Los Frikis, Trying to Rock and Eat in Cuba

In 1991, rock & roll was illegal in Cuba. LGBTQ Cubans were also widely discriminated against. That consequently caused tremendous stigma for HIV patients. Nevertheless, hundreds of Cubans  (especially “Los Frikis” of “The Geeks,” as the punk sub-culture was known) deliberately self-infected, to be admitted to HIV sanitariums, where patients were well-fed (at least while they could still eat). A young teenager joins his older brother’s HIV-positive band in their provincial refuge, but they cannot hide from reality forever in Tyler Nilson & Michael Schwartz’s Los Frikis, which is now available on VOD.

Even by punk rock standards. Gustavo’s older brother Paco is extremely nihilistic. It fuels his music, but causes friction with the family that took the siblings in, after their father was executed in the sugar cane fields, for a minor infraction. They intend to sail to Florida on a makeshift raft, but they only plan to take Gustavo with them.

Since everyone believes AIDS will be cured in a few years, Paco gets an infected jab, believing he can wait out the starvation of Castro’s “special period” in the comfort of an HIV sanitarium. Every one repeat after me: “the alleged superiority of Cuban medicine is a propaganda lie.” Paco will learn that the hard way, However, the care provided by Maria is quite conscientious, but she is not a doctor. She came to the sanitarium to care for her brother and stayed on after his death.

Gustavo also joins his brother, but as a patient. After abandoning the sinking raft, he convinced a doctor to give him a false positive report. Technically, he is perfectly healthy, but he feels shame listening to the other patients’ HIV “pride.” Of course, the local cops do not see it their way.

It is deeply disturbing to think that Cubans like Paco intentionally self-infected, just for the sake of food, but that was the reality of Castro’s Cuba. Ironically, the brothers’ early days in the sanitarium feel like an idyllic respite. Unfortunately, they greatly under-estimate the virulence of AIDS and over-estimate the effectiveness of Castro’s health system.

First Look ’25: Chronicles of the Absurd

Unfortunately, for Miguel Coyula and his collaborator-muse, Lynn Cruz, being an independent artist is illegal in Cuba. That is not my analysis. Those are the words of multiple government officials whom they secretly recorded. The apparatchiks did not just tell them. They also laid down the law for photographer Javier Caso, who happens to be the brother of Anna de Armas (whose roles they approved of). You can hear the censoring and the not so veiled threats for yourself in Coyula’s documentary, Chronicles of the Absurd, which screens today as part of First Look 2025.

Shot over the course of several years, Absurd initially documents the long, arduous production of their dystopian film, Corazon Azul. Eventually, it cost Cruz her livelihood, because she was expelled from the actors’ union, but never properly informed. She even sort of successfully challenges her expulsion, winning reinstatement along with the immediate, legally required 30-days-notice of her second, permanent ejection.

Routinely, their attempts to attend screenings of their past films are blocked by cops and secret police, who refuse to identify themselves. Accustomed to the harassment, Coyula and Cruz regularly leave home with secret cell phones hidden on their bodies recording whatever might transpire. Indeed, such recordings make up nearly the film’s entire audio track. Although they have no corresponding video, they use cleverly monstrous looking stand-in icons and slyly selected photos for bureaucrats with an online footprint, creating dramatic montages.

Frankly, Absurd would be quite amusing in a farcical and aptly absurd way, if it were also not so Orwellian. Clearly, Cruz and Coyula are not paranoid. Caso similarly employs their cell phone technique to capture the secret police trying to scare him away from his longtime friends. Fortunately for Caso, his relationship with his famous sister provides him some degree of protection.

Oceans are the Real Continents

According to one character, the heat and humidity makes time pass slowly in the rural Cuban town of San Antonio. The nearly complete absence of economic activity does not help either. The slow speed of life somewhat appropriately gets a “slow cinema” treatment in Italian director-screenwriter Tommasso Santambrogio’s Oceans are the Real Continents, which is now playing in New York.

Alex and Edith are lovers, at least until she defects during her upcoming puppetry performance abroad. Aside from him, there isn’t much keeping her in Cuba—and he doesn’t seem to have much personality. Frank and Alain are kids, who can still amuse themselves. Yet they still dream of baseball glory in America. Milagros is a pilar of the community, but she lives in the past, constantly rereading the letters her late husband sent before he died serving as part of Cuba’s militaristic adventurism in Angola. Thanks in part to his sacrifice, Angola continues to be a one-party dictatorship, rated “unfree” by Freedom House.

This is definitely the sort of film that would have a much greater impact if some of its parts were broken down that it has in its current form. By far, the sequences featuring Milagros Llanes Martinez as her namesake are the most meaningful. There is no competition. Had her scenes been edited into a short film, it would be quite a powerful work. It is also worth noting several arrestingly composed scenes of Edith’s marionettes in performance, which might have also constituted a diverting short.

Las Premieres: The Padilla Affair

Generally, it is unpleasant to have your name affixed to the word “affair,” as in the “Profumo Affair.” It was even worse for Heberto Padilla. Essentially, he was accused of unfaithfulness to the Communist revolution, having dalliances with art and truth. When he “confessed” his “sins” in an epic self-criticism session, the sick spectacle ironically turned many left-leaning European and Latin American intellectuals against the Castro regime. It is easy to see why they were so horrified by his ordeal from the rarely-seen archival footage Pavel Giroud incorporated into The Padilla Affair, which screens tomorrow at MoMI, as part of its regular Las Premieres film series.

Like so many Cuban intellectuals, Padilla was initially a supporter of Castro’s “revolution,” but the regime’s turn towards censorship soured his enthusiasm. As art became increasingly subservient to the state, Padilla started speaking out. (All those jazz fans who took “ambassador” tours of Cuba, please explain why Alberto Cabrera Infante & Orlando Jimenez Leal’s short doc P.M., capturing Havana nightlife was censored by the dictatorship, an incident cited by Padilla in his ill-fated criticism of the revolution.) Inevitably, the secret police arrested him, releasing him 37 days later, after arranging his “self-criticism” session.

Presumably, Padilla said everything the regime told him too—and then some. Yet, it is easy to see why the footage was taken out of circulation. The profusely sweating poet is obviously physically unwell. Yet, the nervous discomfort on the faces of Padilla’s assembled fellow members of UNEAC, the Cuban artists and writers’ union, are even more telling.

Havana Libre: “Underground” Surfing in Cuba

When your island nation is a prison-like police state, the authorities are not big on water sports. Unfortunately, for Cuba’s surfers, that means their sport is not officially recognized and therefore prohibited. Surfing to Miami would be quite a feat, but apparently the Cuban regime believes they could motivate their people to do it. Regardless, Cuban surfers just want to surf. From handcrafting their own boards to Kafkaesque attempts to petition the government sports agency for recognition, Cubans do their best to develop the sport in Corey McLean’s documentary, Havana Libre, which releases tomorrow on VOD.

Perversely, the currents that make passage to Miami so treacherous, produce some pretty lame waves around Havana. The intrepid band of surfers McLean follows scout around the island’s coastline, looking for better action. Again, quite perversely, the waves around the forbidden no man’s land of Guantanamo look tantalizingly promising.

Still, they manage to sleuth out some passable beaches, where they record videos that go viral. As a result, Frank and his wife get invited to a conference in Hawaii. He even gets a shot at competing in an official Olympics-qualifying tournament. Naturally, INDER, the Cuban sports agency prohibits him from participating, even though the pursuit of Olympic glory is the agency’s top priority.

There is some picturesque footage of Havana and some nice surfing scenes, but Libre was not intended to be another Endless Summer. We also get a keen sense of the crippling poverty brought on by Castro’s socialism and the ruthlessly controlling nature of its government, but this comes through inevitably but almost incidentally. McClean clearly framed the film with INDER and its masters in mind. Throughout the film, he tries to convince them to help the surfers help Cuba. That is all very reasonable and admirable, but viewers need to keep that in mind.

Voces: Letters to Eloisa

It is hard to understand why Hollywood’s radical chic was so enamored with the brutal dictator Fidel Castro. Not only did he regularly censor his own artists, he brutally oppressed Cuba’s gay and lesbian community for decades. The wrong sexuality could lead to arrest and internment in “re-education” camps (actually, the commentators in this PBS/ITVS production refer to them as “concentration camps”). That put a writer like Jose Lezama Lima doubly at risk. He was gay, Catholic, asthmatic, and aesthetically non-conformist. Lezama’s revolutionary work and tragic life are chronicled in Adriana Bosch’s Letters to Eloisa, which premieres this Friday on PBS, under the Voces imprimatur.

Although young Lezama was not political by nature, he still initially supported Castro’s revolution. In return, he was rewarded with publication support for his work. However, as the regime became more controlling, Lezama unambiguously aligned himself with dissident elements in the writers’ union that openly criticized censorship. As a result, he was already on thin ice when he published his masterpiece, the novel Paradiso.

Lezama’s friends and admirers liken its impact to the detonation of a “bomb.” Before its release, Castro thought it was too boring to require censorship, but he obviously did not get as far as the notorious chapter eight. Apparently, readers were requesting it in libraries, by chapter number, for its explicit homoerotic passages. Soon thereafter, Paradiso was officially censored by the regime and Lezama became a pariah. He largely survived thanks to the packages sent by his sister Eloisa living abroad.

Alfred Molina’s warm, sensitive readings of his letters to her help shape the structure of Bosch’s film and also supply its title. What unfolds is a tragedy, not just because of the hardship Lezama endured. When Paradiso released internationally, Lezama was considered an equal to the likes of Julio Cortazar and Gabriel Garcia Marquez, but he would be far less prolific, due to the stress of the state surveillance and the difficulties of his mean living conditions.

A Tuba to Cuba: On the Road with the Preservation Hall Jazz Band

Don’t expect to hear “When the Saints Come Marching In.” Hip jazz fans know requests of that “good old good one” will set you back a whopping twenty bucks in Preservation Hall. Honestly, it is probably worth it, but the band will really stretch themselves in new directions during this goodwill tour. Forget the politics and get ready to get down during T.G. Herrington & Danny Clinch’s A Tuba to Cuba (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

There are not a lot of seats in Preservation Hall and it is not well-air-conditioned, but they still pack in the standing-room-only crowds for every performance. The Hall was founded by the late, beloved Alan Jaffe, whose son Ben succeeded him both as the Band’s tuba player and the artistic director of the Hall. Having grown up in the middle of New Orleans jazz, Jaffe is particularly aware of its Latin influences—what Jelly Roll Morton called “The Spanish Tinge.”

It turns out the NOLA-Cuba axis was a two-way street, as demonstrated by a sizable expat population that migrated to Santiago de Cuba, due to dissatisfaction with the Louisiana Purchase. Yet, that free-flow of culture and people was shut off when Cuba became a closed Communist police state.

There is some terrific music in Tuba to Cuba that more than compensates for the problematic way the film ignores the merciless human rights abuses that still continue unchecked under the Royal Castro family regime. There is no mention of the violent thuggery directed at the Ladies in White or the jailing of dissidents, like Dr. Oscar Elías Biscet. However, there is plenty of music and it sounds terrific.

As you would expect, the Preservation Hall band-members and the local musicians (whether they specialize in jazz or rumba) mesh together seamlessly. In fact, they immediately recognize a kinship between the second-line and rumba traditions. They also feel a deep rhythmic connection that runs through Congo Square back to Africa.

Hopefully, Tuba to Cuba will also lead to more recognition for the world class musicians of Preservation Hall. Arguably, Mark Braud is younger than modernist snobs would expect, but he has masterful chops worthy of the city’s great trumpet tradition. On the other hand, the sunnily charismatic Charlie Gabriel is everything you could ever hope for from a New Orleans jazz statesman.

The music will recharge your batteries and the human connections forged during the film are genuine, so you might as well overlook the ugly truth, including widespread censorship and street violence employed as a tool of state intimidation, which Herrington and Clinch clearly did their best to conceal—but let’s not make a habit of it. Recommended for fans of New Orleans-style jazz, A Tuba to Cuba opens this Friday (2/15) in New York, at the Village East.

Patria o Muerte: The Fatherland, as it is

If there is one country that has less faith in the Communist Party than China, it would have to be Cuba. They have all of the social inequities associated with China’s extreme income disparity, but the exploitation is seemingly reserved exclusively for foreign tourists. Of course, it is not like Cubans haven’t had revolutionary theory explained to them. For decades, they have endured Fidel Castro’s interminable speeches. Those diatribes produced the hollow slogan adopted as the ironic title of Olatz López Garmendia’s revealing documentary Patria o Muerte: Cuba, Fatherland or Death (trailer here), executive produced by Julian Schnabel, which premieres this coming Monday on HBO.

Strictly speaking, Garmendia (second wife of Schnabel, who directed her in Before Night Falls) takes the observational approach, observing many average Havanans in their homes and listening to their complaints. However, her desperately poor subjects have so much to say and their situations are so precarious, the film never feels like a Wisemanesque fly-on-the-wall experience. Very few of them even bothers talking about freedom anymore. That is long gone. Their thoughts are solely concerned with day-to-day, hour-to-hour survival.

We meet Mercedes, whose family risks their lives every day just by living in their (literally) crumbling building. They know it is only a matter of time before it collapses (her son was already hospitalized by a floor cave-in), but they have no other place to go. A thirty-eight-year-old street vendor would understand. He says he feels like a teenager because he still lives with his parents, but there is no chance he could find or afford his own apartment given his circumstances.

Occasionally, some Havanans express frustration with the lack of intellectual and artistic freedom, such as Yoani Sanchez and Renaldo Escobar, dissident bloggers in a country that forbids the internet. However, for average Cubans, it is more a matter of being denied one of the most convenient tools of the Twenty-First Century.

Anyone who stills thinks Obama’s overtures to the Castro regime will materially improve their lot should be quickly disabused by the work of Garmendia and her crew, particularly cinematographer Claudio Fuentes Madan, who is seen getting arrested (violently) for protesting on the day of Obama’s state visit. He also does nice work behind the camera, evocatively framing each interviewee and their [barely]-living spaces. Through his lens, we get a visceral sense of just how oppressive life in Cuba really is—for all but the Party pinnacle of privilege.

Patria o Muerte does not white-wash or sugar coat any of its subjects’ reality. Yet, it is not a spirit-crushing viewing experience, in part due to its eclectic but very upbeat Cuban soundtrack (even including old school Benny More). It just serves up one harsh dose of truth after another, but it washes it down with some rich Afro-Cuban derived or inspired rhythms. In fact, there is an elusive, haunted and decrepit beauty to the city and its people that comes out clearly in every frame of the one-hour film. Very highly recommended, Patria o Muerte: Cuba, Fatherland or Death debuts this coming Monday (11/28) and hits HBO On Demand the next day.

Sin Alas: Lost Love in the Lost City

Luis Vargas is as broken-down as the city he lives in: Havana, Cuba. Inside, he has been dead for years, ever since the great love affair of his life ended badly. However, news of his very former lover’s demise spurs him to action in small but significant ways. Memory is exquisitely painful in Ben Chace’s Sin Alas (trailer here), which opens today in New York at the Metrograph.

Chace’s narrative is sort of a riff on Borges’ short story “The Zahir,” but do not judge yourself too harshly if you fail to immediately pick-up on it. However, you should recognize the streets of Havana in all their crumbling decrepitude. Sin Alas was the first American production officially allowed to shoot in Cuba since 1959, so what Chace lost in conveniences (like the ability to watch dailies) he gained in authenticity.

This is indeed Cuba, where people regularly risk their lives to come to America and those who remain use the word “Revolutionary” as hollow but mandatory affectation. That includes Vargas, who was actually born a class enemy but stayed after the revolution to “see where things would go.” Despite his suspect background, Vargas became a prominent cultural reporter, which is how he met Isabella Munoz, a ballerina married to a high-ranking officer in the new regime.

Since he is one of the few people in Munoz’s orbit who can talk about art and culture without curling his lip in contempt, a forbidden romance quickly percolates between her and Vargas. Of course, the stakes are high. Her jealous husband could probably murder Vargas with impunity (especially considering Che did away with the bourgeoisie practice of holding trials). Love is not running smoothly for Vargas’s current housemates either, thanks to Katrina’s severe grandmother, who refuses to let Yuniesky, her pedicab driving husband, live with the rest of the family.

In many ways, the dead past continues to corrode the present throughout Sin Alas, just as it often does in Borges’ oeuvre. Working on Super 16m, Chace and accomplished indie cinematographer Sean Price Williams capture all the decaying grunginess of modern day Cuba with their washed-out looking palette. They also frame wide shots of the city-by-rooftop that evoke the look of Rio’s favelas. Yet, most striking are the flashbacks to 1967, which have a wonderfully stylish black-and-white noir look. We sort of wish these interludes would never end, but alas . . .

The native Cuban cast always look legit, because they are, but their collective skill level is a bit inconsistent. At least Carlos Padrón is rock-solid as Vargas, while Mario Limonta steals scene after scene as the former journalist’s crony. They have a terrific sequence together scouring Havana for old-timers who might know the tune literally haunting Vargas’s dreams.

It is sort of surprising Cuba okayed Sin Alas, because Munoz’s husband is no people’s hero. However, it is quite potent as a tale of lost, lingering love (although the Katrina-Yuniesky subplot is much less compelling). Aruán Ortiz’s distinctive classically-flavored Afro-Cuban soundtrack further heightens the elegiac vibe. It is all a rather impressive production, especially considering its limited resources. Recommended for those with a taste for nostalgic melancholy, Sin Alas opens today (5/4) in New York, at the Metrograph.

DF ’15: Hotel Nueva Isla

In Cuba, every building is dilapidated, but Jorge de los Rois’ home is particularly so. Perversely, he keeps making it worse and worse. Formerly one of Havana’s most exclusive luxury hotels, it is now a battered shell not even fit for squatters. However, de los Rios finds his reason for being bashing away at the walls and moldings in the dubious belief the pre-revolutionary owners left some great treasure somewhere within the guts of the structure. It is an increasingly lonely and Sisyphean existence documented (for lack of a better word) in Irene Gutiérrez Torres’ Hotel Nueva Isla (trailer here), which screens during MoMA’s 2015 Documentary Fortnight.

Once the Nueva Isla was a magnet for the city’s homeless population, but the unsound building has become too dangerous for all but the most desperate or committed squatters. Yet de los Rios continues to whack away. It is hard to speculate how monomaniacal he really is, given the narrative elements incorporated by Torres and her co-screenwriter and cinematographer Javier Labrador. Hopefully, the one-sided pillow talk mostly featuring de los Rios’ somewhat younger lover is entirely fictional, since he cannot be bothered to throw her the scantest of emotional bones. Still, the is something tragically compelling about him, sort of like Rinko Kikuchi’s character in Kumiko the Treasure Hunter, but about a thousand times less moving.

  

The symbolism of the broken down de los Rios and his broken down hotel are hard to miss. Betrayed by false promises and lean from poor nutrition, he is Cuba personified. There is simply no way to spin this fly-on-the-wall visit to the Nueva Isla as a positive for the genre. Yet, despite the added fictional veneer, HNI is a defiantly static film. Sometimes, it feels like watching the worst PBS handyman show ever: The New Socialist Workshop, starring Jorge de los Rios. This week, Jorge busts up debris with a hammer, just like last week, and the week before.

Without question, HNI makes Cuba look like an unremittingly crummy place to live. Since Torre and Labrador confine themselves to the Nueva Isla and rarely leave de los Rios’ side, the film necessarily feels claustrophobic. Nevertheless, wider concerns (such as the fate of his estranged son keen to try his luck with the desperate Florida crossing) occasionally manage to creep in.

Ironically, the treasure of Nueva Isla is right in front of his eyes, but de Los Rios cannot see it. The hotel once employed dozens if not hundreds of people and was a major multiplier for the neighborhood. It was something very valuable for many people, but now it is a wreck. Castro and his murderous ideology destroyed it well enough, but de los Rios keeps piling on.

Regardless, there is an awful lot of reality in HNI, but not much energy (you might wonder why Torres would compromise its vérité purity in a way that does not add much cinematic get-up-and-go). Honest in spirit with regards to the big picture, but more interesting in principle than as an actual viewing experience, Hotel Nueva Isla screens this Monday (2/16) and Tuesday (2/17) at MoMA, as part of this year’s Documentary Fortnight.

Una Noche: Cuba, Unvarnished

There are two Cuba’s: one for well-heeled Euro tourists, and one for Cubans.  When the two worlds mix, it often means trouble for the locals.  One Cuban teen understands that only too well.  Indeed, he has all kinds of reasons to flee the police state on a ramshackle raft and a hurried prayer.  Shot on location in Cuba, yet somehow still reflecting the country’s tragic real life circumstances, Lucy Mulloy’s Una Noche (trailer here) will transport audiences to the island dictatorship when it opens tomorrow in New York.

Raul is more or less a delinquent, but it is hard to judge him harshly once you know his backstory.  After years of servicing the tourist trade, his aging prostitute mother has contracted AIDS.  Despite all that great free healthcare, Raul is still forced to buy her medicine on the black market.  Always skirting the law, he has finally attracted serious police attention.  He and his mate Elio had planned to try their luck with the Florida Straights in due time, but Raul’s wanted status compels him to move up the timetable.

It will be hard for them both to leave Lila.  Elio has always had an unusually close and supportive relationship with his younger sister.  In contrast, Raul hardly knows her, but he has carried a torch for the Tae Kwon Do student from afar.  Nevertheless, they are prepared to depart by themselves, until the intuitive teen crashes their party.

Una Noche could be considered a case of life imitating art imitating life.  The narrative was inspired by the story of a harrowing attempted crossing that would be spoilery to relate in detail.  Subsequently, two of Mulloy’s three diamond-in-the-rough principles eventually defected to the America while en route to participate in Una Noche’s Tribeca press junket.  It is not hard to see why from Mulloy’s documentary-like street scenes.

It is not just the generally decrepit and unsanitary conditions of life outside the tourist enclaves that is so oppressive in Una Noche.  Mulloy captures the secret police at work, conveying all the fear and anxiety they generate.  When asked at a special screening why the Cuban government would allow permits for such an honest and unflattering production, she speculated they were perversely pleased with the tragic ending, seeing it as a tool to promote submission to state authority.  It is hard to argue with her line of reasoning, especially given the extent of her first hand experience.

Mulloy, a legitimately independent filmmaker, guides her earnest young cast through some first rate performances.  Perhaps Dariel Arechaga (the one who showed up on time at Tribeca) makes the strongest, edgiest impression as Raul, the nervy live wire.  Although it is a more tightly controlled performance, Anailín de la Rúa de la Torre is not far behind him as the slow burning Lila.  Convincingly repressed, Javier Núñez Florián’s Elio is perfectly solid in the more subservient, less showy role of the trio.

Do not be put off by the “Spike Lee Presents” business.  Mulloy admirably holds up a mirror the reality of Cuba today.  Unfortunately, she risks undermining the film with some creepy sexual matter that might come across like overkill to some viewers, whereas others might consider it a strange attempt to fetishize the characters’ desperate poverty.  As a result, Una Noche can only be recommended for mature adults.  However, those who can handle an occasional bit of grossness should definitely check it out.  Intense and forthright, Una Noche opens tomorrow (8/23) in New York at the IFC Center.

DocuWeeks NY ‘11: Unfinished Spaces

Evidently, revolutions eventually eat their own architecture. Cuba’s National Arts Schools were intended to be the jewel in the crown of Castro’s new regime. Five buildings designed in a strikingly modern style somewhat akin to that of Brazilian Marxist Oscar Niemeyer, the complex quickly fell out of official favor and into a state of disrepair. Forty years later, two of the three principal architects returned from exile to assist the start-and-stop restoration efforts. Both celebrated and reviled by critics, the complicated legacy of the ambitious project is explored in Alysa Nahmias and Benjamin Murray’s Unfinished Spaces (trailer here), which screens during the Oscar-qualifying DocuWeeks 2011 in New York.

Designed by the Cuban Ricardo Porro and his Italian expatriate colleagues Vittorio Garratti and Roberto Gottardi, the National Art Schools should have been a source of enduring national pride. Instead, the poor condition of the buildings is rather embarrassing. Though most of the schools currently remain in use, routine maintenance had been almost non-existent. Unfortunately, Castro’s advisors convinced him Soviet style Brutalism was much more suitable to Communism, putting the brakes on further construction and renovations for decades. Ironically, the oppressive concrete blocks do indeed fit his ideology to a “t.” To make matters worse, the Cuba’s leading diva ballerina also effectively vetoed the ballet’s school’s design when it was eighty percent complete. It remains unfinished to this day.

Of course, other minor factors further complicated efforts to complete the buildings. For instance, Garratti, the profoundly unlucky ballet school architect, was arrested on trumped-up espionage charges and eventually expelled from the country. Yet, Nahmias and Murray do their best to gloss over such inconvenient details. Indeed, they argue the greatest obstacle to a thorough restoration effort is—surprise, surprise—the American trade embargo. Indeed, Spaces’ reluctance to plum politically sensitive issues is glaringly apparent. For instance, the film never really explains the circumstances surrounding Porro’s banishment to Paris, where he has since prospered.

Straight forward in its approach, Spaces works best as an appreciation of expressionistic modernist architecture. Serving as cinematographer as well as co-director and co-producer, Murray captures all the faded beauty of the buildings, giving viewers a comprehensive sense of their character. The film also conveys an idea of what it is like to study at the crumbling campus through the reminiscences of former students, including jazz percussionist Dafnis Prieto, who also plays on the jaunty Afro-Cuban influenced soundtrack.

Strictly as an architectural documentary, Spaces is quite well produced and engaging. Yet, its conspicuous timidity with respect to the wider political and historical context of the National Arts Schools leaves many obvious questions awkwardly hanging in the air unanswered. Recommended specifically for those both adept at parsing propaganda and inclined towards avant-garde aesthetics (at least in terms of architecture), Spaces screens through Thursday (8/18) at the IFC Center as part of the first wave of DocuWeeks in New York.

Prisoner of Conscience: Oscar’s Cuba

It is not hard to see why the Castro brothers fear Dr. Oscar Elías Biscet. A medical doctor with commanding leading man looks, Dr. Biscet has been a selfless and tireless champion of human rights in Cuba. In short, he is everything they are not, which would make him a formidable political rival if Cuba were a free democracy. Of course, this is not the case. Imprisoned for years, usually in solitary confinement, Dr. Biscet has become a unifying symbol of hope and non-violent resistance throughout the island gulag as director Jordan Allott documents in Oscar’s Cuba (trailer here), a selection of the 2011 John Paul II Film Festival, which has a special screening this coming Wednesday in Las Vegas at the Clark County Library Theatre.

When allowed her brief bi-monthly visit, Dr. Biscet’s wife Elsa Morejon always brings him toilet paper, because his Communist captors refuse to supply such everyday staples necessary for basic human dignity. This ritual encapsulates the essence of the Cuban regime. However, it has not broken Dr. Biscet’s spirit according to those who have met him in prison. No stranger to Castro’s dungeons, thirty-six days after serving a three year prison sentence, Biscet was swept up again in the notorious 2003 Black Spring round-up of seventy-five Cuban dissidents. To this day, he remains in a dark, confined, unsanitary cell.

Born shortly after the unsuccessful Bay of Pigs invasion, Biscet has lived his entire life under the Castro police state. Yet, the dissident doctor has always maintained a profound Christian faith. In fact, much of the pro-life Biscet’s activism began in protest of the Communist government’s policies of forced abortions and even infanticide of premature newborns to bolster their internationally vaunted infant mortality statistics. He would become Cuba’s leading advocate of democratic reform and a proponent of non-violence, often referencing the works of Martin Luther King, Jr. and Henry David Thoreau.

Though not able to talk to the man himself (for obvious reasons), Allott interviews many of Biscet’s former prison-mates and fellow human rights activists without the sanction or supervision of the Cuban regime. We also hear from former Cuban political prisoner and U.S. Ambassador (to the UN Commission on Human Rights) Armando Valladares, a figure well worthy of his own documentary.

While clearly produced to spur grassroots activism, Allott still earns props for his on-the-spot undercover reporting, capturing first-hand the unsavory realities of Cuban life, like Castro’s thuggish flash-mobs sent to intimidate dissidents and their families. Jazz and Afro-Cuban music lovers will also appreciate the original score composed by bandleader-defector Arturo Sandoval, Dizzy Gillespie’s close collaborator and heir as the king of the trumpet’s uppermost registers.

Far too much of Oscar’s Cuba will come as a revelation to general audiences who rely on the absentee media for international news. Highly informative, but also an inspiring portrait of one man’s faith, courage, and dignity in the face of oppression, Oscar’s Cuba was a truly fitting selection for the JP2FF. Recommended along with a prayer for Dr. Biscet and his colleagues, Oscar’s Cuba screens this coming Wednesday (3/2) in Vegas (details here).

Tribeca ’09: Lost Son of Havana

Luis Tiant can do the impossible—he can get fans of both the New York Yankees and Boston Red Sox to agree on something. While loved and respected by Yankee fans for his two years in pinstripes, Tiant’s glory years were undeniably spent pitching for the Bosox. During his Boston stint, Tiant did everything humanly possible to end their World Series frustrations. Yet, more painful for Tiant than the team’s championship draught was his forty-six year exile from his native Cuba. His storied career and dramatic homecoming are now documented in Jonathan Hock’s Lost Son of Havana (trailer here), which premiered last night at this year’s Tribeca Film Festival.

Baseball is a national obsession in Cuba and it was the Tiant family business. At one time, Luis “Lefty” Tiant, Sr. had been a star pitcher for the Negro League’s New York Cubans as well as the Cuban professional league, but his eventual obscurity left him temporarily disillusioned with the game. Then he witnessed his son’s raw talent. Unfortunately, Tiant, Jr. got called to the Major Leagues just as Castro closed his iron fist around the island nation, resulting in the pitcher’s long separation from friends and family.

To Hock’s credit, he seems to harbor no illusions about the nature of Castro’s regime. After all, he and Tiant had a difficult time getting the authorities to authorize their entry permits. They were travelling under the auspices of an American amateur baseball team playing a “good will” game with their Cuban counterparts. As a condition of approval, the small crew of Lost was required to play in the match, essentially guaranteeing a lop-sided American loss, which they note, may well have been the point. Though the political situation is largely unaddressed, a corner of a Havana park dedicated to animated baseball discussions is tellingly described as the probably the only place where free speech exists in Cuba.

In between scenes of Tiant’s tearful reunions with loved ones, Hock details the highlights of his eventful years in the Majors. While showing early promise, an arm injury nearly ended his career. However, the dominating fastball thrower was able to reinvent himself as a crafty pitcher, much as his father has been. Time and again, Tiant was written off, but he kept clawing his way back into the league. His is a career with many highlights, but baseball analyst Peter Gammons convincingly argues Tiant’s game four victory in the 1975 World Series was his finest moment, won on pure guts alone. To use a sports cliché (and this is certainly the time for it), as a player, Tiant had heart.

Lost is a well-crafted documentary, featuring a peppy, Cuban-inspired soundtrack by Robert Miller. The talking head segments are a cut above average, featuring warm reminiscences by Carl Yastrzemski and Carlton Fisk that Boston fans should particularly enjoy. It also has some big names attached to it, including its producers, the Farrelly Brothers of Something About Mary fame, and narrator Chris Cooper. Tiant is star though, and he always seems quite likable and engaging throughout the film. It is a compelling story that should have broader appeal than most sports-related documentaries. It screens again during the Tribeca Film Festival on April 27th, April 30th, and May 2nd.

Pulp Fiction: Killing Castro

Killing Castro
By Lawrence Block
Cover art by Sharif Tarabay
Hard Case Crime

Killing Fidel Castro is a dangerous business. Would it be worth twenty grand in 1961 dollars? Heck, I know plenty of people who would be willing to do it for free, if there was a viable plan in place. Of course, that part about the feasible plan has been the tricky part, both in real life and in Lawrence Block’s pseudonymous hard-boiled 1961 paperback novel, Killing Castro, recently reprinted under the author’s actual name for the Hard Case Crime retro-pulp imprint.

Hard Case has a visible affection for the look of classic pulp, particularly the seductive femme fatale, preferably clad (or semi-clad) in something tight and low cut. Presumably, Sharif Tarabay’s appropriate cover depicts Maria, an anti-Castro freedom fighter who draws the unwelcome attention of Matt Garth, one of five American mercenaries sent to fulfill the title’s mission. Recruited with the brutish Garth are a stone cold bounty-hunter, a drifter with a murder wrap hanging over his head, a college student looking to avenge his brother, and the sharpest drawn character of Block's Cuban Rat Pack, Earl Fenton, a former bank teller with terminal lung cancer looking to give meaning to his impending death.

Of course, for a book like Killing Castro, characterization is a secondary concern, if it factors at all. The sex and violence are the real priority and there are plenty of both here. However, Block throws in a few interesting twists, pairing the Garth, easily the most despicable of the five prospective assassins, with Fenton, perhaps his most sympathetic character. As one of the anti-Castro guerillas confesses to the nebbish but driven American:

“When I first met you, I thought you were less of a man than you are. I mean that I did not know you would be good at the fighting. I thought you were a quiet man, you know?” (p. 136)

Weighing in at just over 200 pages, Killing Castro does not have the time for intricate plotting, but the conclusion truthfully comes as a tad bit of a surprise. His historical interludes explaining Castro’s rise to power and descent into dictatorship do not hold up as well, essentially blaming the precedent set by the Batista regime for the bearded one’s “revolutionary justice” meted out with firing squads, sans trials.

Even in 1961, Block was a professional grade writer, who could clearly produce entertaining pulp on demand. Unquestionably a man’s book, Killing Castro remains a quick, lurid read, living up to the expectations set by its cover.

Opening Next Week: Shoot Down

Armando Alejandre, Jr., Carlos Costa, Mario M. De La Peña, and Pablo Morales can no longer speak out against Cuban oppression themselves, but a new documentary tells their story. On February 24th, 1996, they were aboard two American planes deliberately shot down by Cuba MiG’s in international airspace. Springing into action, the Clinton Administration issued a series of strongly worded statements, and then proceeded to sweep the matter under the rug. Now the entire episode and its consequences are examined in-depth by Shoot Down (trailer here), a surprisingly even-handed new documentary opening in many cities next Friday.

The four men were part of Brothers to the Rescue (BTTR), an organization created to fly missions of mercy, patrolling for refugees in the Straights of Florida. It was estimated when BTTR was founded, only one in four Cubans who set out for Florida on ramshackle rafts would survive the journey. While their primary purpose was humanitarian, they would pass along observations of suspicious behavior to the Customs Service. Indeed, experts from Customs, the Atlantic Command, and Richard Nuccio, Clinton’s special advisor on Cuba, all praise BTTR’s initial efforts in early interview segments.

Basically, BTTR would spot survivors, drop down emergency water and supplies, and notify the Coast Guard to pick them up. However, their raison d'être was cut out from under them by the Clinton Administration. Nuccio explains: “From one day to the next, by a decision of Pres. Clinton, Cubans were no longer political refugees. They were now to be treated like refugees from any other country in the world.” He later adds: “This was the biggest change in the relationship between the United States government and the people of Cuba since the revolution itself had occurred, and it was made, frankly, without a lot of thought.”

With the change of law, BTTR could still offer emergency assistance, but the Coast Guard was now forced by law to return refugees to Cuba unless they could offer concrete proof they would face retribution on their return. Shoot Down documents how frustration with this policy led BTTR to some, the film argues, ill-advised ventures into Cuban airspace, even dropping leaflets over Havana during one flight. In truth, the filmmakers seem to have little love for BTTR co-founder Jose Basulto (at least during the final BTTR missions), but far less for the bearded dictator and his enforcers. Their treatment of BTTR’s more activist missions might be seen to reflect a bias that could prove controversial. (Ultimately, BTTR were men of action, looking for ways to help, but feeling powerless to do so because of an arbitrary decision made in Washington.)

Truly, director Cristina Khuly does not gloss over the arguably provocative nature of some of these flights, including the fateful flight on the 24th. This is all the more striking since her uncle was one of the four killed by the Cuban military. However, watching Shoot Down will give a complete step-by-step understanding of what happened during the incident. It is clear the two planes were shot down without any warning, well within international airspace. As an American University professor concludes, shooting down unarmed civilian aircraft, without warning or legitimate provocation, is never acceptable, regardless of whose airspace they might be flying in.

Perhaps no participant personifies the inner conflict of Shoot Down more than Nuccio, who seems plagued by regret, equally pained by decisions of his own administration and what he considered the intractable nature of Basulto. Conversely, Maggie Alejandre Khuly becomes the moral conscience of Shoot Down. She dismisses various conspiracy theories and criticizes Basulto for his recklessness. Yet she refuses to let that lessen the culpability Castro’s regime, stating emphatically: “the responsibility for this rests squarely on the Cuban government.”

Ms. Khuly is an inspiring figure, who would extract a small measure of justice from the rogue state. Unfortunately, she found little enthusiasm for her efforts from the administration, which displayed a strong desire to forget the entire incident. That is one reason Shoot Down is an important film—all the more so given its even-handed, rational presentation of the facts. Shoot Down also refocuses attention on the four men murdered on that day, who as part of BTTR helped save an estimated 5,000 lives. out.

To parse its biases, Shoot Down does represent BTTR as reckless in later missions, but does not ameliorate the guilt of Castro and his minions in the murder of the 24th. Some commentators do suggest taking steps to normalize relations, but it is not an overriding issue in the film. More than anything, it is Clinton whose image suffers, as it becomes clear he never cared about the fate of the Cuban people.

It is a thorough, uncompromising political documentary, which provides a valuable lesson in recent history. The film opens widely throughout Florida next Friday (as one would expect), but will also be playing in Houston (AMC Studio 30), DC (AMC Hoffman Center), LA (Mann Beverly Center), Chicago (AMC South Barrington), and other select cities. It is well worth seeking out.

Revolutionary Yawn

Given bassist Charlie Haden’s reputation for extremist politics, an interview titled “The Mind of a Revolutionary” in this month’s Downbeat conjures up expectations for some bomb-throwing from the composer of “Chairman Mao” and “Song for Che.” Surprisingly, it is a rather tepid in terms of political rhetoric, as it focuses almost solely on revolutions of a musical nature (perhaps the Democracy Now crowd will cry bait-and-switch).

Interviewed by a star-struck Ethan Iverson of the Bad Plus, the printed feature is dominated by discussions of Ornette Coleman’s music, and Haden’s insights here are quite valuable and well worth publishing and reading. Only late in the printed interview does Iverson prompt a political statement:

“Iverson: . . . I heard that in Litchfield you called for impeachment to the audience.
Haden: I sure did.”

Yawn. Unfortunately, belief that your personal political convictions should take precedence over the results of a democratic election qualify as pretty tame language from the hard left these days. Regardless, it was not followed-up in print, or in the online supplement. One wonders whether that was a Downbeat editorial choice or Haden’s heart just was not in it on that day.

Haden played on some incredible sessions, particularly with Coleman. However, his hero-worship for dictators like Mao and Castro, and terrorists like Che deserves to be challenged. It would indeed be timely to ask him about the human rights movement, slowly growing in Cuba, despite brutal government reprisals.

For instance, how does he feel about the government throwing teenagers in prison for the crime of wearing white bracelets? How would characterize Vaclav Havel’s work on behalf of Cuban democracy advocates? His reaction to the recent awarding of the German Dr. Rainer Hildebrandt Medal for human rights to the Cuban political prisoners Dr. Oscar Biscet and Normando Hernandez would be particularly telling. However, Iverson, obviously in awe of the bassist, was hardly the interviewer to raise tough questions. The fact remains it is one of the more pleasant Haden interviews published.

Celia the Musical

The recent track record of Broadway jukebox musicals has been mixed, from the highly successful Jersey Boys to the short-lived Ring of Fire. Although New World Stages technically qualifies as Off-Broadway, it is very Broadway-like in the commercial nature of its productions. Their new entry into jukebox musical market, Celia: the Life and Music of Celia Cruz, which opened the 26th, succeeds largely due to its honesty and its faithfulness to her music.

Singing the songs of Cruz is Xiomara Laugart, and she is a natural fit for the role. Clearly, she can identify with the dramatic events of Cruz’s life, having, as the NY Daily News reports: “defected to the U.S. almost a decade ago without a penny in her pocket or a command of the English language, yet managed to resume her career and build a new life.” Laugart has a strong voice and demonstrates an affinity for the repertoire, including most of the favorite hits from Cruz’s career, including: “Quimbara,” “Guantanamera,” and “Yo Viviré (I Will Survive)”. She really is a powerful vocalist who wins over the audience immediately.

Laugart is supported by a fantastic Latin combo, seated on stage Chicago-style, up from the pit. They even get a wardrobe change during intermission, from tuxedos appropriate to the pre-revolutionary clubs of Havana, to seventies style flora prints.

Led by Isidro Infante, a veteran of bands led by Cruz, Tito Puente, and Machito, the Celia combo sounds like a much larger group than their seven pieces. As the orchestrator and musical director, he gets the music right. Percussionists Luisito and Robert Quintero, who have recorded with the Caribbean Jazz Project, keep a strong rhythmic pulse going. At one point, Luisito Quintero channels Tito Puente, showing off the drumstick-around-the-head orison. Unfortunately, Nelson Gonzalez’s tres is largely overwhelmed in the mix, as he has a very tasteful, but all too brief solo that left one wanting to hear more.

The drama is largely supplied by Modesto Lacén as Cruz’s widower husband Pedro Knight, telling his nurse (recording artist Pedro Capó) about life with his beloved Celia. It is basically a narrative framing device to keep the musical numbers in context, but Lacén’s Knight is still touching at times. Capó has some impressive numbers, and a few effective dramatic moments with Lacén, as well. Also, Wilson Mendieta’s depiction of Johnny Pacheco and his exuberant conducting style should amuse salsa fans.

To its credit, Celia the musical deals with the realities of the Castro regime and Cruz’s resulting exile directly and forthrightly. The book by Carmen Rivera & Candido Tirado makes it clear there would be no artistic freedom in Cuba after 1959. We see the corruption and arbitrary abuses of power from party bureaucrats and the suffering inflicted on musicians like Cruz and Knight. In one of the musical’s heaviest dramatic episodes, Celia portrays the pain Cruz felt when she was unable to attend her mother’s funeral due to Castro’s banishment decree.

Celia is well staged, nicely capturing the excitement of major events like the Fania All-Stars concert at Yankee Stadium. It deftly handles the trials of Cruz’s life, without dampening the joy of the music. There are only two English language performances each week—Saturdays at 5:00 and Sundays at 7:00. I attended the Saturday show, and if it representative of other shows, one can expect to feel a real collective spirit in an audience eager to express its love for Cruz (New World Stages also sells Sangria in the theater, which does not hurt the good vibe). Celia is an entertaining show that moves along at a good clip and features a great musical performance by Laugart in the title role. Her fans won’t be disappointed, and the music of Celia Cruz should win over anyone with open ears. (Read Val's reaction and his personal reflections on Celia Cruz here.)

Celia Media

The cast of Celia: The Life and Music of Celia Cruz had their press day yesterday in their new home, the second theater of New World Stages, the Off-Broadway theater complex. After a previously announced opening of September 12th, it is now set to officially launch September 26th. Coincidently, that debut will also mark the opening of the Smithsonian’s traveling Celia Cruz ¡Azúcar! exhibit at the Museo Alameda in San Antonio, the next leg of its tour. Cruz’s life and legacy look to be well remembered in 2007, just over five years after her death.

The set backdrop used for the event clearly evokes the Old Colonial Spanish architecture of Havana. As for the lead, Xiomara Laugart Sanchez looks well cast as Cruz. Celia will only have two English language performances each week—Saturdays at 5:00 and Sundays at 7:00. During the media session some reporters expressed surprise that there would be any English performances (which seemed odd, given that their interviews were in English). At one point Sanchez spoke of music having no country, and indeed, the music will be the crucial factor in making Celia a success. The fact that Latin music veteran Isidro Infante (who has worked with legends like Cruz, Tito Puente, and the great Machito) serves as musical director is a good sign. Celia’s band also includes former Cruz sideman Luisito Quintero, and Robert Quintero, who has played with the Caribbean Jazz Project. The appearances of Puente and Johnny Pacheco as minor characters are also encouraging factors.

The other crucial test for Celia will be its handling of her years in exile as a result of the rise of Castro’s dictatorship. Perhaps more than any other artist she represented the greatness of Cuba’s musical heritage, no longer welcome in its native land. Paquito D’Rivera devotes a full chapter to her importance in his memoir, writing:

“Celia was one of those special artists, who even away from her homeland became, without realizing it, the person most representative of Cuban national character, with all of its virtues and none of its vices. She tore down all types of racial and generational barriers and transcended all musical, political, sexual, and religious prejudices.” (p. 336-337)

With persistent rumors swirling about Castro’s health, it would be a fitting historical irony if Celia’s opening coincided with the death of the dictator. Regardless, Cruz was a true icon, deserving of a lavish stage tribute.

Los Zafiros

Los Zafiros: Music from the Edge of Time
Directed by Lorenzo DeStefano
Shout! Factory

To understate matters, 1962 was an interesting year in Cuba to form a vocal quintet heavily influenced by American doo-wop. However, that is exactly what Los Zafiros (The Sapphires) did, becoming tremendously popular (both in Cuba and on world tours) for nearly two decades, fusing vocal harmonies with bossa, rumba, and conga rhythms. The two living members of Los Zafiros reunite for music and reminiscences in the documentary Los Zafiros: Music from the Edge of Time (trailer here).

Miguel Cancio, an original founding member, currently lives in Florida, but was allowed to return to Cuba with filmmaker Lorenzo DeStefano’s crew. Having immigrated to America, leaving behind friends and family, Cancio’s story is wrapped up in themes of exile, belonging, and patriotism. In an early interview Cancio says:

“I adore my country because he who doesn’t love his country, loves no one. I feel I am a good Cuban, but this is my second country.”

His surviving colleague is Manuel Galbán, whose long career in Cuban music started as Los Zafiros’ guitarist, and included several groups after the quintet’s demise, including an association with the Buena Vista Social Club. As Paquito D’Rivera explains in his autobiography, international touring is the goal of every professional Cuban musician, so it is with understandable pride that Galbán states: “I’ve been on tour 93 times and as long as I’m alive, I want to keep representing my country’s culture.”

There is a political subtext to Zafiros that remains largely unspoken throughout the film. It appears that Cancio opted for freedom in the U.S., while Galbán has come to terms with the Castro regime. Yet they greet each other as brothers, laughing and performing together with joy during their reunion.

There are some dramatic scenes in the film, as when Cancio visits with the brother of a late band-mate. There are many spirited performances as well. The original Zafiros remained so popular they actually spawned a new, younger version, Los Nuevos Zafiros, who join with Cancio and Galbán for a performance of “Ofelia,” one of the film’s highlights, enjoyed by a street audience, including the composer, Guillermo Belén Pacheco.

The music of Los Zafiros is actually a very satisfying blend of American style doo-wop and Latin rhythms. The extra section includes four entire performances that emphasize their Cuban sabor, including “Rumba Como Quiera” and “Congo Len.” Also included in the generous extras are deleted scenes, including the revelation of Los Zafiros’ Stuart Sutcliffe (the film often suggests they were the Cuban equivalent of the Beatles), Oscar Aguirre, their first guitarist who parted company with the group prior to their enormous success.

Los Zafiros definitely aims for a Buena Vista appeal, and it is not an inappropriate comparison. Despite the feeling one gets when watching Zafiros that so much is going unsaid, their music is distinctive and quite infectious, and ultimately the music is what their story is all about.