects with HBO.

In addition to Argos’ apparent move away from telenovela production, Televisa seems unwilling to translate the ‘gritty realism’ of its new programming to its programming staple. The publicity surrounding Sexo y Otros Secretos confirms this move, as producers emphasised that this new story was just an attempt to diversify, as a ‘complimentary product’ that would not be ‘detrimental to telenovela production’ (Agencias PDA 2007).

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Indeed, José Bastón, corporate vice president of television at Televisa reassured that ‘the telenovela is the most important product in the company and I feel that it will keep being so over many years’ as ‘we have the largest investment in telenovela production and we will continue to have this’ (Agencias PDA 2007).

Yet what exactly this means for the telenovela remains unclear. Certainly, it would seem that a bifurcation in television content may occur, where telenovelas continue the traditional narrative schema, and newer formats to Mexican television embrace a strategic diversification of narrative form and content for lucrative markets at home and abroad.

Despite claims that ‘the television audience will benefit from the new and better proposals for quality made in Mexico’ (Estrada 2007, n.p.) the new mini-series seem ultimately destined for international markets. With the use of High Definition filming technology,

Bastón explained that they may be sold as a format or “as is”, in that ‘due to their quality, these products could compete with series such as Rome or The Sopranos’ (Anon. 2007J, n.p.).

Yet regardless of the currency of their form, the new format is definitely an attempt at re- securing international markets that have begun to wean themselves off imported telenovela products by producing their own. Writing for Variety in 2007, Michael O’Boyle cites an interview with TV Azteca’s Vice president for international sales Marcel Vinay in which

‘Vinay warns the market for finished telenovelas is getting tighter. More territories that were once telenovela dumping grounds, like Russia and the former Eastern bloc, produce more of their own content’ (O’Boyle 2007a, n.p.).

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A further indicator that the new ‘Series Originales’ do not augur change in female characterisation and citizenship within the Mexican telenovela, is that the new programming seeks not to modify the genre in order to ‘challenge’ its audiences. Instead, the publicity outlined Televisa’s motivation to ‘recoup for open television a young audience that fell out of their hands’ (Anon. 2007K, n.p.). Identifying this audience as 18-34 year olds who ‘nowadays are using other media to entertain themselves such as pay TV’ (Bastón

2007K, n.p.) Bastón clarified that this new format will be ‘a “complimentary product” directed at another type of public with a higher socioeconomic level and a younger age’

(Bastón 2007K, n.p.).

These comments suggest not only a bifurcation of television content, but also a conscious class differentiation between television audiences. John Sinclair confirms this scenario when he writes

Television is becoming stratified, with convergent services for the relative elite who can afford them, and free-to-air for the masses that can’t. Since this division corresponds to real socio-economic differences in the population, it is most acute in developing world regions. In Latin America, for example, globalized elites can enjoy direct-to-home subscription television, while la gente corriente, the ordinary people, watch more traditional fare (Sinclair 2004, 45).

Following this scenario, speculation on contemporary industry developments indicates three possible fates awaiting the grand dame of Mexican television as she enters her sixth decade. In one possible future, the shifting demands of trans/national audiences accompany developments within the new media landscape, effectively providing the impetus for change in the telenovela formula. With increased audience ability to defect to alternative means of entertainment, viewers are able to determine telenovela content like never before. 381 | Page

The ‘coming of age’ that might accompany this shift could see telenovelas ‘keeping up with the times’ by effectively changing their narrative schema to stave off a ratings decline.

Here, the possibility for more nuanced stories about the nation and its citizens might follow. As audiences are targeted through niche marketing demarcated by demographics such as age, gender, and personal interests, and as these niche markets proliferate, a move away from the creation of mass-produced narratives accommodating both national and transnational audiences might then see a divestment in a commodified national whole.

Following this revision of telenovela content, the exclusionary configuration of female characters and citizenship might crumble, with both niche markets and more nuanced depictions of the nation demanding new formulas for ratings success.

Two recent projects indicate the potential of this scenario. Following the success of

Mujeres Asesinas, Pedro Torres capitalised on the popularity of the current trend in ‘gritty realism’, and announced the development of a seventy-five-episode telenovela script based on the subject of divorce, for transmission in 2010 (Diana C. 2009, n.p.). Televisa’s publicity drive entitled ‘Tu Historia en Telenovela’ (‘Your Story as a Telenovela) in

January 2009 suggests a similar revision of the telenovela formula. Urging the general public to ‘tell us your story and see it interpreted by your favourite actor or actress on television’ (Hauswaldt 2009, n.p.) the writers of such projects as Sexo y otros Secretos and

Tres Mujeres here provided the phone number, and postal and email addresses of the ‘Your Story as a Telenovela’ project via television commercials, online news articles and chat forums in the hope of motivating the public to get involved. As they explained,

It doesn’t matter if you write well or badly, if you live in Mexico or abroad, if you are a man or a woman, or if your story is a romance, drama, comedy or any other genre. The most important thing is that you get involved, so that soon you can see your story on

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television. Come on! What are you waiting for? (Hauswaldt 2009, n.p.)

Unlike the spiral-like recourse to tradition that marked even the ‘revolutionary’ telenovela de ruptura period, within this scenario such trends become staples of the telenovela’s narrative schema. As the power relations between producers and consumers shift in the era of the network society, television networks are obligated to ‘get with the program’ by updating and diversifying content for a newly empowered audience. Here, a telenovela formula connected to centuries old political projects such as female mythification must move with the times.

In contrast to this particular scenario, an alternative fate of faded grandeur might transpire for the Mexican telenovela. At her half-century mark, the traditional telenovela formula has a long history of resurfacing after various trends and ‘national moods’ provide temporary momentum. This telenovela is inextricably connected with the historical construction of a cultural imaginary and the production and consumption dynamics of an established television industry. Consequently, some critics of the new ‘gritty realism’ have questioned the ability for trends to augur change. As Grillo in Time magazine, mirroring the

‘television-for-the-screwed-masses’ logic of Azcárraga Milmo writes;

Many in countries with crime and corruption problems may prefer not to see the misery replayed in their entertainment. One of the reasons telenovelas are so successful in the developing world is that they offer a pleasant escape, where the virtuous are rewarded and the endings are happy (Grillo 2008, n.p.).

Auguring a future invested in the past, this ‘need’ for escapist entertainment combines with both the limited economic opportunity to access alternative entertainment of much of free- to-air television’s audience, and the commercial imperatives of a billion dollar industry.

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The speedy cancellation of the ‘Tu Historia en Telenovela’ project before it even got off the ground signals this dynamic, as the spiral-like nature of Mexican telenovela history comes to depict a vortex against which change becomes a transitory moment; another ‘tremor’ on the surface of a deeply immovable core.

Alternatively, the ability for the Mexican telenovela’s representational schema to effect change in the new media landscape of increased content diversity and decreased audience loyalty may well see the flourishing of new programming forms designed to captivate these audiences, whilst the telenovela embraces its glorious past. Such nostalgia might effect a further strengthening of those traditional narrative tropes that constitute this history. Like the golden era of Mexican cinema, which plays on late night television and Sunday afternoons, the telenovela may become a precious relic, narrating the stories of a bygone era in which the nation and its televisual representations are both a reflection and a mirage.

Fifty years old, fifty years young, or somewhere in between; the value of such speculation can only stretch so far. Seeing into the future defies even the most formulaic of pasts. Thus despite the reflection induced by such a landmark occasion, many questions remain at the telenovela’s half-century mark; after fifty years of love and betrayal, will the ending come?

Will it be happy? Whose happiness will it preclude? Or will the women of the telenovela future face a fate less prescribed than their audacious ancestors? What future lies beyond the Mexican telenovela’s happy ending remains to be seen, but will no doubt be as passionate as the tales before it.

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Bibliography Bibliography Telenovelas Mini-series Interviews On-line discussion fora Articles, books and material published on Internet Theses and Dissertations

Telenovelas

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Acapulco, Cuerpo y Alma, 1995, Televisa, Mexico.

Amor en Custodia, 2005, TV Azteca, Mexico.

Amor Mio, 2006, Televisa, Mexico.

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El Manantial, 2001, Televisa, Mexico.

Fuego en la Sangre, 2007, Televisa, Mexico.

Juana la Virgen, 2002, RCTV International, Venezuela.

La Hija del Jardinero, 2003, TV Azteca, Mexico.

386 | Page

La Dueña, 1995, Televisa, Mexico.

La Fea más Bella, 2006, Televisa, Mexico.

La Madrastra, 2005, Televisa, Mexico.

Las Tontas no Van al Cielo, 2008, Televisa, Mexico.

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Mariana de la Noche, 2004, Televisa, Mexico.

Mirada de Mujer, 1997, Argos Productions-TV Azteca, Mexico.

Mirada de Mujer: El Regreso, 2003, TV Azteca, Mexico.

Nada Personal, 1996, Argos Productions-TV Azteca, Mexico.

Nina Amada Mia, 2003, Televisa, Mexico.

Rebelde, 2004-2006, Televisa, Mexico.

Rosalinda, 1999, Televisa, Mexico.

Tres Mujeres, 1999, Televisa, Mexico.

Vivir Sin Ti, 2008, Argos Productions-TV Azteca, Mexico

Yo Amo a Juan Querendon, 2007, Televisa, Mexico.

Mini-series

Capadocia, 2007, Argos Productions, HBO, Mexico.

Mujeres Asesinas, 2008, Televisa, Mexico.

Ni Una Vez Más, 2005, TV Azteca, Mexico.

Sexo y Otros Secretos, 2007, Televisa, Mexico.

Sin Tetas no Hay Paraiso, 2006, Caracol TV, Colombia.

Tan Infinito Como el Desierto, 2004, TV Azteca, Mexico.

387 | Page

Interviews

Bustos Romero, O (2007) Women in Mexican Telenovelas [Interview – in person] Mexico City. Eva Lewkowicz. 19 January.

Blanco, C (2007) Women in Mexican Telenovelas [Interview – in person] Mexico City. Eva Lewkowicz. 17 January.

Bernard, M (2007) Women in Mexican Telenovelas [Interview – in person] Mexico City. Eva Lewkowicz. 24 January.

Belausteguigoitia Rius, M.I (2007) Women in Mexican Telenovelas [Interview – in person] Mexico City. Eva Lewkowicz. 6 February.

Cervantes Gutierrez, C (2007) Women in Mexican Telenovelas [Interview – in person] Colima, Mexico. Eva Lewkowicz. 1 February.

Covarrubias, C & Uribe, A (2007) Women in Mexican Telenovelas [Interview – in person] Colima, Mexico. Eva Lewkowicz. 5 February.

Cueva, A (2007) Women in Mexican Telenovelas [Interview – in person] Mexico City. Eva Lewkowicz. 12 January.

Cueva, A (2008) Women in Mexican Telenovelas [Interview – in person] Mexico City. Eva Lewkowicz. 25 February.

Flores, B (2007) Women in Mexican Telenovelas [Interview – in person] Mexico City. Eva Lewkowicz. 23 January.

Flores, B (2008) Women in Mexican Telenovelas [Interview – in person] Mexico City. Eva Lewkowicz. 24 February.

González, J (2007) Women in Mexican Telenovelas [Interview – in person] Mexico City. Eva Lewkowicz. 15 February.

Ibarra, E.C (2007) Women in Mexican Telenovelas [Interview – in person] Mexico City. Eva Lewkowicz. 9 February.

Martínez, G (2007) Women in Mexican Telenovelas [Interview – in person] Mexico City. Eva Lewkowicz. 22 February.

Mejía, M (2007) Women in Mexican Telenovelas [Interview- in person] Mexico City. Eva Lewkowicz. 17 January.

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Muñoz, M (2007) Women in Mexican Telenovelas [Interview – in person] Mexico City. Eva Lewkowicz. 17 January.

Rios de la Mora, N.P (2007) Women in Mexican Telenovelas [Interview – in person] Colima, Mexico. Eva Lewkowicz. 4 February.

Sanchez Menchero, L.M (2007) Women in Mexican Telenovelas [Interview – in person] Mexico City. Eva Lewkowicz. 8 February.

Serrano, J.A (2007) Women in Mexican Telenovelas [Interview – in person] Mexico City. Eva Lewkowicz. 23 January.

Sosa, L (2007) Women in Mexican Telenovelas [Interview – in person] Mexico City. Eva Lewkowicz. 5 February.

Vera, H (2007) Women in Mexican Telenovelas [Interview – in person] Mexico City. Eva Lewkowicz. 22 January.

Zerme0o Flores, A. I (2007) Women in Mexican Telenovelas [Interview – in person] Colima, Mexico. Eva Lewkowicz. 30 January.

Online Discussion Fora, ordered by name of contributor and date. alecey. (21 January 2002). The Ending. Available from Mirada de Mujer discussion forum @Telenovela-world.com: http://foro.telenovela-world.com/n4/read- t.php?f=98&i=530&t=530 (Accessed 6 March 2008)

Alexis. (28 May 2006). Re: I Liked It. Available from Tres Mujeres discussion forum @Telenovela-world.com: http://foro.telenovela-world.com/n4/read- t.php?f=8&i=7590&t=7581#reply_7590 (Accessed 27 July 2008)

Charma. (14 September 1999). Ugh! You're right, Tuly..... Available from Tres Mujeres discussion forum @ Telenovela-world.com: http://foro.telenovela-world.com/n4/read- t.php?f=8&i=161&t=149#reply_161 (Accessed 27 July 2008) ciscoidinsf. (24 April 2008). New jail drama series in HBO for Latin America. Available from Capadocia: HBO's Oz for Mujeres discussion forum @forumstelevisionwithoutpity.com: http://forums.televisionwithoutpity.com/index. php?s=7a0f2f9893d2ce14dde90f37e857b7be&showtopic=3171768&st=0 (Accessed 16 September 2009) ciscoidinsf. (11 May 2008). Bump! The re-watch continues. Available from Capadocia: HBO's Oz for Mujeres discussion forum @forumstelevisionwithoutpity.com: http://forums.televisionwithoutpity.com/index.php?s=7a0f2f9893d2ce14dde90f37e857b7be 389 | Page

&showtopic=3171768&st=0 (Accessed 16 September 2009)

Connie C. (24 September 1999). They need to start making Barbara more human. Available from Tres Mujeres discussion forum @ Telenovela-world.com: http://foro.telenovela-world.com/n4/read-t.php?f=8&i=940&t=919#reply_940 (Accessed 27 July 2008) dd. (31 October 1999). I’ve had it with this novela. Available from Tres Mujeres discussion forum @ Telenovela-world.com: http://foro.telenovela-world.com/n4/read- t.php?f=8&i=3107&t=3107#reply_3107 (Accessed 27 July 2008) dd. (2 November 1999). I don’t think the characters of mature. Available from Tres Mujeres discussion forum @ Telenovela-world.com: http://foro.telenovela- world.com/n4/read-t.php?f=8&i=3206&t=3107#reply_3206 (Accessed 27 July 2008) dd. (12 April 2006). 3 more mos. of this Televisaritis. Available from Amor en Custodia discussion forum @ Telenovela-world.com: http://foro.telenovela-world.com/n4/read- t.php?f=337&i=459&t=459#reply_459 (Accessed 14 August 2008) dd. (2 June 2006). it's turned into "tu y yo". Available from Amor en Custodia discussion forum @ Telenovela-world.com: http://foro.telenovela-world.com/n4/read- t.php?f=337&i=512&t=504#reply_512 (Accessed 14 August 2008) dd. (23 June 2006). Things we should have been counting. Available from Amor en Custodia discussion forum @ Telenovela-world.com: http://foro.telenovela- world.com/n4/read-t.php?f=337&i=523&t=523#reply_523 (Accessed 14 August 2008) isto. (22 November 2006). Re: Hopefully after Soñadoras End. they'll put it for 2 hours so it will end by..... Available from Tres Mujeres discussion forum @Telenovela-world.com: http://foro.telenovela-world.com/n4/read-t.php?f=8&i=7622&t=7619#reply_7622 (Accessed 27 July 2008)

Janet. (1 September 2005). I'm liking AEC: some observations so far.... Available from Amor en Custodia discussion forum @ Telenovela-world.com: http://foro.telenovela- world.com/n4/read-t.php?f=337&i=49&t=49#reply_49 (Accessed 14 August 2008)

Jess*. (2 June 2006). Re: I'm sooo conflicted! Available from Amor en Custodia discussion forum @ Telenovela-world.com: http://foro.telenovela-world.com/n4/read- t.php?f=337&i=511&t=504#reply_511 (Accessed 14 August 2008)

Lesterol500. (2006) Forum Anti Amor en Custodia @ http://foros.paralax.com.mx/discus/messages/42/54628.html (Accessed 14 August 2008)

Lupita. (16 September 1999). Pre-marital sex and spousal abuse.... Available from Tres Mujeres discussion forum @ Telenovela-world.com: http://foro.telenovela- world.com/n4/search.php?f=8 (Accessed 27 July 2008) 390 | Page

Lupita. (1 November 1999). But there’s something that keeps me coming back…. Available from Tres Mujeres discussion forum @ Telenovela-world.com: http://foro.telenovela-world.com/n4/read-t.php?f=8&i=3120&t=3107#reply_3120 (Accessed 27 July 2008)

Paula H. (2 March 2010). Results of a "shortened" novela. Available from discussion forum @ Telenovela-world.com: http://foro.telenovela-world.com/n4/read- t.php?f=618&i=3907&t=3907#reply_3907 (Accessed 15 April 2010)

Paulo. (15 April 2006). Ive always said, TV Azteca doesnt know how to have a hit…. Available from Amor en Custodia discussion forum @ Telenovela-world.com: . (Accessed 14 August 2008)

(Robin N, 4 April 2006). Were I Tati's family, I'd be looking to lose the key! Available from Amor en Custodia discussion forum @ Telenovela-world.com: http://foro.telenovela- world.com/n4/read-t.php?f=337&i=456&t=456#reply_456 (Accessed 14 August 2008)

Robin N. (13 April 2006). Thank Heavens for the Azteca summaries. Available from Amor en Custodia discussion forum @ Telenovela-world.com: http://foro.telenovela- world.com/n4/read-t.php?f=337&i=460&t=459#reply_460 (Accessed 14 August 2008)

Robin N. (3 August 2006). I’ve been reading the Azteca summaries. Available from Amor en Custodia discussion forum @ Telenovela-world.com: http://foro.telenovela- world.com/n4/read-t.php?f=337&i=556&t=555#reply_556 (Accessed 14 August 2008)

Tina. (17 August 2000). RE: dropping in on last week - can't believe it. Available from Tres Mujeres discussion forum @ Telenovela-world.com: http://foro.telenovela- world.com/n4/read-t.php?f=8&i=7245&t=7243#reply_7245 (Accessed 27 July 2008)

Tuly. (14 September 1999). Or what about….Available from Tres Mujeres discussion forum @ Telenovela-world.com: http://foro.telenovela-world.com/n4/read- t.php?f=8&i=157&t=149#reply_157 (Accessed 27 July 2008)

Tuly. (1 November 1999). Yes, Lupita, the complexity of human behavior.... Available from Tres Mujeres discussion forum @ Telenovela-world.com: http://foro.telenovela- world.com/n4/read-t.php?f=8&i=3143&t=3107#reply_3143 (Accessed 27 July 2008)

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Theses and Dissertations

Johnson, J. L. 2003, ‘Television as a potential tool for gender equity in Mexican Telesecunarias classrooms: A Case Study’ Ph. D. Dissertation, University of Southern California.

Magallanes Blanco, C. 2004, ‘Video, A Revolutionary Medium for Consciousness Raising in Mexico: A Dialogic Analysis of Independent Video makers on the Zapatistas’, Ph.D. thesis, University of Western Sydney.

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