Nota publicada por Angela Aleiss el 27 de marzo de 2014 en indiancountrytodaymedianetwork.com. La cinta se proyectará el 29 de marzo en el Billy Wilder Theater de UCLA.
Recovered and Restored: Ramona, Silent Movie by Chickasaw Filmmaker
The recently restored 1928 version of Ramona will have its world premiere on March 29 in Los Angeles. Based on a weepy, once-popular novel by Helen Hunt Jackson, Ramona tells the story of a mixed-race (Scottish and American Indian) girl who is raised by a Mexican family and suffers racial discrimination. The 1928 film version features internationally acclaimed Mexican actress Dolores del Río in the title role and non-Native actor Warner Baxter as her ill-fated Indian husband Alessandro.
The lead actors may not have been racially authentic, but the man in the director’s chair was certainly well suited to the material: Edwin Carewe, a Chickasaw filmmaker who directed dozens of films in the silent era.
“Most people don’t realize that Edwin was an American Indian,” says Diane Allen, granddaughter of Carewe. Allen’s grandmother was actress Mary Aiken, who had married Carewe twice, in 1925 and 1929. “Even though he didn’t make films portraying Indians, he chose movies and cast roles that promoted the underdog, especially the female character,” Allen adds.
Ramona has been performed on stage annually since 1923 in Hemet, California — the website of the Ramona Bowl Amphitheater touts the play as both «America’s longest running drama» and the «Official California state outdoor play.» Carewe’s film was the third screen version of Jackson’s novel; the movie is silent with a running time of approximately 80 minutes.
“I think he’s underappreciated,” Allen says of her grandfather. “Really, he was a bit ahead of his time. He was obsessed with the female character and women in general.”
Carewe is known as the director who discovered actress Dolores del Río in Mexico and convinced her to move to Hollywood. He was hoping to transform Del Río into a star to match the appeal of silent screen “Latin Lover” Rudolph Valentino.
“[Carewe] had a passion for women and their beauty and their talent,” Allen says by phone from her home in Los Angeles. In fact, Del Río made at least seven pictures with the director.
Edwin Carewe’s real name was Jay Fox, and he was born in Gainesville, Texas, in 1883 and died in Los Angeles in 1940. His brothers Finis (1881-1949) and Wallace (1885-1958) were both accomplished Hollywood producers and screenwriters. All three brothers appear on the 1907 Chickasaw rolls of the Five Civilized Tribes.
Today, few are aware of Carewe’s rather prolific Hollywood career. According to Imdb.com, he directed 58 films, produced 20, acted in 47, and wrote screenplays for four. Older brother Finis had written Ramona’s screenplay and created its intertitles.
But for decades, Ramona was thought to be lost until archivists rediscovered it in the Národní Filmový Archiv in Prague. (Studios distributed their movies overseas, and many have since surfaced in Eastern Europe’s hidden vaults.) The Motion Picture, Broadcasting and Recorded Sound Division of the Library of Congress later transferred Ramona’s highly flammable original nitrate print to acetate safety stock.
The job of translating the Czech intertitles into English was especially challenging. “To us, the key was trying to get the [English] words back in there,” says Rob Stone, the Library’s Moving Image Curator. He adds that Ramona “is a downer of a story, but it’s a great movie.”
The UCLA Film & Television Archive will premiere Ramona in its Billy Wilder Theater with live musical accompaniment by the Mont Alto Motion Picture Orchestra. The Archive’s Head of Public Programs Shannon Kelley says the opportunity to screen Carewe’s restored film at UCLA “represents a tremendous honor.”
Ramona (1928) Preserved by the Library of Congress (Rob Stone, Mike Mashon, Lynanne Schweighofer) in associationwith Národní Filmový Archiv.
Directed by Edwin Carewe
Ramona, the young, half-breed ward of an oppressive California sheep rancher, realizes that her indigenous blood has impeded her life’s happiness. Eloping with Indian chieftain Alessandro, Ramona seeks a new life embracing her heritage, but endures tragedy and loss before tenderness and affirmation re-emerge as possibilities.
Inspiration Pictures, Inc. Screenwriter: Finis Fox, based on the novel by Helen Hunt Jackson. Cinematographer: Robert Kurrle. Editor: Jeanne Spencer. Cast: Dolores del Río, Warner Baxter, Roland Drew, Vera Lewis. Michael Visaroff. 35mm, b/w, silent, approx. 80 min.
Cine Silente Mexicano is in debt with Mike Dash and his blog, A Blast from the Past where this essay was first published.
Uncovering the Truth Behind the Myth of Pancho Villa, the Actor
The first casualty of war is truth, they say, and nowhere was that more true than in Mexico during the revolutionary period between 1910 and 1920. In all the blood and chaos that followed the overthrow of Porfirio Diaz, who had been dictator of Mexico since 1876, what was left of the central government in Mexico City found itself fighting several contending rebel forces—most notably the Liberation Army of the South, commanded by Emiliano Zapata, and the Chihuahua-based División del Norte, led by the even more celebrated bandit-rebel Pancho Villa–and the three-cornered civil war that followed was notable for its unrelenting savagery, its unending confusion and (north of the Rio Grande, at least) its unusual film deals. Specifically, it is remembered for the contract Villa was supposed to have signed with a leading American newsreel company in January 1914. Under the terms of this agreement, it is said, the rebels undertook to fight their revolution for the benefit of the movie cameras in exchange for a large advance, payable in gold.
Even at this early date, there was nothing especially surprising about Pancho Villa (or anyone else) inking a deal that allowed cameras access to the areas that they controlled. Newsreels were a coming force. Cinema was growing rapidly in popularity; attendance at nickelodeons had doubled since 1908, and an estimated 49 million tickets were sold each week in the U.S. by 1914. Those customers expected to see some news alongside the melodramas and comedy shorts that were the staples of early cinema. And there were obvious advantages in controlling the way in which the newsreel men chose to portray the Revolution, particularly for Villa, whose main bases were close to the U.S. border.
What made Villa’s contract so odd, though, was its terms, or at least the terms it was said to have contained. Here’s how the agreement he reached with the Mutual Film Company is usually described:
In 1914, a Hollywood motion picture company signed a contract with Mexican revolutionary leader Pancho Villa in which he agreed to fight his revolution according to the studio’s scenario in return for $25,000. The Hollywood crew went down to Mexico and joined Villa’s guerrilla force. The director told Pancho Villa where and how to fight his battles. The cameraman, since he could only shoot in daylight, made Pancho Villa start fighting every day at 9:00 a.m. and stop at 4:00 p.m.—sometimes forcing Villa to cease his real warring until the cameras could be moved to a new angle.
It sounds outlandish—not to say impractical. But the story quickly became common currency, and indeed, the tale of Pancho Villa’s brief Hollywood career has been turned into a movie of its own. [Rocha] Accounts sometimes include elaborations; it is said that Villa agreed that no other film company would be permitted to send representatives to the battlefield, and that, if the cameraman did not secure the shots he needed, the División del Norte would re-enact its battles later. And while the idea that there was a strict ban on fighting outside daylight hours is always mentioned [De los Reyes p. 113] in these secondary accounts, that prohibition is sometimes extended; in another, semi-fictional, re-imagining, recounted by Leslie Bethel, Villa tells Raoul Walsh, the early Hollywood director: “Don’t worry, Don Raúl. If you say the light at four in the morning is not right for your little machine, well, no problem. The executions will take place at six. But no later. Afterward we march and fight. Understand?” [Bethell p. 459] Whatever the variations in accounts of Pancho’s film deal, though, it ends the same way. There’s always this sting in the tale:
When the completed film was brought back to Hollywood, it was found too unbelievable to be released—and most of it had to be reshot on the studio lot.
Today’s post is an attempt to uncover the truth about this little-known incident–and, as it turns out, it’s a story that is well worth telling, not least because, researching it, I found that tale of Villa and his movie contract informs the broader question how just how accurate other early newsreels were. So this is also a post about the borderlands where truth meets fiction, and the problematic lure of the entertaining story. Finally, it deals in passing with the odd way that fictions can become real, if they are rooted in the truth and enough people believe them.
We should begin by noting that the Mexican Revolution was an early example of a 20th-century “media war”: a conflict in which opposing generals duked it out not only on the battlefield, but also in the newspapers and in cinema “scenarios.” At stake were the hearts and minds of the government and people of the United States—who could, if they wished, intervene decisively on one side or another. Because of this, the Revolution saw propaganda evolve from the crude publication of rival “official” claims into more subtle attempts to control the views of the journalists and cameramen who flooded into Mexico. Most of them were inexperienced, monoglot Americans, and almost all were as interested in making a name for themselves as they were in untangling the half-baked policies and shifting allegiances that distinguished the Federales from the Villistas from the Zapatistas. The result was a rich stew of truth, falsity and reconstruction.
There was plenty of bias, most of it in the form of prejudice against Mexican “greasers.” There were conflicts of interest as well. Several American media owners had extensive commercial interests in Mexico; William Randolph Hearst, who controlled vast tracts in northern Mexico, wasted no time in pressing for U.S. intervention when Villa plundered his estates, appropriating 60,000 head of cattle. [De Orellana pp. 17, 80] And there was eagerness to file ticket-selling, circulation-boosting sensation, too; Villa himself was frequently portrayed as “a monster of brutality and cruelty,” particularly later in the war, when he crossed the border and raided the town of Columbus, New Mexico.
Much was exaggerated. The Literary Digest noted, with a jaundiced eye:
“Battles” innumerable have been fought, scores of armies have been annihilated, wiped out, blown up, massacred and wholly destroyed according to the glowing reports of commanders on either side, but the supply of cannon fodder does not appear to have diminished appreciably…. Never was there a war in which more gunpowder went off with less harm to the opposing forces. [Literary Digest, 16 May 1914; Katz p. 323]
What is certain is that fierce competition for “news” produced a situation ripe for exploitation. All three of the principal leaders of the period—Villa, Zapata and the Federal generalissimo Victoriano Huerta—sold access and eventually themselves to U.S. newsmen, trading inconvenience for the chance to position themselves as worthy recipients of foreign aid.
Huerta got things off and running, compelling the cameramen who filmed his campaigns to screen their footage for him so he could censor it. [De Orellana pp. 22-24] But Villa was the one who maximized his opportunities. The upshot, four years into the war, was the rebel general’s acceptance of the Mutual Film contract.
The New York Times broke the news on January 7, 1914:
Pancho Villa, General in Command of the Constitutionalist Army in Northern Mexico, will in future carry on his warfare against President Huerta as a full partner in a moving-picture venture with [Mutual’s] Harry E. Aitken…. The business of Gen. Villa will be to provide moving picture thrillers in any way that is consistent with his plans to depose and drive Huerta out of Mexico, and the business of Mr. Aitken, the other partner, will be to distribute the resulting films throughout the peaceable sections of Mexico and to the United States and Canada.
Nothing in this first report suggests that the contract was anything more than a broad agreement guaranteeing privileged access for Mutual’s cameramen. A few weeks later, though, came word of the Battle of Ojinaga, a northern town defended by a force of 5,000 Federales, and for the first time there were hints that the contract included special clauses. Several newspapers reported that Villa had captured Ojinaga only after a short delay while Mutual’s cameramen moved into position. [De Orellana pp. 47-48]
The rebel was certainly willing to accommodate Mutual in unusual ways. The New York Times reported that, at the film company’s request, he had replaced his casual battle dress with a custom-made comic opera general’s uniform to make him look more imposing. The uniform remained the property of Mutual, and Villa was forbidden to wear it in front of any other cameramen. [New York Times, 14 February 1914] There is also decent evidence that elements of the División del Norte were pressed into service to stage re-enactments for the cameras. Raoul Walsh recalled Villa gamely doing take after take of a scene “of him coming towards the camera. We’d set up at the head of the street, and he’d hit that horse with a whip and his spurs and go by at ninety miles an hour. I don’t know how many times we said ‘Despacio, despacio,‘—Slow, señor, please!’ [Brownlow, War pp. 101-102]
But the contract between the rebel leader and Mutual Films proves to have been a good deal less proscriptive than popularly supposed. The only surviving copy, unearthed in a Mexico City archive by Villa’s biographer Friedrich Katz, lacks all the eye-opening clauses that have made it famous: “There was absolutely no mention of reenactment of battle scenes or of Villa providing good lighting,” Katz explained. “What the contract did specify was that the Mutual Film Company was granted exclusive rights to film Villa’s troops in battle, and that Villa would receive 20% of all revenues that the films produced.” [Katz p. 325]
The notion of a contract that called for war to be fought Hollywood-style, in short, is myth–though they did not stop TheNew York Times from hazarding, on January 8, 1914, that “if Villa wants to be a good business partner… he will have to make a great effort so that the cameramen can carry out their work successfully. He will have to make sure that the interesting attacks take place when the light is good and the killings are in good focus. This might interfere with military operations that, in theory, have other objectives.” [New York Times, 8 January 1914] A Spanish-language newspaper, similarly, condemned Villa for “speculating with the blood of Mexicans.” [De Orellana p. 46]
On Jan. 26, 1914, a ragtag revolutionary army of some 10,000 infantry and cavalry, led by a wily and charismatic horseman named José Doroteo Arango Arámbula—better known as Francisco «Pancho» Villa—approached the city of Durango, capital of the Mexican state of the same name. Villa was then commander of the División del Norte and caudillo, or leader, of the northern Mexican state of Chihuahua. His imminent attack on Durango was part of a larger campaign to march on Mexico City and wrest control of a bloody revolution that since 1910 had sundered the nation. Refugees from the fighting told Villa of a strong federal garrison inside Durango. Villa—something of a natural tactician and by then a veteran skirmisher—sent his cavalry armed with modern rifles to encircle the garrison and cut off any retreat. Although Villa’s horse soldiers wore motley, makeshift uniforms, they reportedly maneuvered with all the élan of U.S. Army regulars.
As the cavalry split up and rode off on their flanking movement, the rebel infantry prepared for a frontal assault on the garrison. They formed into three long battle lines and attacked with a fervor conspicuously absent among the more smartly dressed federales.
Once Villa’s men swarmed over the walls and battered their way through the front gate, the battle for Durango ended quickly—too quickly for a pair of noncombatants closely following the action: Raoul Walsh, a handsome young American actor and (soon to be famous) director, and Hennie Aussenberg, his veteran German cameraman. Their presence signaled one of the strangest episodes in American cine-ma and a first in military history. For American film pioneer D.W. Griffith’s Mutual Film Corp. they were shooting a feature movie—docudrama? newsreel? reality show?—about Villa, even as the general’s troops fought an actual bloody revolutionary war, with real casualties.
Walsh and Aussenberg advanced into Durango with Villa’s infantry, occasionally stepping over the body of a fallen villista. Bullets had splattered around them, and they had gotten some dramatic footage of the fighting, but to their disappointment most of the combat was over by the time they entered town. The rebels were rounding up prisoners and hanging several federales accused of murdering civilians, and Villa had already entered Durango.
Walsh decided he needed to restage history. He asked one of Villa’s officers to coax the general into riding through the city gates again, this time with his victorious troops whooping, shouting and firing their weapons into the air. Villa loved the idea. The general was, as Walsh later observed, «a hog for publicity.» Villa had his military victory. Walsh would soon have his movie.
From 1912 into the 1960s Raoul Walsh acted in, directed or produced nearly 150 films. Starting as a protégé of D.W. Griffith—he played John Wilkes Booth in Griffith’s Birth of a Nation (1915)—Walsh did more to establish the careers of great film actors than any other filmmaker: John Wayne, whose breakthrough film was Walsh’s The Big Trail (1930); James Cagney, whom he directed in two gangster classics, The Roaring Twenties (1939) and White Heat (1949); Errol Flynn, as George Armstrong Custer in They Died With Their BootsOn (1941); and Humphrey Bogart and Ida Lupino, who became major stars in the film noir classic High Sierra (1941). Yet the most improbable feature Walsh directed was his first, starring the real-life revolutionary Villa.
The revolution itself had begun in 1910 as a revolt against longtime dictator Porfirio Díaz and devolved into a bloody civil war, with numerous factions fighting for control of Mexico. Francisco Madero, an aristocratic idealist and progressive, had become president after Díaz was deposed. In 1913 Madero was forced to resign, then betrayed and assassinated by one of his generals, Victoriano Huerta, who soon assumed power. In 1914 Huerta, too, was overthrown after little more than a year of unrest capped by the American occupation of Veracruz. Venustiano Carranza, once a minister of war in Madero’s cabinet, became president. Carranza, an educated man from a prosperous family, lacked the sympathy for land reform that motivated revolutionaries like Villa. He attempted to call at least a temporary halt to the revolution. Villa, who believed the revolution’s major aims had not been achieved, began fighting on his own.
The mountainous state of Chihuahua was a natural base from which to carry on a revolution. It bordered the United States, which could be either an advantage or a detriment, depending on how one played politics. To Villa, even then a media-savvy revolutionary, it proved an advantageous location. He was mindful of the importance of newspaper coverage of his exploits and was intrigued by the possibilities of what was then a nascent medium: motion pictures. No one knows how Villa and Griffith first made contact. Quite possibly it was Villa’s idea, as he loved movies and enjoyed watching himself in the early newsreels. What is known is that on Jan. 5, 1914, only a few weeks after his soldados occupied Ciudad Chihuahua in an attempt to cripple government power in the north, Villa signed a contract with Griffith’s Mutual Film, represented by partner Harry E. Aitken.
Two days later The New York Times reported on the deal:
The business of General Villa will be to provide moving picture thrillers in any way that is consistent with his plans to depose and drive General Huerta out of Mexico, and the business of Mr. Aitken, the other partner, will be to distribute the resulting films throughout the peaceable sections of Mexico and the United States and Canada. To make sure that the business will be a success, Mr. Aitken dispatched to General Villa’s camp last Saturday a squad of four moving picture men with apparatus designed especially to take pictures on battlefields.
«For the film industry,» Friedrich Katz wrote in his The Life and Times of Pancho Villa, «this contract was very important. Newsreels were a relatively new genre, and the film industry was greatly interested in their development. For the first time, people who had never been involved in a war could actually see what war was like.»
Walsh would recall some 60 years later in his highly embellished 1974 memoir, Every Man in His Time, that he was watching dailies in a California projection room when he got the call from producer Frank Woods, who said Griffith wanted to see him right away.
«Mr. Woods tells me you have spent some time in Mexico,» Griffith said. Walsh confirmed he had. Griffith introduced him to two of Mutual’s moneymen from New York and explained what seemed an outlandish idea: Mutual had made a deal with Villa to shoot a picture about him and his army, which was then in Chihuahua preparing for a new campaign. Did Walsh want the job? Without hesitation he said he did. «You will direct the picture,» Griffith said. «Mutual will supply a cameraman, and General Villa will be paid $500 in gold each month while the production is going on.»
Griffith did not mention then that Walsh would have a double assignment: The picture would be a blend of fiction and documentary, and in the fictional part Walsh himself would be playing Villa as a young man. All Walsh wanted to know was when would he start. He would be leaving in about four hours, Griffith told him. There was no script; Griffith gave him a fanciful biography of Villa that supposedly would fill him on the general’s early life. (Walsh later said he had only three hours to read the book during the 800-plus-mile train ride from Los Angeles to El Paso.) Griffith’s parting words were, «That should give you time to start the story. The sequences will take care of themselves. Good luck, Mr. Walsh.» And so Albert Edward «Raoul» Walsh, 27, actor and aspiring filmmaker, former sailor and cowboy, headed for revolutionary Mexico and the strangest adventure of his life.
As Walsh boarded the Sunset Limited at Los Angeles’ Union Station, he got one more piece of advice from Woods: «Think up a story that the general will like, and for God’s sake, never refer to him as a bandit.»
When Walsh arrived in El Paso, he met Villa lieutenant Manuel Ortega, «a middle-aged Mexican in the biggest sombrero I had ever yet seen.» Walsh had the foresight to dress Western style, in hand-stitched boots and leather jacket, topped by a carefully rolled Stetson. The two climbed into a waiting car and sped off across the border. As they approached Villa’s headquarters somewhere near Chihuahua’s capital city, Ortega had one request: that the American wear a blindfold. Why? Walsh wondered, given that every child in Juárez certainly knew of Villa’s whereabouts. Whatever the reason, Walsh decided, it added more drama to the situation.
Villa’s camp, Walsh observed, was nothing like any army installation he had ever seen: «There were no tents. Everybody was stretched out on blankets and serapes, and none of the soldiers wore uniforms: a big sombrero, dirty cotton trousers and shirt, a bandolier of bullets and a gun were all that distinguished them from the hucksters and enchilada peddlers.» He met and shook hands with the general. Walsh found him «a big man physically: big black mustache, big head, wide shoulders, thick body and eyes that reminded me of something wild in a cage.» He was, Walsh thought on meeting him, naturally charismatic. Ortega announced, «The general wants to see the money.» Walsh opened his satchel and put it on the table; Villa took a $20 gold piece, turned it over in his fingers and dropped it back in the bag.
On the journey from Los Angeles, Walsh had had an intuitive flash: Present the script idea orally, not in written form. So he’d memorized his notes. «The picture,» he told Villa and his staff, «will be seen by millions of people in the United States and other countries. It will show General Villa as a boy, living with his mother and sister outside Hidalgo del Parral. As he grew up, he got work as a vaquero on a nearby ranch. …When he heard of an opening on the big Terrazas hacienda in southern Chihuahua, he embraced his mother and sister and rode away after leaving them the little money he had.»
Translate that to the general, Walsh told Ortega, and see if he likes it. Actually, while Villa felt awkward about speaking English, he understood it fairly well and already liked the Hollywood flair of the story. The rest of Walsh’s plot involved Villa returning to Parral to find his mother and sister raped and murdered by federales—at least that’s the way Walsh related it in his autobiography. Actually, Villa did maintain that one of the owners of the hacienda where he was born tried to rape his sister, and Villa shot him in revenge; Frank McLynn, author of Villa and Zapata, casts doubt on the veracity of this incident, but Villa certainly appreciated the impact of the story. Walsh noted that as Villa listened, his eyes changed: «Now they shone as he licked his lips briefly. I thought of a jaguar getting ready to spring.»
Walsh ran through some of the lines Villa’s character would relate in captions on the silent screen: «I swear before God that I will raise an army and destroy these murderers. Then I will ride to Mexico City and pull down the government which hires them.» The general smiled and nodded. «He wishes to congratulate you,» Ortega said. «The general says he will be pleased for you to make the story, and he will take good care of you, because if you were killed, there will be no picture for the world to see.»
Walsh’s cameraman finally arrived, and the campaign—both Villa’s and Walsh’s—began. Villa’s men had commandeered a train belonging to the Mexican Central Railroad and piled the boxcars high with military equipment and cans of water. The water, Walsh noted, was yellow and muddied; «I would not have washed a dog in it, let alone drink the stuff.» He instructed an assistant to ride back to El Paso and fill some cans with potable water.
The revolutionary army’s first destination was the federal-held town of Durango, south of Parral, which they took in a matter of hours. Villa’s final destination was Mexico City and control of the nation. But while still in Durango, Walsh and Villa continued to tailor revolutionary realities to fit their film: When the villistas released a few woebegone prisoners from the Durango jail, Walsh restaged the event in a more cinematic style. He conferred with Ortega and Villa, and the general ordered several companies of his men to doff their sombreros and bandoliers, stack their rifles and enter the jail. The soldiers, initially confused, were then instructed that when one of Villa’s lieutenants fired his pistol, they were to rush from the jail yelling, «Viva Villa!» in praise of their «liberator.» One soldier—perhaps an early proponent of method acting—got so enthusiastic that he ran up, grabbed his commanding officer by the ankle and kissed his boot.
Walsh even staged a mock battle between Villa’s soldiers and some federales. On Villa’s orders his reluctant soldados stripped caps, boots and bloody jackets off their dead enemies. «Once they got over their reluctance to don the hated uniforms,» Walsh later wrote, «everything became a big joke to them. I had never heard of troops under fire grinning like apes at one another or the enemy.»
While filming the combat scenes, Walsh decided Villa’s men didn’t look «martial» enough—neither, for that matter, did the general. Someone on the crew hastily assembled a formal uniform for Villa, who wore it proudly for the movie and then promptly discarded it. That episode led to one of the strangest rumors of the campaign. According to a later account by Walsh, during production Villa’s troops wore what appeared to be regular army uniforms, which the director claimed Griffith had donated. The uniforms reportedly looked very much like those worn by Griffith’s Confederate soldiers in Birth of a Nation. Thus Villa may have appeared in his autobiographical film wearing the uniform of a Confederate Civil War officer. The problem with the story is that Birth of a Nation wasn’t filmed until after Walsh returned from Mexico; it is possible, though, that Griffith had contributed surplus uniforms ordered in advance for his Civil War epic. The story has never been verified.
When the revolutionary army left Durango for the nearly 500-mile journey to Mexico City, it had grown to nearly 9,000 men, many armed with rifles, pistols (including U.S. Army Colt automatics) and even some machine guns purchased with the gold from Griffith’s Mutual Films. Villa’s army marched into Mexico City on February 17. The occupation of the capital city, compared to the Durango campaign, was relatively bloodless. By then, the federales had begun to lose heart. When they saw the giant dust cloud kicked up by Villa’s approaching army, they fled the city. Villa, hailed as a benevolent conqueror, rode into the capital to shouts of adulation.
Walsh finished his interior filming by throwing open doors and windows in Chapultepec Castle and within three days had sufficient footage to pack up for the long trip back to Hollywood. The journey was far from easy; Mexico had few decent roads, and travel by truck was hazardous. It took Walsh’s three trucks, loaded with food and barrels of gasoline, three weeks to make the dusty, bumpy ride to Juárez. From there he caught a train to Los Angeles where, almost immediately, he began filming the studio sequences at Mission San Fernando, standing in for Villa as the young Pancho. He finished the scenes in less than a week, and after some frenzied editing, the eager studio had its feature-length five reels. Griffith and Woods were enthusiastic about Walsh’s work: «Some of the shots are good and bloody,» Walsh recalled Griffith saying. «The censors may faint,» he added, referring to the shots of federales hanging from trees in Durango, «but that’s Mutual’s headache.»
The Life of General Villa premiered in New York on May 14, 1914, to generally favorable reviews. It was released on different dates and under different titles (The Life of General Villa, The Tragedy and the Career of General Villa, The Tragic Early Life of General Villa) in other parts of the country. The film seemed to do well at the box office, but producers never told Walsh how much it grossed. According to Katz, «The film was shown in several U.S. cities and seems to have been a great success, partly because it was shown at a time when Villa had reached the apex of his popularity.»
The goodwill was not to last. Toward the end of 1914 Villa finally broke with Carranza, who persuaded the Wilson administration to cut off all aid to Villa’s army. This sparked Villa’s infamous March 1916 raid on Columbus, N.M., in which his men killed several American citizens. Wilson then ordered General John J. Pershing on a fruitless attempt to chase down the rebel general. Almost overnight, Hollywood’s perception of Villa reversed. Pershing never caught Villa. The Mexican Revolution came to an uneasy truce between Carranza and Villa. In 1920, with the assassination of Carranza, the new president, General Álvaro Obregón, gave Villa a hacienda near his old home in Parral. On July 20, 1923, while visiting town without his usual bodyguards, Villa himself was ambushed and assassinated, reportedly with Obregón’s approval.
Walsh’s innovative war movie has been lost to history for almost 90 years, as has the role of an American movie company in financing a revolution south of the border. And for the rest of his life, Walsh would wonder, “Had I directed Villa, or had he directed me?”
For further reading Allen Barra recommends The Life and Times of Pancho Villa, by Friedrich Katz.
Las dos entrevistas que dio Mimí Derba a Cine-Mundial se publicaron en enero y junio de 1918. Diametralmente opuestas, en la primera de ellas, la actriz en compañía de Enrique Rosas (en la publicación se le llama Rojas), habla de su aventura cinematográfica y su talante es sumamente optimista; en la segunda, todo lo opuesto y critica acremente “la inconstancia” que “caracteriza a este país.” La Azteca Film acababa de filmar el año anterior En defensa propia, Alma de sacrificio, La Soñadora, La tigresa y En la sombra. Las opiniones de Derba sobre el futuro de las actrices cinematográficas no son muy halagadoras. En la primera entrevista, el mensuario le dedica página entera junto con fotografías de Rosas y Derba y la titula La escena muda en México y destaca la Opinión de MimíDerba; en la segunda, se diluye la información en la columna La cinematografía en Méjico, pues también se crítica acremente la película Tabaré y se comenta el anti-americanismo contra las cintas norteamericanas.
El reportero cuyo pseudónimo es Licdo Fumilla, hace la primera entrevista en Nueva York y la visión que tienen Derba y Rosas es muy positiva sobre el futuro de la cinematografía mexicana; la segunda es del corresponsal de Cine-Mundial Epifanio Soto donde la actriz duda que el cine tenga un futuro promisorio y remata: “Dígase lo que se diga, la producción mejicana no llegará, durante varios años, a ser aceptable.»
La primera nota de Cine-Mundial se publicó en enero de 1918 (Vol. III, No. 1, p. 17):
La Escena Muda en México
Opinión de Mimí Derba
Por el Licdo FUMILLA
¡Brrr! Al entrar en el Hotel McAlpin me sacudo este pordiosero agresivo, este frío de Nueva York, más fiel y más punzante que un amor muerto. No sé si da vergüenza sentirlo o decir que se siente; pero hay, a la una de la tarde, cinco grados centígrados bajo cero, y entre los copos de la nieve la gente corre como alma que lleva el diablo. En el «hall,» la baraúnda de rigor en estos modernos falansterios y pasa un rato largo antes de que yo me oriente y acierte con el departamento que ocupa la gentil artista mexicana Mimí Derba. Mimí Derba trae entre manos una empresa ardua que tiene mucho de apostolado y algo de industria, y como esas iniciativas son rarísimas entre las mujeres hispanoamericanas, allá va el repórter a la busca y captura de la información. Además, esa empresa se relaciona con la cinematografía, y CINE-MUNDIAL debe saber a qué atenerse y decírselo a sus lectores. El ascensor trepa hasta las alturas en que se pierde todo rumor del maremagnun neoyorquino que es insufrible en la bifurcación de Broadway, 6a. Avenida y calle 34; y tras unos ziszás por los pasillos, sobre la alfombra roja en que las pisadas suenan como las cautelosas de los ladrones, llego al gabinete en que Mimí Derba recibe al enviado de CINE-MUNDIAL.
La acompañan su socio Sr. Rojas, (sic) presidente de la Empresa, y otro compatriota. Durante las presentaciones yo recuerdo que he aplaudido a Mimí Derba en el Teatro Martí y en el Teatro Nacional, de la Habana, donde su labor escénica gusto muchísimo. Mimí Derba es joven, bella y culta, una belleza de rasgos finos y delicados, y su figura es gentil y de trazos totalmente armónicos. Lleva el pelo cortado a media melena, según el canon de la bohemia artística que da a las mujeres un aire encantador de colegialas. Lo más impresionante de su belleza son las pupilas de donde fluye una luz mansa y serena, esa luz de las almas en equilibrio y de los corazones sin pasión. La voz es suave, de una ternura que en las horas de intimidad debe ser irresistible, y con la gama corta e insinuante que delata su raigambre de mexicana castiza. Siendo mujer y joven y bella y habituada a la parlería de entre bastidores, no es locuaz. Dice las cosas precisas, y las dice con una precisión deliciosa, como los criterios seguros de sí mismos que no ceden a los apremios de lo impensado. Mimí Derba lo ha pensado todo, por lo menos todo lo que yo la he de preguntar, y lo expresa lisa y llanamente, sin reserva mental.
Me sorprende su cambio de rumbo, el haber dejado el teatro, donde la esperaba un brillante porvenir, por el cinematógrafo que debe tener para ella los peligros de lo desconocido, y le pregunto discretamente el porqué. Mimí Derba sonríe y dice:
—Es un cambio de postura. A mí me gusta mucho cambiar. Odio la monotonía en la vida, que es como la confirmación de la rutina. Por romper esa rutina he abandonado el teatro. El género a que yo me dediqué, la zarzuela, no colmaba mis anhelos. Yo hubiera preferido la Ópera; pero la Ópera requiere una preparación enorme, si se ha de triunfar, de mucho tiempo, mucho estudio, mucho sacrificio. Cambié, pues, de rumbo, y me entré de lleno por los campos dela cinematografía.
—No; después de reflexionarlo y de haber estudiado un plan, es decir un programa completo y de haber contribuido a la organización de esta Empresa que preside mi socio Sr. Rojas. (sic) Mis aspiraciones van más allá de mi porvenir, y están enlazadas a un ideal sinceramente patriótico. En México, la producción cinematográfica es campo inexplorado, completamente virgen. ¿Por qué no roturarlo y explotarlo si hay para ello elementos, voluntad, inteligencia y cultura? La revolución mexicana, que todo lo ha subvertido, nos obliga a cimentar sobre las ruinas de lo viejo una civilización amplia y rápida, y la paz, que va arraigando en todos los ánimos, da base para toda clase de iniciativas. La nuestra se concreta a que México sea país productor de películas como Norteamérica, como Italia, como Francia. Para desechar el tributo que hasta ahora hemos pagado, predicamos con el ejemplo. Hemos impresionado varias películas, utilizando los recursos estrictamente nacionales, y estamos satisfechos de nuestra labor. El actual gobierno la apoya y protege, como protege todas las iniciativas tendentes a crear riqueza mexicana, y a divulgar lo que es el México de nuestros días. He ahí el motivo de nuestro viaje.
—¿De modo que Uds. han venido a Nueva York…
—A propagar la verdad de México, y a buscar algunos materiales para ampliar nuestra industria, como vienen a buscarlos los industriales de otros países; a propagar la verdad de un México culto, social y progresivo; a borrar el prejuicio, aquí tan arraigado, del México incivil, siempre rebelde, cada vez más atrasado; el México, en fin, del «pelao»… Para lograrlo y convencer a los yanquis de que somos otros, de que en México hay algo más que hordas salvajes, hemos traído nuestras películas, y cuando este público las vea, cambiará seguramente de opinión. Logrado eso, o puesta en el surco la simiente que dará su fruto, regresaremos a México a trabajar, a ensanchar nuestra esfera de acción.
—¿Ud. cree que México llegará a ser buen productor de películas?
—Ya lo es, (el Sr. Rojas (sic) lo afirma, también, enérgicamente) y tenemos fe grande en que llegará a serlo en gran escala. Dentro de un par de años, acaso antes, las películas nacionales dominarán casi en absoluto en nuestro mercado. Dejando cierto margen, claro está, para la producción extranjera. Lo bueno llega a todas partes, y mi patria no cerrará sus puertas al Arte, venga de donde viniere.
—Dígame su opinión acerca de las cintas y de los artistas norteamericanos.
—La producción norteamericana me parece admirable, sobre todo por la técnica y por la facilidad con que esa técnica llega al espectador. Hay algunas producciones magníficas; pero, en general, no me agradan los argumentos. Hay un afán grande de producir sin una rigurosa selección de los temas. Me parece que el Arte está apabullado por la codicia industrial.
—¿Y de los artistas? ¿Y de los directores?
—De los directores, ni palabra. No conozco a ninguno. Los artistas me gustan por su naturalidad. De las «estrellas» americanas me encanta Mary Pickford, y de las extranjeras la Bertini. Mi labor en el teatro, primero, y mi dedicación a esta empresa, ahora, me impidieron conocer más ampliamente la cinematografía de Norte América.
Digo mi gratitud en nombre de CINE-MUNDIAL, y tras una despedida muy afectuosa la interviú termina sin otro detalle digno de mención. Deseemos un triunfo grande a quienes inician esta obra de arte y patria: Derba y Rojas. (sic)
La segunda nota se publicó en Cine-Mundial de junio de 1918 (Vol. III, No. 6, p. 339):
La Cinematografía en Méjico
La retirada de Mimí Derba.— Considérome libre de ese apasionamiento que ha poseído a la mayor parte de los que escriben sobre el escabroso tema de «El Cine Mejicano.» Por eso, sin temor a equivocarme, asiento lo que sigue:
Dígase lo que se diga, la producción mejicana no llegará, durante varios años, a ser aceptable.
Entre las muchas razones que puedo esgrimir en pro de mi aserto, mencionaré «la inconstancia,» cualidad que caracteriza a este país.
En efecto, desde que el arte mudo despuntó aquí, muchos actores y actrices que empezaron sus trabajos con buen éxito, se han retirado, o cuando menos permanecen inactivos: Emma Padilla, denominada «Menichelli Mejicana,» que tan sólo imprimió «La Luz»; María Luisa Ross, a quien un fracaso desanimó y, últimamente, Mimí Derba, la hermosa intérprete de «En Defensa Propia» que, cuando un porvenir brillante parecía abrirse ante ella, se retira «de golpe y porrazo,» confirmando la declaración que hizo al enviado de CINEMUNDIAL:
—Es un cambio de postura. A mí me gusta mucho cambiar…
Esta última fué, sin duda, la pérdida más sensible de todas, ya que Mimí era, indiscutiblemente, la mejor de las actrices cinematográficas mejicanas.
¿Qué nos queda ahora? Aceptables, únicamente, Sara Uthoff y Carmen Bonifant que (y ya no asombraría a nadie) se retirarán cuando menos se piense.
Juzgando por los hechos, mi predicción se cumplirá…