Donald F. Stevens (ed.),
Based on a True story; Latin American history at the Movies.
Wilmington DE: Scholarly Resources Inc, 1997.
ISBN 0 8420 8482 0
239 pp
Au$50.00 (hb)
Uploaded 6 June, 1998
In a famous text for screenwriters Syd Field argues that adaptation relies on ‘NOT being true to the original’ (1982: 162). Whether it be fact or fiction, writes Syd, ‘you are not obliged to remain faithful to the original material’ (154):
If you are writing a historical screenplay, you do not have to be accurate about the people involved, only to the historical event and the result of that event.(159)
The original material is source material. What you do with it to fashion it into a screenplay is up to you. You might have to add characters, scenes, incidents, and events.(155)
He concludes that it is just the ‘integrity of the source material’ (157) that is important. And there’s the rub˜what on earth is the ‘integrity of the source material’?
Given the popularity and accessability of videos in contrast to historical texts and novels, Syd Field’s advice ought to make us cringe about ‘the future of the past’ [3]. Indeed many historians stress that their medium is print and expect any celluloid presentation of ‘history’ to be fatally flawed. But if this stance by historians becomes entrenched, it threatens to become a self fulfilling prophecy, which gives special significance to this new collection of high quality articles by historians who constructively engage with films ‘based on a true story’.
The collection is introduced by a chapter on the general topic of cinematic history, while the other contributors analyse one, or occasionally two, Latin American films with a view to their historical accuracy. In this first chapter Donald F. Stevens recalls early illusions about the superior possibilities of history on reel, ‘real’ history. Today we are too often aware of how even documentary footage can ‘lie’. But to what extent and in what ways does the methodology of a film maker differ from the historian who writes a book? More importantly how does it necessarily differ and how does that affect our notion of ‘truth’?
Any screenwriter adapting historical facts to screen immediately becomes aware of the necessity to ‘concretize what is not known’ (6). Visual reenactments require that a screenwriter go beyond what is recorded and imaginatively fill in gaps in knowledge in a way that historians are generally not required to do, in fact will be castigated for doing, in print. A similar, if less severe, problem arises with historical novels and that is precisely why the academic, professional historian is apt to sneer at them. Yet, as Stevens contends, historians working with primary sources do build pictures that are bigger than their composite parts, indicating or suggesting where they cannot definitely know. (6) They are, after all, paid to do something! and they are storytellers of a very special kind.
Still the print historian’s craft is centred on sifting, assessing and delivering evidence in as truthful manner as possible, and there is no denying that˜aside from the most detailed and impressive documentaries˜this does not occur with dramatised histories. It does not occur because it cannot; the screenwriter plumbs for what is the most likely˜or guided by Syd Field by what is the most dramatic˜possibility, and cannot signal the probabilities involved with that decision as a print historian is obliged to do. There are no qualifications and modifications and footnoting to films. Still, as sophisticated critics arise, there is no reason why history portrayed via film cannot improve. Nor is there any reason why, for instance, it might not become commonplace for historical representations to be complemented by written explanations, even ‘defences’, by their screenwriters (and directors). I suspect that if historians were to take screenwriters’ and film directors’ works more seriously, screenwriters and directors would respect history, i.e. what print historians have to say about the past, more. In that way a rigorous methodology of filmic history might develop which could only benefit print historians, film makers and film goers alike.
Most significantly, presenting history as a feature film(none of the contributors in this collection deal with straight forward documentaries) can raise novel issues that the print historian can all too easily ignore. Stevens points to Natalie Zemon Davis’s discovery that, ‘the process of putting the story on film provoked questions that would not have occurred to her if she had only tried to tell the story in words.'(7) Further, film makers rival, even surpass, writers as a social actors; films not only reflect and express but also create social change. The Brazilian Pixote [1980], directed by Héctor Babenco, was co-written by Babenco and Jorge Duran after a book by José Louzeiro called A infancia dos mortos. Robert M. Levine analyses it in the social and political context of its making; rather than question whether the film reflected reality, the discussion of the well publicised death of its child star reveals the film as a mere rehearsal for real life.
A good screenplay is generally character-based. It is no surprise then that several of the articles in this collection focus on the accuracy of the portrayal of historical characters. Sonya Lipsett-Rivera and Sergio Rivera Ayala focus on the legendary figure of Columbus as in The Conquest of Paradise [1992] written by Roselyn Bosch and directed by Ridley Scott. These film makers portray Columbus as United States’ mainstream nineteenth century history has him; Columbus is the hero, the democratic visionary, the forger of a new world throwing off the chains of the old (15). The result is not surprising:
Despite many distortions of convenience, it remains close enough to a mainstream understanding of the “facts”, and thus this illusion gives the film an air of authenticity that is deceptive. (14)
Of course, even if one does not go as far as Syd Field, it is accepted that any filmic representation is constrained by dramatic requirements, limitations on length and so on. This usually demands bold decisions by the screenwriter, director and actor. Here they have plumbed for the ‘heroic version’ of Columbus tempered by the ‘white-legend interpretation’ (16). If the general themes of the film accord with certain versions by print historians˜here the film makers can only be said to adhere to Syd Field’s ‘integrity’ with respect to controversial secondary sources˜the filmic representation differs marked in important details from the few available primary sources. Sonya Lipsett-Rivera and Sergio Rivera Ayala catalogue those errors; not only the character of Columbus, but the nature of the indigenous people and the relations between them and Columbus are misrepresented. Significantly though, within the context of the discussion here, they conclude that the interpretation presented in the film ‘remains a mainstream version familiar to most American audiences from the textbooks they read in school’! (27)
Thomas H. Holloway asseses the famous Aguirre, der Zorn Gottes/ Aguirre, the Wrath of God [1972] that Werner Herzog wrote and directed. He points out that the film is only ‘based minimally and loosely’ on a story which anyway ‘must forever remain elusive.’ (29) He acknowledges that Herzog never pretended it to be a straight version of history, but decides that:
just as Herzog is free to do with the story whatever his creative urges dictate, it is also legitimate, even worthwhile, for historians and students of history to examine the film from their own point of view. (30)
Again one man is central, Lope de Aguirre. Holloway gives a brief straightforward account of his life, records the various interpretations of the man’s character and finally presents a long primary document, Lope de Aguirre’s written defence and plea to his King as he faced death. It is of great value that all the authors in this collection have suggested readings; Holloway very usefully divides his into two, ‘historical treatments and document collections’ and ‘fictionalised and literary versions.’
Another mark of a successful screenplay is that it features conflict, usually involving universal themes. Susan E. Ramirez points out that, although locally famous, the seventeenth century Mexican nun, poet and intellectual Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz is an enigma. In Yo, la Peor de Todas/ I , the Worst of All [1990], which María Luisa Bemberg directed and co-wrote with Antonio Larreta (after Sor Juana, or, The Traps of Faith by the internationally famous Mexican Octavio Paz) the conflict between church and state is the central theme of the film. Although complimenting Bemberg, who she says ‘succeeds admirably in portraying many of the known details of Sor Juana’s life’ (57), Ramirez criticises her for ignoring both Sor Juana’s uncertain sexuality and her times (alternatives) with respect to her choice to become a nun. Donald F. Stevens is equally laudatory in his assessment of Camila [1984], which Bemberg also directed and co-wrote with Beda Docampo Feijoo and Juan Batista Stagnaro. The drama of this feminist nineteenth century story centres on a well-off woman who elopes with a Catholic priest:
the film is both a splendid evocation and a pointed criticism of Argentine culture during the Federalist dictatorship of Manuel de Rosas (1829-1852)Öa brilliant illustration of the connections between patriarchial power in the family, the state, and the church. (85)
Again Stevens’s suggested readings are usefully divided into political and social background and ‘historical, literary and polemical works on Camila O’Gorman.’
Similarly Gabriela [1983] uses a woman’s love-story as an avenue for social and historical comment. In James D. Henderson’s judgement, it is ‘the best feature-length film depicting elite culture and mentality in early twentieth century Latin America.’ (143) Directed by Bruno Barreto, Gabriela was co-written by Bruno Barreto and Leopoldo Serran after Gabriela, cravo e canela [1958] by famous Brazilian novelist Jorge Amado. In it the hypocracy of the bourgeoisie and their cruel ways are exposed.
Conflict is central to The Mission [1986], the screenplay written by the famous historical writer Robert Bolt and directed by Roland Joffé, which is analysed by James Schofield Saeger. Informed commentators on this film have almost universally complained about the treatment of the Guarani; here it is clearly labelled ‘a white European distortion of Native American reality.'(63) Sager develops his criticism in detail and constructively outlines the sources available for future film makers. However he adds that they not so much need documents as more respect for their subject, especially acknowledging that the Guarani are ‘culturally whole.’ (83)
Perhaps the richest chapter with respect to cinematic context is John Mraz’s analysis of two Cuban films dealing with slavery. How could it be otherwise? Revolutionary Cuba has cultivated its national cinema in a way no other Latin American country has; however contentiously one views it, Cuba has nurtured conscious and conscientious film makers with an agenda not just to recount but to challenge their past. El Otro Fransisco/The Other Francisco[1975], written and directed by Sergio Giral (after the novel Francisco by Anselmo Suárez y Romero) is itself an analysis of the past as the object of historians. It utilises a discursive technique˜an amateur documentary style abutting Hollywood classicism˜developed earlier by Tomás Gutiérrez Alea, the director of the other film assessed in this chapter, La Ultima Cena/The Last Supper [1976]. The Last Supper is an elaboration of an incident recorded in the classic work The Sugarmill by the famous Cuban historian Manuel Moreno Fraginals, and the screenplay was co-written by Tomás Gutiérrez Alea, Tomás González and María Eugenia Haya. Mraz decides that the subjects of both these films, the slaves, appear in a reasonably accurate way (118). Further, he assesses The Other Francisco a particular success, from Robert Rosenstone’s standard, i.e. that really historical films must ‘engage, directly or obliquely, the issues, ideas, data, and arguments of the on-going discourse of history.'(114) In this sense, he concludes, The Other Francisco:
raises the right questions˜questions as pertinent to historians who work with words as they are useful for those of us who prefer to depict history in visual images.(121)
In contrast Barbara A. Tenenbaum is called to fill in and flesh out what the most profitable Latin American film ever, simply alludes to. Como Agua para Cholcolate/Like Water for Chocolate [1992] is directed by Alfonso Arua, screenwritten by Laura Esquivel, based on her novel of the same name. It is an unfortunate demand of magic realism that you are familiar with the subjects and objects in question. Well, unfortunate for those not ‘in the know’, but perhaps an advantage for historians; if the effect of an exotic film like this is to get more people interested in an unfamiliar culture and neglected history all the better. In this context Tenenbaum is right to complain that the film lost the opportunity to bring in more about the Mexican revolution (167). It is a film of peculiarly feminine, rather than feminist charms, that can be contrasted with Lucía [1968]. Lucía is a trilogy of tales about women who share the name Lucía but who live in three different times in Cuban history. It is written and directed by a man, Humberto Solás. Barbara Weinstein analyses this film in its historical context, correctly drawing out its deficiencies in an otherwise sympathetic account, pointing out both what the director-writer probes and avoids.
Mark D. Szuchman makes the family his central theme in analysing Miss Mary, yet another film directed by Bemberg who co-wrote the screenplay with Jorge Goldenberg (based on a story by her, Beda Docampo Feijoo and Juan Batista Stagnaro) alongside the Academy Award winning La Historia Oficial/The Official Story [1985] directed by Luis Puenzo, again co-written by the director, this time with Aida Bortnik. Szuchman’s analysis benefits from contextualising the two films in Argentina’s cinematic history and he adds a very rich bibliography. Of course The Official Story is a transparent comment on the political and social turmoil of 1970s and 1980s in Argentina and especially on the dark days of the military junta. But equally it is a universal comment on convenient social and personal fictions and falsifications and indicates the tendency for the truth to out, even if not to triumph. It is a tale about a history teacher; it is the history of a storyteller, or more correctly, of storytellers.
This collection covers a narrow field of just thirteen films. But it is an outstanding addition to the few works on Latin American cinema which focus on the historical, rather than the cinematic or social, aspect of film making. This is due to the overall quality, economy, clarity, and detail of each of the contributions .
Works cited:
Syd Field. Screenplay; The Foundations of Screenwriting. (New York: Delta Books, 1982.)
Anitra Nelson
La Trobe University, Australia.