© Copyright by Bianka Lucia Ballina, 2013 All rights reserved Acknowledgements

I would like to thank my advisor Professor Ana Lopez for being a vital source of support, advice, and inspiration in my academic development. Her impressive knowledge of Cuban cinema and relationships with some of the most respected members of the Cuban Cinema Studies field made this work possible. I would also like to thank my committee members Professor Jennifer Ashley and

Professor Guadalupe Garcia for their help with this thesis and for opening spaces through which I could explore my academic interests. Professor Ashley provided crucial feedback throughout the writing process, always encouraging me to strive for the best. Thanks to Professor Garcia I was able to rediscover Cuba in a way that allowed me to merge my academic interests and personal experience as a

“partial” member of the Cuban diaspora. I am also thankful to Professor Mimi

Schippers for her comments on parts of this thesis and helping me refine my understanding of the feminist theories that inform my analysis. My appreciation to the Stone Center for Latin American Studies at Tulane University for their support, especially Professor Jimmy Huck and Ms. Barbara Carter.

I owe much gratitude to the people and institutions in Cuba that facilitated my research during the summer of 2012. At the Instituto Cubano de Arte e

Industria Cinematográficos (ICAIC), I would like to thank those people at the

Cinemateca, ICAIC Library, and Muestra Joven who made this research possible.

ii Many thanks to the Mediateca at the Escuela Internacional de Cine y Televisión de San Antonio de los Baños (EICTV) for allowing access to their archives.

Finally, I would like to say thank you to my family. To my parents for all their support and encouragement. Upon my return from Cuba, they helped me think through my initial confusion by talking to me about our experiences living in Cuba at the onset of the Special Period. To my brothers for being true embodiments of their generations and circumstances. I would also like to thank my colleague Hannagan Johnson for her endless curiosity and providing much needed reassurance as I wrote this thesis.

iii Table of Contents Acknowledgements...... ii

List of Figures...... vi

Introduction...... 1

1. “No soy un artista ni quiero serlo. Sólo filmo lo que me gusta.” Generational debates and the Emergence of Cine Joven...... 7 Generational Conflicts, Digital Technologies, and Cine Joven...... 8 Defining Cine Joven...... 12 Nuevos Realizadores and the Special Period in Time of Peace...... 17 Nuevos Realizadores and ICAIC’s Muestra Joven...... 23 The First Generation of Nuevos Realizadores...... 25 The Second Generation of Nuevos Realizadores...... 28 Censorship and the Muestra Joven...... 31

2. “Lo bueno es que son como la voz esa de ese mundo bajo de Cuba.” Portrayals of Life since the Special Period by Nuevos Relizadores...... 42 New Cultural Debates at the Beat of Reggaeton...... 43 Revolution: Crisis, Duplicity, and Hip Hop...... 56 El futuro es hoy: Uncertainty, Esplanades, and Old Machines...... 62 Cómo construir un barco: Migration, International Politics, and Silent Discontent...... 67 Buscándote Havana: In-Migration, Squatting,

iv and the Marvelous Real...... 72

3. “Y te voy a dejar bien claro que no estoy aquí para darte gusto.” Sex, Violence, and Family Relations in Cuba’s Emerging Feminist Cinema...... 85 Women and Cinema in Cuba...... 85 The Emerging Feminist Cinema...... 92 Tracing Divergent Feminist Interpretations through El grito...... 101

4. “Así conocí el amor, no tengo otro modo.” Dangerous Sexualities and Alienation in Cine Joven...... 118 Homophobia and State Policy in Revolutionary Cuba...... 121 Gay Cuban Cinema/Cuban Gay Cinema...... 132 Representations of Homosexuality by Nuevos Realizadores...... 135 Exploring the Margins and Beyond...... 142

Conclusion...... 160

Bibliography...... 163

v List of Figures

2.1 AL2 in Maykell Pedrero’s Revolution...... 77 2.2 El B in Revolution...... 78 2.3 Los Aldeanos as a symbol of Cuban struggle in Revolution...... 78 2.4 Tumultuous waters hit the malecón in Sandra Gómez’s El futuro es hoy...... 79 2.5 The run-down buildings of Malecón Street in Havana in El futuro es hoy...... 79 2.6 Lowering the puzzling object in El futuro es hoy...... 80 2.7 Dragging the strange object through the streets of Havana in El futuro es hoy...... 80 2.8 A man and his ship in El futuro es hoy...... 81 2.9 Securing the Tribuna Antiimperialista in El futuro es hoy...... 81 2.10 “Las muchachas que aprendieron a soñar” in Granma from El futuro es hoy...... 82 2.11 The devastation produced by a rusty machine in El futuro es hoy...... 82 2.12 The structure of an unauthorized boat in Milena Almira’s Cómo construir un barco...... 83 2.13 A house in a pool in Alina Rodríguez’s Buscándote Havana...... 83 2.14 Welcome to Havana, the Capital of all Cubans from Buscándote Havana...... 84 3.1 La piña dancing around her house in Laimir Fano’s Oda a la piña...... 113 3.2 Female body as visual center in Oda a la piña...... 113 3.3 “Mira que piña es lo que sobra en este país” from Oda a la piña...... 114

vi 3.4 La piña looks back at Rita Montaner in Oda a la piña...... 114 3.5 Facing the rhythm of the streets in Oda a la piña...... 115 3.6 The grandmother dreams in Patricia Ramos’ El patio de mi casa...... 115 3.7 Dreaming of romance in El patio de mi casa...... 115 3.8 The housewife’s mercy in Maryulis Alfonso’s Misericordia...... 116 3.9 Preparing the deadly meat in Misericordia...... 116 3.10 Soft lighting sets a romantic environment in Milena Almira’s El grito...... 117 3.11 The images on screen materialize the description of rape in El grito...... 117 3.12 Reacting to the threat of violence in El grito...... 117 4.1 Mariposa’s transformation in Jessica Rodríguez’ Tacones cercanos...... 150 4.2 One side of Mariposa in Tacones cercanos...... 151 4.3 A different perspective on Mariposa in Tacones cercanos...... 151 4.4 Another view of Mariposa in Tacones cercanos...... 152 4.5 The elegance of a therapeutic setting in Tacones cercanos...... 152 4.6 Therapeutic setting in Tacones cercanos...... 153 4.7 Mariposa in public in Tacones cercanos...... 153 4.8 Mariposa in Fifth Avenue in Taconoes cercanos...... 154 4.9 Fifth Avenue in Tacones cercanos...... 154 4.10 Raúl bathing his mother in Jessica Rodríguez and Zoe García’s El mundo de Raúl...... 155 4.11 Sleeping with mother in El mundo de Raúl...... 155 4.12 The power of looking in El mundo de Raúl...... 156 4.13 Watching the quinceañera rehearsal in El mundo de Raúl...... 156 4.14 Looking at the voyeur during the quinceañera rehearsal in El mundo de Raúl...... 157 4.15 Camera position emphasizes voyeurism in El mundo de Raúl...... 157 4.16 Looking at Raúl in El mundo de Raúl...... 158 4.17 Looking at others in El mundo de Raúl...... 158 4.18 Looking at Raúl as he looks at others in El mundo de Raúl...... 159

vii 1

Introduction

“Además, yo soy un sobreviviente. Sobreviví El Mariel. Sobreviví

Angola. Sobreviví el Período Especial y la cosa esta que vino

después...”1

The above quote provides one of the most succinct and compelling

summaries of recent Cuban history and its many turning points. Moreover, it

underscores the primary concern for most Cubans in the past two decades:

survival. With the fall of the Soviet bloc in 1989 and subsequent dissolution of the

Soviet Union Cuba found itself immersed in a deep and alarming crisis known as

the Special Period in Time of Peace. As the economic embargo from the U.S.

government continued, extreme shortages of food, medicine, fuel, and other basic

goods led the government to look for new economic allies. Cubans were forced

into a series of survival strategies, including various shifts in acceptable moral

standards and economic activities. Daily life in Cuba became a struggle to

resolver (make do) in the midst of these dire conditions.

The personal and collective memory of this crisis came to define Cuban

culture in the past decades. In all cultural manifestations, narratives of Cuban life

were marked by this experience. These stories ranged from the tragicomic love

1 “Plus, I am a survivor. I survived the Mariel. I survived Angola. I survived the Special Period and this thing that came after...” Juan in Alejandro Burgués’ Juan de los muertos (2011). 2

triangles involving Cubans and foreigners; the devastating experiences of

rationing, starvation, and migration; to the absurd reality of neighborhood cats

mysteriously disappearing around dinner time, and a Penal Code that punishes the

unlawful killing of cattle just as severely as killing a human. Cinematic

production, one of the revolutionary government’s most important ideological

tools, came to a standstill. Filmmakers found it increasingly hard to work in the

midst of the shortages. As foreign investors began to play a growing role in the

film industry, directors struggled to balance a history of revolutionary national

cinema with the interests of outside forces.

As the 1990s wore on the situation improved, albeit disparately. Increased

presence of tourists and foreign companies, and the growing numbers of Cubans

living abroad and sending remittances to the Island allowed for some to improve

their living conditions. For those without access to foreign currency, conditions

did not improve. For the purposes of this thesis, I will consider the Special Period

as a moment in Cuban history that ended with the decade of the 1990s, as

arguably the worst moments of the crisis had passed.

During the 2000s, the government set in place a series of reforms that have

transformed the Cuban economy. However, the economic difficulties at all but

gone. Cubans continue their plight to resolver on a daily basis, as class inequalities resurface and the government finds itself unable to maintain the same level of control over the national economy as it once did. The post-Special Period context, “la cosa esa que vino después,” is a complex and contradictory moment 3 in Cuban history. New forces continue to emerge in the country, and already existing non-governmental powers gain more prevalence. Now under the leadership of the more pragmatic and less charismatic Raúl Castro, the state attempts to redefine its role in order to maintain access to power within the new system forcibly established by the crisis.

During the 1990s another phenomenon with strong repercussions for

Cuban culture took place alongside the shortages. The increasing availability of digital technologies, though limited, allowed for Cuban cultural manifestations to flourish outside the state apparatus. In particular, young filmmakers began producing their own films with the help of these new technologies. Moreover, even during the crisis Cuba continued to be one of the few countries in Latin

America that provides its youth with accessible art education programs. In the following decade, Cuba continued to set itself apart from the rest of the region through the creation of government-sponsored exhibition spaces for young filmmakers. This thesis explores the work of young Cuban filmmakers in the midst of this distinct context. In other words, this work constitutes an analysis of how “el Período Especial y la cosa esta que vino después” have conditioned the work of young filmmakers in Cuba and how their aesthetics reflect back on the

Cuban cultural field.

With the Special Period an esthetics of resolviendo (making do) and negotiation emerged among young Cuban filmmakers. As new hegemonic forces from within and abroad emerge in Cuba, young filmmakers navigate an 4 increasingly complex ideological field. In this new context, ideological control through the cultural field operates in more subtle and concealed ways. These new directors interact with multiple competing hegemonic forces that shape Cuban culture. In the process, they sustain acts of creative resistance characterized by both compliance and contestation. This dual process sets the representational boundaries for young cineastes and transforms the existing social structure through cultural manifestations. At the same time, a new hierarchy is set in place.

As evidenced in the representational dynamics of these new filmmakers, this new structure rests on the continued marginalization of some groups and the added alienation of other socially constructed categories. The formation of new and shifting alliances between filmmakers and ideological forces determines the themes portrayed in their work and how they go about their portrayals.

Each chapter in this thesis explores a different representational characteristic of cine joven (young cinema), the term given to the work of nuevos realizadores (young filmmakers) by Cuban cultural workers. Chapter 1 outlines how nuevos realizadores’ framework of negotiation has been wrongly interpreted as a lack of ideological commitment by numerous cultural analysts. This chapter argues that young filmmakers maintain an aesthetics of resolviendo and negotiation that shapes both their modes of production and forms of representation. These aesthetics are a product of the multiple in-between positions that young filmmakers occupy in Cuban culture. In this context, cine joven explores themes such as the effects of the economic crisis on daily life in Cuba 5

and the discontinuities between state discourse and lived reality. They give

emphasis to individual identity over belonging to the collective. Moreover, nuevos

realizadores maintain an interest in exploring marginalization and alienation in

Cuba and throughout the world.

Chapter 1 also analyzes the complex relationship between cine joven and

the Cuban state through the Muestra Joven (Young Filmmakers Film Festival).

This yearly festival designed to showcase the work of filmmakers under thirty-

five represents a complex ideological site where multiple negotiations take place.

The Muestra Joven allows the state to retain its centrality in Cuban cinema, even

within the dissident voices of young filmmakers. At the same time, such a space

has allowed for the emergence and popularization of discourses that run counter

to government interests.

Chapter 2 begins an examination of cine joven through films that challenge official discourse directly. These works provide an honest portrayal of life since the Special Period, looking into the increasing levels of poverty and inequality in Cuba. By providing spaces for the exhibition of these works, the

Cuban state can sustain an image of openness and inclusivity. Simultaneously, these works can provide support for other powerful discourses that challenge state power but cannot be considered counter-hegemonic. In the midst of a growing influence from moderate forces in Cuban culture, cine joven plays an important role in informing spectators in search of alternative media outlets. As a result, the 6 representational limits that delineate the work of young filmmakers shed light into how the social structure mutates during these transitional years.

Chapter 3 examines the feminist and female voices within cine joven. In recent years, young female directors have gained prominence in cine joven through films that provide a glimpse into private sites of gender oppression. This chapter also explores how the ambiguity and unease that characterizes these new feminist representations relates to varying perspectives within feminist theory. As gender discourses operate in the changing post-Special Period context, female sexuality remains one of the primary sites for social control as well as ideological contestation. Consequently, feminist filmmakers provide portrayals of female sexuality that disrupt the patriarchal discourse that informs Cuban identity. At the same time, these filmmakers reproduce the absence of Afro-Cuban women and lesbians, contributing to the erasure of these groups from the national imaginary.

Chapter 4 further explores the representational limits in Cuban cinema in relation to sexuality and how young filmmakers may challenge and/or reproduce them. In particular, it analyzes the representation of marginalized sexualities in light of government efforts to promote sexual diversity in the country. These films highlight the multiple ways in which hegemony operates through controlling sexual experiences in order to construct the ideological body of the nations within the bounds of morality and appropriate sexuality. 7

“No soy un artista, ni quiero serlo. Sólo filmo lo que me gusta.”1

Generational Debates and the Emergence of Cuba’s Cine Joven

The preceding quote by Miguel Coyula summarizes the attitude of the youngest generation of filmmakers in Cuba. Young directors like Coyula are contributing to a renewal in Cuban cinema at the intersection of various national and international forces.

This chapter explores how the work of these young directors emerged during and after the Special Period, a period of chronic economic crisis that ensued in Cuba throughout the 1990s after the fall of the Soviet bloc. This chapter lays out the basic tenants of my argument: that Cuba’s young filmmakers enact a creative process marked by the conditions of the Special period and in the process they transform the experience of being

Cuban in its multiple manifestations. The Special Period altered the ways in which power operates in Cuban culture. New hegemonic forces have emerged in the country, some from within and some from abroad. Young Cubans have learnt to navigate these multiple and at times opposing forces on a daily basis. As a result, cultural resistance through film can no longer be examined from a compliance/opposition framework. Instead, I will show how young Cuban directors exemplify a new awareness of the variety of national and international power structure they must conciliate. The end result is a series of complex and shifting alliances, which affect not only the production process but also the themes, explores and forms of representation produced by young filmmakers.

1 “I am not an artist, nor do I want to be. I just film what I like.” Miguel Coyula quoted in García Borrero, Juan Antonio. “Los pronósticos de la imagen (2)”. Cine cubano: la pupila insomne (blog). Mar 29, 2007. 8

Generational Conflicts, Digital Technologies, and Cine Joven:

An animation sequence featuring childlike drawings opens up Aram Vidal’s short documentary De generación (Of/Off Generation, 2006). The drawings reveal symbols that marked the life of the younger generations of Cubans who grew up during the 1980s,

1990s, and early 2000s: Cuban flags, the ubiquitous busts of José Martí, tanks, a divided land, marked by symbols of Communism, and rafts headed to the United States. Vidal’s film aims at understanding the character and conditions of Cuba’s youth in their own words. The young Cubans interviewed reveal the complex position of and contradictory ideas about this generation. Some argue that young people today are claiming their own space and trying to avoid doing what their parents did: wasting their lives for ideals that did not materialize. Others, however, see young people today as lacking the fighting impetus of previous generations.

De generación is highly representative of what has come to be known in Cuba as cine joven, or young cinema. Films produced in Cuba by nuevos realizadores (new filmmakers) often confront the disconnect between official discourses and lived reality, lack of incentives for young Cubans to engage with the national collective, as well as the economic hardships afflicting the country. The youth interviewed by Vidal reveal the disenchantment, apathy and conformism that are seen as characteristic of this Special

Period generation. According to one of the interviewees, the mixed messages received from the revolutionary government have led to a “lack of ideals” and of political consciousness among this group. This creates an atmosphere of futility and wasted potential, themes often mentioned as characterizing Cuba’s youth. 9

Discussions about cine joven have focused on how the work of the nuevos

realizadores is deleteriously marked by this perceived disengagement among Cuban

youth. This is thought to affect the disruptive potential of their films. A very influential

discussion on this subject took place in the film blog Cine cubano: la pupila insomne

from 2007 to 2009. Established by noted film critic and historian Juan Antonio García

Borrero, this blog has provided a virtual space for discussions about Cuban cinema. This

blog facilitates discussions about Cuban cultural politics between leading intellectuals by

reducing time and space constraints. With the arrival of email, numerous conversations

about Cuban culture took place through email chains that included the country’s cultural

elite. Through the blog format, these discussions can become more open and widely

available, thus changing cultural dynamics. Through an email directed to García Borrero

and later published in this blog, one of these cultural workers may challenge or support a

specific discourse regarding Cuban culture. In the process, important discussions that

shape the cultural field in Cuba are conducted in a more open space, rather than inside

government offices.

While it is true that email and internet access is limited in Cuba, the blog still

makes it much easier to access and participate in these discussions than ever before.

Although not the only one of its kind, Cine cubano: la pupila insomne remains the most respected online space for discussions about Cuban cinema. Moreover, García Borrero has published edited anthologies containing posts added to the blog. Because of the independent nature of this outlet, it invites the engagement of a variety of actors in these discussions. It has allowed for the participation of cultural workers from different ages, 10

including well-established critics like Gustavo Arcos and young directors like Pavel

Giroud. Furthermore, by allowing people outside of Cuba to access these discussions, this

blog also encourages the participation of cultural workers no longer residing in the Island.

Conversations about cine joven presented a variety of opinions from a variety of

actors. García Borrero’s original posts highlighted the apparent lack of ideological

cohesion among the nuevos realizadores and what he referred to as desmemoria (lack of

memory) regarding national history and film history. He describes this group as “a

generation of creators of all ages, stuck in productive limbo in the face of a single and

hermetic industry, awaiting the opportunity that never comes.”2

Contributions to this conversation both supported and challenged this characterization. Speaking in defense of these new filmmakers, Gustavo Arcos argued that cine joven reflects the disconformity of a generation that has been denied access to spaces through which to claim their own voices. As such, their work reveals mistrust of the state and an emphasis “on the now,” that is, on their own realities. However, even as he presents a more positive view of this generation, Arcos maintains some of the opinions prevalent among older critics regarding the work of young cineastes. In his words: “Their references are so vague, their lack of knowledge about their own history so astonishing, their relationship to the past so superficial, and their lifestyle so pragmatic that they will never ask themselves if it is worth uniting, elaborating a generational manifesto, or integrating themselves to an association.”3

2 García Borrero, Juan Antonio. “Los pronósticos de la imagen (2)”. Cine cubano: la pupila insomne (blog). Mar 29, 2007. 3 Arcos, Gustavo. “Gustavo Arcos sobre el audiovisual joven en Cuba.” Juan Antonio Gacía Borrero. Cine cubano: la pupila insomne. Mar 31, 2007. 11

What these arguments fail to recognize is the level of creative cohesion that

becomes apparent through analysis of the body of work produced by the nuevos

realizadores since 2001. The convergence of economic, technological, political, and

sociocultural transformations that occurs in Cuba since the 1990s has required a

redefinition of the relationship between filmmakers and hegemonic powers. This apparent

dispersion among nuevos realizadores is the product of their conscious negotiation with the multiple forces that struggle for control of Cuban culture today. Just like daily survival post-Special Period requires multiple strategies and alliances, so does the process of filmmaking. This is especially true for young Cubans searching for resources to finance their creative endeavors.

In order to navigate this changing cultural terrain and “film what they like”, as the quote by Coyula at the beginning of this chapter suggests, these young filmmakers must maintain a fluid position. This is a fluidity expressed, for example, in the conscious and purposeful rejection of the label “artist”, and whatever aesthetic and ideological implications may be attached to it, by a young cineaste like Coyula. By defining the work of the filmmaker through the act of filming itself, Coyula provides a more expansive definition of the filmmaker’s cultural role. In the process, he expands creative possibilities in terms of the tools and techniques employed as well as the messages transmitted through films. In this context, a rigid ideological and aesthetic framework no longer binds cinema. It is in this fluidity that nuevos realizadores enact a powerful act of cultural resistance shaped by an aesthetics of resolviendo (making do) and negotiation. 12

Defining Cine Joven:

Before exploring how these aesthetics of resolviendo become evident in the

representations constructed by nuevos realizadores, I will explore how they shape the

production process. These aesthetics intersect with a multiplicity of resources and

constraints in the increasingly globalized Cuban context. The first aspect of this

transformation took place within the Instituto Cubano de Arte e Industria

Cinematográficos (Cuban Film Institute, ICAIC). Established in 1961 through the

revolution’s first piece of cultural legislation, Law 169, the Institute became the primary

site for film production and the training of new filmmakers. In the 1990s, filmmakers

trained in the art and film programs created by the revolutionary government sought to

put their training to use in the production of new films. ICAIC was the obvious choice for

this young graduates. However, the chronic economic crisis prevailing in Cuba during the

Special period reduced the possibilities for entering ICAIC. Even for veteran filmmakers

in the Institute, film production became a difficult endeavor. Shortages of equipment,

fuel, and other resources paired with the migration of filmmakers and other industry

personnel led to a significant decrease in production.4 Moreover, the scant production during this period lacked the dynamism of previous decades.

To mitigate the crisis, ICAIC filmmakers resorted to alternative sources of funding, particularly international coproductions.5 Although external funding allowed

ICAIC to stay afloat, the constraints imposed by the transition from a deeply national cinema to one made with the expectations of foreign audiences in mind were difficult for

4 Venegas, Cristina. 2010. Digital Dilemmas: the State, the Individual, and Digital Media in Cuba. New Brunswick, N.J.: Rutgers University Press, 135-136. 5 Venegas. 2010, 137. 13

many ICAIC filmmakers to mediate. Several films of the 1990s and early 2000s were the

products of this identity crisis. They employed schematic narratives that often relied on

stereotypical characters such as the beautiful Cuban woman, caught in a love triangle

with a handsome but poor Cuban man and a wealthy foreigner. The crisis in production

thus led to a crisis in representation within ICAIC. Moreover, as Cristina Venegas

accurately points out, the challenges of the Special Period led to an ideological crisis in

Cuba that resulted in an increase in state monitoring of cultural production. In this

context, ICAIC filmmakers faced higher pressure from the state to support official

discourses.6

In the midst of this institutional crisis and the tightening of government vigilance

over cultural production, a renewal in cinematic production began to take place outside

ICAIC. For these young filmmakers, trained in Cuba’s renown art and cinema programs,

the availability of digital technologies provided new avenues to ameliorate the exclusion

from the film industry caused by the economic crisis and ICAIC’s hierarchical structure.

In the past two decades, the Cuban film industry experienced a strong transformation as a

result of the production possibilities brought about by digital technologies.7 This process challenged the position of ICAIC as the only option available to filmmakers. Digital cinema prevented the state from maintaining the sense of complete ideological continuity necessary to preserve control during these moments of crisis. Although digital

6 Venegas. 2010, 134. 7 Several scholars studying Cuban cinema use the term “film industry” to refer to ICAIC and other state agents. Such a definition was created given ICAIC’s position as the predominant and primary site for film production in Cuba since 1959. However, I believe such a definition cannot be maintained today, as private interests and non-state actors gain more importance in film production. As such, I will use the term “film industry” to refer to a set of state and non-state actors involved in the production of Cuban cinema in the current context. 14 technologies may increase artistic freedom in relation to the state, it also raises concerns over private control of cinematic production and cultural manifestations in Cuba.8 The issue at stake is who provides the funds for cinematic production in Cuba and how this affects both the representations produced and access to cinematic products. Moreover, the strengthening of class inequalities as a result of the crisis limits the democratizing potential of digital technologies in cinematic production.

Despite these limitations, cine joven has produced numerous works that shed light on the power structures that operate in the Island. The disruptive potential of these works is evident in the themes explored as well as its production styles and techniques. Ann

Marie Stock identified how this aesthetics of resolviendo and negotiation shape the production process in ways previously absent in Cuban cinema. Stock sees production styles as the defining marker of Street Filmmaking, the term she used to refer to cine joven. This attitude of resolviendo results in a mix of new technologies and materials with more traditional filmmaking tools.9 This allows young filmmakers to create works with a higher production value than their meager funds would otherwise allow.

Cooperation among filmmakers and other artists involved in the filmmaking process also contributes to enhancing the quality of these works. These are strategies of negotiation among people committed to the creative process, but who also realize that participation in these films, even if unremunerated, may benefit their careers. In this attitude of resolviendo identified by Stock, it is important to recognize the awareness of the need for cooperation among budding members of the film industry as a strategy for

8 Venegas. 2010, 146. 9 Stock, Ann Marie. 2009. On location in Cuba: Street Filmaking during Times of Transition. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 15. 15 creative resistance.10

As ICAIC offers diminishing possibilities for young cineastes, private production companies occupy a more sizable role in Cuban cinema. Most of these companies are small business established by young filmmakers themselves which allow them to establish connections with international investors as well as ICAIC. Through the operation of these production companies, cine joven constitutes just one aspect of Cuba’s varied and expanding audiovisual realm. Nuevos realizadores often produce films while also working on advertising, video clips, and television in conjunction with domestic and/ or foreign partners. As a result, cross-pollination between different forms of audiovisual production defines the work of these emerging cineastes.

The production techniques and styles of these young filmmakers, as well as their representational characteristics, reflect the multiple in-between positions that nuevos realizadores occupy. These in-between positions both shape and are shaped by the aesthetics of negotiation present in cine joven. Young directors must navigate, and at times even mediate, the interactions between state and private interests in order to ensure funding. They are not full members of ICAIC, nor do they act completely outside it, as they still need some of the resources offered by this institution. Given the limited availability of resources and materials they also occupy an in-between position in relation to technological change, mixing digital technologies and more conventional cinematic equipment, sometimes even in the same project. Their works reflect a complex

10 Several scholars studying Cuban cinema use the term “film industry” to refer to ICAIC and other state agents. Such a definition was created given ICAIC’s position as the predominant and primary site for film production in Cuba since 1959. However, I believe such a definition cannot be maintained today, as private interests and non-state actors gain more importance in film production. As such, I will use the term “film industry” to refer to a set of state and non-state actors involved in the production of Cuban cinema in the current context. 16 relationship to social and economic transformations, recognizing both the benefits and drawbacks that these changes bring to the Cuban population. Furthermore, these films reveal a complex arbitration of the role of individual subjectivities versus collective identities that challenges the traditional emphasis on the collective (the masses) in revolutionary cinema.

These various in-between positions may result in part from the influence of NGOs that emerged during the 1980s and 1990s to relieve the state from its role in supporting national culture. Both Venegas and Stock highlight the supportive role that organizations like the Asociación Hermanos Saíz (Brothers Saíz Association) and the Movimiento

Nacional de Video (National Video Movement) play in the development of cine joven.

These NGOs provide access to equipment and training for young Cubans, and encourage the incorporation of new technologies.11 In audiovisual production and other sectors of national culture, these organizations work hand-in-hand with the state to take over the responsibilities the government could no longer cover due to the economic crisis that emerged after the fall of the Soviet bloc.

Venegas’ and Stock’s analyses of the production aspects of cine joven shed some light into the representational techniques of this group which help set up the arguments presented in this thesis. These studies emphasize how young filmmakers often deal with controversial and difficult subjects traditionally overlooked or purposely avoided by

ICAIC directors. These subjects include the lives of marginalized groups and individuals.

Moreover, their films also explore the effects of the economic crisis in people’s lives,

11 Stock. 2009, 36. Venegas. 2010, 149. 17

including emigration. In the process, nuevos realizadores expose the discontinuities

between state discourse and lived reality. As “modern filmmaking tools make it harder for

the state to use film to serve only the socialist project,” digital technologies give power

for individuals to challenge state power.12 A power that is manifested in cine joven’s special attention on individual identity over one’s proper role in the national collective.13

At the same time the current economic and technological context challenges the

state hegemonic power it also introduces new hegemonic forces and increases the power

of already certain existing agents. As such, the contemporary Cuban context does not

bring about an unrestricted creative independence. What these transformation produce is

an increasing need to navigate multiple interests as part of the creative process of

filmmaking. All this creates a complex relationship between young filmmakers and the

state, as cine joven challenges official discourses while also upholding and benefiting

from certain revolutionary values and resources. As Stock points out, these nuevos

realizadores “embrace identity as an ongoing process—one more individual than

collective, more dynamic than static, more personal than political.”14 This is important

inasmuch as their films transform current understandings of cubanía marked by an

increasingly globalized context and the unique position of Cuban citizens, artists, and

filmmakers in the global mediascape.

Nuevos Realizadores and the Special Period in Time of Peace:

This thesis explores the commonalities in the ways young filmmakers redefine

12 Venegas. 2010, 138. 13 Stock. 2009, 18. 14 Stock. 2009, 17. 18

Cuban identity; these common themes reveal how the context in which nuevos

realizadores work shapes their cinematic expressions. By analyzing and questioning their

environment in direct ways, young filmmakers challenge the notion of a detached and

indifferent Cuban youth. The Special Period conditions that so deeply transformed Cuban

culture not only affected the production methods employed by nuevos realizadores, they

also inspire them and are at the center of their representational concerns. Cine joven is a reaction to the conditions of the Special Period. These films allow young Cubans to unravel the complex situation they inhabit: drawing benefits from revolutionary policies while also being limited by state authority and economic crisis.

The Special Period conditioned the work of these young cineastes in the midst of serious limitations, denying them the opportunity to start up their careers through traditional means employed by previous generations. At the same time these conditions promoted an entrepreneurial and innovative impetus among the nuevos realizadores. As transnational connections intensified and digital technologies became more widely available, young filmmakers channeled this creative energy into the production of films that demand the redefinition of power structures to include the Cuban youth as well as other excluded groups.

In agreement with the vast majority of cultural analysts in Cuba, Anaeli Ibarra

Cáceres argues that the nuevos realizadores cannot be considered a movement, but rather

constitute a group that has exposed the existing social crises and questioned the core

principles of filmmaking.15 As such, cine joven raises questions regarding the

15 Ibarra Cáceres, Anaeli. “(Des)amurallando los recintos sagrados del cine: Los Nuevos Realizadores y el audiovisual contemporáneo.” Cine Cubano 183 (2012), 37. 19 applicability of our definitions and understandings of artistic movements in the current context. As digital technologies increase transnational interactions for individuals around the world on a daily basis, the resulting sense of interconnectedness may reduce the need for generational manifestos and clearly drawn creative guidelines. Nuevos realizadores resist the aesthetic rules inherited from New Latin American Cinema (NLAC) by resisting generational unity in the terms outlined by this influential movement. As such, they constitute an example of artistic mobilization that places representation —the right to self-expression and creation—before ideological debates.

The context that ensued since the Special Period defines this generation of cineastes. This reality affects the techniques and production processes and delineates a group that has been forced and able to claim its own opportunities to create, with or without state support. In turn, this struggle is reflected in the themes explored in their work. A survey of these themes reveals a cohesive generational stimulus and answer to the conditions that prevail in Cuba today. In general terms the main topics explored by young filmmakers represent a challenge to government discourse within particular negotiable parameters. These aesthetics of negotiation are influenced by a multiplicity of lacks. As such, young filmmakers express how these lacks manifest themselves in the lives of Cubans.

They focus on the economic crisis that prevails in the country and the ways in which Cubans make do to ensure their daily survival. Another lack explored relates to the increasing inequality in Cuban society and high levels of migration are also prevalent in cine joven. Nuevos realizadores often revisit Cuban history to discover voices that 20

challenge official discourses on various historical events. Many young filmmakers revisit

Cuba’s film history and maintain a close connection to other forms of cultural expression,

including photography and music. In particular, they are inspired by the work of directors

who worked from an outsider position within ICAIC, such as Sara Gómez and Nicolasito

Guillén Ladrián.

Furthermore, the work of these young filmmakers both reproduces and challenges

the inherited lacks within Cuban film history. These multiple absences will be explored in

more detain in following chapters. At this stage, however it is important to provide some

background on how these lacks relate to cine joven. Some directors challenge the limited

emphasis on Havana that has characterized Cuban cinema, thus marginalizing the culture

of other provinces. Additionally, a significant increase in the visibility of young female

directors in past years also reveals the emergence of a feminist cinema among this new

generation of filmmakers. This is a relevant change, given the limited role women have

played within ICAIC and the continued oppression of women in Cuba revealed by young

filmmakers.

In contrast to the homophobic government and cultural politics of past decades,

homosexuality has become a prevalent subject in cine joven. Portrayals of homosexuality

by young cineastes go far beyond the limited exploration of this subject in films produced

by ICAIC in previous years.16 Although young filmmakers’ negotiations with multiple hegemonic forces allow them to transgress and transform certain representational limits,

16 Particularly Fresa y Chocolate (Strawberry and Chocolate, 1994) directed by Tomás Gutiérrez Alea and Juan Carlos Tabío. It is worth pointing out that more recent ICAIC films such as Enrique Pineda Barnet’s Verde Verde (Green Green, 2012) have presented a more daring portrayal of homosexuality in Cuba, less aligned with government discourse and more critical of Cuban society. This has been facilitated by the government’s recent interest in supporting gay rights, as well as by the work of younger directors, including Juan Carlos Cremata Malberti’s Chamaco (Young Boy, 2010). 21 some proscriptions remain in place. In particular, it is worth noting that neither one of these two emerging manifestations in Cuban cinema have presented an exploration of lesbian subjectivity and the experiences of lesbian women in Cuba. Similarly, while some

Afro-Cuba voices have emerged within this new generation, this remains a largely underrepresented group. Particularly, Afro-Cuban women continue their traditional presence as symbols for the nation, thus fading their agency and subjectivity into the collective identity.

All the above mentioned production styles and representational characteristics produce unifying divergences that set this generation apart as a concrete and cohesive new wave in Cuban cinema. Simultaneously, these attributes link young filmmakers to global and national history and debates that take on special meanings and manifestations in Cuba, as the country experiences radical transformations.

Most critiques of cine joven contrast this emerging cinema to previous generations of revolutionary filmmaking to point out the apparent ideological divergence among nuevos realizadores. However, a juxtaposition of the basic ideological and theoretical tenants of revolutionary cinema and the work of these new filmmakers contests the notion of a sharp divide between past and present Cuban cinema. The filmmaking that started within ICAIC during the 1960s was informed by a series of ideological guidelines and manifestos that were part of the growing movement of New

Latin American Cinema. One of the most significant cinematic manifestos to come out of

Cuba at this time was Julio García Espinosa’s “For an Imperfect Cinema”.17 Imperfect

17 García Espinosa, J. “For an Imperfect Cinema”. Jump Cut: A Review of Contemporary Media 20(1979): 24-26 22 cinema implies a redefinition of the relationship between artist and spectator so that viewers could become true participants in the creative process. Moreover, it signifies active resistance to the economic and aesthetic domination of Hollywood in the world film industry. As Venegas argues, digital technologies have made it easier for filmmakers in Cuba and the world over to challenge the perfection of Hollywood films. Digital cinema carries the potential for transforming established cinematic codes and conventions, thus altering the relationships between films and viewers. Aided by digital technologies, nuevos realizardores “go beyond habitual codes of meaning, and they challenge production strategies and industry standards to probe representation, hierarchies of knowledge, and rules of engagement.”18

Above all, audience reactions to the films produced by nuevos realizadores are a clear sign of the similarities between cine joven and García Espinosa’s ideal of a

“committed” cinema. Imperfect cinema “finds a new audience in those who struggle, and it finds its themes in their problems…Imperfect cinema therefore has no need to struggle to create an ‘audience.’” The lives of "those who struggle," of the Cuban citizens who must find ways to resolver (make do) in their complex and increasingly globalized context, inspires the themes explored and types of representation produced by nuevos realizadores. Consequently, cine joven did not need to struggle to create its audience.

Rather, the work of these young directors became increasingly popular among the Cuban public, even as they lacked, and continue to lack, exhibition spaces. The subjects they portrayed and styles employed contributed to this popularization. Seeing the growing

18 Venegas. 2010, 141. 23

visibility of these young directors, the ICAIC established the Muestra Joven.

Nuevos Realizadores and ICAIC’s Muestra Joven:

Although cine joven developed outside ICAIC, in recent years the Institute has

claimed a more central role among nuevos realizadores. Alternative modes of distribution

helped popularize the work of young filmmakers outside ICAIC. Seeing the increased

popularity of cine joven, the Institute helped establish new exhibition spaces for young

cineastes, including a yearly film festival. The Muestra de Nuevos Realizadores (New

Filmmakers Film Festival) was established in 2000 and changed its name to Muestra

Joven for its tenth installment in 2011. It showcases the work of filmmakers under thirty- five, given the perceived need for finding new talent for the institution as well as providing young Cuban filmmakers with spaces to exhibit their films. The Muestra Joven constitutes an early indication of the increased interest in Cuban youth on the part of the government in the post-Special Period context. Furthermore, the opinions and critiques presented by young filmmakers at the Muestra have had a significant impact on the relationship between the government and younger Cubans who grew up during the economic and ideological crisis of the Special Period and maintained a more ambiguous relationship to the revolution than previous generations.

Attesting to the influence of NGOs on Cuban culture and arts, ICAIC’s Muestra

Joven was largely inspired by a similar festival organized by the Asociación Hermanos

Saíz and its organizers included former AHS workers19. Given the controversial and innovative nature of the works presented at the Muestra, this event quickly gained

19 Stock. 2009, 55. 24 enormous popularity among Cubans of all ages who filled the theaters of Havana to watch short and feature-length films by these nuevos realizadores. Consequently, the film industry experienced a series of changes as some of the young cineastes accredited at the

Muestra Joven carved their own influential spaces in the film industry both within and outside ICAIC.20

Being the primary space for young Cuban directors to share their work with a wide audience, the Muestra Joven provides a detailed—though not complete—outline of the trajectory of cine joven. A review of its catalogs sketches out the careers of various emerging stars in Cuban cinema. Moreover, the history of this festival indexes changes in institutional policies towards young filmmakers, which in turn are shaped by the relationship between the state and the Cuban youth.

The Muestra also includes a series of discussion panels about different topics related to cinema and art, as well as film workshops with influential directors. In these conversations young filmmakers have expressed the impediments to filmmaking in Cuba, including lack of economic support and materials. One particular problem faced by the nuevos realizadores is access to distribution channels and exhibition venues. Although the Muestra provides a space for their work, the yearly event is but a small opening considering the copious amounts of audiovisual production in Cuba today. Stock recounts how one of these conversations about meager exhibition opportunities developed into demands for spaces for cine joven on national television.21 These demands could partially be the reason why state television stations in Cuba today include the work of nuevos

20 Stock. 2009, 242. 21 Stock. 2009, 270-271. 25

realizadores in their programming, with some programs devoted entirely to cine joven

and others featuring the work of young directors on various instances.

Through the Muestra Joven young directors can also access scholarships and funding opportunities. In recent years, the establishment of a pitching system at the festival provides opportunities to receive funding from ICAIC and other foreign and domestic investors. Taking the Muestra Joven as a sample of emerging cinema in Cuba, two distinct generations emerge within cine joven. It is worth noting that there are some overlaps between these two groups. Moreover, the characteristics of each generation that

I will outline represent predominant trends in their work and their participation in the industry rather than set categorizing criteria.

The First Generation of Nuevos Realizadores:

The first three installments of the Muestra Joven (2000-2004) brought together a group of young filmmakers whose work had gained recognition through informal distribution channels and at organizations like AHS and the International Film and

Television School (EICTV).22 This first group of young cineastes includes figures by now

well known in the industry such as Juan Carlos Cremata, Pavel Giroud, Miguel Coyula,

Esteban Insausti, Léster Hamlet, Ián Padrón, Arturo Infante, and Humberto Padrón.

Although women did present their work at the early stages of the Muestra, male directors

primarily dominated the event in this period. Filmmakers of this first generation of cine

22 Informal distribution spaces are central to entertainment and media distribution in Cuba. They allow for circulation of work unavailable through state distribution and sometimes even censored. Much like the way in which young filmmakers operate, Cuba’s “gray market” exists in a context of limited acknowledgement, not fully legal but only partially and sporadically regulated. It includes DVD stands, file sharing through USB drives, and informal screenings for friends and neighbors. 26

joven filmed mostly fiction pieces.23

Signaling the growing importance of nuevos realizadores for Cuban cinema, this

first generation has solidified its significance in the industry, producing acclaimed

features, some with ICAIC support and others with private resources. One of the most

significant examples of cine joven carving its own place in national cinema came during

the third Muestra de Nuevos Realizadores with the debut of Tres veces dos (2004). ICAIC

vice-president Camilo Vives worked with Pavel Giroud to develop the idea of a film

produced with the Institute’s support by young directors using digital technology.24 Made up of three short films directed by Giroud, Insausti, and Hamlet respectively, Tres veces dos became the first feature-length film produced by nuevos realizadores with help and funding from ICAIC. This collaboration indicates ICAIC’s goal to reverse the dormancy that the Special Period brought to the institution through the incorporation of young filmmakers and digital technologies.

With a budget of 30,000 dollars, Tres veces dos became the least expensive feature film in Cuba’s history of filmmaking.25 This project signaled a shift in the Cuban

film industry as it incorporates new talent. Instead of awaiting their turn in ICAIC’s

stagnant hierarchy, these filmmakers “came in off the street, stepping to the front of the

line to make a feature.”26 Tres veces dos is one example of the multiple ways in which nuevos realizadores’ aesthetics of resolviendo lead to a reorganization of the film industry

23 The most notable exception here being Esteban Insausti’s documentary Existen (The Exist, 2005). Nonetheless this short film blurs the line between documentary and fiction in its poignant portrayal of mentally-challenged inhabitants of Havana as they offer their opinions on various social and political issues. 24 Stock. 2009, 187. 25 Stock. 2009, 191. 26 Stock. 2009, 189. 27

in Cuba and reshape the very experience of filmmaking.

Several members of this earlier generation have achieved success in the

production of feature-length films, some within state institutions like ICAIC and the

Instituto Cubano de Radio y Televisión (Cuban Radio and Television Institute, ICRTV),

and others partially or entirely with private resources: Juan Carlos Cremata produced

Viva Cuba (2005) and Chamaco (Young Boy, 2010), Pavel Giroud released La edad de la

peseta (The Silly Age, 2006) and Omertá (2008), Miguel Coyula independently produced

Red Cockroaches (2003) and Memorias del desarrollo (Memories of Overdevelopment,

2010), Humberto Padrón produced Frutas en el café (Fruits in Coffee, 2005), while Ián

Padrón directed Habanastation (2011). Their success led to their inclusion in recent editions of the Muestra as mentors to the next group of filmmakers. Film critic Joel del

Río has called this group of nuevos realizadores the “third generation” of Cuban

cineastes. Thus they are placed as successors of second generation filmmakers such as

Fernando Pérez, Pastor Vega, and Juan Carlos Tabío, who in turn followed first wave

directors like Tomás Gutiérrez Alea, Julio García Espinosa, Humberto Solás, and Enrique

Pineda Barnet.27

Most of these directors work in close connection with state institutions to secure

resources that can supplement those provided by private agencies. The degree of

involvement within ICAIC varies from one director to the other, and even between films

by the same director. For example, while Miguel Coyula works almost entirely without

state funding, Pavel Giroud has collaborated with ICAIC on numerous occasions while

27 Río, Joel del. “Cine Cubano seguirá probando fuerzas.” Ventana (online journal). Nov 21, 2011. 28

also working with private funding. This practices clearly influence their films, as

indicated by the presence of video-clip aesthetics in Giroud’s films as a result of his

commercial ventures, or the influences of anime in the work of Miguel Coyula.

The first group of nuevos realizadores has captured critical attention within and outside Cuba, being featured in scholarly work and in numerous media outlets.

Furthermore, their films have received prizes at international film festivals. Evidence of the changing landscape of Cuban cinema within and outside the country is provided by

Viva Cuba, which is now one of the Cuban films most widely available to international audiences. Given the popularity and format in which cine joven is produced, as well as the commercial abilities of these young directors, films like Viva Cuba are becoming one of the primary sources through which foreigners come to understand Cuba in this transformative period. Moreover, the popularity of these films among domestic audiences indicates an increasingly important role for young cineastes in the ways in which Cubans imagine their country and culture.

The Second Generation of Nuevos Realizadores:

The second generation of nuevos realizadores is more numerous and varied in terms of gender, race, and genres employed. For the purposes of simplicity, I define this second generation as those filmmakers who began exhibiting their work in the Muestra after 2005. The Muestra Joven was a more consolidated space by the time their works were produced, which facilitated to some extent their access to spaces and resources. It is likely that filmmakers from this group will be able to make a faster transition to feature film production, largely as a result of the success of films by directors from the first 29 group. Films like Laimir Fano’s Oda a la piña (Ode to the Pineapple, 2008) Alejandro

Brugués’ Juan de los Muertos (Juan of the Dead, 2011), and Sebastián Miló’s Camionero

(Truck Driver, 2012) received considerable media attention from within and abroad, pointing to the continued impact of cine joven and the Muestra in revitalizing Cuban cinema and its international image. Following the success of Tres veces dos, in 2007

ICAIC funded La dimensión de las palabras (Dimensions of the Word, 2008), an anthology film by Aram Vidal, Alina Rodríguez, Daniel Vera, and Beny Ray about literacy in Latin America.28

Given the growing importance of cine joven in Cuban culture, the numerous films that re-imagine the Cuban nation among both generations of nuevos realizadores contribute to reconstructing national identity. These films highlight an effort by young

Cubans to exert influence on the collective imaginary of the nation and interact with official discourses to varying degrees of cooperation and contestation with government power. Cuba’s complex position during this moment of transition towards new policies and new transnational connections marks the new perspectives on cubanidad presented by young directors. Young filmmakers in Cuba today navigate these complex economic and cultural links that make the definitions of cubanidad ever more entangled with global processes as migration, tourism, and foreign investment occupy more important roles in

Cuban society and the Island redefines its position in the global arena. Cine joven combines national and international processes of political, economic, and technologic transformation with young Cuban’s desire for self-expression. This convergence takes

28 Stock. 2009, 191. 30

place through the means provided by art education programs that set revolutionary Cuba

apart from other countries in the region. The resulting artworks produce new

understandings of life in the Island and the relationship between filmmakers, citizens, and

the state. Cinema has been central to imagining the revolutionary collective and cine

joven is becoming more important to the ways Cubans of all ages experience their country and their culture.

Despite the variety of genres explored by the second crop of nuevos realizadores,

documentary occupies a significant portion of their works. This is partially because

documentary filmmaking tends to be less expensive and more feasible, especially for

young directors working with limited resources to buy materials, pay actors, and set up

production spaces. Nuevos realizadores continue the legacy of documentary filmmaking

as an essential element of national cinema. Because of their higher feasibility,

documentaries have allowed for great levels of experimentation among young

filmmakers, as they deal with subjects often considered taboo and produce new aesthetic

trends. Documentary filmmaking constitutes an integral part of national cinema in the

ideological and economic context of the revolution.29 From the early years of the

revolution, documentary films played an important role in the education of many Cubans.

These films presented information on themes ranging from appropriate ways to cultivate

the land to lessons on Socialist ideology. Revolutionary documentarists working within

ICAIC emphasized the formation of a more effective communication with the audience.30

In contrast, the motivating force behind these new documentaries appears to be a strong

29 Chanan. 2004, 203. 30 Chanan. 2004, 194. 31

desire for self-expression and access to the creative processes that shape Cuban culture,

despite the many factors that may prevent it.

These documentaries demonstrate the cross-pollination between cinema and other

art forms in the current Cuban context. They underscore the extent to which the works of

nuevos realizadores are not strictly defined by the traditional limits of cinema but rather

delves into the audiovisual realm of production. In fact, numerous critics involved with

the Muestra utilize the term audiovisual joven (young audiovisual production) rather than

cine joven (young cinema) to refer to the work of nuevos realizadores. This implies a definition of audiovisual production as “an in-between space that determines new modes of production of visuality and models of communication capable of confronting and generating the material imaginary of Cuban society.”31 I will use the terms audiovisual

joven and cine joven interchangeably in order to facilitate my analysis. Furthermore, my

conflation of the terms reveals how the work of the nuevos realizadores is also

characterized by an in-between position. The corpus of their work is located in between

cinema and audiovisual production, thus challenging the aesthetic norms of each art form

and the sub-classifications within them.

Censorship and the Muestra Joven:

The Muestra Joven is a rather contested space where young filmmakers and the

state maintain interactions based on both cooperation and confrontation. In the process,

both players draw benefits but are also negatively affected by their exchanges. The

Muestra allows ICAIC to retain a central position in the national film industry. At the

31 Ibarra Cáceres. 2012, 34-35. 32 same time, the popularization of discourses that run counter to state power through films presented at this festival challenges the Institute’s and the government’s power over national cinema and culture. According to Ann Marie Stock, the Muestra constitutes an example of the mutually beneficial cooperation between the Cuban state and young filmmakers.32 In this exchange, the state increases its credibility and revitalizes national cinema, while young directors are able to access much needed resources and participate in shaping the environment in which they produce their films. Despite the cooperation between ICAIC and the nuevos realizadores, the Muestra has been the site of multiple conflicts between them.

One significant moment of tension came with ICAIC’s censorship of Ian Padrón’s documentary Fuera de liga (Dreaming in Blue/Out of this League, 2003). This film was made with funding from ICAIC and tells the story of one of Cuba’s most well known baseball teams, the Industriales. Despite the popular appeal of the film in a country where baseball constitutes an integral part of national culture, ICAIC prevented the exhibition of

Fuera de liga for many years. This censorship came about due to Padrón’s discussion of the difficult conditions experienced by baseball players in the island, which was accompanied by a look into the lives of players who had left the island to play for U.S. teams. One of these players is Orlando Hernández, known as “el Duque” (the Duke), whose name vanished from Cuban media after he left for the United States in 1998, a common occurrence in the country.33

ICAIC’s decision regarding this film sparked protests by several young

32 Stock. 2009. 242-243. 33 Hughson, Callum. “Winds of Change Blowing in Cuba.” Mop-Up Duty (online magazine). Jan 28, 2008. 33

filmmakers.34 Moreover, Fuera de liga became one of the most popular films in Cuba’s

underground markets35. After an email campaign by Cuban intellectuals and artists, and indicating a changing attitude towards censorship by the government, this documentary aired on national television in January 2008. Speaking about the emotional toll that censorship had on him, Padrón credits the support of filmmaker Humberto Solás, as a mentor and ally throughout the process.36 This underscores the support from previous

generations of filmmakers in the struggle of the nuevos realizadores. Other films such as

Milena Almira’s El grito (The Scream, 2007) and Mayckell Pedrero’s Revolution (2009)

have been subject to controversy and censorship by different institutions, including

national television. In spite of these occurrences, however, the Muestra has maintained a reputation as a relatively open space. This was possible, to a large extent, thanks to efforts made by ICAIC officials to maintain such an image. At the same time, the Muestra has

often included cultural workers intent on supporting young filmmakers.

A central figure in ensuring a welcoming and supportive environment at the

Muestra has been Fernando Pérez. Through his films Pérez earned a reputation as one of

Cuba’s foremost directors and the filmmaker of the 1990s.37 During a time when Cuban

cinema experienced a creative and economic crisis, Pérez managed to capture the

instability of the Special Period beyond prevailing clichés. He produced powerful

accounts of the changing collective psyche and difficulties faced by Cubans during these

34 Giroud, Pavel. “Réplica de Pavel Giroud a Gustavo Arcos.” Juan Antonio García Borrero. Cine Cubano: la pupila insomne (blog). March 22, 2012. 35 Hughson. Jan 28, 2008. 36 Dieguez, Danae. “Las películas se hacen para crear un punto de pensamiento: Una conversación con Ian Padrón director de la película ‘Habanastation.’” Inter Press Service Cuba (IPS). Ago 12, 2011. 37 Stock. 2009, 2. 34

tumultuous times. Pérez first participated in the Muestra as a jury member in 2004. He

became president of the festival in 2008. Through his collaboration in this event he noted

the talent of the nuevos realizadores and the challenges ahead in ensuring their growth as

artists and filmmakers.

In numerous interviews Pérez has expressed fascination with cine joven and the

ways in which digital technologies have allowed young filmmakers to produce films

without having to wait for their turn in ICAIC’s hierarchy.38 He expressed this view in his

welcome address for the Muestra in 2010. Pérez’s aesthetics are a clear influence on the work of nuevos realizadores, many of whom came of age at the time that his films were released. Moreover, his interest in independent filmmaking resulted in the production of his most recent film La pared de las palabras (The Wall of Words, 2012) entirely outside

of ICAIC39.

Fernando Pérez resigned as president of the Muestra in 2012. He came to this decision after being pressured by other ICAIC officials to censor one of the works selected for the Muestra. As he expressed in his welcome address for the event that year:

Una vez armada la programación del presente año, se iniciaron discusiones con instancias del Instituto Cubano de Arte e Industria Cinematográficos (ICAIC) en las que me planteaban la no exhibición de uno de los documentales seleccionados. Considero que esta obra, como algunas otras, no está lograda artísticamente, pero justamente por eso resultaba interesante su inclusión en el debate. Al no poder demostrar en la práctica la coherencia inclusiva que he planteado para la Muestra, he tomado la decisión personal de no continuar al frente de la misma. Reitero: no

38 Pérez began working in ICAIC in 1975, but he was not able to direct a feature film until 1988, when he produced Clandestinos. 39 “Fernando Pérez filma la pared de las palabras.” CubaSí.com (online journal). Sept 12, 2012. 35

es más que una decisión personal porque mi apoyo al evento como espacio de incuestionable valor para los jóvenes seguirá siendo el mismo.40

Several young filmmakers expressed their concern about Pérez’s decision and

feared the loss of an important ally within the institution. Moreover, old debates about

censorship in Cuba as well as the collective character of the nuevos realizadores

resurfaced. Once again, Juan Antonio García Borrero’s blog Cine cubano: la pupila

insomne reflected the different arguments surrounding this debate. In one of these posts,

critic Reynaldo Lastres Labrada echoed arguments regarding the lack of intellectual

commitment and theoretical cohesion among the nuevos realizadores.41 Gustavo Arcos

expressed a similar opinion, recounting several films that have been kept off the screen,

and worrying about “the silence that many other cineastes, young ones or veterans, have

had in respect to [Pérez’s decision]”42

These comments incited a passionate response by Pavel Giroud who reminded

participants of how many people give up their creative impetus in the face of the

difficulties that prevail in the country. Meanwhile, he argues, nuevos realizadores remain

at work, fighting for their right to self-expression and against censorship, such as was the

case with Fuera de liga:

40 “Once the production for this year was in place, discussions with members of ICAIC begun, in these they asked for the non-exhibition of one of the selected documentaries. I consider that this work, like some others, is not artistically accomplished, but precisely because of this it resulted interesting to include it in the debate. Not being able to demonstrate in practice the inclusive coherence that I have set out for the Muestra, I have taken the personal decision not to continue as president. I reiterate: this is not more than a personal decision and my support for the event as a space with unquestionable value for young people will continue to be the same.” Pérez, Fernando. “La partícula de Higgs.” Catálogo Muestra Joven 2012. Taken from Ventana (online journal). March 14, 2012. 41 Lastres Labrada, Reynaldo. “Otra reflexión en torno a los jóvenes y el audiovisual cubano”. Juan Antonio García Borrero. Cine cubano: la pupila insomne. March 27, 2012. 42 Arcos, Gustavo. “Gustavo Arcos a propósito de ‘La partícula de Higgs’, de Fernando Pérez.” Juan Antonio García Borrero. Cine cubano: la pupila insomne. March 20, 2012. 36

Entonces, no nos digas a los que nos rompemos el lomo tratando de hacer cine en este país, enfrentando a los mismos especímenes censores de siempre y dejando de dormir pensando en que voy a filmar mañana; a los que aún tenemos ganas de crear en medio del caos en que se ha convertido este país, que somos apáticos. No puedo aceptarlo, amigo.43

This interaction highlights the complexities surrounding the Muestra Joven,

which echo events of the past while also taking on new light in the post-Special Period

context. A renegotiation of the parameters of state power and the ways in which it

operates takes place through the Muestra Joven. As Sujatha Fernandez argues, in Cuba

the arts constitute a space where dialogue and debate can take place while allowing the

state to maintain and retrace the parameters of its hegemonic power.44 Cultural

institutions like ICAIC are central to this redefinition of state power. The Muestra Joven

is a prime example of the partial reincorporation of counter-hegemonic discourses into

the state apparatus. As in other examples discussed by Fernandes the Muestra is a

complex space where tolerance for counter hegemonic discourses in Cuban cultural

expressions allow the government to maintain its popularity and credibility. Moreover,

spaces like the Muestra allow the government to “delineate the boundaries and limits of

contestation, and promote national unity in the face of increasing ideological polarization

and growing racial and economic disparities.”45 Nonetheless, through the Muestra the

very partial nature of this this reincorporation becomes evident. Although this space

allows the state to retain some control over the work of young filmmakers, contestation

43 “So, don’t tell those of us who break our backs trying to make films in this country, facing the same old censors and losing sleep over what we will film tomorrow; those of us who have the desire to create in the midst of the chaos which this country has become, that we are apathetic. I can’t accept it, my friend.” Giroud, Pavel. “Réplica de Pavel Giroud a Gustavo Arcos.” Juan Antonio García Borrero. Cine cubano: la pupila insomne. March 22, 2012. 44 Fernandes, Sujatha. 2006. Cuba Represent!: Cuban Arts, State Power, and the Making of New Revolutionary Cultures. Durham: Duke University Press, 9. 45 Fernandes. 2006, 12. 37

and distention remain powerful products of cultural manifestations such as cine joven.

Fernando Pérez’s resignation is an example of how the Muestra operates as a

strategy of containment, thus making it a delicate and irregular ideological site.

Additionally, the vastly different opinions voiced by various cultural workers in regards

to this event further demonstrate its complex character. In several instances, cultural

critics expressed concern over the levels of ideological control maintained in and through

the Muestra Joven. Gustavo Arcos pointed to the prevalence of conservative forces within this festival. These voices, he argued, are set on silencing, or at least limiting, the voice of young filmmakers “who do nothing but visualize or try to express in their own way all these social tensions and dilemmas.”46 Meanwhile, Jorge Molina, one of Cuba’s

most controversial directors from the Special Period and a professor at EICTV, expressed

disbelief on ICAIC’s interest to truly support independent cinema.47 Molina believes the

Muestra Joven represents an attempt to control independent production and expressed concern over the many young directors that have bought into the idea of an open and supportive ICAIC.

Arcos’ and Molina’s critical opinions were published around the same time as an interview with ICAIC president Omar González asserted the positive role of the Institute in encouraging and assisting young talent. In this 2010 interview published by the cultural magazine La Jiribilla González anticipated “a true flood of creativity” as a result of open and inclusive cultural policies and institutions that fought for the creation of a

46 Arcos, Gustavo. “Lo que la Muestra demuestra”. Juan Antonio García Borrero. Cine cubano: la pupila insomne. March 2, 2010. 47 Molina, Jorge. “Jorge Molina y los ‘jóvenes’ realizadores”. Juan Antonio García Borrero. Cine cubano: la pupila insomne. March 7, 2010. 38 space for young artists.48 The gaping divergence in the opinions expressed by Molina and

Arcos in contrast to the Institute's official discourse as presented by González attests to the complex relationship between state institutions, Cuban youth, and emerging directors.

Nuevos realizadores are exceedingly aware of these intricacies. In their aesthetics of resolviendo, they form agreements with powerful forces from within and outside the

Island in order to fulfill their creative drive. In the process they enact new forms of creative resistance by strategically applying varying levels of cooperation and contestation with structures of power. These forces include state institutions like ICAIC, foreign investors, tourists, as well national and international audiences. All these groups maintain preconceived notions of what true Cuban cinema should resemble. Nuevos realizadores must navigate but can also transform these expectations. While such negotiations have always taken place in the country and in other film industries, what sets this new crop of filmmakers apart from previous generations is a refusal to deny or mask the existence of such processes of artistic brokering. It is this refusal that creates the misconception of cine joven as an uncommitted cinema.

Reaching Cuban youth through spaces like the Muestra Joven is central to the ways in which the Cuban state redefines its position in the post-Special Period context.

Through these initiatives the state presents itself as a more open and inclusive structure, thus providing discursive ground to justify its continued access to power. In the aforementioned interview Gonzáles presents the Muestra as a necessary space for ICAIC

48 Fernández, Isachi. “Entrevista con Omar González, Presidente del ICAIC”. La Jiribilla (online). Año VII. March 6-12, 2010. 39

to continue its revolutionary task in the context of the Batalla de Ideas (Battle of Ideas)49.

González presents the Muestra as a legitimizing space and learning ground for young filmmakers and artists. Unsurprisingly, he fails to recognize how the Muestra serves to validate ICAIC and the Cuban state as partaking in policies that produce an inclusive environment. In Gonzáles’ discourse, the revolutionary government is shown as intent on providing opportunities for young Cubans despite the country’s limited resources. In the same vein, ICAIC’s President emphasizes the creation of new spaces for the exhibition of cine joven beyond the Muestra, including television programs and regular showings at national cinemas. However, his narrative disregards the constant struggle and demands from young filmmakers that led to the creation of these spaces.

The Muestra allows the state intellectual class to contain counter-hegemonic discourses and create the image of an open power structure that invites and encourages the participation of the country’s youth. This image stands in strong contrast to the prevalent critiques from and feelings of exclusion among young Cubans regarding their limited opportunities for participation in decision-making processes. This is not to question the importance of the Muestra and the directions of those most directly involved in this festival. Rather, the contested nature of the Muestra Joven demonstrates the various ways in which power flows and operates through multiple sites of coercion and contestation which often go unnoticed and which cannot be easily delineated and separated from one another. In this context, the Muestra Joven has allowed ICAIC to

49 The Battle of Ideas constitutes a series of ideological and educational policies that touch upon various aspects of the Cuban education and media system. It was launched by Fidel Castro in 1999 as a response to the conflict between Cuban and U.S. authorities over Elián González, the Cuban child whose mother died as they attempted to reach Florida in a raft. Doreen Weppler-Grogan (2010) highlights two central aspects of these policies: the centrality of culture in government attempts to increase participation in the revolution and address inequalities, and the emphasis on Cuban youth (160). 40 reposition itself and remain central to the work of young filmmakers even as the decentralizing tendencies brought about by new modes of production challenged the

Institute’s central position. ICAIC has achieved this by identifying a need among these emerging cultural workers, namely exhibition spaces and media attention, and providing solution within its limited resources in the context of economic crisis.

Like the Muestra, Cuban state institutions and other hegemonic forces deploy numerous other strategies of containment. However, the partial reincorporation that takes place through these entities does not entirely eliminate the possibility of challenging hegemonic discourses through film. Neither does it halt the continued renovation of aesthetic and ideological models in art and cinema. Nuevos realizadores’ commitment to creating new representations that express their interpretations of their own realities becomes a political act. This is particularly true as this commitment interacts with a variety of forces that shape Cuban culture to different degrees. By exploring the thematic emphases of cine joven through close analysis of some films representative of this new cinema I hope to reveal the political in the act of creation within a group considered apolitical to a fault. Cuba lives history as the quotidian; daily is always historicized as a crucial moment in the revolutionary struggle, every action is charged with hypersignificance in terms of history and politics. As such, Cubans navigate intricate layers of rhetoric to fulfill daily needs. In this context, the act of seeming apolitical, or refusing to adhere to traditional intellectual and artistic schemas is in fact very powerful.

In the midst of all this, the case of cine joven in Cuba reveals much about how cinema 41 and creative processes are experienced in the world today and the emergence of artistic resistance in a highly globalized cinematic experience. 42

“Lo bueno es que son como la voz esa de ese mundo bajo de Cuba”1

Portrayals of Life since the Special Period by Nuevos Realizadores.

Nuevos realizadores work within a polarized international media landscape influenced by the discursive construction of Cuba and its relationship to the United

States. Diverging voices present Cuba either as the victim of a tyrannical and totalitarian state or as a revolutionary nation that must protect itself from imperialist U.S. attacks.

Although these are the two most widely recognized discourses surrounding representations of Cuba, in recent years a variety of new, more moderate, discourses emerged. Attempting to move beyond the Cold War framework, these new voices include the curious observers who see Cuba as an interesting case study, to the apolitical Cuban culture enthusiast. These new voices may not maintain the drastic polarization that characterized the Cold War worldview, however, this framework still shapes their perspective, even if by pronounced opposition to it. Moreover, the more moderate nature of these discourses does not take away their power over Cuban culture. As the Island opens its doors to visitors and investors, these moderate and curious observers hold more power over Cuban culture. Most media representations of Cuba, from both within and outside the Island, are framed by the polarizing view of the Cuban state as either a repressive or a protective force. Meanwhile, they ignore the impact of other

1 “The good thing is that they are like that voice from Cuba’s underworld.” Female interviewee in Mayckell Pedrero’s Revolution (2009) speaking about the rap group Los Aldeanos. 43 socioeconomic and cultural entities from within and outside whose understandings of

Cuba are located in between these two extremes.

Cine joven represents one of these emerging moderate voices. Nuevos realizadores recognize the benefits afforded by the revolutionary government but also highlight existing problems in Cuban society that counteract government discourse.

Furthermore, most of those viewers who consume cine joven in Cuba and abroad maintain this in-between political status. At the same time, the polarized representation of

Cuba in the media influences the expectations of these moderate groups. These portrayals may provide direct information about Cuba to viewers, or they may drive them away from traditional media representations and towards more alternative sources such as cine joven. To explore this issue, I will use the recent controversy about reggaeton in Cuban to illustrate the equivocal context that shapes the production and reception of cine joven.

New Cultural Debates at the Beat of Reggaeton:

During December 2012 Cuba became the center of international media attention, but not as a result of the recent changes in its economic policies and travel restrictions.

Instead, media outlets throughout the world reported on the government’s decision to

“ban” reggaeton. This musical genre, with origins in Panama, Puerto Rico, and other parts of the Caribbean, has gained a prevalent yet at times infamous position in Latin

American culture. Censorship of reggaeton (also known as perreo) in Cuba became a widely discussed topic, particularly on the Internet. From social media to articles in online magazines and blog posts, people the world over expressed their support for or opposition to this decision. Despite these prolific discussions, the information provided 44

by most articles was insufficient to determine what this ban truly represented and how it

would be enforced.

An article published in the online magazine The Atlantic Wire questioned the

validity of arguments in favor of the Cuban government’s policies2: “Dirty,

hypersexualized, macho party music might not be everyone’s cup of tea, but are we down

with censorship now?”3 The controversy sprung from statements made by Orlando Vistel,

President of the Instituto Cubano de la Música (Cuban Music Institute, ICM) in an

interview with the official Cuban newspaper Granma, rather than from concrete

government measures. In this context, the website for ABC News/Univision reported on

statements made by “the middle-aged official,” by pointing out how the images promoted

by this genre contradict revolutionary values.4 This article pays special attention to analyses that question government officials’ intentions of fighting the objectification of women in reggaeton. One such analysis is provided by Cuban-American blogger Daniel

Benitez who “suggests that the new music regulations could be part of a plan to keep more traditional Cuban groups with ties to the government from losing an audience that is quickly shifting towards reggaeton.”5

Both of these articles, as a sample of U.S. media representations of Cuba, present

the image of an aging and out-of-touch state using authoritative measures to control

2 Wagner, David. “Cuba Banned Reggaeton and People are Surprisingly OK with That.” The Atlantic Wire (website). Dec 7, 2012. 3 A less obvious cultural critique is implicit in this statement. “Dirty, hypersexualized, macho party music” is represented as something that the magazine’s progressive readers might oppose, while people in “macho” cultures like Cuba would enjoy it. 4 Rueda, Manuel. “Cuban Government Censors Reggaeton and ‘Sexually Explicit’ Songs.” ABC News/ Univision (website). Dec 6, 2012. 5 Rueda. 2012. 45

culture and support those artists close to official power structures. Although there is some

mention of the controversial nature of reggaeton as a genre throughout Latin America and

the world, Cuba’s political context and its rhetorical place in Western politics frame

media discussions of the supposed reggaeton ban. Here, reggaeton becomes another

victim of a famously repressive state; no contextualization or specific policy details are

required.

In fact, the issue of reggaeton in Cuba is part of a regional debate regarding this

popular musical genre. Arguments against reggaeton “rage over charges of appropriation,

ethnic and racial tensions, sexuality and sexism, questions of profanity, and fears that the

genre is inextricable from drugs and violence [and] the genre’s purported lack of aesthetic

merit.”6 However, U.S. and other international media continuously skirt these controversies. The censorship of twenty-two songs, several of them reggaeton songs, by the Comisión de Espectáculos Públicos (Public Events Commission) in the Dominican

Republic in July 2011 received scant coverage in international media.7 Similar to the

Cuban government’s arguments, the Commission banned these songs because of their

perceived tendency to incite drug use, violence, and denigrate women.

Further evidence of the extent to which Cuba’s political construction and its

relationship to the discursive construction of the United States shape international, and

particularly U.S. media coverage of its cultural policies emerges when we compare

coverage of Cuba’s reggaeton ban with the censorship of numerous mainstream songs

6 Rivera, Raquel; Wayne Marshal & Deborah Pacini Hernandez. 2009. Reggaeton. Durham: Duke University Press, 9. 7 El Comercio (online). “Canciones de Calle 13 y Tego Calderón Vetadas en R. Dominicana”. July 15, 2011. 46

throughout the Western world. Government authorities in countries like Great Britain and

France have censored pop hits like Enrique Iglesias’ Tonight I’m Loving You or Rihanna’s

S & M. However, media representations of these cases were limited to discussions of morality and sexuality, rather than on these governments’ infringement upon free speech and right to control what is transmitted on national media.

In the aforementioned interview with the official newspaper Granma, Vistel presents the measures against reggaeton and other “vulgar, banal and mediocre expressions”8 as an act in defense of national culture and the “elevated levels of

instruction and a culture accumulated throughout more than half a century of educational

and cultural efforts.” For Vistel, this is a struggle to preserve true and authentic

manifestations of Cuban culture and against corrupt sectors that benefit financially from

reproachable cultural expressions. The lack of detailed information in international media

could be attributed to the fact that Vistel does not provide any details regarding the

specific measures that will be taken to contend with the threat “vulgar, banal and

mediocre” music, of which, he argues, reggaeton constitutes the most prevalent and

obvious, but not the only, example. However, The prevalence of such resolute opinions

despite a significant lack of information is not uncommon for news about Cuba. Cultural

regulations in the Island are often unclear and ambiguous. Moreover, the current

conditions in Cuba hinder access to accurate information.

Although he does not specify what measures will follow, Vistel does signal the

onset of an institutional process of purification. A process supposedly aimed at ensuring

8 Hoz, Pedro de la. “Ni la vulgaridad ni la mediocridad podrán mellar la riqueza de la música cubana.” Granma. Año 16, número 331. Nov 30, 2012. 47 that only the best and most legitimate expressions of Cuban culture are available in touristic spaces, as well as radio and television. Vistel’s mention of touristic spaces signals an attempt by the Cuban government to deal with the multitudes of tourists in the country. In addition to general concerns over Cuban culture and how it is experienced by locals, the measures against reggaeton show the state’s interest in carefully constructing and presenting a particular image of Cuba to visitors, one in which the perceived vulgarity of reggaeton would be detrimental. This concern highlights the complex structure of power that operates in Cuba today and its relationship to Cuban culture. As citizens, artists, foreign interests, and the government must interact with one another, the boundaries for what represents a true expression of cubanidad are constantly shifting and highly contested.

Cuba provides a unique opportunity to explore the relationship between culture and ideology, a fact that media outlets in Cuba seem to fully recognize—even if not explicitly—while international media treats this country as completely different from the rest. In reality, however, how cultural workers and hegemonic forces negotiate and construct Cuban culture can shed significant light into processes of cultural identity formation throughout the world. At the same time, Cuban cultural politics are always framed by and experienced through the political and ideological role that this country occupies in the contemporary Western political imaginary. Regardless of geographical and/or political position, the discourse surrounding revolutionary Cuba affects perceptions of Cuban culture. 48

In Cuba, distinctions between high and low art have differed from other countries

in the region as a result of policies instituted by the revolutionary government. Popular

art received more access to state resources than in other countries, and both high culture

and popular culture were made available to the masses. In his statements about reggaeton,

Vistel argues that this campaign against vulgarity is part of “our responsibility to reveal

and promote hierarchically in all spaces possible the authentic values of our musical

production, in live interaction with the most outstanding international art, as an

expression of the vocation of universality that has always characterized us.” Evident in

this hierarchy is a shifting cultural terrain shaped by recent socio-economic changes in

Cuba.

As class inequalities resurface in the post-Special period context, cultural

dynamics become the center of tensions. As is the case in countries with high levels of

out-migration and increasingly dependent on remittances and foreign investment, class

distinctions in Cuba may challenge traditional logic: purchasing power does not always

go hand-in-hand with educational levels or even political influence. In this changing

context, the tempering of a more traditionally Western cultural imaginary becomes

evident in Cuba. In this cultural matrix, high culture is promoted for educational purposes

while certain elements of cubanidad are returned to the status of folklore and encouraged as a means of preserving national culture as a somewhat static spectacle. In the process, an image of revolutionary success in the cultural field is sustained for the country and the world, and Cuba becomes a desirable location for tourists and investors. 49

The government’s relationship to reggaeton is an example of this emerging

cultural politics that influenced by extraordinary foreign presence in Cuba and the state’s

attempts to counteract some of the effects that the nation’s growing presence in the global

market has on national identity. In recent years Cuban intellectuals have expressed

concern over what they regarded as the cultural and social risks posed by reggaeton.9 As

Geoff Baker points out “reggaeton in Cuba has been described variously within official and intellectual circles as a problem that needs solving, an infection that needs curing, an invasion to be countered, a flood threatening to drown the island, and an avalanche.”10

Evident in these discussion is the interaction of these newly sedimented cultural

stratification with generational differences that shape the perception of cultural

manifestations in Cuba, including cine joven. In a similar vein to the debates over cine

joven examined in Chapter 1, the Cuban intellectual Alfredo Prieto identified the ruinous

hedonism of reggaeton as an undeniable product of the Special Period.11 Reggaeton

singers and their audiences were influenced, according to Prieto, by the “structural lacks,

the crisis of values, dollarization, migratory stampede and the growing social differences”

that emerged in the 1990s. Following Prieto’s analysis, the end result is a commercialized

and vulgar expression with an utter lack of aesthetic values, otherwise known to Cuban

intellectuals as perreo.

9 Fairley, Jan. “How to Make Love with Your Clothes On: Dancing Regeton, Gender, and Sexuality in Cuba.” In Rivera, Raquel; Wayne Marshal & Deborah Pacini Hernandez (eds.). 2009. Reggaeton. Durham: Duke University Press, 280. 10 Baker, Geoff. “The Politics of Dancing: Reggaeton and Rap in Havana, Cuba.” In Rivera, Raquel; Wayne Marshal & Deborah Pacini Hernandez (eds.). 2009. Reggaeton. Durham: Duke University Press, 180. 11 Prieto, Alfredo. “La cola del perreo.” 50

The Unión de Escritores y Artistas de Cuba (Union of Cuban Writers and Artists,

UNEAC) is one of the most influential institutions that denounce reggaeton as a

problematic genre. This music’s hold over Cuban society is believed to be the result of

education and pedagogical deficiencies in recent years.12 Chief among their concerns is

the representation of women in reggaeton. UNEAC members echoed criticism posed by

the Federación de Mujeres Cubanas (Federation of Cuban Women, FMC) regarding the disparagement of and sexual violence against women that is propagated through perreo.13

This issue took center stage in November 2011 when the video to the reggaeton

song “Chupi Chupi” by Osmani García was removed from the list of nominees to several

categories of the Premios Lucas, an award ceremony for the year’s most prominent

Cuban video-clips. The categories for which “Chupi Chupi” was nominated included one

that was determined by audience votes: Cubans nominated their favorite videos/songs via

text message. This introduces yet another gap in media coverage. Radio Cadena Habana,

an official Cuban radio station, emphasized the role of protests from the FMC in leading

to this decision14. Meanwhile, an article on the Cuban-American news website Café

Fuerte focused on the influence of the Minister of Culture Abel Prieto’s denunciation of

this song during an appearance on the national television show Mesa Redonda.15

Osmani García enjoys much popularity among Cuban audiences. His ballad

“Mujer” has in fact been used in national campaigns in honor of International Women’s

12 Estrada Betancourt, José Luis. “La música que nos preocupa.”Juventud Rebelde. Sep 19, 2012. 13 Radio Cadena Habana. “¿Quién ha inventado que en Cuba se ha prohibido el reggaeton?” Dec 7, 2012. 14 Radio Cadena Habana. 2012. 15 Cafe Fuerte (online). “Cantante del ‘Chupi Chupi’ acusa de censor al ministro de Cultura.” Nov 26, 2011. 51

Day and Mother’s Day celebrations since 2005.16 His polemical video shows images of

voluptuous women in provocative outfits sucking on lollypops, drinking from “Chupi

Chupi” labeled cans, and dancing to male rappers’ allegories to oral sex. It also shows

some men engaging in the same performance. The majority of the song refers to female-

on-male fellatio, as the chorus repeats: “Dame un chupi chupi/ que yo lo disfruti/ abre la

bocuti/ y trágatelo tuti.”17 However, a cameo appearance by female reggaeton singer

Patry White momentarily turns the tables. In a similar manner to other female reggaeton

singers, White’s performance somewhat troubles traditional gender norms, demanding

oral stimulation for herself: “si no quieres buscarte un problema/ sacúdete y tírala buena/

dale un chupi chupi a la nena/ que estoy loca por verte en la escena.”18

This song and the controversy surrounding it highlight important questions

regarding sexuality and the representation of women in popular culture: How do we

define the objectification of women? If a particular text or artistic genre objectifies

women while also allowing for women to objectify men (“return the gaze”), at least in the

surface, what are the implications? Moreover, who should set the parameters for how

sexuality can be explored in cultural works and, by extension, how women and men

experience (hetero)sexuality?19 It is not the goal of this chapter to provide answers to

these questions. However, I would like to demonstrate how allegations of sexism in

16 Cafe Fuerte. 2011. 17 “Give me a little blow/ that I can enjoy/ open your mouth/ and swallow it all.” 18 “If you don’t want to get into trouble/ shake up and throw it good/ give the girl a little blow/ because I’m dying to see you in action” 19 My discussion here is limited to representations of heterosexual women, and my reference to sexuality is limited to heterosexuality and does not shed light into the many issues regarding the portrayal of gay people in reggaeton. However, the role of reggaeton in promoting homophobia has also been mentioned by supporters of the reggaeton ban in Cuba. 52

particular cultural manifestations are so often intertwined with racial and class differences

to the point that they have, in fact, little to do with the interaction between women and

men, but instead relate to clashes between different types of masculinities.

To illustrate this phenomenon it serves to note the similarities between Cuba’s

current reggaeton controversy to the ways in which hip hop has been criticized in the

United States for numerous reasons. In particular, hip hop music has often been

condemned as promoting a negative and violent attitude towards women.20 These

criticisms, however accurate they may be, stem from a gender structure that maintains

more concealed forms of discrimination against women while denouncing certain forms

of sexism practiced by non-hegemonic groups. Through these denunciations, hegemonic

and complicit masculinities can sustain their image as more progressive types of

masculinities, in contrast to marginalized masculinities—who now bear the stigma of

male-chauvinism as evidence to their backwardness.21

In other words, women’s oppression is used as a discursive tool for establishing and legitimizing hierarchical relationships among men. Consequently, the problem with hip hop is not that it objectifies and demeans women, but that it does this while also posing a challenge to hegemonic masculinity and its socially acceptable ways of objectifying female subjects. As hip hop became more mainstream, its sexist elements

20 A poignant examination of recent attacks to hip hop culture that has informed the analysis presented in this chapter is provided in: Sanneh, Kalefa. “Don’t Blame Hip-Hop.” The New York Times. Apr 25, 2007. 21 R.W. Connell produced an influential analysis of masculinities, in it she outlined four types of masculinities. Hegemonic masculinity as the dominant type, which legitimates and guarantees male dominance. Complicit masculinities maintain the dominance of hegemonic masculinities through idealization of this behavior. Subordinate masculinities constitute feminized, and thus inferior, practices by men. Marginalized masculinities are not deemed inferior through feminization, yet they are seen as underserving of access to masculine authority. Connell, R.W. 2005. Masculinities. Berkeley, Calif: University of California Press. 53 seemed to die down, after much insistence from its critics. However, one could argue that what has really taken place is a morphing of this misogyny into ways that are more socially acceptable and as hip hop no longer poses the same threat to a gender structure marked by intersectionality.

Undoubtedly, the case of reggaeton in Cuba has its own intricacies that distinguish it from hip hop in the United States. Nonetheless, the similarities between these two cases are evident in Orlando Vistel’s statements. In sharing his preoccupation with reggaeton and other “vulgar, banal and mediocre” musical forms he points to the existence of “aggressive and sexually explicit texts that distort the consubstantial sensuality of the Cuban woman, projecting her as a grotesque sexual object in an even more grotesque gestural setting.” Reggaeton’s fatal transgression, according to Vistel, is not its constant sexualization of women—after all, sensuality/sexuality is innate to the mythical and invariable Cuban woman. The language and gestures employed in reggaeton are the main concern for this cultural worker, as they deprave Cuban character and morality. In other words, these gestures and language are problematic because they do not comply with the appropriate sexualization of women as dictated by a masculinist state apparatus. Given these similarities, it would come as no surprise to see a pseudo- feminist transformation take place in Cuban reggaeton, much like it did in American hip hop, so that objectification of women takes place in more covert ways but remains a central feature of this cultural expression.

The preceding discussion illustrates the polarized international media terrain and cultural politics that young Cuban artists must navigate. Debates about cine joven, like 54

those about reggaeton, are framed by the image of a hegemonic and paternalistic Cuban

state. In this context, the role of other socioeconomic and cultural forces from within and

outside the country is overlooked. These forces, however, are central to how and what

young artists create. Cuba’s young filmmakers must face the demands of a state that

seeks to legitimize its cultural policies with those of an international market whose

knowledge of Cuban culture is filtered through international media politics. The

relationship between these two forces is not one of simple opposition, but rather a

complex and often unpredictable interaction.

The increasing popularity of films by young Cuban directors within and outside

Cuba is largely the result of their honest portrayal of the difficulties experienced in the

country since the onset of the Special Period. These films showcase images that can

contradict official discourse. By showcasing these works at government-sponsored events

such as the Muestra Joven, the government engages in what Sujatha Fernandes described as the “partial reincorporation of counter-hegemonic discourses” into the state apparatus.22 On the other hand, particular foreign and domestic interests on these films

(and on reggaeton), reveal a set of powerful forces that run counter to Cuban government,

but which cannot be described as non-hegemonic. In the case of outside observers, these

forces are not limited to the opposition voices emerging from Florida or the U.S.

government. In fact, a significant power must be recognized among the curious spectators

who view these documentaries in search for the “authentic” and “real” Cuba. In the

22 Fernandes. 2006, 12. 55 following sections of this chapter I will analyze some of the most popular and critical documentaries produced by Cuba’s nuevos realizadores in past years.

The influence of actors considered apolitical becomes evident in the reggaeton debate in Cuba. Reggaeton, like other cultural expressions such as rap, represents a danger to state power insofar as it rejects official ideology and emphasizes themes outside the state’s ideological framework. Regardless of whether a particular song or genre presents a seemingly disinterested, apolitical, and hedonistic perspective—such as

“Chupi Chupi”—or if it formulates a direct question of government discourse, new artistic expressions are a delicate subject for the Cuban state. These new forms of cultural production provide spaces to propagate alternative discourse that differ from the ideals of the revolutionary government. In the case of reggaeton, these alternative discourses relate to new ways of experiencing sexuality that challenge the revolutionary notion of morality. Sexuality is one of the primary means for hegemonic powers to exert control over the body of the nation. As such, arguments for and against reggaeton demonstrate how multiple forces struggle for control over the national collective. Chapter 4 will explore in more detail how cine joven expresses new definitions of human sexuality and its relationship to the nation.

The reggaeton debate illustrates the multiple and contradictory ways in which the

Cuban state attempts to control emerging cultural manifestations. It also demonstrates how young artists can resist these attempts by forming alliances with other forces that operate in the national cultural terrain. Just like reggaeton appears like one of the new cultural manifestations more diametrically opposed to revolutionary ideology, the films 56 analyzed in the rest of this chapter also challenge revolutionary discourse. However, the ways in which different cultural works challenge state discourse are extremely varied.

Despite these differences, the state maintains two primary strategies of containment; it may respond aggressive attempts to censor these works or attempt to reincorporate these discourses into the state apparatus.

The state has exercised a similar form of direct repression towards reggaeton and

Mayckell Pedrero’s film Revolution. Its protagonists, the rap duo Los Aldeanos, have experienced censorship from the government given the critical views of the state expressed in their music. Moreover, films like El futuro es hoy, Cómo construir un barco, and Buscándote Havana also present direct challenges to state discourse. The fact that these films are exhibited and lauded in state-sponsored locales like the Muestra Joven while reggaeton music could be banned from public spaces indicates how the state deploys different strategies in accordance to the type of counter-hegemonic discourse it faces. Repressing reggaeton’s challenge to state discourse is easier to legitimize by borrowing arguments from feminist theory or cultural criticism, for example. Meanwhile, direct repression of works that highlight the shortcomings of the Cuban government would justify further criticism. Instead, indirect repression through ideological reincorporation is a more effective strategy to contain these discourses.

Revolution: Crisis, Duplicity, and Hip Hop.

In the midst of these tensions between multiple foreign and domestic forces, young Cuban artists are driven by a creative force that defies economic crisis, ideological turmoil, and the uncertainty of living in a rapidly changing, yet seemingly static, context. 57

They are in fact inspired by this situation, as the spirit of inventiveness and resolviendo

(making do) that emerged during the Special Period translated into innovative artistic

trends throughout the wide spectrum of Cuban cultural production.

Music has always been central to Cuban culture. As such, it has also been the site

of vibrant processes of transformation. As the case of reggaeton suggests, these changes

often lead to controversy and debate. Rap has also experienced fast development in recent

years. Sujatha Fernandes has pointed to the various ways in which Cuban rappers have

infused national elements to this foreign genre and through it produced poignant social

critiques.23 The Cuban government acknowledged rap’s influence in national culture,

after much activism from rappers, with the creation of the Agencia Cubana de Rap

(Cuban Rap Agency), part of the Cuban Institute of Music, in August of 2001.24 In this

process, a division was created between rappers who belong to the Agency and those

“underground” rappers who prefer not to be integrated into the state institution.

Maykell Pedrero’s popular documentary Revolution (2009) lends a space for the

popular underground rap duo Los Aldeanos (The Villagers). Los Aldeanos gained popularity in Cuba and abroad with lyrics that express a critical view of the current situation and government policies in the Island. Their songs point to the detrimental effects of increased foreign presence in Cuba, the economic crisis, and insufficient government action, and even the government’s predilection for some cultural forms over others. Embracing the outspoken and controversial view of this duo, Revolution was exhibited at the ninth Muestra Joven, producing “the biggest act of sincerity and

23 Fernandes. 2006, 133. 24 Fernandes. 2006, 123. 58

interactivity between film and spectator that has been seen in Cuba in many years.”25

Cuban audiences filled the cinemas to watch a film about a popular music group that

openly criticizes the government being screened at a government-sponsored event in

state-owned theaters. However, some criticized the film for allegedly distorting Cuban

reality to drive a political agenda. Pedro de la Hoz—who interviewed Orlando Vistel for

the article that sparked the reggaeton debate—expressed the views of some who found

the “excess” and “propagandistic focus” of the film to be irresponsible.26 Meanwhile,

Arcos defended the artistic and critical value of this documentary as several forms of

censorship surfaced once again.

Los Aldeanos serve as a tool for positing a critical analysis of Cuban life in the

current context. The contradictions implied in producing a film that explores the

experiences of a group known for opposing state discourse and which has been denied

access to performance spaces as a result and presenting it at a state-sponsored festival

highlight the complex interactions between state power and new cultural manifestations.

By allowing the screening of Revolution, the government can maintain an image of

respect towards dissident opinions. At the same time, the discourse presented in this film

questions the image of an open state, forcing the government to take further measures to

maintain this reputation. This interaction is made possible largely because of the

increasing power of moderate forces and international observers in Cuba. By combining

25 Arcos, Gustavo. “Lo que la Muestra demuestra.” Juan Antonio García Borrero. Cine cubano: la pupila insomne. March 2, 2010. 26 Hoz, Pedro de la. “En la 9na Muestra de Nuevos Realizadores: Memoria, agudeza y confrontacion.” Juan Antonio García Borrero. Cine Cubano: la pupila insomne (blog). March 2, 2010. 59

their songs as the soundtrack to a montage of images showing daily life in Cuba,

Revolution addresses the effects of the economic crisis.

Simulating the swift and sharp style of Los Aldeanos, Revolution moves in an

accelerated yet hard-hitting pace through some of the deepest problems affecting Cubans

today. Pedrero transitions promptly between Los Aldeanos’ perspectives on the increase

in class inequalities since the Special Period as a result of growing levels of poverty and

emigration and the effects of increased foreign presence in the country. By juxtaposing all

these issues in such a fast pace, the film creates a sense of urgency and need for change—

for a revolution. In the process, Pedrero points to the inconsistencies between state

discourse and living conditions in Cuba.

A primary way to demonstrate these inconsistencies is through re-appropriation of

the rhetorical tools employed by the Cuban government. The title itself refers to a

questioning of the ubiquitous terms “revolution” and “revolutionary” in the national

imaginary. Pedrero distances the term from the government and uses it instead to demand

change. The constant search for change and improvement thus becomes the definition of

a true revolutionary in the film’s narrative. Moreover, the film reclaims two of the most

significant figures in the state’s ideological matrix, José Martí and Che Guevara. These

two figures frame the documentary’s narrative structure. The film begins with a quote by

Che: “The only feeling stronger that the love of freedom is the hatred towards whoever

denies it to us.” Pedrero thus presents Cuban’s search for freedom as the true subject explored in this film through Los Aldeanos. AL2, one of the members of this group, solidifies this idea by asserting that music is their way to “make revolution.” 60

Interviews with the two rappers take place in different locations and in both

instances important national symbols are highlighted in the background through camera

position. Images of the interview with AL2 show the Monument to José Martí at the Plaza

de la Revolución whereas images of the interview with El B (the other member of the

duo) highlight a Cuban flag in the background (Fig 2.1, Fig 2.2, Fig 2.3). This narrative

structure comes to a symbolic close through another quote, this time by Martí: “Truth,

once awakened, will never fall asleep again.” This provides a final positioning of

Revolution as providing a window into the hidden Cuban reality through Los Aldeanos.

Pedrero frames this documentary as the revelation of a dangerous truth by

highlighting the censorship suffered by the duo. Los Aldeanos speak about being denied

access to multiple venues, stressing the government’s role in closing these spaces.

Moreover, in two consecutive occasions Immigration authorities denied El B permission

to represent Cuba in the international rap battle Batalla de los Gallos (Battle of the

Cocks). This case becomes an example of state attempts to silence dissident voices and prevent them from reaching international audiences. The film suggests in both direct and indirect ways that opposing the government in Cuba may have very serious implications, and that authorities could take censorship to the extreme. Los Aldeanos thus become the symbols and martyrs of a new movement for freedom.

Rappers have continuously drawn comparisons between rap and the famous music of protest nueva trova in order to underscore the legitimacy of the former genre within 61

the revolutionary ideological framework.27, 28 Through a comparison to Los Aldeanos, however, the ideological commitment of nueva trova, rap, and other protest art forms moves away from loyalty to the revolution and towards the experiences of Cubans.

Pedrero thus draws a clear distinction between the state and the masses. This distinction disrupts revolutionary ideology and its claim that the interests of the people and those of the government are one and the same, or rather, that the revolutionary state expresses the true voice of the masses. In yet another instance of ideological re-appropriation, Pedrero stresses the cultural and political importance of rap through one of the most significant musical figures of the Cuban Revolution, the nueva trova singer Pablo Milanés. Milanés

draws a comparison between nueva trova and hip hop, positioning both genres as marked

by novelty and cubanía. As such, hip hop is positioned as a true expression of Cuban

culture by one of the nation’s most important musical figures.

One of the most poignant messages in this film is the frustration caused by the

effects of the economic crisis on Cuban morality. The Special Period brought about a

change in moral standards as part of Cubans daily survival strategies. The term doble

moral (duplicity) was originally used to describe the practice by some citizens of

officially supporting the government while secretly engaging in practices that

undermined it (such as participating in black market transactions). In recent years, this

27 Baker, Geoffrey. 2011. Buena Vista in the Club: Rap, Reggaetón, and Revolution in Havana. Durham: Duke University Press, 45. 28 Nueva trova, as part of the more general movement of canciones de protesta (songs of protest) in Latin America, developed in Cuba since the 1960s, but particularly during the 1970s. This socially conscious music became one of the staples of revolutionary culture and one of the main forms of representation of life in revolutionary Cuba. ICAIC’s Grupo de Experimentación Sonora (Experimental Sound Group) played a pivotal role in the development of nueva trova. Pablo Milanés, Silvio Rodríguez, and Leo Brouwer are three of the most representative figures in this genre. Benmayor, Rina. “La ‘Nueva Trova’: New Cuban Song.” Latin American Music Review 2.1(1981): 11-44. 62

term was expanded to encompass a wide array of behaviors often considered morally

reproachable. As AL2 explains:

Nos han obligado a caer en miles de descaros, a hacernos daño, a maltratarnos, a cambiar una amistad por el short de un extranjero. El cubano no era así…y eso es lo más triste que tenemos nosotros ahora, que es la falta de moral.29

According to El B, the main causes of this moral decay are the economic crisis

and a government that fails to grasp the needs of its people as they face these shortages.

In other words, as the state fails to institute more flexible policies to mitigate the crisis,

Cubans have been forced into doble moral. Revolution thus describes the process by which the actions of the Cuban government lead its citizens to interact in ways that counteract its own discourse.

In its dialogue with Cuban rap, Revolution exemplifies an important characteristic of cine joven: the attention it pays to other art forms in Cuba and the resulting analytical and aesthetic cross-pollination. Nuevos realizadores look to and interact with critiques produced in the audiovisual realm and other cultural manifestations. This is a defining element of this younger generation, which speaks about its own realities while lending a critical eye to the circumstances they have inherited.

El futuro es hoy: Uncertainty, Esplanades, and Old Machines.

Shortages and insecurity are two of the most prevailing characteristics of life in

Cuba since the Special Period. Nuevos realizadores often explore these manifestations of

the economic crisis. A prime example of this trend is Sandra Gómez’s documentary El

futuro es hoy (The Future is Today, 2009), which was shown at the eighth Muestra Joven.

29 “They have forced us into shameless behavior, to hurt each other, to mistreat each other, to change a friendship for the short of a foreigner. Cubans were not like that…and that is the saddest thing that we have now, which is the lack of morals.” 63

In this film, Havana’s malecón (esplanade) and its surrounding neighborhood become a unifying visual element used to represent Cuba. Although the use of a Havana landmark attests to the “Havana-centrism” of much of Cuban cultural production, the malecón provides a unique visual metaphor that accurately envelops many of the complexities that mark the lives of most Cubans.30

Through the malecón as the primary setting, the Atlantic Ocean that surrounds this island becomes a symbol for national reality, a common trend among Cuban artists, writers and intellectuals throughout history. In the unceasing interaction between the ocean and the seawall two contrasting aspects of daily life in Cuba are encapsulated. The stillness of the ocean at certain times mirrors the stagnant environment that often ensues, in a country where daily life often demands long waits. Cubans constantly wait in long lines for access to basic resources such as food. They wait for buses that often fail due to fuel shortages. They wait for new employment opportunities as the economic crisis has resulted in massive layoffs. Cubans wait for news from relatives abroad in a country so hard to reach. Moreover, as the film suggests, they wait for change in state policies.

But the ocean can also be turbulent, and so can life in Cuba. Like the sound of violent waves hitting the malecón, every day Havana is filled with the hubbub of its residents incessantly struggling to satisfy basic needs (Fig 2.4). Cubans try to find food and other goods despite lack of access to dollars. They navigate the intricacies of the city to find ways to fix the country’s aging equipment and infrastructure with the limited resources at hand and through sheer inventiveness.

30 The tendency to focus on Havana as representative of all of Cuba, thus excluding its other provinces. 64

To add to the symbolism of the esplanade, the film includes other symbols of

daily life in Special Period Cuba. These are the kind of images that foreign audiences do

not see nearly as often as the renovated buildings in Old Havana, the 1950s Chevys, or

the beautiful beaches of tourism advertisings. Instead, El futuro es hoy shows the decaying buildings along the esplanade. Inside, their inhabitants cook eggs, one of the most prevalent food items in Cuba since the onset of the crisis, and make coffee in old stovetop espresso pots omnipresent in Cuban households (Fig 2.5).

The Havana residents interviewed in this film find it impossible to envision the future of their country as a result of the quotidian uncertainty produced by the economic crisis: “To think about what you are going to do in four or five years? That’s utopia! It’s complicated enough to think about what you are going to do in four or five days! And the most normal concern is what I am going to cook tomorrow!” Supporting this statement by the Cuban writer Yoss, a separate statement by another resident of the malecón area

confirms the haziness of the nation’s future: “The future for us is that, the next minute,

not even the next week!”

This man, whose main concern is the future of his daughters, explains the political

transition that started around 2006, when Fidel Castro began to slowly step down from

power. For the first time in more than four decades, the main figure of the revolutionary

state was (relatively) absent. As this interviewee explains, the Cuban people are adapting

to this new political context. This adjustment carries with it much speculation about the

changes that might come. Drawing on this quiet yet prevalent speculation, Sandra Gómez 65 invites her protagonists to do the very thing they think impossible: envision Cuba’s future.

This search for the future is met with present dissatisfactions. In one of the earliest sequences presented in El futuro es hoy, an Afro-Cuban man lowers a large and strange object from his balcony and then drags it through the city streets, towards the malecón and into the sea. It is not until we see him climb onto this structure that the mystery is solved: it is a raft he built so he can fish. Fishing is his only means of survival

(Fig 2.6, Fig 2.7, Fig 2.8). He loves the water, the ocean, but he is afraid that one day he will run into trouble because of his occupation. In this island, fishing in rafts is illegal, he explains, and his biggest fear is being fined by the authorities and having to give up his way of life. He would like to see some changes in the future, in particular, more freedom to fish.

In a country like Cuba, citizens constantly draw comparisons between the lived reality of Socialism, and the different possibilities afforded by Capitalism. Yoss presents a powerful image of the polemical difference between these two systems. As he explains:

Yo siempre comparo el Socialismo y el Capitalismo con dos habitaciones. El Socialismo es una habitación con el suelo seguro. No hay trampas, no hay agujeros…pero el techo está a un metro de altura. No puedes levantar la cabeza más allá. El Capitalismo vendría a ser una habitación con el suelo lleno de… agujeros, trampas. Pero sólo hay paredes, no existe un techo. Siempre puedes subir lo más alto que quieras y que puedas, recordando siempre que puedes caer y hundirte para siempre. A los cubanos durante mucho tiempo el estado paternalista nos ha protegido de esa caída, pero tampoco nos ha permitido subir.31

31 “I always compare Socialism and Capitalism to two rooms. Socialism is a room with a safe floor. There are no traps, there are no holes…but the ceiling is within one meter. You can’t raise your head more than that. Capitalism would be a room with the floor full of…holes, traps. But there are only walls, there is no ceiling. You can climb as high as you want and you can, always remembering that you can fall and sink forever. For a long time, the paternalistic state has protected us Cubans from that fall, but it has not let us climb either.” 66

El futuro es hoy shows how, in the midst of these difficulties, Cubans find means

of escape. Gómez presents some of these various ways of escaping reality: from a female

doctor and heavy metal fan attending a concert, to a party organized beyond the seawall,

right by the water, where neighbors gather to let go of their worries. Predominantly, this

film provides a critical view of the government, its laws, lack of liberties, and

paternalism. Gómez also presents the opinions of some avid supporters of the revolution.

However, the narrative indicates that these views are inappropriate, given that the

problems faced by the people of Havana are associated with a rusty state machinery.

One of the supporters serves to showcase the rhetorical battle between Cuba and

the United States that, throughout the years, has brought about much hardship for people

in the Island. El futuro es hoy features a security guard at La Tribuna Antiimperialista

(Anti-Imperialist Tribune) in Havana, which as constructed to serve as a symbol of

Cuba’s resistance against the attacks of the United Sates. Here, an installation of 138

Cuban flags as the Monte de Banderas was set up in 2006, to block the view of the U.S.

Interest Section in Havana after banners against the Castro government were hung

outside this building (Fig 2.9).32 Externalizing the sentiment that informs La Tribuna, this man asserts that Cuba will not take any form of repression. Undeniably, the Revolution will always prevail in Cuba’s future.

The most striking image in El futuro es hoy comes from an elderly woman who recount with sentimiento (nostalgia) the early days of the Revolution. She shows an old

sewing machine that she received from the revolutionary government during her youth.

32 Originally, black flags with a white star, rather than Cuban flags, were used to serve as a symbol of Cuba’s fight against what the Castro government calls U.S. terrorism. 67

She speaks of the beauty of these early years and emblematic projects like the Literacy

Campaign33. She received her beloved sewing machine as part of a revolutionary project

to provide training to young campesinas. In her interview she holds up an old issue of the

official newspaper Granma. It features an article about this project with a photograph of

young women working with their sewing machines, the photograph’s subheading

describes them as las muchachas que aprendieron a soñar (Fig 2.10)34.

Now in her old age, she does not want to let go of that dream she once learnt. The

sewing machine becomes a metaphor for the revolutionary project, once successful but

now decaying: “Y la máquina si cose todavía. Así que quiero decir que Fidel si puede

seguir haciendo algo por esto. Toadvía puede trabajar…Porque si la máquina cose

todavía, él tiene que seguir.”35 She slowly uncovers the precious artifact and tries to

demonstrate that it could still operate. However, the machine fails, its rusty parts jammed,

and the woman’s frail hands are unable to make it work. The devastation of this elderly

woman after this happens produces the emotional reaction necessary to convince the

spectator of the need for change in Cuba. Once again, images of the malecón appear on screen, thus bringing to a close the film’s microcosm as a sample of quotidian life in

Havana and, by extension, Cuba as a whole (Fig 2.11).

Cómo construir un barco: Migration, International Politics, and Silent Discontent.

The atmosphere of lethargy that is transmitted in parts of El futuro es hoy is one of

33 The Literacy Campaign constitutes one of the most significant projects undertaken by the revolutionary government. During 1960 and 1961, thousands of young Cuban men and women participated in this project which reduced illiteracy from more than twenty percent to around four percent. 34 “The young women who learnt to dream.” 35 “And the machine still sews. So I want to say that Fidel can keep doing something for this. He can still work...Because if the machine sews still, he has to go on.” 68

the thematic features of Susana Barriga’s experimental documentary Cómo construir un

barco (How To Build a Boat, 2007). This short film received many accolades at the

seventh Muestra Joven. It examines the intricacies of life in Cuba under the current

economic crisis and as a result of its political position in the region. Once again, the

ocean becomes a focal point to portray life in the Island. Barriga, one of the most

promising filmmakers of this new generation, turns her camera towards the inhabitants of

Santa Cruz del Norte. As the Cuban territory in closest proximity to the United States,

this small town provides a unique and significant geographical space to analyze the

conflicted relationship between the Island and its powerful and hostile neighbor. This

small town shares a similar symbolic meaning with the Tribuna Antiimperialista that

takes center stage in Sandra Gómez’s portrayal of the malecón. At the same time, the

symbolism of Santa Cruz del Norte is not marked by buildings and monuments designed

to be a show of power between the governments of these two nations. This allows Barriga

to focus on the human side of this conflict, rather than the purely political elements.

Cómo construir un barco provides a hard-hitting, carefully crafted glimpse into the

struggles of the fishermen of this town.

Migration constitutes an important aspect of both U.S.-Cuba relations and of the

Special Period context. Cómo construir un barco explores how the political and the economic interact to shape Cuban migration and its effects on the lives of those who stay in Cuba, specifically in Santa Cruz del Norte. The political conflict between Cuba and the

United States reached a critical point in 1994 in what came to be known as the “rafter crisis”. As Ted Henken explains, increasing numbers of balseros (rafters) and hijackings 69

after the start of the Special Period led the Cuban government to institute measures to

diminish illegal emigration.36 As a result, anti-government riots broke out on August 5,

1994. The growing numbers of balseros was partially caused by the decrease in the

number of visas granted by the U.S. Interest Section in Havana, in a moment when the

economic crisis caused by the fall of the Soviet bloc was at its worse. In response to the

U.S. government’s willingness to welcome rafters, Fidel Castro opened Cuba’s harbors in

August of 1994, leading to a mass exodus of balseros (21,300 admitted to the United

States in August alone).

Henken outlines how, faced with the high influx of Cuban immigrants and

protests from other Caribbean immigrant groups, the Clinton administration set in place

strict anti-immigration policies. These were later reformed through negotiations with the

Castro government and with politically influential Cuban-American groups like the

Cuban American National Foundation. The end result was a tightening of the U.S.

embargo on Cuba and the institution of the so called “wet-foot, dry-foot” policy on May

2, 1995. As dictated by this policy, Cuban rafters who touch U.S. soil can be legally

admitted into the country. However, if found at sea, balseros are repatriated.

The irony of the film’s title, framing this documentary as a manual on boat-

building, is that this very process cannot take place in Cuba, or at least not without

government permission. Since 1994, building and repairing boats, sailing, and fishing are

highly regulated by the Cuban government in order to prevent further emigration.

Fishermen require special government permits to build or repair their boats, which limits

36 Henken, Ted. “Balseros, Boteros, and El Bombo: Post-1994 Cuban Immigration to the United States and the Persistence of Special Treatment.” Latino Studies 3.3 (2005): 393-416. 70 the options of the inhabitants of Santa Cruz del Norte, where fishing is an essential activity. This is made worse by the slow pace and inefficiencies of Cuban bureaucrats. As the film explains, waiting for this special permission can take three to nine months, sometimes even up to a year or longer. Barriga’s film indicates that the process of building a boat, like many other things in Cuba, involves long waits.

To highlight the frustration of these people and the static lifestyle into which they are forced by these policies, Barriga plays on the ambient sound (soft waves, men slowly hammering on wood, etc.) and silence. Instead of dialogue, the film uses concise intertexts that tell the story of the town and its people. Through the use of intertext,

Barriga is able to provide powerful and succinct pieces of information that capture the spectator as he/she puts together the story of each character, and how they fit into the larger narrative. The contrast between the calm frustration of the protagonists and the succinct intertexts takes the spectator through various conflicting emotions that are constantly changing. Moreover, the intertext allows the film to move between many different narrators, using extra-diegetic narration at times and other times blurring the line between the documentary’s narrator and its protagonists. These experiences are intensified by the protagonists’ direct gaze into the camera, as their inexpressive faces lead the audience to experience frustration by making it difficult to engage hypothesis- making process so essential to the film viewing experience.

Cómo construir un barco demonstrates the variety of ways in which Cuban home economies are connected to the politicized emigration to the United States. While many suffer as a result of the restrictions on beats, others recount how they benefited from the 71 mass departures of 1994. One character explains how Castro’s opening of the harbors made boats a highly demanded commodity and many sold their boats to potential migrants for up to 25,000 dollars. This provides an effective example of the distinct manifestations of market laws, the cornerstone of a capitalist economy, in the socialist

Cuba of the Special Period. This man attributes his new lifestyle to the cash influx provided by the sale of his boat in 1994. He was able to buy commodities that many

Cubans lack (a fridge, a television, etc.) and start his own small business selling food on the streets thanks to the sale of his boat. One political-economic phenomenon, migration, thus has significant effects on another socioeconomic trend, Cuban’s search for alternative sources of income to mitigate the crisis.

Others earn a living preventing migration, as is the case of a State Security officer who poses as a fisherman to catch potential defectors. The political divisions within

Cuban families are highlighted here as well. The officer’s niece migrated to the United

States with her daughter in recent years. Did her uncle know of her plans? Would he have stopped her if he could? How does he feel about her leaving? All these questions are left unanswered in the film, pointing to the conflicting emotions caused by a family member’s decision to migrate. This is a phenomenon present all throughout the world, but which takes on different meanings in the political and economic context of Cuba, especially since the Special Period.

This complex web of family relations is also shown through another State

Security officer who also works as a disc jockey in a local club. This man used the wisdom acquired during years of preventing balseros from leaving, to instruct his nephew 72

on how to successfully emigrate on a raft. Now he uses small plastic octopuses that his

nephew sends from Las Vegas to catch fish in the ocean that so many Cubans have

traversed in recent years. Barriga thus presents a perspective on doble moral that goes beyond prevalent accusations of a decaying morality. Instead, she underscores the survival and emotional implications that force many people into these acts of duplicity.

In the final sequence, the town’s best boat builder breaks up the structure of the boat he had laid out throughout the film, the boat he hopes to build soon, by slowly picking up each of the wooden pieces he had placed on the ground (Fig 2.12). He will have to keep waiting, and so will the rest of the town. In a constant struggle to make do day to day, Cubans wait for new policies that allow them to carry out their lives despite and beyond political conflicts. In a final act of serene frustration, the boatwright stands in front of his house and stares at the camera, still, waiting.

Buscándote Havana: In-Migration, Squatting, and the Marvelous Real.

In 1949, the Cuban writer Alejo Carpentier devised the term “lo real maravilloso” (the marvelous real) to describe and capture the peculiar qualities of Latin

American culture. Influential to the literary period known as the Latin American Boom

(1960s-1970s), Carpentier claimed a creative spirit that set Latin American art and literature apart from more Eurocentric tendencies such as surrealism. According to his analysis of the region, “the fantastic inheres in the natural and human realities of time and place, where improbable juxtapositions and marvelous mixtures exist by virtue of Latin

America’s varied history, geography, demography and politics—not by manifesto”37 This

37 Parkinson Zamora, Lois & Wendy B. Faris.1995. Magical Realism: Theory, History, Community. Duke University Press, 75. 73

concept of the marvelous real and the related notion of magic realism have been

fundamental to Latin American literature, art, and cinema in past decades.

Latin American cinema has often shown how the marvelous may become infused

with absurdity in the reality of these countries. An absurdity that often results from

inefficient institutions and governments that lack insight into the struggles of their

peoples. Cuba’s nuevos realizadores have continued this tradition, capturing the

marvelous real of life since the Special Period, and doing so also “not by manifesto.”

Alina Rodríguez’s documentary Buscándote Havana (Searching for You Havana, 2006)

exemplifies this aesthetic trend.

Buscándote Havana was shown at the sixth Muestra Joven. It provides a look at

the contentious issue of migration from the other provinces of Cuba to Havana. The

Special Period crisis not only brought about an increase in class distinctions. It also

increased inequalities between the nation’s capital and its other provinces. This resulted

in growing migratory flows from the rest of the country to Havana.38 In Buscándote

Havana, migrants explain their reasons for coming to the city: higher employment

opportunities, more government attention, bigger and better food rations, etc.

Interviewees also challenge Havana-centrism and the discrimination of the provinces by

those in the capital. As one interviewee asserts Havana-centrism cannot be justified when

some of Cuba’s most important historical figures were from the provinces, and when the

revolution’s home was the Sierra Maestra.

38 Another side of this issue is often presented in the documentaries produced by Televisión Serrana, a community media organization that aims at challenging Havana-centrism by producing films that show life in the Sierra. These films often show Cuba’s aging campesinos (peasants) without a new generation to take on agricultural production. Young people in this part of the country prefer migrating to urban centers like Havana instead of cultivating the land, a task that has become increasingly difficult and yields low incomes, especially since the start of the Special Period. 74

Upon arrival in the capital, these migrants face persecution and discrimination.

Not being official residents of Havana, they cannot access government provided goods and services. Rodríguez grasps the marvelous real that characterizes life in the migrant settlements that have formed in the outskirts of the city. Houses build with a variety of materials, including cardboard and scrap metal, as well as old issues of the newspaper

Granma that serve as wallpaper. The coexistence of legal electric connections, with the illegality of their homes, which have not been authorized by the government.

They experience a contradictory mix of being at once extremely visible as a problem for the government and the people of Havana, while also facing the problem of being utterly ignored. The soundtrack adds to this effect, as well as the powerful marvelous real elements contained in the protagonists’ ways of speaking. Elements that may appear surreal, almost incomprehensible to some audiences retain their power by a form of speech filled with illustrations and repetition. For example, as a settle from

Guantanamo expresses the simple yet important reason that motivated her to migrate, her message is enhanced by the way in which she illustrates her motivations:

Aquí en La Habana a ustedes en la bodega les dan siete, ocho huevos por persona. En Guantanamo cuando más dan tres, cuatro, cinco huevos si acaso. El picadillo. ¡Qué rico es el picadillo de aquí! No tiene soya casi. Vé a Guantanamo y cómete un picadillo para que veas. ¡Es soya nada más! Es soya, nada más. Tienes que lavarlo con agua caliente, hacerle terapia al picadillo para cocinarlo, para poder comértelo, porque es soya nada más el picadillo.39

39 “Here in Havana you get seven or eight eggs per person in the bodega (where the government distributes food to citizens). In Guantanamo at most you get three, four, sometimes five eggs. The picadillo (ground beef). How tasty is the picadillo here! It almost doesn’t have any soy (referring to the practice of mixing textured soy protein, or “soy meat,” with beef to increase supplies). Go to Guantanamo and eat a picadillo so you can see. It’s pure soy! It’s pure soy. You have to wash it with hot water, give it therapy to cook it, so you can eat it, because the picadillo is pure soy.” 75

The clearest manifestations of lo real maravilloso, as it intersects with

government policies that appear out of touch with national reality, come as the homes of

these migrants are examined in detail. In one instance, an elderly woman shows the home

she inhabits with her husband. In one corner of an empty swimming pool, they have built

some makeshift walls and a roof. Their few belongings and a toilet are arranged in this

precarious structure. Once again, the peculiarities of her speech add to the marvelous real

effect: “Ésta es, lo que se dice así, una piscina.”40 What you would call a pool, she calls

home. In these instances, language is transgressed and things are not what you might call

them. One can only imagine that, when it rains, water must accumulate around her house.

Like the female figures often used to represent Cuba in film and other media, this woman

can be seen as a symbol for the island, surrounded by water and struggling to overcome

the challenges brought about by the crisis (Fig 2.13).

The marvelous real comes to a couching encapsulation of recent Cuban history a

the house of a settler from Oriente, Fidel, and his son Elián. The image evoked by famous

statements made by Elián González that he considered Fidel Castro a friend and a father

take on a remarkable manifestation in this family. Fidel, the migrant, named after the

Comandante, explains that his son is “llamado Elián, en honor a toda la cosa linda que se

hizo para rescatar a Elián de la garra del Imperio”41

Fidel and his wife cry in desperation, worried about the future of their children.

They often go weeks without eating, but cannot even get milk for their children because

they are not legal Havana residents. although Fidel moved to Havana in 1989, his illegal

40 “This is what you would call a pool.” 41 “named Elián, in honor of all the beautiful things that was done to rescue Elián [González] from the claw of the Empire.” 76

status prevents him from starting a job he just found. In contrast to these images of state

negligence and marginalization, expert commentary by a sociologist reminds us that “el

Socialismo no se puede dar el lujo de tener grupos de personas excluídos.”42 In the same

vein, migrants interviewed make appeals to the socialist government’s discourse of

inclusivity “porque al final todos somos cubanos” and Havana is “la capital de todos los

cubanos” (Fig 2.14).

As one immigrant argues that he does not feel he has what he has fought for, one

is reminded of the famous poem by Nicolás Guillén, which was later turned into a nueva

trova song by Pablo Milanés, “Tengo.” The image of these two Afro-Cuban men, both

born in the provinces,43 rejoicing in how revolutionary Cuba fulfills their needs—tengo lo que tenía que tener44—is sharply contrasted by the Afro-Cuban provinciano who feels

“que no tengo lo que en realidad debería recibir, por lo que he luchado. No lo tengo.

Porque no tengo nada.”45

The appeal to socialist ideology is even more powerful when considering how the

rhetoric of this group and its leaders resembles that of immigrant groups in the United

States. Interviewees highlight the economic importance of migrant labor, particularly in

industries such as construction. In particular, the similarities between these two groups

come to the fore when one settler explains that they have decided to do away with the

term “illegal” settlements/migrants and use “undocumented” instead.

42 “Socialism cannot afford to exclude groups of people.” 43 Guillén was born in Camagëy and Milanés in the province of Bayamo. 44 I have what I was meant to have. 45 “that I don’t have what I really should receive, what I have fought for. I don’t have it. Because I have nothing.” 77

These films all exemplify the challenges to hegemonic structures that take place within cine joven. Young filmmakers point to some of the ways in which these forces operate in Cuban society thus creating openings for the formation of new social relations.

However, nuevos realizadores do not posit an entirely unrestricted questioning of the hierarchies that shape Cuban society. Instead a series of constantly shifting representational frontiers work to delineate the ideological limits of emerging art forms, including cine joven. The next two chapters will examine how these limits operate through hierarchies like gender and sexuality to determine the challenges produced by nuevos realizadores. In the process, their films serve contradictory roles, troubling certain discourses while also fortifying other aspects of existing power structures.

Fig 2.1: AL2 78

Fig 2.2: El B.

Fig 2.3: Los Aldeanos as symbol of Cuban struggle. 79

Fig 2.4: Tumultuous waters hit the malecón.

Fig 2.5: The run-down buildings of Malecón Street in Havana. 80

Fig 2.6: Lowering the puzzling object.

Fig 2.7: Dragging the strange object through the streets of Havana. 81

Fig 2.8: A man and his ship.

Fig 2.9: Securing the Tribuna Antiimperialista. 82

Fig 2.10: “Las muchachas que aprendieron a soñar” in Granma.

Fig 2.11: The devastation produced by a rusty machine. 83

Fig 2.12: The structure of an unauthorized boat.

Fig 2.13: A house in a pool. 84

Fig 2.14: Welcome to Havana, the capital of all Cubans. 85

“Y te voy a dejar bien claro que no estoy aquí para darte gusto.”1

Sex, Violence, and Family Relations in Cuba’s Emerging Feminist Cinema

As one of the most significant modes for the dissemination of ideas, cinema plays an important role in the construction of gender discourses. Early feminist film theory pointed to the historical nature of cinema as a male-dominated sphere characterized by the representation of women as fetishized objects of a male gaze. In this context, the work of female directors has often contributed to a reformulation of gendered narratives as they both challenge and uphold phallocentric aesthetics. This chapter will analyze the gendered portrayals provided by a group of feminist female directors within cine joven.

At the intersection of potential disruptions caused by their position in the gender and

generational hierarchies, these young female directors are pivotal to the re-invention of

representational themes and techniques. Their works maintain and challenge the inherited

legacy of gendered representations in cinema as it manifests itself in the history of

filmmaking in Cuba. Moreover, they provide an important basis for the distinction

between women’s cinema and feminist filmmaking.

Women and Cinema in Cuba:

Laimir Fano’s short film Oda a la Piña (Ode to the Pineapple, 2008) begins with

an animation sequence accompanied by a male voice reciting fragments of the

eponymous poem written by Manuel de Zequeira y Arango (1764-1846). Zequeria was

1 “And I will make it clear that I’m not here to please you,” from El grito (Susana Barriga, 2007). 86

one of the most influential figures in the transition away from Eurocentric writing and

towards a decidedly Cuban literary tradition. As such, the introductory sequence

historicizes the film and positions it within a continuous struggle to establish and defend

a truly Cuban identity. This voiceover continues throughout the film, as the poem

provides a clear narrative structure by delineating beginning, middle, and end. In each

instance, the images on screen contradict the laudatory tone that the poem expresses

towards its subject: the pineapple as a symbol of Cuban identity.

As the animation sequence ends with the first section of the voiceover, the

pineapple is merged with another symbol of cubanidad: the mulata. A light-skinned Afro-

Cuban woman dances around her house with a pineapple hat on her head (Fig 3.1). Her

body is consciously marked as spectacle as she dances around the house and her

movement receives the attention of the camera and everyone around her (Fig 3.2). Not

only does her movement dominate the action in this scene but also hers is the only full

body shown by the camera, thus highlighting the centrality of her body for the film. To

make clear the sexualized nature of her to-be-looked-at-ness she is shown dancing in the

balcony of her house as a neighbor watches her from across the street and begins

masturbating.2 Through her facial expression she rejects the objectification of this male gaze and yet her work as a cabaret dancer depends on this very process of putting her body on display for someone else’s pleasure.

2 Mulvey argues that cinema has traditionally constructed woman as what she represents for man. As the threat of castration that shapes man’s entrance into the symbolic order, woman represents that which is non- male (1986, 199). She is thus a carrier of meaning rather than an active meaning-making subject. The construction of cinematic narratives appropriates patriarchal ideologies of erotic pleasure in which woman is presented as the object of male pleasure. She is at the center of the erotic spectacle of cinema through her beauty and passivity, which Mulvey defines as ‘to-be-looked-at-ness’ (1986, 203). The female image is displayed, taking the exhibitionist role that the duality predicated by a structure based on sexual difference assigns her as the counterpart to the voyeuristic male subject. 87

This contradiction between the dancer’s feelings and her occupation underscore the principal theme of the film: how the main character, who stands in as a symbol for

Cuba, is forced by her circumstances to become an object available for the entertainment of foreigners. Her house, a decaying building in the center of Havana, denotes her economic situation. As is the case for many Cubans today, the tourism industry offers a possibility to mitigate her poverty. Throughout the introduction, she is frustrated with her inability to follow the dance routine she must learn to work in a show financed by foreigners. The increasing presence of foreign forces in Cuba is marked in the scene where the main character and other women rehearse the routine in front of the German investors. The main character struggles to follow the routine. Seeing the investors’ obvious disconformity, the Cuban choreographer responds with aggression towards her.

Her role in this transnational exchange is summarized by the choreographer: “ríete y aprieta el culo,”3 after the translator explains the foreign men’s observation that the dancer lacks sandunga (rhythm, grace, “Latin flavor”). The irony of these European men’s aggressive authority to define what sandunga looks like in a Cuban woman reminds us of a pre-revolutionary Cuba known as a playground for foreigners.

Oda a la Piña points to the return of this past as a result of the Special Period.

Extreme economic crisis ensued after Cuba lost the economic support of its closest ally, the Soviet Union, in 1989. To ameliorate the resulting shortages, the Cuban government instituted a series of economic liberalization policies and tourism became once again one of the primary sources of revenue. These policies often created strong criticism within

3 “Smile and tighten up your ass.” 88

Cuba. Tourists flooded the nation inspired by the paradoxical promise of pre-

revolutionary entertainment (casinos, dancers, and sex in an exotic Caribbean island)

within one of the few remaining traces of socialism.4 Sex tourism quickly flourished, and

as the government failed to address this problem, criticism grew. In terms of cultural

representation the image of the jinetera (female hustler) gained prevalence. Although in

recent years the growth of jineterismo (hustling) among Cuban men has also been discussed, the female hustler remains an important symbol of the perceived decay in morals during the Special Period. Significantly, in cinema, images of the jinetera prevail in films directed by men but are remarkably absent in women’s filmmaking.

The choreographer reminds la piña that she must please the foreign investors or she will be replaced, after all “piña es lo que sobra en este país.”5 Right after this

statement, a group of Afro-Cuban women of all ages, all wearing pineapple hats, appear

on screen (Fig 3.3). These women’s direct look into the camera confronts the spectator

with the reality experienced by Cuban women who are forced by economic need to sell

themselves to tourists. Once again, the mulata is used to represent a nation turned into

and sold as a spectacle. The film presents Cuba as victimized, which in its narrative

structure is analogous to being feminized.

In addition to Zequeira’s poem, Fano further historicizes this transition by

including the poster for the film Nosotros, la música (We are the Music, Rogelio París,

1964) in this shot. This documentary claims the music from the pre-revolutionary Golden

Age of Cuban Music (1940-1960) for the revolutionary project, connecting it to the

4 Babb, Florence E. 2011. The tourism encounter: fashioning Latin American nations and histories. Stanford, Calif: Stanford University Press, 22. 5 “There is plenty of pineapple in this country.” 89

upsurge experienced by Cuban culture immediately after the overthrow of the Batista

regime. This connection to past stages of Cuban history had been previously shown as the

main character prepared for rehearsal. Afraid of the consequences that the loss of her

rhythm will bring her, the cabaret dancer looks at her own reflection in the mirror only to

be haunted by a poster of Rita Montaner, one of Cuba’s most renowned vedettes from the

pre-revolutionary years. As the reflection of these two women is shown side by side, thus

underscoring their similar looks, the mulata is immersed in Cuban history as the site

where the problematic transnational relations are enacted (Fig 3.4).

Unable to recover her sandunga, la piña leaves the cabaret. She walks the streets

of Havana in a state of emotional crisis, tortured by the rhythm of the street, the rhythm

she lost and which eventually becomes a melody much like the one played in the

rehearsal. The camera tracks her face as she cries in desperation (Fig 3.5), this is

interspersed between close-up shots from her point of view of the people and things that

make this music. Finally, this mulata collapses in the middle of the street. As people

begin gathering and dancing around her the voiceover resumes with the last stanza of

Zequeira’s poem: “Y así la aurora con divino aliento/ Brotando perlas que en su seno

cuaja,/ Conserve tu esplendor para que seas/ La pompa de mi patria.”6 These final verses highlight once again the nature of the mulata as an object for display and a symbol for the

Cuban nation. They also present the idea of national pride—the pomp of my homeland— being sacrificed in order to survive the economic crisis.

6 “And so the dawn with its divine breath/Budding pearls produced in its bosom/Shall conserve your splendor so that you can be/The pomp of my homeland.” 90

In a chapter that explores the work of female filmmakers, I have devoted so much

time to analyzing a film directed by a man because it aptly encapsulates the role of the

female image in Cuba’s revolutionary cinema. As Marvin D’Lugo has argued, the

development of a national cinema in Cuba was a process dominated by male directors. As

such, it rested on the female image as a symbol for the revolutionary nation.7 Central to this form of representation was the transparency of the female characters as male characters and spectators saw through the female image. In other words, Woman was present as a site for projecting Cuban history while feminine subjectivities were erased from this revolutionary mythology.8

Laimir Fano’s Oda a la Piña reproduces this inherited form of representation.

Fano succeeds in portraying “the loss of authenticity in Cuba and the exclusion of all that is different and moves away from the schematic and reductive criteria that defines lo cubano”9 by recycling two recurring aesthetic tropes in Cuban culture—the female image

and the mulata. In the process, the film erases the subjectivity of the woman presented on

screen in order to transform her into a symbol. Catherine Benamou has accurately pointed

out the absence of Afro-Cuban women from national cinema.10 While this is an important

point of departure in Oda a la Piña, the mulata is a ubiquitous image in all other artistic

forms in the country. Consequently, Fano’s use of an Afro-Cuban female image continues

7 D’Lugo, Marvin. “Transparent Women: Gender and Nation in Cuban Cinema.” In King, John, Ana M. López, and Manuel Alvarado (eds.). 1993. Mediating two worlds: cinematic encounters in the Americas. London: BFI, 280. 8 Feminist critics have continually pointed out the difference between “Woman”, as a discursive construction and set of expectations, and “women” as a varied social group affected by this gender construct. My deliberate use of the term “Woman” is meant to highlight the erasure of differences between women in the work of male directors, as they use the female image as an object that stands in for the nation. 9 “Entrevista a Laimir Fano, de Oda a la Piña”. Cine Latino en Nueva York (Web). 2009. 10 Benamou, Catherine. 1994. “Cuban Cinema: On the Threshold of Gender”. Frontiers: A Journal of Women’s Studies 15(1). 91

the reproduction of gendered tropes while establishing a dialogue with other cultural

manifestations.

In her essay “Women’s Cinema as Counter Cinema,” Claire Johnston identifies a

sexist iconography used in Hollywood cinema through which men are presented inside

history and women as ahistorical.11 The representation of Cuban history through the

female image does not contribute to placing women in a history from which they have

been constantly erased. Rather, the fetishization of women described by Johnston can be

observed in revolutionary Cuban cinema through the fetishization of Woman as historical

artifact—a screen onto which the image of the nation is projected.

The portrayal of female characters was primarily centered around their

engagement in labor to aid on the revolutionary project. “Men’s films about women”12

such as Lucía (1968) and Retrato de Teresa (Portrait of Teresa, 1979), explored

household relations as the primary site for experiencing the changes in the gender

structure brought about by the revolution. Whereas Woman became a symbol for the

nation, the household was used to represent the revolutionary national collective during

this transformative period.13 Just like Fano’s powerful yet limited gender analysis, these

films often called for a rethinking of gender norms but ultimately presented “the illusion

of equality while maintaining the status quo of patriarchy.”14

11 Johnston, Claire. “Women’s Cinema as Counter Cinema”.1973. In Sue Thornham (ed.). 1999. Feminist Film Theory: A Reader. New York: New York University Press, 32. 12 Benamou. 1994, 56. 13 Benamou. 1994, 54 14 Baron, Guy. 2010. “The Illusion of Equality: Machismo and Cuban Cinema of the Revolution.” Bulletin of Latin American Research 29(3): 354. 92

The Emerging Feminist Cinema:

A common conflation I would like to avoid in this section is one between

women’s filmmaking and feminist cinema. The case of Cuba’s nuevas realizadoras

(young female filmmakers) provides prime ground for exploring these distinctions.

Although it might appear self-evident, I would like to propose the definition of women’s

cinema as the films produced by women filmmakers.15 In other words, the films produced by directors whose embodied experiences are marked by their self-identification as women, as well as by being perceived by the world around them as women.16

Importantly, given the interaction of gender with other systems of power (race, class,

etc.), these embodied experiences and the resulting forms of representation are bound to

be varied and multiple.

A feminist text is politically engaged in sketching the very processes that structure

our embodied gender experiences. Thereby, feminist cinema is characterized by an

engagement in the task of indexing gender discourses and/or deconstructing gender

norms and forms of representation.17 Informed by various women’s standpoints, feminist cinema poses a challenge to phallocentric and heteronormative modes of representation.

15 Here, it is important to keep in mind a crucial distinction between films made by women (which I refer to as women’s cinema) and films about or for women. The latter includes Hollywood’s “woman’s film” or “chick flick.” 16 It is important to reinforce the dual aspect of identification (self-identification, and identification by others) as shaping women’s filmmaking. Judith Butler has argued that the gender identity “Woman” is a fiction emerging from the repetition of particular discursive social practices (Butler 1990, 25). It follows that the performativity of gender, and its effects on an individual’s identity and creative output, depends upon placing oneself in one end of the gender binary (man/woman) and being seen by others as fitting in that same position—i.e., on being a successful performer. 17 The term “feminist cinema” is indicative of my own intellectual bias. Given the history of the term in Latin America, it is possible that many of the filmmakers whose work I classify as feminist would not themselves accept that label. However, I cannot think of a more appropriate term to enclose the challenges to gender discourses produced by these directors. 93

Moreover, it recognizes that gender constructs the very identities it is said to express18.

Feminist cinema aims at a resignification of gendered identities. This understanding recognizes that films produced by women may or may not be presented through a feminist lens. Furthermore, it acknowledges that feminist filmmaking is not an exclusively female or feminine endeavor.

Cuban cinema has been predominantly male. Very few women have managed to penetrate this industry. Benamou points to the “funneling effect” of the hierarchy within the ICAIC and the positioning of women in traditionally “female” positions (production assistants, editors, etc.) as central causes.19 Moreover, documentary filmmaking

historically operated as the primary space for women filmmakers.20 Because the

production of fiction films was prioritized, the work of women often played a secondary

role within ICAIC.

To this day, only three feature-length fiction films have been directed by women:

Sara Gómez’s De cierta manera (One Way or Another, 1974), Te llamarás Inocencia (You

Shall Be Named Innocence, 1987), Rebeca Chavez’s Ciudad en rojo (City in Red, 2009).

Te llamarás Inocencia was produced by Cuban television and directed by Teresa

Ordorqui. These three films, together with the documentaries directed by women at

ICAIC during the 1980s, posed a challenge to the male-dominated nature of Cuban cinema. Within ICAIC, the works of filmmakers like Gómez and Chávez redefines the female image as a speaking observer who holds up a mirror to the society.21 These

18 Butler, Judith. 1990. Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity, 25. 19 Benamou. 1994, 62. 20 Benamou. 1994, 63. 21 Benamou. 1994, 64. 94

filmmakers thus provide “the depiction of performance as a means whereby women can

remake their own images.”22

Since the 1990s, and particularly during the 2000s, the presence of women

filmmakers has grown in Cuba. The establishment of the Escuela Internacional de Cine y

Televisión (International Film and Television School, EICTV) in 1986 as well as the

structural changes that took place at ICAIC under the leadership of Julio García Espinosa

facilitated this change.23 This process intensified through incorporation of digital

technologies and new sources of funding, as Cuba opened up its doors to foreign

investment to ameliorate the crisis.

Female directors have gained prominence and recognition at the Muestra Joven.

In fact, during the seventh installment of the Muestra Joven in 2007 women obtained the overwhelming majority of prizes. Inspired by this occurrence, the following year, the

Muestra Joven recognized the achievement of women cineastes through presentations, articles, and film selections on the role of women in Cuban cinema. The films I will analyze in the rest of this chapter were all presented at the Muestra Joven, many of them were part of those films lauded at the aforementioned seventh Muestra. Young Cuban women’s cinema is diverse both in terms of the subjects represented and the aesthetic trends and techniques employed. In the expanding corpus of women’s filmmaking in

Cuba, not all films present the defining characteristics of feminist cinema previously described. However, a strong and powerful feminist cinema is emerging within the youngest generation of filmmakers, particularly among women. These films are both a

22 Benamou. 1994, 64. 23 Benamou. 1994, 69. 95

continuation of the work by women directors in previous decades and a departure and

strong critique of a history of male-dominance in Cuban cinema. In contrast to directors

like Sara Gómez, young feminist/female directors today work within a context of

decreased government attention towards gender inequality. As Cuban life becomes

increasingly decentralized, cinema moves beyond an analysis of the relationship between

citizens and the state. In this context, this emerging feminist cinema reinvents traditional

gendered narratives and situates women within the contemporary Cuban context as

subjects rather than historical artifacts.

In these films we can observe the presence of aesthetic and thematic trends set by

women’s short story writing in the 1980s. These authors presented a female gaze that

examined households as sites for continued gender oppression despite government

policies aimed at reducing gender inequalities.24 Furthermore, the limited but powerful

history of women’s filmmaking within ICAIC influences the work of these young

realizadoras. Like the short-stories produced by women in the 1980s, their work is a

reaction to the inconsistencies between the revolution’s socialist priorities and a feminist

agenda. These incongruities became more apparent since the 1980s, when the questioning

of gender norms could no longer be incorporated into and contained within the state

apparatus. Although women had benefitted significantly from revolutionary policies, at

this point it time it became evident to many women that Socialism could not lead to

gender equality on its own. Gender inequality could no longer be explained away as the

outcome of capitalism.

24 Riess, Barbara. “The Emerging ‘Feminist’ Discourse in Cuban Cultural Production as seen through “Mujer transparente”. Confluencia 15.1 (1999), 107. 96

Several films produced by young realizadoras reveal this inquisitive look towards the domestic sphere. Patricia Ramos’ fiction short El patio de mi casa (My backyard,

2007) exemplifies this trend. The film focuses on a woman hand-washing clothes in her backyard while her children run around and her mother sits quietly nearby. The powerful generational contrast becomes evident: the young children enjoy life while they can, soon they will have to take over their mother’s responsibilities, who in turn inherited them from the now inert grandmother. Moreover, the grandmother’s image underscores how existing gender discourses limit women’s lives to their reproductive tasks. Once she is unable to perform her role as nurturer, she has nothing more to contribute and is relegated to a monotonous existence. Monotony and exhaustion also characterize the main character’s life. The clothesline that surrounds her workspace takes the shape of a spider web that she inhabits and maintains, and which traps her.

This film provides a nuanced exploration of gender violence that reaches beyond most discussions of the subject. It presents a silent yet overwhelming form of oppression centered around traditional constructions of femininity and the gender division of labor.

The sacrifices demanded by women’s care-taking responsibilities are shown to have damaging psychological effects for women and produce a negative familial structure.

Bound by the threads of this web, the women portrayed resort to their escapist imaginations.

Craving the sexual attention she might have received in her reproductive prime, the grandmother fantasizes about an amorous encounter with her emotionally distant and abusive husband (Fig 3.6, Fig 3.7). He is shown briefly in the film as he is able to come 97

in an out of the backyard, thus pointing to a crucial gender difference: mobility between

social spaces. In contrast to the immobilized grandmother, the grandfather’s ability to

transition between public and private spheres with ease marks an important source and

consequence of the power imbalance between men and women.

In contrast, the mother’s fantasies provide a striking erotization of rest and leisure

as she dreams of lounging in a beautiful dress. Instead of being trapped by her household

responsibilities, she fantasizes with becoming a beautiful object on display. There are two

central implications contained in this scene. On one hand, the mother’s fantasy

underscores the pleasure that is derived from adhering to particular gender performances.

According to Ann Kaplan, “our position as ‘to-be-looked-at’…has come to be sexually

pleasurable.”25 As the male subject is constructed around sadism and voyeurism, Woman takes on masochistic and exhibitionist role that derives pleasure from her own objectification. As a result of interpellation, through film and other institutions, these properties become (to varying degrees) aspects of female subjectivity in the patriarchal order. On the other hand, this fantasy points to differences between women that result in differential ways of experiencing gender oppression. Their to-be-looked-at-ness might be the primary manifestation of gender oppression for some women. However, this position might actually represent a tempting change for women whose gender experience is articulated differently through intersecting webs of power.26

25 Kapplan, Ann. 1988. Women & Film: Both Sides of the Camera. New Yotk: Routledge, 34. 26 It is worth noting the careful wording in this sentence. By pointing to different embodied experiences between women I make reference to the intersectionality of social structures of power (gender, race, class, etc.) while avoiding an arithmetic and simplistic approach to these interactions. In other words, emphasizing differences among women does not mean that some women are necessarily less empowered than others. 98

The film ends with a shot of all the characters sleeping in the backyard.

Constricting gender relations cause them to seek pleasure through escapism. The narrative indexes stagnation in gender discourses, as the final scenes bring about no resolution to the issues discussed. Rather than rebelling against their condition, the characters dream of a life that can free them from the realities and responsibilities produced by gender relations. Thus Ramos subverts traditional narrative patterns in a way that encourages the viewers’ self-reflectivity.

A similar critique is presented by Maryulis Alfonso in her film Misericordia

(Mercy, 2010). Based on a short story by Lidia Vera Sonoma, the film offers a glimpse into the life of an emotionally troubled housewife. The film’s title and its opening scenes clearly mark the main character’s mercy. We sympathize with a woman who is oppressed by her role as mother, daughter, and wife—the caretaker for three generations. She extends this nurturance to the public sphere by feeding stray dogs (Fig 3.8). As in El patio de mi casa, the absence of dialogue becomes the sign of a troubled family unit. The characters’ silence makes the monotonous household noises all the more noticeable and cutting. Her daughter symbolizes the passivity and indifference often attributed to the youngest generation of Cubans. Meanwhile, the paralyzed grandmother predicts the main character’s inevitable fate under the current gender regime.

The camera’s focus on specific parts of the body of both animals and humans as well as other objects denotes a very “feminine” narrative form that provides crucial information through small and often overlooked details. Through this narrative formula we discover that the meat she gives to stray dogs actually contains glass pieces that kill 99 them. Her misericordia and role as caretaker are revealed as oppressive as they lead her to annihilate, rather than nurture (Fig 3.9). As the main character returns to her distressing home and faces her husband’s indifference towards the grandmother she directs her gaze towards the deadly meat she prepared earlier.

Misericordia carries great potential to challenge gender discourses by the numerous questions it invites from its viewers: Did she kill the dogs out of compassion or as a way to act out her emotional crisis? Will she also feed this meat to the family? What types of interactions might lead an otherwise nurturing woman into this destructive role?

And more importantly, do I participate in such problematic relationships?

Both Misericordia and El patio de mi casa are representative of an emerging feminine and feminist language in Cuban cinema produced by up-and-coming realizadoras. This feminist cinema often relies on careful use of silence and manipulation of ambience noise to illustrate strained gender relations and the (predominantly female) characters’ suffering. While dealing with the overarching topic of gender inequalities in

Cuban society, these works maintain an emphasis on introspection and inner emotional struggles. In particular, they reveal women’s reproductive responsibilities as central to their oppression. Here, the contrast between the emotionally conflicted mother image and the image of immobilized and decaying femininity of the grandmothers takes on special meaning. It reveals the extent to which women’s social worth is derived from their participation in reproductive activities, and thus from sexual availability. Furthermore, this contrast historicizes women’s continued oppression tracing out its prevalence across generations while also recognizing variations in the form that this oppression takes. 100

A crucial feature of this emerging feminist cinema is its emphasis on the relationship between women—rather than limiting itself to the interaction between women and men. These films reveal the role (certain groups of) women play in the oppression of other (groups of) women. Young realizadoras like Alfonso move away from a limiting portrayal of women as a uniform group of victims, thus rendering visible the interplay between gender and other structures of power. The explicit lack of narrative closure in the films discussed above is central to the critiques articulated by these feminist cinema. The unease this produces for the viewer invites reflection of his/her own involvement in reproducing or challenging the gender structure projected onto the screen.

Precisely because of this recognition of the differences between women, it is all the more disquieting to not the predominance of white heterosexual women in the representations produced by young realizadoras. The overwhelming majority of these feminist films provide little insight into how race and class differences intersect with gender discourses to impact women’s lives. The experiences of Afro-Cuban women remain overlooked. Although films by Afro-Cuban female directors such as Daniellis

Hernández do explore how racial issues shape women’s lives, most of these films were produced while the directors lived abroad and focus on how they experienced race outside of Cuba. As such, they provide insufficient information about how racial differences impact relations among Cuban women. Moreover, recognition of the growing class differences in Cuba has been an important feature of cine joven. However, this emerging feminist cinema has yet to explore how class distinctions shape women’s experiences in the post-Special Period context. 101

Tracing Divergent Feminist Interpretations through El grito:

El grito (The Scream, 2007) four-minute short film by Milena Almira explores the prevailing violence against women that characterizes heterosexual sexual encounters.

This film is meant as a critique of the gender relations specific to Cuban society and how they relate to women’s and men’s sexual experiences within the framework of heterosexuality. However, Almira highlights an ideology prevalent throughout most of

Western society. Her message is closely tied to the critiques produced decades ago by feminists approaching the subject from varying perspectives. Her open-ended representation lends itself for multiple interpretations and is thus highly representative of feminist debates regarding heterosexuality, sex, and women’s subjugation in these contexts.

Films produced by these young Cuban directors illustrate how feminist approaches produce multiple and diverging interpretations of gender relations. A film like

El grito highlights the ambiguity surrounding gender relations that leads to such differing interpretations as the “anti-porn” and “pro-sex” feminist theories. These two theoretical leanings provide two very different understandings of the discourses that shape sexuality and how they relate to women’s lived sexual experiences. In turn, this dual analysis allows us to see the uncanny ability of Cuba’s emerging feminist cineastes to encapsulate the complexities that have marked feminist theorizing and activism.

El grito presents a heterosexual couple having a dinner date at a restaurant. The romantic setting of the restaurant contrasts with the graphic narration and representation of the male character’s abuse of his female counterpart that follows (Fig 3.10). In 102

response to the female character’s assertion that “men are all so predictable,” the male

character begins an uninhibited description of the violent sexual encounter he will force

her to have when they get to her house. This is accompanied by images that simulate his

narration of the vaginal, oral, and anal rape he will inflict upon her (Fig 3.11). Much to

his surprise, after hearing this narration, the female character asks for the check,

indicating her willingness to participate in this violent sexual experience (Fig 3.12).

This ending marks the film with a strong sense of ambiguity in terms of what the

female character’s response represents within the gender and sexual hierarchies

constructed on the basis of compulsory heterosexuality. This ambiguity, and the anxiety it

produces in the spectator, are symbolic of the complicated position of the female body

and of heterosexual female sexuality in feminist theory. This ending lends itself to two

very distinct interpretations, each with very different implications for how we may think

of and experience female sexuality.

As one of the leading voices in “anti-porn” feminist theory, Catharine MacKinnon

argued that sexuality is constructed and experienced along the lines of a masculine

dominance/female submission paradigm.27 This paradigm in turn eroticizes men’s sexual

violence against women and women’s submission to that violence. In our sexual

imaginary, there is no other way of understanding sexuality outside this dominance/

submission paradigm. In her view, various tools are mobilized in the service of this

sexual ideology, but the most important one is pornography. Through pornography, male

sexual violence against women becomes a source of erotic pleasure.

27 Mackinnon, Catharine. 1989. Toward a Feminist Theory of the State. Cambrdige, MA: Harvard University Press. 103

In this context, the disturbing nature of the images presented in El grito is caused by the accompanying narration by the male character, rather than by the images themselves. After all, such a representation of male sexual violence against women,

MacKinnon would argue, is precisely what pornography presents. In other words, the film is disconcerting not because it contains violence against women but rather because it associates that violence with an uninhibited articulation of the discourse that produces such aggression. This discourse is central to our current sexual imaginary and must remain unacknowledged in order to keep male power in place.

Following MacKinnon’s understanding of heterosexuality and violence, El grito can be seen as an example of the erotization of a sexual paradigm that emphasizes men’s control over women. The male character’s speech represents the central organizing principle of heterosexuality: masculine sexuality built upon the violent objectification of the female subject. In MacKinnon’s words, sexual violence cannot “be categorized away as violence and not sex.”28 Rather than presenting us with a deviant male character, El grito represents the externalization of the discourses that shape sexuality in general, and heterosexuality in particular. Discourses which, according to MacKinnon, permeate our sexual understandings and experiences to such a degree that they are inescapable.

In MacKinnon’s feminist theory of sexuality male power defines sexuality and forces that definition upon women. As she argues, “the interests of male sexuality construct what sexuality as such means, including the standard way it is allowed and recognized to be felt and expressed and experienced, in a way that determines women’s

28 MacKinnon. 1989, 127. 104 biographies, including sexual ones.”29 The female character’s decision to ask for the check and move on to the sexual encounter can be seen as evidence of how the erotization of the heterosexual paradigm described by MacKinnon frames and defines female sexuality. In this paradigm, El grito is a representation of how subjugation to male dominance through violent sexual experiences has become a desirable erotic experience for women. The female character represents a femininity defined by its objectification and subjugation to male dominance. Given its internalization of the dominant sexual paradigm, femininity is also marked by a desire to be objectified by violent male sexuality.

Violence against the female character is the male character’s way to “make it very clear that I am not here to give you pleasure,” and thus assert his control. Domination, as presented in El grito, and in accordance with MacKinnon, is defined by receiving pleasure through violent means. Meanwhile, subordination is defined by the transformation of the female subject into an object of male pleasure—which is very different from giving pleasure, to the extent that it erases the possibility for true female sexual agency.

Furthermore, El grito demonstrates the inescapability of the male dominance/ female submission paradigm, as well as the failure of sexual liberation to bring about a sexuality defined outside of male pleasure. The modern and sexually liberated female character is still constricted by a sexuality established by and for male pleasure and violent male dominance. In the framework of analysis provided by MacKinnon, the

29 MacKinnon. 1989, 129. 105

female character takes on and even seeks her subordinated position because of the

ideology that structures sexuality and the discourses of sexual liberation. As a result of

sexual liberation, the female character is free to express more openly a sexuality that

places her as the object of violent male pleasure, rather than being free to define her own

sexuality.

Particularly since the emergence and popularization of so-called Third Wave

Feminism, numerous theories have opposed the “anti-porn” perspective. In light of this

theoretical shift, Lynne Segal’s understanding of heterosexuality provides a very different

interpretation of El grito.30 Segal maintains an important distinction between the

discourses that shape the social construction of heterosexuality and the actual embodied

experience of heterosexual sex. According to her theory, ideology shapes our

interpretations of our physical experiences. In other words, ideology is closely tied to the

embodied erotic experience. At the same time, however, our physical experiences are not

always constricted by these discourses. Segal thus sees possibilities for producing new

narratives—new discourses—of heterosexual eroticism that could challenge existing

hierarchies. This is a crucial point of departure form MacKinnon’s understanding.

Whereas MacKinnon sees these discourses as inescapable, Segal gives space for

heterosexuality to be redefined rather than eliminated.

An analysis informed by Segal’s theory maintains the notion of El grito as an

example of the violence that is at the center of heterosexual ideology. This film

constitutes a representation of the gender construct that emerges from the Oedipal crisis

30 Segal, Lynne. 1994. Straight Sex: Rethinking the Politics of Pleasure. Berkeley: University of California Press. 106

and is reinforced by the process of socialization. In this construct ‘masculine’ means

“powerful and active (phallic), [and] ‘feminine’ as subordinate and passive (receptive).”31

Violence against the female partner becomes the primary means of sustaining the image

of a powerful and active masculinity. At the level of an ideology of male domination, sex

is more about exerting phallic power upon the female object.

El grito reinforces Segal’s point that heterosexual practice has more to do with

presenting the image of “healthy ‘manhood,’”32 than with female pleasure. The male character’s assertion that he will “make it very clear that I am not here to give you pleasure” demonstrates that the ideology of heterosexuality defines sex as not being about female enjoyment. It also suggests that, beyond male pleasure, male sexual violence against women is about fulfilling the discourse of a powerful masculine sexuality by subjugating one’s sexual partner.

This interpretation appears quite similar to the one informed by MacKinnon’s theory. However, it is different to the extent that an analysis informed by Segal recognizes the violence described in this film as an example of the ideologies that shape heterosexuality, rather than encompassing the entirety of heterosexual practice. While male violence is prevalent at the level of discourse, embodied sexual experience often disrupts this ideology. This disruption gives female sexuality a potential unrecognized by theorists like MacKinnon. Unlike MacKinnon, Segal gives space for understanding the male character’s speech as an expression of the ideology of male dominance, rather than a description of what defines all heterosexual encounters. In other words, Third Wave

31 Segal. 1994, 239. 32 Segal. 1994, 240. 107

theorists such as Segal see potential for embodied experiences to challenge the very

ideologies that shape them.

One key difference between an interpretation of El grito informed by

MacKinnon’s analysis and one informed by Segal’s is the extent to which they would allow sexual agency to the female character. For MacKinnon, the female character’s decision to instigate the sexual act is a demonstration of how she has bought into the ideology of male dominance. Segal’s theory allows us to see this as a demonstration of the danger that female sexuality represents for this ideology. Her actions are a demonstration that embodied sexual experiences often threaten the masculine ideal and challenge the notion of sexual polarity in which heterosexual ideology is based. The male character’s shocked reaction at the end of the film could be interpreted as a manifestation of a masculinity that is threatened by female sexuality, and thus uses violence to minimize the threat. As the female character looks back at him with a challenging

(returned) gaze, the viewer confronts the potential of female sexuality to dispute masculinist sexual discourses.

El grito received critical acclaim and considerable media attention in Havana’s

Muestra de Nuevos Realizadores in 2007. As a result, Cuba’s state-sponsored television network decided to broadcast the film as part of a new initiative to provide more exhibition spaces for young filmmakers. In 2009, a few minutes before its scheduled broadcast in the province of Camagüey, directives at the local TV station decided not to show El grito. The film was considered inappropriate for public broadcast, and two employees involved in the original decision to include it in their programming were fired. 108

The censorship of El grito can be interpreted in two different ways using Gayle

Rubin’s analysis of sexuality as a distinct system of inequality. In “Thinking Sex: Notes for a Radical Theory of the Politics of Sexuality,”33 Rubin argues that, although sexuality

often operates in conjunction with gender, it constitutes a separate system of oppression.

One of the most significant shortcomings in feminist theory has been a tendency to

conflate gender and sexuality as one single hierarchy. Rubin’s emphasis on the amount of

coercion involved in sexual encounters—rather than on a consent/coercion binary—as a

central feature in the evaluation of sexual practices also gives space for a more complex

understanding of the interaction between the two characters in the film.

Beyond an analysis of the film itself, however, Rubin’s theory helps us explore

the ideological workings behind this particular case of censorship. Rubin asserts that the

system of social inequality contained in our sexual imaginary works primarily through

exclusion. Our sexual hierarchies form a “Charmed Circle” which defines appropriate

and inappropriate sexualities. Those whose sexual preferences fall outside the Charmed

Circle are shunned. Like any other system of power, however, sexuality must consistently

hide its inner workings in order to naturalize the hierarchies it produces.

Censorship of El grito works as a mechanism of exclusion of those who fall

outside the Charmed Circle. The characters’ open erotization of violence places them

outside the realm of “good, normal, natural, blessed sexuality.”34 As a result, a representation of this type of relationship must be censored so as not to threaten sexual

33 Rubin, Gayle. 1992. “Thinking Sex: Notes for a Radical Theory of the Politics of Sexuality.” In Vance, Carloe S. (ed.). Pleasure and Danger: Exploring Female Sexuality. Ed. Carole S. Vance. London: Pandora: 267-293. 34 Rubin. 1992, 281. 109

ideology and to protect those who are within the Charmed Circle. Such an uninhibited

treatment of erotic violence is considered an aberration, and must be excluded of the

public spaces used to disseminate the messages that reinforce our system of sexuality.

At the same time, this censorship is an example of the sexual system making

invisible its own operations in order to maintain its power. Our ways of defining and

experiencing sexuality are marked by a high degree of coercion. The Charmed Circle

uses violence to maintain certain groups outside the realm of acceptable sexuality.

Furthermore, the Charmed Circle rests on the use of violence against particular groups

within it. The ways in which the sexual hierarchy works in relation to other systems of

oppression in turn shape the coercion of those outside the circle. In its working with the

gender hierarchy, sexuality also results in the oppression of women within the Charmed

Circle through violent means. In this context, a film like El grito is censored because it

openly demonstrates the violent operations of the system of sexuality. In order to remain

unchallenged, this system must erase any counter-discourse that could potentially capture

the extreme and multilayered coercion that characterizes it.

Although El grito lends itself to multiple interpretations, it is clear that this film is meant as a critique of and challenge to the heterosexual imaginary produced by ideologies of male dominance. Violence is used in this film to underscore the interaction between sexual and gender discourses and heterosexual experiences. These discourses lead to a sexual reality that devalues and objectifies women through a myriad of manifestations that employ different degrees of violence. Milena Almira presents the 110

externalization of the ideology that shapes—to varying degrees of consciousness for

those involved—the way we experience and think about sex.

The discomfort and anxiety this film may—and indeed wants to—convey to its

audience is not solely the result of representing an isolated instance of gender and sexual

violence. Rather, this tension is produced by the spectator’s realization of the

pervasiveness of such violence in the ways we think about and (perhaps to a lesser

extent) experience power, sex, sexuality, and pleasure. As a feminist text, El grito is positioned as a challenge to the discourse of male dominance which forces its spectators to acknowledge their own complicity in the reproduction of this ideology. Part of the uneasy feeling created by this film relates to its forcing upon the audience some very important questions: How can we produce different narratives of heterosexuality? How can such narratives in turn produce new ways of interpreting our sexual experiences?

What role can female sexuality play in the production of new ideologies of sexuality?

Based on this inquisitive potential, it seems appropriate to conclude that although

El grito could be interpreted from both a “anti-porn” and a “pro-sex” perspective, the latter is more compatible with Almira’s representation. Milena Almira presents a visual text that mirrors Segal’s recognition of the possibility for producing new sexual narratives as a challenge to male dominance. This film symbolizes the potential of female sexuality for disrupting masculinist ideology. Rather than a call to discard heterosexuality altogether, El grito presents a call for a rethinking our current sexual imaginary through a defiant and uninhibited female sexuality, one that would confuse and distort sex as we know and experience it today. 111

The potential impacts of this emerging feminist cinema are yet to be seen. These

short films have garnered considerable attention and inspired important debates regarding

gender relations. However, young realizadoras are yet to receive the institutional and financial support given to male directors like Pavel Giroud and Juan Carlos Cremata

Malberti. This could be because the earlier waves of young directors were primarily male, and it was not until later in the 2000s that women carved a more visible space for themselves in cine joven. Tracing the experiences of these realizadoras is crucial to understanding new opportunities and limitations that may be available to Cuban women in the post-Special Period context. Moreover, like previous generations of women filmmakers, these young female directors represent the beginning of numerous changes in the thematic and aesthetic trends in Cuban cinema. In a period of cinematic rebirth for the nation, the feminist cinema that I have explored in this chapter could potentially be the center of significant artistic and social changes.

One of the most remarkable characteristics in Cuba’s young feminist cinema is its potential to demand attention from its audience towards the everyday aspects of gender relations that are often overlooked. Films like Misericordia, El grito, or El patio de mi casa achieve this goal by perplexing—rather than haranguing—the spectator. The most defining characteristic of the emerging feminist cinema in Cuba is the inevitable questioning it produces, the unease with our own gendered behaviors as the films reflect back on our own lives. Through careful diegetic construction and powerful use of images and sound, this feminist filmic language produces the type of discomfort that invites spectators, regardless of their gender, to reevaluate their own participation in oppressive 112 gender dynamics. However, the remarkable absence of Afro-Cuban women in this new feminist cinema is an issue that must be corrected in order to ensure the continuation of this transformative potential. As the lives of white Cuban women dominate the emerging feminist discourse in film, Afro-Cuban women remain stuck in their position as symbols rather than subjects in cinema.

Another notable absence within cine joven relates to the utter unavailability of films portraying the experiences of lesbian women in Cuba. Despite the emergence of a more decidedly feminist cinema and the increasing representation of homosexuality in film, lesbians remain overlooked by Cuban cineastes. As the cultural and ideological fields change due to the post-Special Period conditions, new openings to challenge social discourses emerge. It is through these opening that the films considered in this and the following chapter have claimed a position in Cuban cinema. These works confront spectators with the ways in which social structures operate to ensure the oppression of certain groups. As such, they disturb viewers into asking themselves important questions about the workings of oppression and power. At the same time, however, these films represent shifting levels of comfortable unease that delineate representation. This means that power structures stay in place by allowing some groups to be included in these new cinematic demands for fairness (white heterosexual women, homosexual men) but not others (Afro-Cuban women, lesbians).

These shifting levels of comfortable unease perpetuate existing social relations by making those discriminatory practices that remain unrepresented ever more invisible and thus more unrepresentable. They demarcate what groups are considered legitimately 113 oppressed and which are seen as deviant. Moreover, they underscore what oppressive aspects of social relations the collective may be willing to acknowledge and what must remain uncontested in order to perpetuate existing power structures. In this context, this emerging feminist cinema and cine joven in general both challenge hegemonic powers and reflect the very relations produced by the interaction between these forces.

Fig 3.1: La piña dancing around her house.

Fig 3.2: Female body as visual center. 114

Fig 3.3: “Mira que piña es lo que sobra en este país.”

Fig 3.4: La piña looks back at Rita Montaner. 115

Fig 3.5: Facing the rhythm of the streets.

Fig 3.6: The grandmother dreams. 116

Fig 3.7: Dreaming of romance.

Fig 3.8: The housewife’s mercy.

Fig 3.9: Preparing the deadly meat. The blue bottle contains glass powder. 117

Fig 3.10: Soft lighting sets a romantic environment.

Fig 3.11: The images on screen materialize the description.

Fig 3.12: Reacting to the threat of violence. 118

“Así conocí el amor, no tengo otro modo.”1

Dangerous Sexualities and Alienation in Cine Joven.

In August 13, 2011 various international news sources explored the celebration of

Cuba’s first “gay wedding”. Celebrated on Fidel Castro’s eighty-fifth birthday, this wedding brought together the HIV positive, gay rights activist and dissident Ignacio

Estrada and Wendy Irepa, a male-to-female transsexual and one of the fist beneficiaries of the legalization of sex change operations in Cuba in June 2008.2 Adding to the notoriety of this ceremony were the numerous dissidents in attendance, the presence of international media, and of world-renowned blogger Yoani Sánchez as maid of honor and her husband Reinaldo Escobar as groomsman. After accessing a state-provided sex change operation, Wendy Irepa was able to officially change her sex from male to female, thus allowing for the wedding to take place, as Cuba still restricts marriage to the union between a man and a woman. Thus, Estrada and Irepa’s wedding cannot entirely be classified as a “gay wedding.”

This wedding encapsulates the current condition of gay rights in Cuba, as LGBTQ issues intersect with political conflicts and ideological differences from agents within and outside the country. In recent years the growing struggle against homophobia in Cuba has produced a series of advances in gay rights, including access to state-provided sex change surgeries. However, homophobic discourses continue to exert a legacy of

1 “This is how I learnt to love, I have no other way.” 2 CNN México. "Cuba Realiza La Primera Boda Entre Un Homosexual Y Un Transexual.” Aug 13, 2011. 119 repression, despite the changing attitude towards the gay community spearheaded by the state. As a result, the LGBTQ community in Cuba is in a position of partial membership into the national collective. It is this limited inclusion that creates a situation in which

Cuban homosexuals have access to rights and resources unavailable in other countries, such as the aforementioned surgeries and state institutions that defends sexual diversity.

At the same time, Cuba’s LGBTQ community lacks other resources, such as the right too independent collective mobilization that is central to the gay rights movement throughout the world. It is in this contradictory context that Cuba’s “first gay wedding” took place.

After decades of persecution and discrimination against gay individuals, the

Cuban government has begun a series of transformations aimed at improving the conditions of the LGBTQ community in the country. Besides from the legalization of sex changes, state institutions have promoted events that celebrate sexual diversity throughout the country and increased visibility of gays in media and cultural production.

The previous chapter highlights the formation of limits to the representation of oppressed groups through shifting levels of unease among artists and audiences. These shifting levels delineate those legitimately oppressed and those that remain defined as deviant even after shifts take place. Moreover, these levels of representational discomfort might indicate what forms of oppression are so contradictory to the discourse of national identity that they must remain unacknowledged.

In this context, lesbian women constitute an example of a group considered so deviant—posing such an abhorrent challenge to a national identity based largely on discourses of gender and sexuality—that it must remain unmentioned. On the 120 other hand, the oppression of Afro-Cuban women is so contradictory to the reliance on the image of the Afro-Cuban woman as a symbol of the nation that it cannot be represented. In other words, acknowledging the subjugation of a group considered so central to national identity and culture would shatter the discursive construct of the nation.

Sexuality is a primary system of power that determines social relations. It provides one of the central ways through which alienation is justified, creating groups of undesirables that must be excluded in the name of public safety. The sexual system of power is not a set of fixed arrangements and discourses. Instead, this is a system in constant mutation and the source of continuous ideological battles.

As Gayle Rubin argues, the sexual ideology produces a “Charmed Circle” that defines what “good, normal, natural sexuality looks like.”3 The persistent ways of thinking about sex are influenced by “sexual essentialism—the idea that sex is a natural force that exists prior to social life and shapes institutions.”4 Other features of the sexual ideology include “sex negativity,” which defines sex as a “dangerous, destructive, negative force;”5 “misplaced scale,” which gives excess significance to sexual acts; as well as the idea that there is one appropriate way of experiencing sexuality and “no benign form of sexual variation.” Furthermore, Rubin underscores the struggle to draw the limits of appropriate sexuality, and thus legitimize the privileged position of some groups through “hierarchies of sexual value.” Meanwhile, the “domino theory of sexual

3 Rubin, Gayle. 1984. “Thinking Sex: Notes for a Radical Theory of the Politics of Sexuality.” In Vance, Carloe S. (ed.). Pleasure and Danger: Exploring Female Sexuality. Ed. Carole S. Vance. London: Pandora, 281. 4 Rubin. 1984, 275. 5 Rubin. 1984, 278. 121 peril” ensures persecution of those outside the Charmed Circle by instilling the fear that, if one person or act is allowed to cross the line that defines “good sex,” all else will crumble into sexual an social chaos.

Nuevos realizadores pay special attention to the multiple displays of alienation and marginalization. As such, the social construction of dangerous sexualities takes center stage in cine joven. These films both reflect the changing levels of comfortable unease and go beyond them at times to explore sexual manifestations located at the margins of contemporary discourses. They demonstrate the ways in which power operates through sexuality, creating alienated groups by controlling appropriate ways of loving and what groups have the right to fully experience their sexuality.

Homophobia and State Policies in Revolutionary Cuba:

Placing homosexuality as a deviant sexual manifestation has been central to the construction of “good sexuality” throughout the Western world. In Cuba, the definition of homosexuality as aberrant and dangerous has provided one of the most violent expressions of the alienation of groups who fall outside the Charmed Circle. Homophobia and the rejection of gay individuals have been central to the formation of Cuban national identity from its inception. As Emilio Bejel has pointed out, marginality becomes central to defining the body of the nation through opposition.6 In the armed struggles against

Spain and U.S. imperialist interests, enemies and traitors were feminized, thus constructing the queer body as anti-nationalist.7 In the 1930s, the government set in place

6 Bejel, Emilio. 2001. Gay Cuban Nation. Chicago: University of Chicago. 7 Bejel. 2001, xv. 122

a Public Ostentation Law by which any queer individual who refused to hide their sexual

orientation could be harassed and jailed.8

The improvements in living conditions experienced by some marginalized groups during the revolutionary period did not reach Cuba’s LGBTQ community. After the triumph of the Cuban Revolution, the Public Ostentation Law continued to be enforced.9

Moreover, revolutionary officials publicly denounced homosexuals as antirevolutionaries

and one of the negative products of capitalism. Fidel Castro himself, in his famous

interview with American journalist Lee Lockwood supported the establishment of

homophobic policies, as he argued:

Nothing prevents a homosexual from professing revolutionary ideology…And yet we would never come to believe that a homosexual could embody the conditions and requirements of conduct that would enable us to consider him a true Revolutionary, a true Communist militant. A deviation of that nature clashes with the concept we have of what a militant Communist must be…But I will be frank and say that homosexuals should not be allowed in positions where they are able to exert influence upon young people.10

According to Bejel, the close relationship between homophobia and nationalism in Cuba reached its pinnacle during the mid-1960s and mid-1970s.11 This was a time

when a “moral panic” at the intersection of nationalist homophobic discourses and the

Socialist ideologies of the revolutionary government led to the violent state oppression of

homosexuals. According to Rubin, moral panics constitute “the “political moment” of

sex, in which diffuse attitudes are channeled into political action and from there to social

8 Halatyn, Justin. "From Persecution to Acceptance? The History of LGBT Rights in Cuba." States News Service, October 24, 2012. 9 Halatyn. 2012. 10 Lockwood, Lee. 1990. Castro's Cuba, Cuba's Fidel; an American Journalist's inside Look at Today's Cuba in Text and Picture. Boulder: Westview Press, 107. This book was originally published in 1967 and contains a series of conversations between Castro and Lockwood. 11 Bejel. 2001, 96. 123

change…when the furor has passed, some innocent erotic group has been decimated and

the state has extended its power into new areas of erotic behavior.”12 Moral panics affect

the entire population, setting the limits for sexual experiences.

The state persecution of homosexuals in Cuba during the 1960s and 1970s

represents a moment of moral panic. As the nation was thought to be under threat of U.S.

attack, state policing of sexuality was justified as a way to defend the body of the nation

from the ills of capitalism. During this period, a series of discourses were merged to

produce a complex network of oppression against queer bodies. Among these discourses

was the perceived immorality and weakness of homosexuals, their perceived potential to

corrupt children and young men, and the perceived inversion of “natural” gender

relations by homosexuals.13 Explanations of homosexuality based on Freudian theories led to its definition as an “antisocial” and “socio-pathological” practice in the First

National Congress of Education and Culture in 1971.14 As Bejel points out, LGBTQ individuals were prohibited from joining the Communist Party, working in any institution where they might influence children and from representing Cuba abroad.

Although discrimination reached the entire LGBTQ community, those most affected were gay men, particularly those more “effeminate,”15 and male-to-female transgenders. The targeting of “effeminate” men was evident in the Unidades Militares de

12 Rubin. 1984, 297. 13 Bejel. 2001, 101-102. 14 Bejel. 2001, 105. 15 Being perceived as “effeminate” is one of the strongest stigmas attached to homosexuality in Cuba. In fact, Ian Lumsden points out that “The equivalent to coming out as a gay person in North America is to refuse to conform to traditional male mannerisms in public, knowing that such behavior will be perceived as “effeminate” as unbecoming to a “real man.” Lumsden, Ian. 1996. Machos, Maricones, and Gays: Cuba and Homosexuality. Philadelphia, PA: Temple University Press, 133. 124

Ayuda a la Producción (Military Units to Aid Production, UMAPs). These were forced labor camps that aimed at “rehabilitating” those believed to be “antisocial” or

“antirevolutionary.” The majority of detainees at the UMAPs were young men, including

Jehovah’s Witnesses (whose religious beliefs made them refuse obligatory military service), criminals, and those individuals considered “immoral,” such as homosexuals.16

The UMAPs quickly garnered considerable negative attention within and outside Cuba until they were finally closed around 1967 or 1968.

By the late 1970s official targeting of the LGBTQ community began to decrease.

Even as homophobia continued to be a significant aspect of national identity, official attempts to control homosexuality moved away from previous repressive practices. By the late 1970s homosexuals were allowed to join the Communist Party and in 1976, the precursor to the Grupo Nacional de Trabajo y Educación Sexual (National Work Group on Sexual Education) was created. In 1989, this institution became the Centro Nacional de Educación Sexual (National Center for Sexual Education, CENEX), which today is led by Raúl Castro’s daughter, Mariela Castro Espín, and played a key role in the legalization of sex changes in 2008.

However, two events in the 1980s signaled the continuation of homophobia in the

Cuban government. During the Mariel Boat Lift in the summer of 1980, many of the

“undesirable scum” exiled from the Island by Fidel Castro were homosexual individuals, many of whom had been imprisoned. Moreover, Law 62 in was entered in the Penal Code in April of 1988. Under its Public Scandal clause, this law punishes anyone who

16 Bejel. 2001, 100. 125

“importunes others with homosexual requests.”17 It was not until 1997 that homosexuality was fully legalized in Cuba by removing the prejudice against homosexuals contained in this law.18

In addition to the repressive functions of moral panics, another way to control sexuality comes through apparent openings in the sexual structure when a more tolerant view of certain marginalized groups allows for the continuation of repressive sexual structures. This kind of process of control has taken place in Cuba since the 1990s and the revolutionary government has been an active agent in this process. If moral panics set the limits for good sexuality, these moments of benevolent repression construct groups that are to be considered wrongfully oppressed, and thus able to legitimize their access to better conditions. In contemporary Western society these legitimately oppressed groups include homonormative gay couples and the virtuous sexually liberated women who maintain their wholesome heterosexuality restrained within the bounds of heteronormativity. Through their “good behavior” these groups are favored by the dominant group while maintaining in a second class status in relation to dominant sexual groups.

Particularly since the 1990s, the Cuban state has instituted a series of policies aimed at healing the old wounds produced by homophobic discourses. As has been the case with Cuban youth, the government attempts to purport an image of inclusivity toward the LGBTQ community. Numerous campaigns against homophobia have been launched, and various cultural works have called for the integration of queer people into

17 Zayas, Manuel. 2012. "Mapa De La Homofobia En Cuba: Cronología De La Represión Y Censura a Los Homosexuales Por La Revolución Cubana." Cine-Ojo (online blog). 18 The crime is now defined as “hassling others with sexual demands.” Halatyn. 2012. 126

the national body. With consent from the state, homosexuality was treated openly in

numerous literary productions and even popular songs such Pablo Milanés’ “Pecado

original” (Original Sin, 1994). Not only does this process allow the repressive sexual

structure to stay in place, it also legitimizes the continuation of the revolutionary

government in power.

However, one of the most significant manifestations of this changing ideology

towards homosexuality came in 1994 with the release and subsequent national and

international success of Fresa y chocolate (Strawberry and Chocolate). This film directed

by Tomás Gutiérrez Alea and Juan Carlos Tabío called for the incorporation of

homosexual individuals into the national collective. This narrative is centered around

interaction between Diego, a gay man with bourgeois sensibilities, and David, a socialist

who comes to represent an open-minded revolutionary masculinity. In this film, two of

the most important representatives of revolutionary cinema join forces with a

screenwriter strongly committed to the revolution, Senel Paz, to produce a text that

“invites interpretations that take into account the complex tensions between

heterosexuality and homosexuality, nationalism and antinationalism…socialism and

antisocialism (i.e., capitalism), and power and desire.”19

The narrative in Fresa y chocolate justifies the coming together of two different marginalized groups. Both characters are present as victims of the capitalist global system; Diego is marginalized for his homosexuality and David for being poor. As Bejel points out, this strategy serves to conceal the ideology of domination that operates

19 Bejel. 2001, 157. 127

through socialist discourse in Cuba and provides the necessary utopian solution required

to mend this fractured national body.20 As such, the narrative provided in Fresa y chocolate encapsulates particular interpretations of Cuba’s recent advancements in gay rights. In this light, the film as well as the increased tolerance for LGBTQ “becomes a question of managing…the potentially subversive effects of the dialogue (or struggle) with a marginal discourse”21 through numerous strategies of containment that “both

facilitates an ideological closure and obscure other possible resolutions.”22

In other words, the film marks the beginning of the development and consolidation of new and more concealed ways of controlling the counterhegemonic gay community. In a framework common to most Western states, the defense of sexual and cultural diversity works as a tool of containment and social control to maintain hegemonic state power23. In this context, the Cuban government’s newfound support for

the LGBTQ movement simulates the reincorporation of counterhegemonic discourses

into the state apparatus that has taken place within cine joven and ICAIC’s Muestra

Joven. Both cine joven and the gay movement allow us to examine the different ways in

which the state redefines Cuban identity and its relationship to previously excluded

groups in order to perpetuate its power. At the intersection of young directors attempts to

find spaces for cultural participation and the struggle for gay rights, new discourses are

produced which carry the potential to challenge homophobia. These texts can also be

20 Bejel. 2001, 160. 21 Bejel. 2001, 160. 22 Bejel. 2001, 161. 23 Sierra Madero, Abel. "Hombres De Verde: Dese, Intimidad Y Violencia En Una Película De Enrique Pineda Barnet." Cine Cubano 183 (2012): 65-69. 128

used to shift the focus away from the state’s homophobic policies, thus exculpating those

in power.

Despite the numerous mechanisms of containment, the increased acceptance of

works that depict the lives of gay Cubans has produced significant openings for the

creation of works that run contrary to the official narrative of therapeutic social inclusion.

A similar process can be observed through state support of cine joven. Although spaces

like the Muestra Joven may serve for the co-optation of dissident voices, they also

wallow for the articulation of new discourses that can challenge those in power both

within and outside Cuba—or at least produce new ways of relating to power structures.

In general, the Cuban government’s attitude in regards to past discriminations has

been one of taking responsibility while at the same time providing exonerating

justifications for these injustices. This strategy can be noted in statements provided by

Fidel Castro in an interview with the Mexican newspaper La Jornada.24 Asked whether

the Communist Party should be held responsible for the homophobic policies that have

been enacted, Fidel Castro took full responsibility: “Si alguien es responsible, soy

yo…”25 Despite this admission of regret, Castro argued that at the time he was unable to deal with this form of discrimination, given the numerous political issues and the need to defend the country and himself from U.S. intervention. Erasing his numerous homophobic statements in speeches and interviews, Castro says he does not have any

24 Lira Saade, Carmen. "Soy El Responsable De La Persecusión a Homosexuales Que Hubo En Cuba: Fidel Castro." La Jornada, August 31, 2010. 25 “If anyone is responsible, it’s me…”Lira Saade. 2010. 129

prejudices against gay people. In fact, the article reminds us, some of his oldest and

closest friends are gay.26

As the article points out today “the problem is being confronted.” At the forefront of this process—at least in terms of the national and international media—is Mariela

Castro Espín, daughter of Raúl Castro and the feminist and revolutionary Vilma Espín. As director of CENESEX, this married mother of three has become the most prevalent figure in the struggle for gay rights in Cuba. Through Castro Espín, the Cuban state maintains the image of an open state, mending past mistakes and striving to create a truly inclusive socialist nation.

Mariela Castro Espín historicizes the plight for tolerance and sexual diversity within the revolutionary matrix by appealing to the image of her mother. After participating in the revolutionary struggle, Vilma Espín became one of the Funding

Members of the Federación de Mujeres Cubanas (Federation of Cuban Women, FMC).

According to Mariela Castro, her mother died before she could see one of her most important goals realized: the legalization of gay marriage in Cuba.27 She now continues

her mother’s struggle to achieve the legalization of gay marriage. As such, she connects

the LGBTQ struggle with the women’s movement in Cuba while also maintaining a close

discursive connection between both women’s rights and gay rights with the revolution.

Castro Espín claims the respect for sexual diversity as one of the primary characteristics

of a true socialist society. Homophobia, she argues, is the mark of fascist societies, and in

26 Important for the development of revolutionary cinema, former ICAIC director Alfredo Guevara is part of this group of close gay friends. 27 Sweas, Megan. "Cuba's Gay Rights Revolution." GlobalPost (Web). N.p., 29 June 2012. 130

a socialist country like Cuba this type of discrimination must be eradicated in the name of

Marxist philosophy.28

Furthermore, Castro Espín has assures that her father and the current head of the

Cuban state is in favor of gay rights and committed to making up for past mistakes.

Mistakes that were produced by the circumstances of the time; terrorist attacks from

capitalist forces which impeded the revolutionary leaders from attending to issues of

sexual discrimination. She reiterates this message by rectifying Fidel Castro’s assumed

responsibility for the UMAPs and other violations against LGBTQ individuals. Mariela

Castro explains that her uncle blames himself for the gross oversight involved in this

process, but he actually had no knowledge about the existence of these camps.29 Castro

Espín thus absolves her family from the atrocities committed against the gay community,

arguing that ignorance was their only crime.

Mariela Castro also ties the struggle for LGBTQ rights with the contemporary

international political context and Cuba’s position within it. During a march against

homophobia that took place in May of 2012, Castro Espín headed the group while

carrying a poster directed to the U.S. President Barack Obama with the message “Give

me five.”30 Here, Mariela Castro joins one of the most important campaigns against the

U.S. government in Cuba today by demanding the liberation of the five Cuban

intelligence officers arrested in Miami in 1998. In recent years, the Cuban government

has established a strong media campaign demanding the release of “the Cuban Five” and

28 Muñoz, Ana. "Mariela Castro: "La Sociedad Socialista No Puede Ser Homofóbica" Cadena SER (Web) 07 Sept. 2011. 29 Muñoz. 2011. 30 "Raúl Castro Está a Favor De Los Derechos Homosexuales, Dice Su Hija." CNN México (Web). 12 May 2012. 131 using their detainment as an example of what they identify as U.S.-based terrorism against Cuba. Just like Fresa y chocolate creates a connection between David and Diego based on their common experience on marginality in the global capitalist context, with her appearance at this march, Castro Espín establishes links Cuba’s fight against U.S. neocolonialism to the struggle for liberation of the women’s and LGBTQ movements.

As is to be expected, Mariela Castro Espín is a controversial figure both within and outside Cuba and the international LGBTQ community. She is regarded by some as a crusader for gay rights and a democratic force within the Cuban government. However, others remain more skeptical of her commitment to the gay movement arguing that these merely “cosmetic” changes are designed to maintain the states hegemonic power in the face of opposing discourses emerging from the LGBT community.31 One such critic is

Ignacio Estrada, who expressed his critical view of the government to journalists attending his wedding in 2011. His wife Wendy Irepa used to work for CENESEX until

2008, but she resigned, alleging that Mariela Castro opposed her relationship with a dissident. Estrada is a member of the Observatorio Cubano de los LGBTQ (Cuban

LGBTQ Rights Watch), one of the non-governmental organizations that struggle to stay afloat in the current Cuban context.32 In fact, CENESEX is the only authorized LGBQ organization in the country, which hinders the participation of organizations not attached to the Cuban states in civil society. At the same time, Estrada’s political role, as well as the presence of figures like Yoani Sánchez at his wedding exemplifies the multiple political factors that influence the struggle for gay rights in Cuba. In this context, Estrada

31 Sweas. 2012. 32 “La primara ‘boda gay’ de Cuba, ‘multitudinaria.’” Diario de Cuba (Web). Aug 13, 2011. 132 and Irepa’s wedding ceremony allows certain opposition forces to legitimize their claim by employing a discourse of acceptance for sexual diversity, much like the discourse mobilized by the Cuban government through CENESEX.

On one hand, Mariela Castro Espín can be seen as representative of a legitimate governmental change of attitude towards certain marginalized groups. Her appeals to socialist discourse can be seen as a tool to advance the LGBTQ cause by employing the power structure in place. On the other hand, the linking of socialism with gay liberation can be seen as the primary example of how the state co-opts the LGBTQ movement for its own purposes. Moreover, through Mariela Castro and other well-known gay rights allies within the government the image of the “enlightened” heterosexual savior—in contrast to the marginalized and powerless gay individual in need for help—is engraved into the Cuban political scene.

Gay Cuban Cinema/Cuban Gay Cinema:

The creation of openings for new discourses regarding homosexuality in Cuba has traditionally been more evident in literature. Gay literature in Cuba first emerged as a proscribed genre that ran counter to the hegemonic power of the state. In recent years, writings about homosexuality have become more accepted and even encouraged by the government. In cinema, new texts have emerged that question official discourses about homosexuality as expressed in works such as Fresa y chocolate. As Juan Carlos Cremata has argued, the consolidation of a gay cinema in Cuba is ever more apparent through films such as Fábula (Fable, Lester Hamlet, 2011), Chamaco (Young Boy, Juan Carlos 133

Cremata, 2011), and Verde verde33 (Enrique Pineda Barnet, 2012). According to Cremata,

these films can be classified within gay cinema because here homosexuals are not merely

secondary characters but they are the center of the representation.34

Cremata utilizes the government’s discourse of sexual diversity to support his own position as a filmmaker working outside ICAIC: “With this film I am defending not only the fight against homophobia, but also that one can make films outside ICAIC which this [institution] can embrace.”35 Chamaco suggests how oppressive discourses about

gender and sexuality transform traditional narratives about the destruction of the queer

body in to self-fulfilling prophecies. A process that may result from internalized self-

hatred or the impossibility of escaping a demise always already constructed by social

forces beyond the control of the homosexual characters presented.

Chamaco presents complex and multiple manifestations of human sexuality while

maintaining an emphasis on masculinity and male homoeroticism. Cremata takes on

stereotypical images: the closeted gay man whose family suffers as a result of his secret

(Alejandro), the aging “queen” who pays for access to the young masculine body

(Felipe); the male-to-female transvestite prostitute (La Chupi); the troubled heterosexual

young man (Miguel); and the beautiful heterosexual mother figure, whose femininity

relegates her to the domestic sphere and condemns her to a life of suffering (Silvia and

her mother). These traditional images are contrasted with more abstruse and atypical

manifestations of gender and sexuality.

33 A translation for this title is hard to provide. The film’s title makes reference to the saying “verde verde da maduro,” the notion that those traits we boast about are in fact what we lack most. 34 "Chamaco: Cine Gay Cubano Contra La Homofobia." IPS Cuba (Web). June 12, 2012. 35 Ramírez, Marta M. “Chamaco: Cine Gay a la Cubana.” CENESEX (Web). 2012. 134

Both Karel’s and Saúl’s hypermasculine performances represent an ambiguous

male sexuality; they hold up the image of the macho archetype while deviating from

normative sexual behavior. Karel engages in sex with men in exchange for financial

support, while he appears to be in love with Silvia. However, the extent to which his

sexual exchanges with men arise purely out of financial need is unclear.36 Karel can be seen as a continuation of the “sad young man” image that prevails in Western representations of homosexuality. According to Richard Dyer, “the sad young man is a combination and condensation of many traditions of representation. This intensifies the image…gives it rich possibilities of connotation and use and enables it to be read in a multiplicity of ways.”37

Saúl macho performance as a corrupt authority figure is even more complex given his sexual entanglement with La Chupi. Being both her lover and her pimp, Saúl exerts full control over La Chupi’s body. Male control over female bodies has been a central element to the subjugation of women. Saúl retains the penetrative phallic power, yet he does not fully embody ideal masculinity: the Other he has control over is feminized but not female. Nonetheless he is able to access the authority reserved for hegemonic masculinity because his relationship with La Chupi is kept a secret from others. La

Chupi’s feminized (i.e., castrated) performance could serve to validate Saúl’s masculinity if his sexuality was contained in the dichotomy masculine (penetrator)/ feminine

(penetrated) that is implied in their interaction. However, such a fixed portrayal is

36 Ian Lumsden has argued that hustling allows many Cuban men to live out their homosexual desires without risking being perceived and marginalized as gay. These men can attribute their sexual activities with other men to economic need, rather than to a “deviation” in their heterosexuality. Lumsden. 1996. 37 Dyer, Richard. 2002. The Matter of Images: Essays on Representation. London: Routledge, 77. 135 prevented by the relationship between Saúl and Karel. Although he harasses Karel from the position of masculine authority, Saúl’s violence against Karel reveals the homoerotic elements contained in this masculine hierarchy. Saúl’s sexuality remains ambiguous, and consequently, so does his right to male authority.

Representations of Homosexuality by Nuevos Realizadores:

Chamaco is indicative of young filmmakers’ emphasis on marginalized and alienated groups and individuals. In this context, homosexuality presents a significant opportunity for young filmmakers to explore the ways in which alienation operates in the

Cuban context. Among the second generation of nuevos realizadores, representations of homosexuality have differed from Cremata’s emphasis on the masculine queer body.

Instead, these younger cineastes have turned their cameras to the most traditionally stigmatized “effeminate” man, and especially male-to-female transgender persons.

It is significant that these films continue the tradition of exploring how homophobia manifests itself on the social and cultural sphere, while avoiding—perhaps purposefully—direct and detailed discussions about official policies against homosexuals. Their works are part of the surge in representations of homosexuality in past decades, especially influenced by Fresa y chocolate. At the same time, these films reflect nuevos realizadores’ interest in exploring themes related to solitude and alienation.

Jesús Miguel Hernández Bach’s short documentary Ella trabaja (She Works,

2007) presents a discourse of exclusivity similar to the one presented in Fresa y chocolate. The film emphasizes gay people’s right to accessing resources in the public sphere, namely employment. Ella trabaja explores the experiences of various transgender 136 individuals in receiving education and employment opportunities. Through interviews with transgender people and their (heterosexual) coworkers, the documentary challenges homophobia in the workplace in order to make a statement about pervasive discrimination against the LGBTQ community in Cuba. Their experiences reveal institutional discrimination in Cuba’s educational system, which forces many homosexuals to drop out of school and limits their employment opportunities. Even when employed, they face intolerance from those who reject their challenge to gender and sexuality norms. Moreover, the arguments from supportive coworkers often reflect the discourse of “congenital inversion;” the idea that homosexuality is a “defect” that some people are born with, and for which “they cannot be blamed.” These comments compare homosexuality to congenital physical disabilities, like being born without limbs.

A more developed critique of how these discourses affect the lives of queer and transgender people is presented in Jessica Rodríguez’s documentary Tacones cercanos

(Nearby Heels, 2008), presented at the eighth Muestra Joven. This film tells the story of

Marcel, now Mariposa, a male-to-female transgendered. It explores her experience coming to terms with her sexuality and gender identity. The lack of voice-over narration allows the film to present itself as a legitimate space for Mariposa to tell her story in her own terms, not as a victim or a “deviant.” Rodríguez humanizes and complicates the stereotypical image of the transgender prostitute in Havana. Thus is accomplished as the protagonist narrates her transformation from Marcel to Mariposa at different stages of her life. Moreover, by illuminating different aspects of her story, Tacones cercanos presents a complex individual beyond prevailing stereotypes. 137

The employment of traditional tropes for the representation of homosexuality is

used to question the messages transmitted by these traditional portrayals. For example,

the film begins with Mariposa’s morning transformation, in a reinterpretation of the

mirror scene often employed in films with transgender characters. Several other

transformation scenes take place throughout the film, thus reinforcing the daily routine by

which her outside image is made to match her “true,” “natural” identity (Fig 4.1).

However, Tacones cercanos challenges the Latin American cinematic tradition of

representing transvestism as a mockery of femininity—castration by lipstick related to

temporary moments of transgression, rather than the expression of individual gender

identity.38 In sharp contrast to this traditional portrayal of transvestism in Latin American cinema, Tacones cercanos is “preoccupied with exploring the psychological processes experienced by the transvestite protagonists as a result of their desire to create a believable feminine persona.”39

In its exploration of Mariposa’s psyche, the film maintains a female/male,

hembra/varón, dichotomy: Mariposa’s true gender identity is female even though her

body is male. The transition described is not from male-bodied to transgender, but from

male to female. Here, gender and sexuality are defined as natural, innate properties which

society aims to contain and control. Mariposa’s experience is thus presented within the

nature/culture dichotomy, perhaps as a way to incite viewers to empathize with her—a

new version of the “congenital invert” in which homosexuality is not seen as a deviation,

but remains a burden given the current social context. Mariposa’s innate femaleness is

38 Subero, Gustavo. “Fear of the Trannies: On Filmic Phobia of Transvestism in the New Latin American Cinema.” Latin American Research Review 43.2 (2008): 159-174. 39 Subero. 2008, 174. 138

emphasized by images of her dancing with a doll, which bring motherhood, the primary

mark of a “true woman,” to the foreground.

The viewer’s identification with Mariposa allows for yet another transgression to

traditional cinematic transvestism. As Gustavo Subero points out, Latin American films

about this topic tend to keep “to a minimum the time devoted to on-screen

transvestism.”40 In contrast, Mariposa is always presented in various stages of drag. The varying degrees of femininity in Mariposa’s appearances depend upon the level of homophobia that characterizes the different spaces in which she is located.

In the safe, private sphere of her home, Mariposa’s image recreates the glamour of a Hollywood starlet. She wears a long dress that highlights her petite, feminine frame, carefully adorned by her hair and make-up. The ability of this private space in presenting who Mariposa really is within is made clear by the Warholesque pictures that frame the space where she is interviewed, as she lounges in an ornate sofa. Here, Mariposa embodies the ideal of beauty and femininity attributed to iconic figures like Marilyn

Monroe. Moreover, presenting shots of Mariposa from different perspectives supports the notion of the film as a holistic view of a marginalized individual’s human beauty (Fig 4.2,

Fig 4.3, Fig 4.4). This glamorous appearance is contrasted with the dire conditions

Mariposa faces on a daily basis (Fig 4.5).

Furthermore, these interviews in her home retain a therapeutic aura (Fig 4.6). The couch, pictures, and various perspectives from which she is shown all highlight the externalization of the psyche—the woman within—in psychotherapy. This highlights the

40 Subero. 2008, 161. 139

film’s interest in exploring the nature of homosexuality and its psychological

implications. In public spaces Mariposa appears less feminized (Fig 4.7). However, when

she goes to Havana’s fifth avenue, a well-known site for gay prostitution, a queer space,

she is able to appear again in full drag (Fig 4.7, Fig 4.8). Thus, the film presents public

and private spaces as socially constructed through intersecting systems of power, such

class, race, gender, and sexuality.

Subero has pointed out how the image of the transvestite prostitute in cinematic

representations is often used to encompass “all the negative aspects of femininity in stark

contrast to the notion…of perfect womanhood.”41 Mariposa explains that, given the

extent to which homophobia limits homosexuals access to resources available to the

general population, prostitution is often their only choice for survival. However, rather

than present herself as a victim, Mariposa explains: “yo de hecho disfruto lo que hago…a

mi me encanta prostituirme…yo lo hago porque me da placer saber que un hombre

disfruta por lo que yo he luchado.”42 What she has fought for is her claim to femininity.

In this context, prostitution becomes an important aspect of Mariposa’s gender identity.

Having someone who is willing to pay for intercourse with her validates her femininity,

given how relevant it is for an individual’s gender identity to be perceived as a successful

performer of gender roles.

Through her discussion of prostitution the film also presents a more fluid

understanding of male heterosexuality. Mariposa does not question the manhood or

heterosexuality of her clients, because their role as penetrator, and thus their phallic

41 Subero. 2008, 163. 42 “I in fact enjoy what I do…I love to prostitute myself…I do it because it gives me pleasure to know that a man enjoys what I have fought for.” 140

power, is preserved. Their search for a transgender sexual partner springs instead from an

emotional need that most heterosexual female prostitutes are unable to fulfill. In

comparison, transvestites “no tienen pena ninguna, se divierten más, se relajan más,

disfrutan lo que están haciendo.”43

Her first experience as a prostitute also reveals the economic inequality that leads

many gay Cubans into jineterismo (hustling). Beyond the fulfillment of basic needs,

jineterismo allows gay Cubans to access public spaces more tolerant of homosexuality44.

It also offers a promise of luxuries not available to most people in the country:

Mariposa’s first client/lover picked her up in an extravagant car, took her to an elegant apartment, and paid her eighty dollars—significantly more than the average Cuban salary.

In contrast to the image of the prostitute who enjoys what she does, the film presents the physical and psychological effects of homophobia and persecution. Mariposa was imprisoned for two years under charges of peligrosidad, or dangerousness, one of the ambiguous laws commonly used to discriminate against homosexuals. Her experience in an all-male jail is a contradictory one. On one hand, Mariposa suffers as she is forced to have sex with a prisoner although she does not want to. However, being “una mujer dentro de mil hombres”45 once again provides validation for her gender identity, making

her feel “realizada,” accomplished. While in jail Mariposa first found love. An

oppressive space allows her to fully achieve her feminine identity, to be perceived as a

woman by those around her, and find love as a woman.

43 Transvestites “are not ashamed, the have more fun, they are more relaxed, they enjoy what they are doing.” 44 Lumsden. 1996, 140. 45 “A woman among a thousand man.” 141

Tacones cercanos also demonstrates the serious attacks against LGBTQ people and the spaces they inhabit. This becomes clear as Mariposa relives the violent attack she once suffered. While working in Fifth Avenue with other transgender prostitutes, someone threw acid at her, destroying her eye. Mariposa and her friends tried desperately to no avail to find someone willing to take her to the hospital. Homophobia is thus shown to exist as much in the actions of the “homophobic person” who attacked her, as in the apathy and inaction of those who refused to come to her aid. As she explains, through direct attacks and indifference “me han apagado el brillo.”46

Exclusion of certain individuals from Cuban society takes on particular meanings when considering the importance of the collective not only for personal and group identity, but especially in guaranteeing access to resources provided by the state and other public and private actors. Tacones cercanos reveals the extent to which homophobia continues to be a significant element of Cuban nationalism, despite the government’s new discourse of inclusivity. State inability to eradicate deep-rooted homophobia—especially as it fails to acknowledge its own role in this history of discrimination—results in the continued exclusion of queer individuals like Marcel from the most basic social needs, such as education.

In presenting Mariposa’s struggle with her sexuality and gender identity, and trying to survive homophobia, Jessica Rodríguez explores the feelings of alienation and loneliness that are often explored in cine joven. Films like Personal Belongings

(Alejandro Brugués, 2006), Extravío (Misplacement, Daniellis Hernández, 2006), Taxi

46 “They have turned off my shine.” 142 libre (Free Taxi, Alana Simoes, 2008), The Illusion (Susana Barriga, 2008), and Cisne cuello negro, cuello blanco (Black Necked, White Necked Swan, Marcel Beltrán, 2010) are among the multiple titles within cine joven that explore the feelings of alienation that prevail since the Special Period, particularly among young Cubans. The socioeconomic transformations taking place in Cuba have produced a state of crisis that has shaken collective identity. In this context, isolation has become an important marker of life for young Cubans, as expressed by Tres veces dos (2004), the anthology film produced within ICAIC by Pavel Giroud, Lester Hamlet, and Esteban Insausti, being dedicated to

“las personas solas.”47 This feeling of isolation is encapsulated by Mariposa, as it interacts with gender discourses to marginalize homosexuals: “Dicen que hay un mito que las travestis mueren solas, y yo tengo miedo de morir sola.”48 Like other films in cine joven, the exploration of alienation in Tacones cercanos demands an individual’s right to take part in society, and in particular, her right to love and receive love in spite of the crisis, political conflicts, and oppressive social norms.

Exploring the Margins and Beyond:

Important to nuevos realizadores’ interest in exploring alienation is the extent to which their work reveals this topic to be a universal marker of human experience, or at least life in Cuba. A regular viewer attending the Muestra Joven is exposed to the isolation experienced by “average” people, as well as traditionally excluded groups through the stories of a transvestite, an Afro-Cuban female immigrant, or the daughter of an expatriate. In addition, the alienation of marginalized groups and individuals even less

47 Lonely people. 48 “They say there is a myth that transvestites die along, and I am afraid of dying alone.” 143 visible in the Cuban cultural context is also presented in the work of these young directors. As certain marginalized groups, like homosexuals, are incorporated, at least discursively, into the national collective, nuevos realizadores look elsewhere, deeper into the margins, to find new ways of representing alienation.

An example of this quest for new frontiers in portraying the marginal is provided by Iriana Pupo’s Paraísos perdidos (Lost Paradises, 2004). This film was presented at the fourth Muestra Joven and provides a personal look into the lives of several residents of the Hospital Provincial Psiquiátrico Manuel Fajardo (Manuel Fajardo Provincial

Psychiatric Hospital) in Manzanillo. While providing glimpses of the environment of this hospital, Pupo delves in more detail into the lives of four patients.

Viewer empathy toward individuals otherwise alienated and separated from society is constructed as the protagonists speak of their appreciation for art and the natural beauty of the sea. Aesthetic appreciation is used to remind viewers of their humanity, the commonalities between “normal” viewers and those whose behavior and mental state makes them undesirable to take part in society. As these patients speak about their past and the sudden appearance of their mental illness, viewers experience an overwhelming sense of uncertainty regarding their own position as adept citizens. The film reminds us of the instability of social discourse and divisions through which individuals are classified into legitimate and illegitimate subjects. By highlighting their calmness and intelligence—through reciting and discussing poetry—the film reclaims their right to self-expression. In particular, love and affection are claimed back for these alienated individuals. Images of the love between them underscore their basic human 144

need for affection, interaction, and community—rights which they have been denied. As

in films previously discussed, Paraísos perdidos presents love as crucial to the process of

marginalization. Domination is shown as operating through control of individual love,

desire, or affection.

Once again, the sea provides an important symbol to encapsulate the narrative.

Changes in the sea are associated with the sudden or gradual transformations of the

human mind, and the minds of the protagonists. In the final scenes calmness and

violence, confusion and mystery are shown to characterize the see as well as our

psyches. For these marginalized individuals “el mar, aunque esté triste, es hermoso. Invita

el recurerdo de los paraísos perdidos.”49 This poem, read by one of the patients, reflects the paradises lost to those who fall outside socially constructed norms. The ocean serves as a symbol for the film’s closing, as the beauty of the water is compared to footage of the patients finding beauty and happiness in their daily interactions, dancing, smiling, sharing, building a community of alienated people.

Another look at the forbidden manifestations of desire and sexuality is provided by Jessica Rodríguez and Zoe Miranda in El mundo de Raúl (Raúl’s World, 2009) which was widely acclaimed at the ninth Muestra Joven. As the title suggests, the film is constructed as a look into the protagonist’s world, his life in a rural Cuban town, and his darkest secret. This film begins by familiarizing the spectator with Raúl’s public image.

He is presented as an exemplary citizen and worker, a vanguardia who loves his

hometown, and a great son who takes affectionate care of his sick mother. Respect from

49 “The sea, even if sad, is beautiful. It invites the memory of lost paradises.” 145

his community and pride from his mother is presented as an important aspect of Raúl’s

self-image. As he explains: “las personas del pueblo me respetan, aprecian mi trabajo y

todo lo que hago, y eso le encanta a mi mamá.”50 The film thus marks from the beginning the importance of preserving his reputation as a vanguard citizen for Raúl.

As is common in many films by nuevos realizadores, El mundo de Raúl plays on ambience sound and silence to highlight the effect that viewers are being transported into the life of the protagonists. This also highlights the monotony of his life, to present Raúl as important in his normalcy. Moreover, this creates a shocking contrast between Raúl’s public image and his secret voyeur.

Caring for his mother is also a significant aspect of his self-image and reputation.

She has been sick for eight years “y yo en case lo hago todo. La baño, la atiendo y la complazco en todo.”51 (Fig 4.10). Raúl’s desire to please his mother appears problematic

as images of his interaction with his mother often cross socially constructed lines

defining appropriate mother-son interactions.

Raúl’s voyeurism is not presented outright, but rather it is slowly established by

his own narration. At first he claims to like watching people at parties, parks and roads.

As he explains, he does this in other town to avoid being recognized and risk everyone in

his hometown—the people who respect him as a vanguard—know about his habit. This

fear, and the opening images of young girls practicing a quinceañera waltz while the camera emphasizes their buttocks and breasts is finally explained when we discover the sexual characteristics of his fondness for people-watching.

50 “The people from town respect me, they appreciate my work and all that I do, and my mom loves that.” 51 “I do everything at home. I bathe her, tend to her, and please her in everything.” 146

Through Raúl’s confessions, the film moves the viewer between sympathy for and

condemnation of the protagonist. Having established him as an exemplary citizen, then as

a sexual deviant, the narrative later moves on to present Raúl as a man in search of love.

He is shown as looking for what any other “normal” man would desire: “a mi me gustan

las mujeres de casa…a mi me gusta imaginarme que a las mujeres yo les gusto, que ellas

están enamoradas de mí…Al final todo el mundo se imagina esas cosas. Yo mismo, me

pongo a pensar en una de ellas, que estoy casado con ella, y eso me hace exitar y me hace

sentir bien.”52 Loneliness and alienation once again become main themes in exploring the

life of a marginalized individual.

By making Raúl the narrator, the film ensures a level of identification that

challenges traditional discourses about sexuality prevent, given his forbidden desires.

This identification is reinforced through the use of the ubiquitous first love story. Raúl

speaks of his love for Hilda, a love that remains undeclared but which fueled his

voyeurism. Wanting to express his feelings for Hilda and come close to her, Raúl

followed her and watched her for a long time until one day “sentí algo nuevo dentro de

mí. Empecé…como quien dice, a masturbarme…Fue una cosa maravillosa…a partir de

ese dia comencé a hacerlo todos los días.”53 He realizes, however, how problematic his experience loving Hilda has been, how damaging and degrading the enactment of his voyeuristic desire has been to this romance. The internalization of discourses about sexuality is once again showed, being used to establish a rapport with the films

52 “I like domestic women…I like to imagine things with women, intimate situations, daily situations. I like to imagine that they like me, that they are in love with me…In the end everyone imagines these things. I think about one of them, that I am parried with her, and that makes me excited and it makes me feel good.” 53 “I felt something new from within me. I began…as one would say, to masturbate…It was a marvelous thing…from that day I began doing it every day.” 147

“aberrant” subject by demonstrating his self-hatred. Subsequently, damnation is brought about once again, as Raúl further explains his voyeurism. Underscoring the voyeur’s desire to violate the object of his desire from afar, Raúl relates that he likes for the women he watches to become aware, even if unwillingly, what he is doing.

The influence of Freudianism in the construction of discourses about sexuality comes to the surface as the film establishes a connection between Raúl’s relationship with his mother and his voyeurism. This become especially clear as the film shows Raúl sleeping next to his mother as his voiceover describes how he gains sexual pleasure by watching women (Fig 4.11). His mother, throughout the film, appears apathetic, detached, and ambivalent. Fear of his mother finding out about his daily escapades is one of his primary concerns.

Fear is presented as one of the primary markers of Raúl’s sexual experience. On the most basic level, he is afraid of the physical punishment commonly given to

“deviants” like him. Punishment he has already suffered, having been discovered once by a group of young men while watching a woman. But his primary concern is maintaining his reputation and his position as an accepted member of the community. This is what motivates him to tell people that his injuries came from a workplace accident while hanging labor day decorations—thus presenting himself as a martyr of the revolutionary spirit, rather than as a potential social reject.

Once again, viewers are encouraged to empathize with Raúl, as he employs a common discourse used to justify clemency towards people otherwise marginalized.

Much like the benevolent discourse of the “congenital invert,” Raúl presents his 148

voyeurism as a defect he is not responsible for, a burden he must carry, rather than a

socially constructed category formed by a discourse that classifies some kinds of

voyeurism as appropriate and others as deviant. As he explains, “yo no quiero que la

gente piense que soy malo. Quizás lo sea, pero no es culpa mía que yo soy así. En el

fondo soy bueno.”54 By showing his feelings of guilt and regret, viewers can be more comfortable with the subject of this documentary, as the deviant himself establishes his culpability in breaking social norms and his desire to change: “Yo sé que esto que hago es algo muy malo. Es horrible. Es duro, triste. Me siento mal y me arrepiento. Yo no estoy feliz con esto…A veces me pregunto por qué me tocó a mí. Así conocí el amor, no tengo otro modo.”55 As he accepts his guilt and perversion, Raúl gazes straight into the camera,

thus confronting viewers once again with the disparate emotions brought out by his story.

The discourse of tolerance presented by this film rests on ideologies that form the

Charmed Circle. Within this framework, the two primary ways of relating to border-

crosses are rage or pity.

At the same time, the film’s narrative framing emphasizes voyeurism and the

power of the gaze at various levels, going beyond the perceived deviance of some types

of voyeurs and not others. Raúl’s occupation making and repairing eye glasses is one of

the significant elements that emphasize seeing/gazing throughout the film (Fig 4.12).

Moreover, the film begins with sexualized images of young girls practicing for a

quinceañera party, and later Raúl is shown watching these girls, speaking about his desire

54 “I don’t want people to think that I am bad. Maybe I am, but it’s not my fault that I’m like this. Deep down I am good.” 55 “I know that what I do is something very bad. It is hard, sad. I feel bad and I regret it. I am not happy with this…Sometimes I wonder why me. This is how I learnt to love, I have no other way.” 149 to see the young women “cuando se arreglan, cuando se maquillan, en sus ropas, sus trajes bonitos”56 (Fig 4.13, Fig 4.14). The image of the quinceañera party is an important one to underscore a social structure in which women are encouraged to become objects on display, the voyeuristic male’s counterpart. This interaction, according to Laura

Mulvey, is largely sustained through the cinema.57 Through rituals such as quinceañera parties, women are persuaded to assume their “to-be-looked-at-ness” in society, and derive pleasure from it. These rites present women to society as full and willing objects of the (male) gaze.

El mundo de Raúl constantly moves between the three looks that operate in film: the look of the camera, the audience, and the characters. The movement between these three looks underscores the voyeurism that marks each look. As the camera is positioned in such a way that makes it seem like an imperceptible object in Raúl’s environment, the voyeuristic nature of spectatorship is emphasized (Fig 4.15). Moreover, the film places the spectator-voyeur in the position of the deviant-voyeur, as we watch other people through Raúl’s eyes. A final layer of the gaze is added in scenes in which viewers watch the voyeur watching his objects. Thus, multiple stages of objectification through the three central looks that operate in film are enclosed in this humanizing portrayal of a marginalized individual (Fig 4.16, Fig 4.17, Fig 4.18).

The films analyzed in this chapter reveal different ways of relating to existing representational limits. Their emphasis on fringe sexualities constitute examples of how shifting levels of representational discomfort create new openings for the representation

56 “When they dress up, put on make-up, in their clothes, their beautiful costumes.” 57 Mulvey, Laura. 1986. “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema”. In Rosen, Philip (ed.). Narrative, Apparatus, Ideology. New York: Columbia University Press: 198-210. 150 of marginalized groups. Nuevos realizadores participate in the consolidation of these new frontiers of representation, contributing to the creation of legitimately oppressed groups and defining those still considered deviant. As such, they legitimize the oppression of the latter groups. At the same time, these openings are used by nuevos realizadores to continually question representational frontiers by focusing on groups located at the periphery of our social structures.

Fig 4.1: Mariposa’s transformation. 151

Fig 4.2: One side of Mariposa.

Fig 4.3: A different perspective on Mariposa. 152

Fig 4.4: Another view of Mariposa.

Fig 4.5: The elegance of a therapeutic setting. 153

Fig 4.6: Therapeutic setting.

Fig 4.7: Mariposa in public. 154

Fig 4.8: Mariposa in Fifth Avenue.

Fig 4.9: Fifth Avenue. 155

Fig 4.10: Raúl bathing his mother.

Fig 4.11: Sleeping with mother. 156

Fig 4.12: The power of looking.

Fig 4.13: Watching the quinceañera rehearsal. 157

Fig 4.14: Looking at the voyeur during the quinceañera rehearsal.

Fig 4.15: Camera position emphasizes voyeurism. 158

Fig 4.16: Looking at Raúl.

Fig 4.17: Looking at others. 159

Fig 4.18: Looking at Raúl as he looks at others. 160

Conclusion

My goal for this research project was to evaluate the representational characteristics of young filmmakers in Cuba. As this project developed I came to understand cine joven as influenced by the context that ensued after the onset of the

Special Period. As a result of the economic crisis and the increased presence of private and foreign interests that ensued, Cubans became adept at ensuring daily survival through multiple processes of negotiation. In turn, these processes helped shape the aesthetics that prevail in cine joven. Young filmmakers employ multiple processes of negotiation not only in terms of production but also in order to determine the themes they explore and the ways in which they represent these subjects. Through these aesthetics of resolviendo their works reflect the changes to the social structure that are taking place in Cuba. Moreover, their works contribute to these changes, drawing the boundaries of the national body through their interest in exploring the margins and by avoiding certain topics. As this thesis shows, sexuality is an important terrain where the retracing of the national body takes place.

Young filmmakers’ focus on the sexualized experiences of marginalized groups helps challenge existing hierarchies. At the same time cine joven can serve to legitimize certain forms of alienation. This legitimization takes place through the representational 161

absences in cine joven, especially through lacks inherited from previous cinematic and

cultural production in the country and the region. This thesis focuses on the themes that

nuevos realizadores do portray. However, further inquiry into the subjects that remain

absent from Cuban cinema, even as its younger members look to the margins for

inspiration is necessary in order to further elucidate the complex transformations taking

place in Cuba.

Moreover, a crucial issue that must be explored further is the preservation of these

works and the collective body of cine joven. As is the case with digital productions, entropy and loss become crucial aspects of the archival experience for cine joven, especially because of the sheer abundance of these works. Although every filmmaker

probably does his/her best to preserve their films, there is no collective or movement for

preservation outside of ICAIC. While nuevos realizadores struggle to access exhibition

spaces, the only archive providing a sample of cine joven is located in the offices of the

Muestra Joven. Consequently, despite the many challenges to the state hegemonic power

produced by nuevos realizadores, the state maintains its archival power.

Writing the history of cine joven outside the bounds of the Muestra would prove a difficult task. In the process, cine joven comes to be defined by those works deemed worthy of being included in the Muestra and the state archive. This is not to challenge the representativeness of the Muestra up to this point, or the value of institutional attempts to preserve the work of young filmmakers. Rather, recognizing the ways in which the power of the archive intersects with the discourses purported by young cineastes is necessary in order to understand the potential limitations of any research on the subject of cine joven, 162 including this thesis.

During the establishment of ICAIC’s Film Library, the archival power of this institution led to the conclusion that the Library’s holdings constituted an accurate representation of Cuban film history. In this process, Cuban film history came to be defined by the idea that only a scant and insipid cinematic production took place before the revolution. However, in recent years numerous film historians have refuted these claims, mourning the loss of valuable pre-revolutionary films that did not make it to the

Film Library for a variety of reasons. Cine joven runs a similar risk, becoming increasingly defined by the Muestra Joven’s recently digitized archive. Furthermore, the works presented at this festival dominates most of the media representations of cine joven. Consequently, a central question to the present and future of Cuban cinema is what happens to those filmmakers who refuse to interact with the state through the Muestra

Joven. This is a question that relates not only to the existence of alternative exhibition spaces but also of archives outside the state apparatus where alternative versions of this history can emerge. 163

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Biographical Note:

Originally from Estelí, Nicaragua, Bianka completed her undergraduate studies at the University of Florida in 2011, after attending Red Cross Nordic United World College in Flekke, Norway. She graduated Summa Cum Laude with a double major in Economics and Women's Studies, and a minor in Latin American Studies. Her undergraduate honors thesis was titled "La Yuma": Gender and Class in Florence Jaugey's Representation of Nicaraguan Youth. Her research interests include Gender and Sexuality, Cultural Studies, and Film & Media Studies. Bianka's M.A. research focuses on Cuban cinema and filmmaking in post-Special Period Cuba.