Archivo de la etiqueta: FIAF

Some aspects of the Filmoteca de la UNAM

Written by Noah Zweig, a second-year M.A. student in the Moving Image Archive Studies program at UCLA. This brief history of the Filmoteca finishes at the end of last century, nevertheless I consider it important to post it.

Among the world’s university-based moving-image archives, the Filmoteca at the Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México is an exemplary institution. From the time the archive was founded in 1960, in Coyoacán, Mexico City, it played a pivotal role not only in Mexican but in international film culture. Today UNAM is a notable preservation, conservation, exhibition and restoration archive. In a field that lacks formal training standards, the Filmoteca has succeeded in “preserving major moving images from decades past for the future,” as founding director and film historian Manuel González Casanova states (González Casanova, 10).

Throughout UNAM’s rich history, the Filmoteca has accomplished a great deal with modest resources, including the discovery of lost footage and entire films. It has played an ambassadorial role to FIAF and Latin American archival institutions. Over the years, UNAM tried to preserve its material on celluloid. As Paulo Antonio Paranaguá explains, UNAM is home to a lab for restoration, the only perfectly operational one in the region (Paranaguá, 14).

Today, the Filmoteca actively seeks long-lost films awaiting preservation. For example, in 1995, it sent out to archives around the world its list, “Las 10 películas mexicanas perdidas más buscadas” (In Search of 10 Lost Films) (Edmondson, 5). So far, two of these films have shown up via an exchange with the Library of Congress: Cruz diablo (The Diabolical Cruz, Fernando de Fuentes, 1934) and, on deposit, La mancha de sangre (The Stain of Blood, Adolfo Best-Maugard, 1937). Since the beginning, the Filmoteca has believed that since every film is a product of a global cinema culture, the Filmoteca was obligated to conserve everything, irrespective of aesthetic or political biases (González Casanova, 12). Its first acquisition was Eisenstein’s Strike (1917), a noticeably non-Mexican film. UNAM, in this respect, was of the Lindgren school of archives—an equal opportunity conservator. At the same time, the archive can also be considered a Langloisian contender in its 1960s film-club culture. As early as 1963, the Filmoteca organized a Mexican film festival in Paris. Ultimately it is UNAM’s universalizing commitment to film preservation that makes it a model institution. To this day, the archive continues to screen a host of current and non-current films in its on-campus theaters: Cinematógrafo del Chopo, Cinematógrafo Fósforo and Sala Julio Bracho. UNAM’s programming activities start with the academic community but the public is welcome.

From the outset, González Casanova notes, UNAM realized its limitations as a small operation. Like the rise of other archives, the Filmoteca was not born overnight. Its development was piecemeal. As with most university film archives, UNAM’s was not the foremost in the minds of the founders of the institution at the inception. Indeed, producer Manuel Barbachano began loaning prints to González Casanova; this continued, and over time, a collection would materialize (González Casanova, 17). The histories of some archives — UCLA’s for example — were largely of like-minded people assembling collections little by little rather than a conscious construction.

Thus UNAM focused its energy on locating, acquiring and preserving films within México rather than taking on more ambitious undertakings (González Casanova, 17). The archive’s efforts paid off. As early as 1962, it had rescued 110 titles in world cinema. Among them: Carnavalesca (Carnival, Palermi, 1917), Espiritismo (Spirituality, de Riso, 1918), L’Ippocampo (de Sica, 1945), Beauty and the Beast (Cocteau, 1946), Einstein in Mexico (Lesser, 1933), Santa (Saint, Moreno, 1931), The Immigrant (Chaplin, 1917), Conquest of the Pole (Méliès, 1912). This practice continues. In FIAF’s “Statistical Report on the Activities of Filmoteca UNAM, 1 January-31 December 1996,” the Filmoteca reports that “as in former years we continued to receive films bestowed upon us by producers and distributors who decide to hand material over to us. An exceptional case was the Collection of Portes Gil, consisting of material filmed during the presidential term of Emilio Portes Gil. Besides this we also received several original nitrate negatives which for one reason or another were in [the Library of Congress’s collection].” Its rescue work continued: in 1963, 136 films; 1965, 77 films; and between 1966 and 1967, 300. Current director Iván Trujillo says that UNAM’s priority has always been “Mexican Cinema, and second films from Latin American countries” (Trujillo email).

Like many professional archives’ approaches to collection development, UNAM uses various appraisal means. They have acquired films as purchases, exchanges, gifts or donations, and through legal deposit arrangements. Above all, model appraisal requires the archive actively exhaust all possibilities for acquisitions rather than passively waiting for offers. This formula has been successful. At present, UNAM has six vaults for acetate material, one of which was recently upgraded so it can store color films. Additionally there are six vaults, located on the other side of the campus, for nitrate. Collectively, the vaults keep about 30,000 reels (Trujillo email).

It could be argued, as John King does, that UNAM rescued the Mexican motion picture world from its stagnation in the 1950s and early 1960s. To describe the industry in the 1950s, King quotes historian Alberto Ruy Sánchez: “A national little big industry, articulated by world cinema (dominated by North America), sustained on the basis of limited counter-crises: protectionist laws, semi-obligatory exhibition, attempts to form a monopoly which would finally become a State monopoly, a production based on stereotypes and an organization that excludes renovation in all its aspects” (King, 34-5). The era of which King speaks was a difficult one for eager, young artists. Carl J. Mora explains how for thirty years, the Union of Workers of Cinematic Production (STPC) had been exclusive to existing in-group members, most of them veteran filmmakers from the industry’s early years; the Director’s Guild did not actively seek new directors (Mora).

National cinemas elsewhere were thriving, and while Mexico had the potential to grow, this was thwarted by the government. Mora points out that not since the Carranza presidency during the 1910s had there been an attempt at creating facilities for young cineastes. There was no place for would-be and up-and-coming directors to study the craft of the world’s great masters. While film culture was flourishing around the globe, in Mexico it was mired in a growing bureaucratization and monopolization of culture. And in 1958, the Mexican Academy of Sciences and Cinematographic Arts decided to end the Ariel prize system. It had been instituted in 1946, as a national cinema award. Its cancellation apparently symbolizes the stagnation of the cinema. The situation got so bad that Mexico’s treasured filmmaker, Luis Buñuel, was forced to settle in France.

Furthermore, the increasing popularity of television and the influence of Hollywood made any revitalization of the national cinema seem unlikely. Since the government had priorities other than the cinema, film needed to grow by efforts of the people. There needed to be a way to sanctify the status of film heritage. Of course, Mexico, like anywhere else, would have taken film seriously as a form of entertainment with or without an archive; still, archival status symbolically made film sacramental. Though films in an archive did not yet have the status of paintings in a museum, they would now be headed that way. UNAM’s objectives correspond to those of FIAF’s founders. The goal has always been to preserve film’s posterity, just as any archivist would treat any type of historical document.

The Filmoteca, as a university-based archive obviously provides a strong academic component. Its place in the moving-image world is alongside the archives of the George Eastman House, East Anglian Film Archive, and the Charles Stuart University. It is part of UNAM’s Coordinación de Difusión Cultural, a mainstay of the university designed in 1947 to integrate cultural activities. Other participants include its theater, radio, television, music and literature departments. González Casanova, in 1959, called for all film activities to be run under the Difusión’s director.

The Filmoteca reaches an ever-growing constituency, as UNAM is the largest university in Latin America, with over 250,000 students. Indeed, one of the reasons the Filmoteca is such a large archive is because of the nature of the university. This potentially allows it to pick up along the way all kinds of voluntary assistance, sponsorship, and advocacy. Because of the size and the diversity of UNAM, the Filmoteca’s constituency is virtually boundless. Through the university, there are potential connections to be made within and outside of academia. By law, universities have agreements with Mexican society, Trujillo explains. They are to first supply higher education. Second, they are to do research in the sciences and the humanities. In this respect, Trujillo explains, “we feel very close to UCLA, being a university film archive” (Trujillo email). Perhaps, then, UNAM can be considered a part of the public good. Moreover, Trujillo explains, UNAM facilitates “cultural extension,” comparable to extended education programs in the US. That the Filmoteca ably performs all three explains its success. As far as these institutions go, it exemplifies the multipurpose archive. UNAM performs Edmondson’s prescribed activities. Among these: “public research facilities, library and services;” “public screening and presentation facilities and programs;” “on-line catalogue;” “oral history program;” “professional teaching program;” “marketing of collection-based products;” “publication programs;” “lending of carriers and objects for external presentation and exhibition;” “public events program: lectures, presentations, festivals, exhibitions;” and “public facilities: shop, cafeteria, meeting places.” UNAM can be described as carrying most, if not all, of these.

Like many archives, UNAM has diffuse origins. One of its antecedents, González Casanova explains, is the Mexican government’s attempt in 1936 to preserve the films of Emilio Gómez with María Elena Sánchez Valenzuela. It grew, as Edmondson describes it “under the auspices of a wide variety of collecting, academic and other institutions, as a natural extension of their work” (King, 132). In the 1950s and early 1960s, intellectuals formed cine clubes, or film societies. There was a movement of these groups who screened both classics of film history and innovative work of local and foreign directors. Like France’s Cinémathèque, they created a space for aesthetic and theoretical discussions of film. There was the Cine Club Progresso, King explains, inspired by French theorists Georges Sadoul and Louis Daquín. More important to the inchoate Filmoteca were the university-based societies: the Asociación Universitaria de Cine Experimental (AUCE) and the Cine Club de la Universidad. These groups formed the Federación Mexicana de Cine Clubes in 1956. One of the things these groups discussed was the need for a film repository that would conserve cultural memory. And this need was realized at film exhibitions and other events. The films would be shown at the university and stay there; over time, a collection arose against the backdrop of the film societies. This club culture had a long-lasting effect on academia in that it fostered a generation of students who could view films critically. And the clubs enunciated the principles, both directly and indirectly, that would engender the rise of the archive. For UNAM, the cine club movement was a blessing.

The growing social importance of film during the vibrant culture of the 1960s caused the idea of a film archive to become far more accessible and mainstream. The growing social importance of film made this possible. The French New Wave and Italian Neorealism, as well as the cinema that had underpinned international Third World revolutions, had a ripple effect on Mexico. Moreover, Republican exiles from Franco’s Spain, such as Luis Buñuel, had brought their artistic sensibilities to Mexico (Paranaguá, 13). Other filmmakers, such as Bustillo Oro, were trained elsewhere in Latin America but still influenced Mexican filmmaking. This culture of political socially conscious cinema is epitomized by the release of Benito Alazraki’s famous Raíces (Roots, 1955), which some consider to be the beginning of the Mexican independent film movement. And insofar as the cinema was becoming acceptable, on par with the other arts, the Filmoteca certainly came along at the right time.

UNAM’s strength was due to its public nexus, mainly the university-based film clubs. In 1963, as a consequence of the cine clubes, UNAM established a film department for the study of Mexican and foreign cinema, CUEC (Centro Universario de Estudios Cinematográficos or University’s Center for Cinema Studies), the country’s first official school of cinema. To this day, the archive works closely with CUEC. Obviously the archive’s work in restoration has helped CUEC. For example, Luis Reyes de la Maza wrote his Salón Rojo: programas y crónicas del cine mudo en México, (Red Salon: Programs and Chronicles of Mexico’s Changing Cinema) the first book on Mexican silent cinema, there (González Casanova). Trujillo explains that the archive lends films for other academic programs as well. UNAM subsidizes three films CUEC makes per year, providing some money for the shooting. And the archive each year screens a program of the schools most recent productions. The negatives of student films are kept in the archives’ vaults. At UNAM, not unlike UCLA, it seems the line between film schools and archiving is increasingly fine.

The growth in the arts is partly attributable to President Adolfo López Mateos (elected in 1958) whose government considerably funded social welfare and education. These new policies helped give rise to things like CUEC. Filmmaking, in general, was picking up, in the spirit of 1960s culture; there was a spirit of hope in the arts. The availability of 16- and super 8-mm film made inexpensive production possible. And as King points out, intellectuals were encouraged by the success of the Cuban Revolution, which López Mateos recognized; this aura of hope percolated to the Filmoteca. The film school has been essential to the shaping of the Filmoteca’s identity; in fact, CUEC and the Filmoteca can be thought of as the same organization (González Casanova, 13).

CUEC, under the direction of González Casanova, published Nuevo Cine’s eponymous journal, essentially Mexico’s Cahiers du Cinema. Only seven issues of the journal appeared, yet it had a long-lasting impact. Nuevo Cine helped initiate important projects like Jomí García Ascot’s En el balcón vacío (On the Empty Balcony, 1961), which UNAM possesses. In response to being shut out of the industry, young filmmakers like Jaime Humberto Hermosillo (Mexico’s first openly gay filmmaker), were able to express themselves through this radical journal. Likewise, they published a manifesto. Nuevo Cine, consisting of filmmakers and critics, signaled a new era in the country’s film industry. An independent cinema movement was born. King lists the manifesto’s participants: José de la Colina, Rafael Corkidi, Salvador Elizondo, J.M. García Ascot, Carlos Monsiváis, Alberto Isaac, Paul Leduc and Fernando Macotela, all of whom would become “the most important film-makers, critics and chroniclers of the next twenty years. Their manifesto was a plea for renovation, for artistic creativity, for independent cinema and for specialist film courses, journals and the establishment of a cinémathèque” (King).

Shortly after these developments in an emerging university-based film culture came the presidency of Luis Echeverría Álvarez (1970-1976), who, along with his brother Rodolfo Echeverría (appointed to head the Banco Cinematográfico), was interested in film. Echeverría’s policy can be characterized by the prime importance he granted to mass communications. For the first time in Mexican political history, the government launched an official policy of using radio, television and especially cinema for international means of communication. For UNAM, this is significant insofar as cinema’s importance was becoming increasingly important in the public’s view. Leftists in universities had good reason to be suspicious of Echeverría since, as former interior minister, it was he who had unleashed the army on the students in Tlatelolco in 1968 (though he would later release these political prisoners). Though it does not justify violence, UNAM and the archival world in general would benefit from his policies. However, the left would always regard Echeverría with skepticism and hostility. Many considered his pro-left and “third wordlist” foreign policy mere opportunism. To this day, human-rights advocates and other activists consider Echeverría a war criminal with blood on his hands who should be held accountable for crimes against humanity.

The Filmoteca in Ciudad Universitaria

In any event, under Echeverría, the State became directly involved in filmmaking to the almost total exclusion of private producers. In 1971, Echeverría proposed a “Plan for the Restructure of the Mexican Film Industry” in order to “renovate objectives and means during the six-year period so as to change the image of the national cinema, so deteriorated at the beginning of the decade” (Mora, 113). Among other things, this included state ownership of the Banco Cinematográfico and the major theater chains. Essentially this plan subsidized film through a combination of public and private sources. The result was an environment in which films were taken more and more seriously and so their preservation was considered key.

UNAM was no longer the sole archive. The new government ordered the construction of the Cineteca Nacional in 1974. This new archive, run by the Secretariat of Public Education and the Director of Radio, Television and Cinema of the Interior Secretary with the support of the National Council for the Culture and the Arts. This archive was subsidized entirely by the federal government. The Cineteca’s reason for being is to rescue, classify, conserve, recover, preserve and disseminate cinematic work from México and elsewhere. The Cineteca’s Cinémathèque is landmark as an exhibition theater (sadly, the archive had to be rebuilt following a devastating 1982 fire). Indeed, the archive has eight screening rooms, a bookstore, a cafeteria and a restaurant. Moreover, its Center of Documentation and Information offers a wealth of research materials. Unlike the Filmoteca, the Cineteca largely began preserving prints of commercial Mexican film productions (but at present it has some classics among Mexican history), which are kept in the Cineteca’s four vaults. The holdings include over 12,000 35- and 16-mm films. Though the Cineteca did not do as much work in preservation as UNAM, the importance the government bestowed to it indirectly paved UNAM’s way for more preservation. For example, under this regime, another filmmaking school, the Centro de Capacitación Cinematográfica was built.

CUEC, meanwhile, would remain an influential force. Its members recorded the events of 1968, in what would become El grito (The Shout, Leobardo López Aretche, 1968), which is among UNAM’s holdings. Mora explains that this film, perhaps the best known film made about this era, “is the only objective record that exists of any popular movement that occurred in the last thirty years of national life …[it] is in the final analysis, the most complete and coherent filmic record that exists of the Movement, seen from the inside, contrary to the calumnies spread by the rest of the mast media” (Mora, 112-13).

In 1968, a sizeable student and middle-class continually protesting against the right-wing party, PAN. For their opposition, they were faced with collective punishment. With the Olympic Games approaching in Mexico City that year, the Echeverría government decided it had to crack down on the dissidents. On October 2, the army opened fire on demonstrators around the Plaza de las Tres Culturas in Tlatelolco. This state-ordered massacre led to the deaths of several hundred dead and the arrests of thousand people. In the tumultuous climate that followed, no one wanted to make fictional films; filmmakers concentrated on capturing events. All of these developments made UNAM’s archiving necessary. The events of 1968 further galvanized the artistic and academic communities upon which the Filmoteca is founded. Indeed, a group of UNAM students preserved footage of this crackdown on students. And insofar as such footage had to be stored, the Filmoteca was there.

UNAM started providing prints for film history courses in CUEC in the 1960s as well as for cinema appreciation courses in UNAM’s preparatory school. As a result of its activeness, the archive got its own budget and was able to spend more of its resources on preservation and programming. Whereas three to five films were preserved per year when under CUEC, it was now able to complete ten a year (González Casanova, 6). Likewise, as Houston explains, the Library had to make its collections available for the growing demand of college film courses in the 1950s. Like Filmoteca, the Library of Congress’ emphasis was from the beginning just not on films’ preservation but on their study. (Houston, 18) In turn, UNAM’s dissemination grew, as it became a central cultural and educational service. By the 1970s, UNAM was distributing up to 400 titles a month. Some of the films UNAM rescued in the 1970s include some treasures from the 1930s: La mujer del Puerto (Arcady Boytler, 1933), La noche de los mayas (Chano Urueta, 1939) and others.

At the request of UNESCO, UNAM was recognized by FIAF in 1970 (and it became an official member in 1977). From this vantage point, the Filmoteca was able to communicate with European film schools and archives. After becoming an effective FIAF member, UNAM extended its services to Mexican and foreign universities, offering access to its films. Moreover, it started new activities: cinema research and the diffusion of culture via courses, seminars, exhibitions, radio broadcasts (such as “El minuto de la Filmoteca”), publications, and television shows (like Fabrica de sueños or The Manufacturing of Dreams). Between 1973 and 1976, UNAM’s archive aired two programs dedicated to the art of film. In the 1970s, it rescued some of México’s silent treasures such as El aniversario de la muerte de la suegra de Enhart (The Aniversary of Enhart’s Mother-In-Law’s Death, Alva brothers, 1912) and El puño de hierro, which tells a cautionary tale of drug abuse, much as Reefer Madness would later. The archive received some films from private companies such as Procinemex, which gave them eighty films. Moreover, the Filmoteca began internationalizing its holdings, acquiring works by Keaton, Lang, Murnau, Kurosawa, and Bergman.

The Filmoteca had already done so much by 1976 that it became independent from CUEC; the university gave the archive its own funding. Perhaps this era marks the maturity of it as a guardian of cinema legacy, analogous to UCLA. Robert Rosen said, during the same period, after the latter started seriously working on preservation, “’Now we feel that [the archive] come of age. We are ready and anxious to assume our full share of the responsibility for preserving our film heritage” (Slide, 71). The Filmoteca had archivists and directors such as Jerzy Toeplitz, José de la Colina and Santiago Álvarez teach courses. CUEC became thoroughly involved in filmmaking, becoming, between 1970 and 1976, nearly the sole producer of independent cinema (Trujillo). Insofar as the commercial film industry was entirely in the hands of López Portillo’s government, UNAM offered an alternative. Mainstream cinema almost always engenders a dialectical opposite, usually in the form of noncommercial, or independent film. And it continued to organize its collections into exhibitions, many of which were distributed to other schools. For example, García Urbizu and the Origins of Cinema was distributed. By this time, UNAM was quite a well-organized institution. It has its own documentation department which catalogs and archives all of its material on cinema (posters, stills, notes, periodicals) and prepares requests from cultural institutions. It has published manuals for FIAF institutions and in FIAF’s The Journal for Film Preservation.

The Filmoteca, as a FIAF affiliate, has always worked internationally with other archives. Indeed, John Hay Whitney, a signatory of FIAF’s 1938 charter, stated that “as a result of the close cooperation made possible between the member organizations, the work of preserving for posterity this valuable new type of social and historical document will be assured. It will make possible the easier exchange of books, printed matter, still photographs, scenarios and other material pertinent to the world of film, as well as insuring the preservation of films themselves” (Slide, 22). For example, as Francisco Gaytán explains, when UNAM was seeking a copy of the little-known Eisenstein documentary La destrucción de Oaxaca (1931), it was able to obtain a print from MOMA. “By miracles of present day communication,” he writes, “on learning of the existence of this film, several film archives have asked for it, not only here but abroad. MOMA has authorized its diffusion and it has therefore been shown very successfully.” Although this incident does not constitute a recovery of a lost film per se, it does underline UNAM’s fundamental dedication to international archive cooperation. Already it has been shown at the Filmoteca de la Generalitat de Catalunya, at the Huelva and Lleida Festivals, the Cineteca Nacional and the Filmmuseum.

At present, the Filmoteca and the Cineteca have a friendly relationship, according to Trujillo. “We give them service by producing black-and-white prints in our lab,” he says, “and we exchange films for programming.” With Cineteca and the Cineteca de Nuevo León, both of them FIAF affiliates, the Filmoteca, abides to FIAF’s code of ethics. The Filmoteca’s interaction with academic and archival institutions is part of its success story. In 1965, for example, the Cinemateca Argentina invited UNAM to the Festival Internacional de Mar del Planta. The archive proposed the formation of a regional group of archives. Eventually, the Unión de Cinematecas de América Latina (UCAL) was born. These international relations became essential to UNAM’s modus operandi, González Casanova explains. UCAL consists of twelve archives from the subcontinent, and holds yearly congresses. At the 1972 UCAL, UNAM declared the importance not only of Mexican but, collectively, Latin American heritage, by way of film. This congress was significant in that the archives proclaimed a cultural decolonization from European and American influence. It was declared that the primary task of each film archive was, to the best of its ability, to promote, conserve, and spread the cinema of its respective country as well as Latin America as a whole; their identities were to be autonomous from Euro-American hegemony. It may be a stretch, but perhaps one can see internationalist unity in Latin American filmmaking reflect the third-worldist archival world. King refers to Ruy, who cites Actas de Marusia (Minutes of Marusia) by the Chilean exile director Miguel Littín (1975) as an internationalist film (King, 137). The film featured Italian actor Gian Maria Volonte, and the music of Mikis Theodorakis, and dealt with Mexican themes and a massacre of miners in Chile in 1907, which was an allegory of the 1971 coup. Cinema was considered the authentic record par excellence that could, for instance, capture these countries’ dark histories. Since, in Latin America, many populations had to suffer under governments subsidized by US foreign policy, there was much to catch on film.

UNAM would collaborate again in 1980 with UNESCO for the first Latin American Moving Image meeting in the Mexican vacation center, Oaxtepex, Morelos. The archives had a meeting, known as the Encuentro Latinoamericano de Imágenes en Movimiento (The Latin American Moving-Image Conference). Essentially the regional institutions agreed on greater archival cooperation and interchange within Latin America. One of the purposes of the Encuentro, González Casanova explains, was to analyze the importance cinema played as a cultural factor within the national liberation of “developing” countries, particularly the role of archives within that process.

Unfortunately, though, Latin America’s growth was stifled in the 1980s because the state had priorities elsewhere. Neoliberal reforms hindered the developments of national cinemas. Throughout the 1970s and 1980s these cinemas lingered on, using what resources they had, but did not grow. The 1990s, according to Mary Lea Bandy, Houston says, was the time of these archives’ growth. The 1992 FIAF Congress, held in Montevideo, helped develop the region.

UNAM has rescued, restored, or preserved nearly 21,000 films on acetate. Its collection, Trujillo explains, is rich in holdings from both the Golden years (la época de oro, the 1930s, 1940s and 1950s) of Mexican cinema and from the silent period (including materials from the Mexican Revolution). More contemporary items include a sizeable collection of 8- and super 8 mm tapes. Recently, the archive has been working on an arduous project, the transfer of 8- and super-8 films into digital formats. UNAM does not have an accession policy. It collects a wealth of different kinds of films. “If it’s Mexican,” Trujillo goes on, “we will collect it.” UNAM tries to preserve its material on celluloid.

Regarding access, the Filmoteca, like many institutions, is fairly open. “[We] support all kinds of film researchers,” Trujillo explains, “providing them access to the film collections. UNAM serves a variety of users. The Filmoteca is often accessed. Indeed, it received in 1992 (the last year in which data are available) 190 users researching 210 films (Gautier). Gautier’s list points out that whereas some institutions charge researchers an access fee, UNAM is free. Its facilities have rooms, flatbed tables, video monitors but not nitrate screens for viewing. As a full-time participant in international and national film festivals and FIAF events, where films appear either by request or at the volition of the archive, UNAM actively makes itself accessible. Like UCLA, the need for “university access” is a cogent and convenient rationale for its work; as long as the university community will need to access it, the archive can continue. Indeed, UNAM sets an example of accessibility, fulfilling the archival mission of, as Claes describes it, “spreading the culture and aesthetic of these media and ensuring that, in a sea channel of surfing and cyber-shopping, both present and future generations do not forget the true meaning of cinema” (Claes, 110). UNAM receives a high volume of requests because of its location and especially because it works with CUEC.

It should be stressed that in giving access, UNAM is doing more than showing the user the film. For film archives, the notion of access to the film goes beyond the mere screening of the film. The archives will educate the user—for example, explaining from an archivist’s standpoint the knowledge of the item so far. Ideal access should inform the user about what the archive has done with the film. As Claes puts it, “access to the collection involves not only the contact between visitor and film material but also the dissemination of information about the collection.” The Filmoteca’s series, for example, are thematic. In one month, for example, it showed two series: the first, a Fassbinder retrospective, and the second concerns Latin American literature in film. Central to UNAM’s access is its distribution service. Like MOMA, it has a department for distribution activities. Its programming makes it very accessible. Past exhibitions include a Buñuel series, La mirada del siglo, which includes his oeuvre, as producer, director, screenwriter, and actor.

The Filmografía Mexicana is a database on the Filmoteca’s website, which includes the credits of over 12,000 titles of films produced in Mexico starting in the year 1896. It was developed by the Department of Cataloging at the Filmoteca. It is as much “a tool of consultation for investigators as for any person interested in deepening his knowledge on the Mexican cinema” (Claes, 111). This service is just one example of the archive carrying one of its core objectives: “extender lo más ampliamente posible los beneficios de la cultura” (to spread as much as possible the benefits of culture). The database is free and open to the public but requires registration. The entries do not reflect UNAM’s holdings but they are rather a comprehensive list of Mexican films. It would have been difficult to create a NAMID-like union catalog that lists the whereabouts of everything; in fact, an attempt at such a network would have failed because of these institutions understandable penchants for secrecy. Out of fear of legal problems, archives generally do not make public the entirety of their holdings. UNAM has good reason to fear the notion of an online database. Like most places, the revolving door of government to business has controlled Mexican cinema in decades past. If public or private copyright owners were to see UNAM’s collection, there could be unpleasant legal results for the archive. 

The Filmografía plays a role comparable to the IMDB in its scope. It represents the ideal kind of list: an ever-changing work in process. Film databases such as this one are in the tradition of film lists from the 1960s. Ever since, critics have composed lists — either topical, or in this case thorough-going — to maintain the worth of films. Because of cinema’s relative youth, it still needed some species of legitimacy back then.

In 1989, the archive opened a library, and used the FIAF classification scheme for its collection of 7040 books (85% of which are film-related, the rest television). The collection included the library also has thousands of published and unpublished scripts, 150,000 microfilm cards, clippings, files, lobby cards, posters, press books, exhibitor’s campaign manuals, audiocassettes, photographs, and collections of stills of Mexican stars: María Félix, Dolores Del Río, and Columba Domínguez, and others.

Overall, it should be stressed that the archive is a pioneer in many respects. For twenty years it has helped produce scientific films through the collaboration of the International Association of Scientific Cinema (González Casanova). Scientific film was an area hitherto unexplored in the annals of Mexican cinema. The Filmoteca is thoroughly involved in it. The archive organized in the 1980s the Primeras Jornadas de Cine Científico. The Filmoteca is an invaluable resource for Mexico, Latin America and the world. Its collection has been a blessing to film studies.

Works Cited:

  • Bottomore, Stephen. “The Sparkling Surface of the Sea of History: Notes on the Origins of Film Preservation.” This Film is Dangerous. Brussels: FIAF, 2001.
  • Burton, Julianne. Cinema and Social Change in Latin America. Austin: UTP, 1986.
  • Cineteca Nacional (México). Cineteca Nacional [Annual Report]. México D.F. [Mexico City]: Cineteca Nacional, Dirección de Cinematografía, Secretaría de Gobernación, 1990.
  • Claes, Gabrielle.  “Les droits des archives, préserver et presenter”, The Journal of Film Preservation 64. April, 2002, 1 Dec. 2004.
  • De la Vega Alfaro, Eduardo, coordinator. Microhistorias del cine en México. Guadalajara, Jalisco: Universidad de Guadalajara.
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El Puño de Hierro, a Mexican Silent Film Classic

William M. Drew and Esperanza Vázquez Bernal*

In 1927, a startling silent film about drug addiction and trafficking was exhibited in a city in Mexico. With a narrative blending social commentary, fast-paced adventure, and surreal elements, the film marked a new departure in Mexican cinema. Entitled El puño de hierro (The Iron Fist), it was the work of a young director named Gabriel García Moreno and was produced for his own company based in Orizaba, Veracruz. However, the film failed to register with audiences of the time and quickly disappeared from public view. It would not find an audience again until the very end of the 20th century when a revival of interest in the early cinema history of Latin America finally brought it to light.

Born on February 23, 1897, in the town of Tacubaya near Mexico City, Gabriel García Moreno came from a notable heritage. His paternal great-great uncle, also named Gabriel García Moreno, had been the dictator of Ecuador from 1860 to 1875. His controversial rule, blending ultra-Catholic conservatism with progressive measures that helped to modernize the country, ended with his assassination, and members of his family took refuge in Mexico. While the relation who bore his name did not share the Ecuadorian leader’s ideological fervor, the drama of his life did intrigue him. Indeed, not long before his death, he was thinking of making a biographical film about the 19th century president of Ecuador.

The younger Gabriel García Moreno’s own circumstances were far more modest than those of his distant relative. The García Morenos of Mexico had intermarried so that, in both background and culture, the future filmmaker was ethnically largely Mexican. The son of Vicente García Moreno and Dolores González, Gabriel was the second of three siblings, brother Vicente, Jr. being the oldest and his sister Cecilia the youngest. Their father died when they were very young and, to support the family, their mother worked as a seamstress. Gabriel received his elementary and high school education in a town near Tacubaya. At the age of 18, he found work as a motion picture projectionist in a theatre in Tacubaya and also became a cameraman, shooting local scenes for newsreels that were exhibited in the theatre. While this work would presage his later career, his initial goal was to enter the banking profession. He had studied to be an accountant when he was in school and soon found work in a bank in Tacubaya. The bank often sent him to check on their branches in other cities throughout Mexico. It was on one of these trips that, in April 1921, he met Hortensia Valencia, a beautiful young woman of 22, in a bank in Hermosillo in the north of Mexico. They fell in love and were married in Nogales, Sonora, in August 1921. The newlyweds made their home in Tacubaya where García Moreno became more and more fascinated with motion pictures. He began writing scenarios in his spare time and one of them, a full-length feature, was produced sometime around 1922.

In 1925, while still employed by his bank, García Moreno purchased a motion picture camera. Reportedly financed by his brothers-in-law, Oscar and Octavio Valencia, he wrote, produced, and directed a feature film, El Buitre (The Vulture), an adventure story about cattle thieves in which he sought to emulate the American films that had impressed him. It was shot near Mexico City and featured his wife, Hortensia, as the heroine. Playing the male lead was a handsome young man by the name of Carlos Villatoro. In the early 1920s, he lived in New York where he studied film acting after a friend suggested he would be good on the screen but was forced to return to Mexico when his father became ill. There, he met García Moreno who cast him in El Buitre. Villatoro played the leads in García Moreno’s subsequent features and continued for many years as a prominent actor in Mexican sound films, later branching out into writing, producing, and directing.

The success of El Buitre encouraged García Moreno to leave banking in order to concentrate exclusively on filmmaking. In early 1926, he released a documentary short he had directed, Carnaval de la Ciudad de México, and began making plans for his own production company. As a result of his travels for the bank, he had made the acquaintance of a number of wealthy individuals in the city of Orizaba whom he persuaded to invest in his films. All affiliated with Orizaba’s Rotary Club, they included a car salesman, the local brewer, and the owner of a cigar factory, William Mayer, the Mexican-born son of an immigrant from Great Britain. With their support and capital shares of $100,000.00, García Moreno in 1926 established his motion picture company, Centro Cultural Cinematográfico, headquartered in a building on the outskirts of Orizaba. Regional production was widespread throughout Latin America in those years. For example, at this very same time, the legendary filmmaker, Humberto Mauro, similarly formed a company in Cataguases, Brazil. Far from the structuralism of a large studio, there was a charming informality, a familial atmosphere in an approach that fostered personal artistic visions and shaped the performances. When directing his players, García Moreno would tell them what they had to do, what they might feel, but they acted their roles very naturally. For the most part, García Moreno did not employ established stage actors or prominent screen stars, preferring to work with newcomers, like Carlos Villatoro, and nonprofessionals. However, one of his leading actors, Manuel de los Rios, was a veteran actor in Mexican films and also had a career as a bullfighter. Other players, including feminine leads Lupe Bonilla and the Ibáñez sisters, Clarita and Angelita, and the child performer, Guillermo Pacheco, were local residents with no previous acting experience when García Moreno selected them for his films. Family members took part, too, with Hortensia and Octavio Valencia playing major roles, while another brother-in-law, Oscar, was employed as a technician. The principal cameraman on the Orizaba films, Manuel Carrillo, also appeared in front of the camera as an actor while Juan D. Vasallo took his place operating the machine. Carrillo demonstrated exceptional talent for cinematography but left films after his stint in Orizaba. It is thought by some that he might be the same Manuel Carrillo who, decades later, became one of the most important still photographers in Mexico. The films, although well made, did not utilize costly budgets or a large production staff. For example, everyone working on the films designed their own clothes. The building housing the company, located in the Molino de la Marquesa, a large hacienda at Avenida Poniente 8 Número 21, Orizaba, that García Moreno rented, served as a studio, laboratory, and residence of the García Morenos and other company members during the period that they made the films.

García Moreno’s first film for Centro Cultural Cinematográfico was Misterio (Mystery), released in 1926. In the only surviving reel a group of youngsters dance the Charleston at a party attended by a magician and a detective. Apparently a love story, the film cast Carlos Villatoro as the hero and Clarita Ibáñez as the feminine lead. Its success led to the production of two other films, both eight reels in length. The first, El tren fantasma (The Ghost Train), filmed from September to December, 1926, is an action-filled story of Adolfo Mariel, a railroad engineer (played by Carlos Villatoro) sent by his superintendent to Orizaba to investigate a series of robberies and acts of sabotage on the railway’s El Ferrocarril Mexicano line. The narrative places him in a romantic rivalry with Paco Mendoza (Manuel de los Rios) for the love of the stationmaster’s pretty daughter, Elena del Bosque (Clarita Ibáñez). Unbeknownst to Elena, Paco is secretly the Ruby, the chief of the bandit gang attacking the railroad, and is involved with another woman, the jealous Carmela (Angelita Ibáñez).

The emphasis on adventure melodrama resulted in a succession of fights, robberies, pursuits, and railroad action sequences, including a scene in which the heroine finds herself on a runaway train before being saved by the hero. The actors did their own stunts. For example, Carlos Villatoro himself made the jump from the horse he was riding to the runaway train. For all the film’s stress on suspense-filled action, García Moreno’s direction enabled the actors to give convincing performances. Carlos Villatoro is a dashing, charismatic Mexican counterpart to contemporary American screen idols like Richard Dix, while the Ibáñez sisters memorably enact strongly contrasting feminine roles. Particularly striking is the portrayal by Manuel de los Rios of a man leading a double life. His constant wish to prove himself in deeds of bravery, a need that plunges him into a life of crime, leads him at one point to substitute for an ailing bullfighter in the ring. In the end, Paco’s character is transformed from a scheming bandit to a self-sacrificing hero. Learning of a plot to blow up the train, on which the newlywed Adolfo and Elena are passengers, Paco seizes the bomb just as it is about to explode and is killed.

In the 1920s, the Hollywood cinema, with its universal appeal, dominated the world market. After a surge of activity and creative inspiration in the late 1910s and early 1920s, Mexico’s silent film production by the mid-20s was starting to suffer from North American competition. Influenced by contemporary Hollywood productions, García Moreno sought to respond to the cinematic invasion from the north with an action adventure film, a genre he had mastered. Yet, while reflecting North American influences, El tren fantasma is solidly in the tradition of the Mexican silent cinema, the heir to Enrique Rosas’s 1919 classic, El automóvil gris, in which Manuel de los Rios had a key role as a bandit. Often ranked as Mexico’s greatest silent film, El automóvil gris, originally released as a 12-part serial and later shortened and reedited as a 10-reel feature, relates the exploits of a gang of bandits who terrorized Mexico City in the 1910s. Like El automóvil gris, El tren fantasma combines elements of the documentary with breathtaking adventure to create a film with a genuine Mexican flavor shot on actual locations. The scenes depicting the railroad, the bandits’ lives, the bullfight sequence, filmed in the ring at Orizaba with shots of the toreador, Juan Silveti, the faces of the local people taking part in the film—all these have a unique, unpretentious vitality that captures the time and place with an authenticity beyond later studio reconstructions.

In the production of the film, García Moreno received full cooperation from the National Railroad to use their track and train. In order to climb the high hills between Esperanza, Puebla, and Orizaba, Veracruz, the electric train of the film’s title had been installed on the Ferrocarril Mexicano as recently as 1922. Indeed, the film has broader national implications since its images of the modern wonder of electric railways unmistakably suggested the triumph of 20th century progress in an emerging Mexico. Like the Mexican government in the 1920s restoring order to the country after the years of chaotic violence in the revolutionary 1910s, the state-owned railroad in the film triumphs over the lawless bandits attempting to thwart its spread into the countryside. The patriotic motif is implied in the very name of the train, “El Mexicano”, and the film’s final image of the Mexican flag flapping in the breeze.

Following its February 1927 premiere in Orizaba, El tren fantasma was presented with considerable success in Mexico City. It even played for one day in a theatre in the city of Corona, California, in August 1927. Intending his films to be released in the United States, García Moreno captioned the inter-titles in both Spanish and English. However, in a time before international film festivals, he failed in his efforts to reach a foreign market—an all-too-common problem for silent era filmmakers in Latin America, the Orient, and Australia when Hollywood and the larger European cinema industries monopolized world distribution. García Moreno climaxed his work in the silent cinema with El puño de hierro, the third and final feature film that he wrote, produced, and directed for the Orizaba company. Its immediate inspiration arose from contemporary social realities. In the 1920s, addictive drugs circulated by criminal gangs were inundating Orizaba, and El puño de hierro, shot from January to May of 1927, was the first Mexican production to examine this problem. As a precedent for films dealing with drugs and criminality, García Moreno could look to American silent films, notably the celebrated, now lost 1923 feature, Human Wreckage. Produced by Dorothy Davenport Reid (who also co-starred) after the death of her husband, superstar Wallace Reid, from drug addiction, Human Wreckage was a serious narrative about the devastation that the use of narcotics causes in the lives of ordinary people. The film argued that powerful, wealthy individuals were part of a protected inner circle profiting from the sale of illegal drugs. While it included a sequence with distorted sets inspired by The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari depicting the hallucinations of a drug addict, Human Wreckage was essentially a realistic film with a strong social message.

Despite García Moreno’s incorporation of this tradition in his film, he created a narrative springing from his fertile imagination that was truly singular, collapsing reality with a hallucinatory vision of its own. García Moreno himself was never a user of drugs. Nor was he any more than a moderate social drinker. Yet the research he undertook for his film seems to have given him a special insight into the world of the drug culture and its broader implications of a societal disorder and corruption still eating away at the heart of Mexico after the revolution. Whereas El tren fantasma dramatized the triumph of modern progress and civilization, El puño de hierro showed, with a great deal of humor and narrative excitement, the dark underside of Mexican society in which urbanization spread the noxious stimulants of narcotics across the country, and vice itself often wore a mask of respectability.

The film opens in a vice den with a young man named Carlos (Octavio Valencia) eager to experiment with drugs. He receives an injection of morphine from a sinister-looking individual known as the Hawk (Ignacio Ojeda) and is next seen outdoors in a delusionary state, passionately caressing and kissing a donkey on the lips, thinking it is his sweetheart, Laura. When Laura (Hortensia Valencia) observes him in this condition, she decides to take him to a public lecture on drugs being held in the town plaza. There, the crusading Dr. Anselmo Ortiz (Manuel de los Rios) addresses a crowd, describing the horrors of drug addiction and the new methods being adopted to treat it. Among the onlookers are Antonio (Carlos Villatoro), a young man who is secretly the Bat, the head of a bandit gang, and Esther (Lupe Bonilla), a girl who is actually a prostitute in the employ of drug traffickers. Without knowing the other’s true activities, the two are attracted to each other and a romance soon develops. Antonio joins his gang to attack a car bringing passengers to the Diamond Ranch owned by Laura, but the gang is pursued by cowboys on the ranch when Perico (Manuel Carrillo), a young man serving as the driver, warns them about the bandits. The gang escapes and Antonio hides out on the ranch, doffing his bandit disguise in favor of everyday apparel. Later, Perico, on the trail of the robbers, joins forces with Juanito (Guillermo Pacheco), a ten-year old boy who thinks himself a great detective. Meanwhile, Carlos, suspecting Antonio’s true identity, persuades him to join the ring of drug traffickers. In the vice den, Antonio meets the boss of the traffickers, an old man known as El Tieso (the Rigid One). To his surprise, he also encounters Esther who introduces him to cocaine. Seeking to cure Carlos’s addiction, Laura goes to Dr. Ortiz for help. Ortiz, who secretly has designs on her, takes her to the vice den that Carlos frequents. There, the Hawk gives Carlos another shot of morphine. Recognizing the doctor’s true nature and that both Carlos and Laura are in danger, Antonio struggles with Ortiz who manages to escape from the room. In their pursuit of the criminals, Perico and Juanito discover the den and are able to save Laura from the advances of the Rigid One who has reappeared. The old man opens a trap door after a fierce fight, hurling Perico into a tank full of water. Outside the den, Juanito alerts Antonio to the fact that the Rigid One is actually Dr. Ortiz in disguise. When he emerges from the den, the Rigid One is attacked by Antonio while Juanito lunges at his leg with a knife. In the ensuing struggle, the Rigid One is finally unmasked as he falls to the ground and revealed to be Dr. Ortiz. Inside the den, the Hawk opens the trap door to fling Esther into the tank to drown. Carlos, lying on a canopy, awakens from his drugged state and flees from the den to discover that all the adventures he has experienced—the narrative of virtually the entire film—has been a hallucination caused by his initial injection of morphine. He finds a happy Antonio and Esther frolicking on the beach and then goes to Laura’s house to be reunited with his sweetheart as the film ends.

To develop his unique vision, García Moreno not only continued his presentation of contrasting personalities and incorporated documentary footage, but also included bizarre characters and incidents and experimented with narrative structure. As in El tren fantasma, there are striking performances by his players. Octavio Valencia as Carlos embodies a hapless young man caught up in a world over which he has no control. By contrast, Carlos Villatoro as Antonio is the daring and forceful leader of a robber band who eventually becomes enmeshed in a drug ring dominated by others. The two lovely feminine leads are unforgettable and sharply different in character. Hortensia Valencia’s Laura is a young woman of integrity seeking to aid her beau, yet naive about the doctor’s true intentions, while Lupe Bonilla’s Esther is a flirtatious girl who uses her charms to entrap Antonio only to herself fall victim to the drug ring’s brutality. The performance of Manuel de los Rios is multilayered. As Dr. Ortiz, he appears first as a bespectacled, impassioned idealist and is gradually revealed as a sleazy individual more interested in seducing Laura than aiding drug victims. In his guise as the Rigid One, he is authoritarian in manner, bearded, walking with a pronounced limp, his left hand encased in a leather glove, the “iron fist” of the film’s title holding the other characters in a deadly grip. Among the nightmarish figures in his vice den are the Hawk, with his skullcap, long, waxed mustache and evil grin, and another denizen with most of his upper teeth missing so that he appears as a fang-like monster. A further contrast to the adult criminals is the child Juanito, played by Guillermo Pacheco who had also portrayed Carmela’s little brother in El tren fantasma. Juanito, who wears glasses, smokes a pipe and reads Nick Carter detective stories, strikes a note of light comic relief. Yet, in joining forces with Perico and finally helping Antonio subdue the Rigid One, Juanito plays a central role in the resolution of the narrative.

Fotograma de El tren Fantasma

In presenting his narrative, García Moreno did not utilize distorted sets in the expressionist style nor a variety of impressionistic camera tricks. The only example of a subjective cinematographic effect is near the beginning when the morphine-addicted Carlos, while caressing the donkey, sees a double-vision image of Laura as the young woman approaches. Otherwise, García Moreno creates his strange narrative amidst settings of complete reality, including extensive locations, and in the classic style of editing employed in American silent action films. The tendency towards cinematic realism is exemplified by Dr. Ortiz’s lecture in the town plaza, illustrated by cutting to documentary footage of hospitals and drug victims that García Moreno filmed in Mexico City. The haunting images of deformed children suffering from their parents’ vice add a particular urgency to the film’s depiction of the drug menace. Yet the fact that these revelations come from a man who will turn out to be a main source of the problem proves to be the story’s ultimate irony. García Moreno also continued his mastery of action melodrama in the film’s numerous fights and pursuits, sequences that made many demands on his troupe. For example, Hortensia Valencia recalls falling off a horse during the shooting of a riding scene. Most of the sequence depicting the attack of Antonio’s band on the car was actually taken from the earlier El Buitre, filmed near Mexico City in 1925, with new close-ups of Perico and others shot in Orizaba in 1927 and spliced into the new film.

The combination of realistic social comment, action adventure, outright fantasy, humor both light and dark, sexual motifs ranging from the romantic to the perverse—all encased within a narrative revealed to be a hallucinatory vision—seems to have been without precedent in Mexican cinema. Louis Feuillade’s masterpiece, the classic French serial, Les Vampires (1915-16), much admired by the founder of Surrealism, André Breton, and filmmaker Luis Buñuel, had anticipated El puño de hierro in its similar approach to fantastic adventures shot in settings of total realism. García Moreno took this tradition even further into the realm of dreams and the unconscious, creating a kind of parallel universe in which the perception of a child like Juanito can expose and defeat the corrupt criminality of adults. On one level, of course, the final realization that the film’s nightmarish adventures have been, in fact, only a figment of the imagination can be seen as a comforting reassurance that all is well with our everyday world. Carlos will now be motivated to abandon harmful drugs and urge others to do likewise. Yet, given the revelatory nature of Carlos’s drug-induced dream, the spectator has also been confronted with dark, disturbing truths about society that cannot easily be dismissed. The viewer of the film has discovered that appearances, those masks we often employ to cover our true selves, can indeed be deceiving and that social conventions can draw a veil over the mind. At the outset, Dr. Anselmo Ortiz appears to be the hero of the film, the upstanding civic leader dedicating his life to the destruction of the drug trade and the salvation of its victims. By contrast, Antonio heads a gang of thieves who disguise themselves in masks and robes that resemble a black-gowned Ku Klux Klan. Alluding to his nickname, several scenes involving Antonio are preceded by symbolic insert shots of a bat. In the end, however, it is Dr. Ortiz who is revealed to be the true criminal and Antonio who emerges as the heroic rebel against the vice den, unmasking the pillar of the community.

Sexuality also appears in the film in a distorted manner as the product of a society in which everything has been reduced to a commodity. This is apparent from the very beginning when the drug-addled Carlos kisses the donkey, a scene with black comic overtones of bestiality. Following the playfully romantic scenes of Antonio and Esther on a park bench, they are seen together in the vice den. When Esther virtually forces cocaine on Antonio, the camera focuses on a close-up of her legs wrapping around his in a manner strongly suggestive of sexual intercourse. In effect, Esther rapes Antonio. Later, there is a homosexual orgy in the drug den. A grinning elderly man, crowned with a wreath on his head, in a reversion to infantilism wears only a loincloth and cradles a doll in his arms. A young man passionately embraces him, while another drug-crazed young man caresses the old man’s bare leg and plays with his toes.

Hortensia Valencia

Although García Moreno was not known to be an adherent of any particular artistic school nor did he state for the record his broader aesthetic ambitions, with El puño de hierro, he had created what may very well be the first Mexican film with surrealist elements. Surrealism, with its parallels in Mexico’s ancient pre-Columbian art blending the fantastic and the realistic, would later become central to modern Mexican culture as artists like Frida Kahlo expressed their dreams in their work. Indeed, when he visited the country in 1938, André Breton declared that Mexico was a surrealist nation. Luis Buñuel, for his part, would find Mexico ideal for the realization of films that dramatized his surrealist view of life. For all its roots in Mexican culture, however, García Moreno’s El puño de hierro proved to be ahead of its time. Mexico’s film-going public in the 1920s was accustomed to works offering more straightforward realism, such as García Moreno had demonstrated in El tren fantasma. El puño de hierro premiered in Orizaba on May 21, 1927, at the Teatro Llave, and apparently failed to resonate with the local audience, due, one must suppose, to its challenging vision. But whatever the reason, the film failed to gain wider distribution and was never shown in Mexico City. Shortly after, Centro Cultural Cinematográfico went bankrupt. The first and, until the 1970s, the only film studio producing in Orizaba, the company was beset with all the difficulties that can accrue to a small, ambitious enterprise operating far from the country’s central metropolis. The collapse of the studio and the lack of contemporary response to his masterpiece, El puño de hierro, must have had a devastating effect on García Moreno. For while he would remain active in cinema until the end of his life, never again would he direct a film.

After Centro Cultural Cinematográfico folded, Gabriel and Hortensia moved to Tijuana at the invitation of his brother Vicente where they managed a chicken ranch for a short time. But the lure of the movie capital to the north, then in the throes of the new technological revolution of sound, proved much stronger to Gabriel. At the end of 1929, García Moreno, by his own initiative and without anyone’s recommendation, obtained work at the Hal Roach Studios in the Backgrounds and Miniatures Department. The Roach studio, located in Culver City not far from its distributor, MGM, was in the forefront of the industry with its output of classic comedy shorts starring Laurel and Hardy, Charley Chase, Thelma Todd, and Our Gang. García Moreno also worked for another leading Hollywood producer of the period, Howard Hughes, who had just completed Hell’s Angels and would follow it with other celebrated classics, including The Front Page and Scarface. For an experimenter like García Moreno, these studios were the perfect environment to study the latest in film techniques in order to come up with devices of his own. While working in Hollywood, García Moreno invented a continuous-speed camera for the shooting of feature-length films. He also worked with two brothers from Mexico, Joselito and Roberto Rodríguez, on the invention of a new kind of sound film equipment, helping them to obtain an American patent.

During their years in Southern California, Gabriel and Hortensia lived in a house near a zoo on Gower Street in Hollywood. Gabriel used to say to her, “Don’t worry, you’ll always be happy,” and indeed, Hortensia would retain the warmest memories of their years together in Mexico and Hollywood. She no longer worked in films, but she enjoyed the California lifestyle of the 1930s and particularly liked to drive her car around Los Angeles. She and Gabriel maintained ties to Hollywood’s Mexican colony and were socially acquainted with such stars as Dolores Del Rio and Tito Guízar and a future director, Emilio Fernández. They were still living in Los Angeles in 1936 when Hortensia gave birth to their only child, a daughter named Raquel.

El Tieso

In 1937, after being away from their country for eight years, Gabriel and Hortensia returned to Mexico. Bringing with him several Hollywood technicians, he rented a large building in Mexico City and turned it into a new, modern film studio, Estudios García Moreno, which later became the Azteca Studios. Among the films that were produced there was Diablillos de arrabal (Little Devils of the Suburbs), made in 1938 and released in 1940. Written, produced, and directed by Adela Sequeyro, one of the few women filmmakers in the cinema at the time, Diablillos de arrabal was a realistic story of a band of poor children growing up in the barrios of Mexico City. García Moreno supervised the sound recording of Sequeyro’s memorable classic. Around 1942, García Moreno left his studio after a dispute with his partners to start a new organization, Laboratorios Cinematográficos Moreno, in Mixcoac, a suburb of Mexico City. There, he experimented with making films in various color processes. Film had always been his intoxicant and he would spend hours in his laboratory seeking to perfect his medium. With the Mexican cinema in the midst of its golden age (la época de oro), it was a propitious time for filmmaking and García Moreno began making plans for many new projects. He was in the prime of life and appeared to be enjoying excellent health when, in January 1943, he took his daughter on a car trip to Acapulco for a vacation. Driving back on the new highway from Acapulco to

Mexico City, he stopped at a restaurant-hotel for a meal. After eating some cheese, he suddenly became ill and called his wife Hortensia who, with his brother Vicente, then hurried to pick him up to take him home. Gabriel was still conscious and complaining of a pain in his side when they reached his house in Mexico City, although the full seriousness of his condition was not yet apparent. A doctor was called to his home and determined that he had uremic poisoning apparently stemming from toxic substances in the food he had eaten in the restaurant. Confined to his bed, Gabriel soon fell into a coma and, within two or three days, died on January 20, 1943, at the age of 45. He was buried in the Panteón Jardín in Mexico City. His passing coincided with the deaths of two other major Latin American film pioneers in 1943, Argentina’s José Agustín Ferreyra and Brazil’s Vittorio Capellaro. García Moreno’s ultimate tragedy lay in his sudden end at a youthful, vigorous age with potentially many more creative years ahead of him, including a possible return to directing.

Hortensia Valencia, a woman of great inner strength, was able through sheer willpower and determination to overcome her adversities. She went back to work and was employed for a time as an administrator at the Hotel del Prado in Mexico City before starting her own business, a store where she sold fabrics for curtains. She managed the store for many years and never remarried. Still remarkably vigorous at the age of 100 when Esperanza Vázquez Bernal interviewed her in 1999, Hortensia said she had not found another man who could compare to Gabriel.

Meanwhile, the films produced by the Orizaba company were for many years preserved by the studio’s treasurer, William Mayer. In the late 1960s, his family gave them to film historian Aurelio de los Reyes who deposited them in the Filmoteca de la UNAM. The archive safeguarded the material, but the films and their director were a long-forgotten chapter in Mexican film history in 1997 when Esperanza Vázquez Bernal began researching them in connection with her biography, Carlos Villatoro: Pasajes en la vida de un hombre de cine, a book she coauthored with Federico Dávalos Orozco. In 1998, El tren fantasma and El puño de hierro were released on VHS tape by UNAM as part of a series of Latin American silent films distributed on home video in collaboration with the Brazilian cultural organization, Funarte. However, unlike the other films in this series, the García Moreno films were still in an incomplete state. El tren fantasma was missing all its inter-titles while one crucial sequence had been lost. The print of El puño de hierro used for the video was in a jumbled state with scenes in the wrong order, along with many missing inter-titles and some footage that was not included. Working in association with Francisco Gaytán, Manuel Rodríguez, and José Antonio Valencia at UNAM, Esperanza Vázquez Bernal then undertook a thorough restoration of the films. She located García Moreno’s original synopses for the films deposited in the national archives, making it finally possible to restore them following the director’s original intentions. The revised edition of El puño de hierro now includes inter-titles recreated for the film, rearranges the scenes in the order intended by García Moreno, and incorporates rediscovered footage that had not been included in UNAM’s earlier edition. The 2001 premiere of the new version marked the first time that the film had been shown theatrically in Mexico City since its creation. In 2002, Ms. Vázquez followed up with a restoration of El tren fantasma that includes inter-titles developed from the synopsis and a reconstruction of the lost sequence with the aid of stills and surviving frames from the missing footage.

It has only been in recent years that a concerted international effort to explore the untapped riches of film history has begun to reveal many previously unknown classics of the early cinema, like El tren fantasma and El puño de hierro. Thanks to the dedicated labors of Esperanza Vázquez Bernal and her colleagues at UNAM, a later generation of film devotees has finally been able to discover the work of Gabriel García Moreno, a remarkable pioneer of the silent era who brought a fresh imaginative vision to the Mexican cinema during its formative years. While the dark, unusual narrative of El puño de hierro was perhaps too unsettling to be appreciated by 1920s sensibilities, its questioning of authority, including reality itself, has made it highly relevant to contemporary audiences who have discerned that inside every Dr. Ortiz loudly proclaiming his championship of ideals, there may lurk a Rigid One, an iron fist squeezing the populace for personal profit. Thus, like so much of lasting value created in the silent era, the vision of El puño de hierro retains its power to enlighten and entrance the viewer.

Esperanza Vázquez Bernal is continuing her research on Gabriel García Moreno. If you can provide further information on his life and career, please e-mail her at:

A special thank you for research assistance to Rogelio Agrasánchez, Jr. and his wife Xóchitl whose Agrasánchez Film Archives is a major collection of films, publications, and memorabilia from Mexico’s golden age of cinema. Their website is at:

*Taken from Journal of Film Preservation 66, 10/2003, pp. 10-21. Revue de la Fédération Internationale des Archives du Film (FIAF).

La venganza de Pancho Villa (a lost and found border film)

La venganza de Pancho Villa (The Vengeance of Pancho Villa): A lost and found border film*

Gregorio C. Rocha

On January 5, 1914, Frank N. Thayer, representing Mutual Film Corporation and General Pancho Villa, head of the Constitutionalist army in the Mexican revolution, gathered in the office of attorney Gunther Lessing in El Paso, Texas, to sign a contract.

In it, Pancho Villa agreed to give exclusive rights to Mutual to film the triumphant campaign of his army on its way down to Mexico City. As a result of this contract, the film The Life of General Villa was made, becoming perhaps, one of the first biographical films ever made and “…one of the oddest episodes in film history”, according to film historian Kevin Brownlow.1

The Life of General Villa opened its commercial run in the Lyric Theater in New York, in May, 1914 and afterwards, once World War I had started, the film was apparently junked by the same company that produced it, becoming another lost film, but quite a legendary one.

After an exhaustive two-year search, digging in the film archives in Amsterdam, London, New York, and Mexico City, while looking for film materials for my documentary The Lost Reels of Pancho Villa, I stumbled into one of the most precious treasures a film researcher may aspire to find: dozens of nitrate film reels from the 1920’s, lobby posters, photographs, film artifacts, glass slides and memorabilia, which had been sitting in the basement of the house of the Padilla family in El Paso, Texas, since the late 1930’s.

The amazing find followed an earlier one: while visiting the Special Collections in the library of the University of Texas at El Paso, a set of photographs was put in front of me. To my surprise, the photographs showed many unknown scenes from The Life of General Villa, showing Raoul Walsh, Teddy Sampson and other players hired by Mutual Film Corporation. Since this film was the ultimate goal of my quest, my pulse accelerated with the belief that I was getting close to it, if there was a surviving print. Along with the photographs, there were copies of exhibition leaflets announcing the film La venganza de Pancho Villa, (The Vengeance of Pancho Villa), a title of which I had never heard before. Since the leaflet was dated 1937, my first thought was that they were announcing a talkie film, but small letters at the bottom of the page read: “We will soon count with sound equipment!” Then, I was positive that they were referring to a silent film, but there was only one film made about Pancho Villa in the silent era, The Life of General Villa. Where and what was this new “lost” film? It happened to be very near, in the vault of the library, nested in a metal container, since 1985, when it was donated to UTEP ( University of Texas at El Paso).

Raoul Walsh as young Villa in The Life of General Villa, 1914

La venganza de Pancho Villa had been slowly decaying in its container. When we opened up the lid, a strong smell of nitrocellulose filled the air. We pulled seven reels out of the container. While examining the positive print, multiple glue splices showed that the film had been cut from different sources – both fictional and documentary – and using different brands of film, namely Eastman Kodak, Pathé and Agfa. At first glance, it was possible to date most of the strips of film as being 1916 nitrate film stock. All seven reels showed melting of the emulsion in the section proximate to the core, for which it was possible to foresee that at least one third of the film was irretrievably lost. At first glance too it was possible to see in some of the frames the image of Raoul Walsh playing the young Pancho Villa, and fascinating bilingual English-Spanish inter-titles, telling a somewhat obscure story about Pancho Villa. My conclusion was that I had found not the lost, but another lost film about Pancho Villa.

Subsequently, with the help of the Institute of Oral History, I came to meet the Padilla family, former owners of La venganza de Pancho Villa, who welcomed me in their home, allowed me in their basement to open those rusty cans filled with film treasures, investigate in their documents, and shared with me the story of their ancestors.

Edmundo and Félix Padilla

Between 1920 and 1936, Mr. Félix Padilla, an empresario from Ciudad Juárez, Chihuahua, traveled extensively with his son Edmundo throughout Northern Mexico and the Southwestern United States, exhibiting silent films that he rented or purchased from film distributors based in Mexico City and Los Angeles. Félix and Edmundo Padilla toured in a pick-up truck, carrying with them 35mm films, a portable film projector, a manual phonograph, lobby posters and several 78rpm records, which they used to add music to the projections. In the afternoons, Mr. Padilla would traverse the center of each town, announcing the day’s program, using a megaphone. Screenings usually took place in the local theater, where Mr. Padilla shared the profits on a 50-50% basis with the owner. Occasionally, when movie theaters were not available, Mr. Padilla would set a huge white canvas in the main plaza and the screening would take place in the open air, with the assistants bringing their own chairs.

For 5 cents and 10 cents (children and adults respectively), the people from places like Ciudad Juárez, Chihuahua; Gomez Palacio, Durango; Coyote, Coahuila; or Deming, New Mexico, could enjoy the exhibition of American short comedies, followed by silent Mexican melodramas, such as En la hacienda, by Ernesto Vollrath, 1922.

In the early 1930´s, when the family had already moved to El Paso, Texas, Félix and Edmundo decided to create their own version of the life of Pancho Villa in film, cutting and re-editing fragments from films they had in their collection. By doing this, they unknowingly became the first Mexican-American filmmakers. Edmundo Padilla´s fascination with Pancho Villa probably began when, as a child, he witnessed the Mexican revolution: 

“…At midnight you could listen the gunfire. The shout of “Viva Villa!” would unleash yelling and thundering all around. Sometimes the revolutionaries would take the town, but at other times they would be defeated. I also became aware of the executions that took place in the municipal cemetery, where federal soldiers would fire their rifles against the revolutionaries standing in front of a wall. I also got to see Pancho Villa in person, when one time he arrived in his own car pulling a wagon loaded with corn and beans. He personally distributed the goods with the poor people who arrived carrying baskets.”2

The Padilla´s fascination with Pancho Villa rivaled their fascination for the moving image. As a result of the first assemblage of appropriated footage, they came up with a compilation film which was exhibited under different titles, depending on the version. El reinado del terror (The Reign of Terror) was the first release of the film. It is possible that Félix and Edmundo Padilla began their project out of the remaining few reels of the legendary The Life of General Villa.

One fact that may prove the hypothesis that The Life of General Villa was the basis for the Padilla film is provided by the stills which were used for the lobby cards in advertising their film. These are in fact images from The Life of General Villa. By carefully examining those photographs, it is possible to see the “Eastman Kodak Nitrate Film” brand printed in the borders, which suggests that they are frame enlargements, rather than “stills” taken during production. In the same interview recorded by Magdalena Padilla in 1976, Mr. Edmundo Padilla remembered that:

“The film of Pancho Villa was about the Mexican Revolution. There were many scenes shot in real battlefields. My father brought that film to the U.S. and exhibited it in many places here, Arizona, New Mexico, California and Texas, always in small towns. He would bring his projector, rented the theaters and went for a percentage, including schools. The film of Villa was about when Villa was young, how he was pushed into the revolution, his first accomplishments after he was a bandit and then when he became a general. People loved this film, especially Mexican people.”3

This statement from Mr. Padilla clearly references the story line of The Life of General Villa. Though Félix Padilla claimed it as his film and never mentioned the sources from which he gathered the scenes for El reinado del terror, it is possible to establish now, that in addition to The Life of General Villa, they also drew from other sources, mainly from the 20-episode serial Liberty, a Daughter of the U.S.A. directed by Jacques Jaccard, and produced by Universal Film Manufacturing Co. in 1916. Most likely, Félix had purchased several episodes of Liberty at a low price, after it had lost its commercial value. This episodic film, released in August, 1916, showed a “patriotic” response to the attack of Villista forces on the town of Columbus, New Mexico on March 8th, that same year. This attack, which resulted in the complete destruction of the center of the town, caused several American civilian and military casualties, and marked a downturn in Pancho Villa´s image in North American public opinion. The response of the American government, led by President Woodrow Wilson, was the immediate invasion of Mexican territory with an army of 15,000 soldiers under the command of General John Pershing, in pursuit of Pancho Villa. The attack to Columbus and the resulting “Punitive Expedition” set both countries on the brink of war and exacerbated nationalist feelings on both sides of the border.

Photogramme of Liberty, Daugther of the U.S.A., Jacques Jaccard, 1916

For Mexicans, Pancho Villa´s dimensions as a hero grew as the sole man able to defy the imperialist power by attacking U.S. continental territory. On the North American silver screen, however, Pancho Villa´s image once compared to that of Napoleon or Robin Hood in The Life of General Villa, shifted to that of the worst of villains, becoming Public Enemy number one. In an advertisement published in August, 1916, by Moving Picture World, Liberty was announced as: “A great love story; scenes laid along the Mexican border; with enough of the military atmosphere in each episode to stampede your audiences into bursts of patriotic feeling and appreciation.”

In Liberty, a Daughter of the U.S.A., the actress Mary Walcamp plays the young heroine Liberty, who is kidnapped by an evil character named Pancho Lopez, a Mexican bandit who demands ransom to finance his revolution. While doing this, Pancho Lopez invades Discovery, destroys the town, and kills most the inhabitants. Major Rutledge, played by Jack Holt, heads an army of Texas Rangers into Mexico to rescue Liberty and to get rid of Pancho Lopez and his band.

Though Liberty seemed to be an innocent American episodic melodrama, nowadays, it offers a very interesting reading from an ideological point of view. On one side, it represents an excellent example of female protagonists finding a Utopian space to develop as the “New Woman”4, but Liberty may also be considered as the ultimate greaser film due to its profound and furious anti-Mexican content, perhaps not surpassed by any other American film of the period. Liberty also offers ground for the study of the symbolic representations of gender, race and politics in early American melodramas. This same kind of analysis could be applied to Patria, a “war readiness” serial also related to the American paranoia regarding Mexico as well as Japan, produced a year later by William R. Hearst.5

Padilla´s strategy in including this episodic film in his project, was to eliminate most of the scenes where Liberty appeared, bringing Pancho Lopez into the foreground as protagonist of the story. When creating new inter-titles in Spanish and English to convey his desired meaning, Padilla re-named the characters and places that Universal´s screenwriters invented in order to avoid any direct offense to Mexican sensibilities, using their real names. Thus, “Pancho Lopez” became Pancho Villa and “Discovery” became Columbus. But, in the few scenes where Liberty appears, she became “La güera Amalia” (the “blonde Amalia”). With nationalist fervor, a common attitude in Mexican border-landers in order to exercise cultural resistance, Mr. Padilla transformed the original anti-Mexican intention of Liberty into a dubious glorification of Pancho Villa, in spite of the original portrayal of him as a merciless murderer.

With all this, Padilla released another version, or more precisely, another episode of the film: Pancho Villa en Columbus, which he probably exhibited to the same audiences. Mr. Mariano de la Torre, grandson of Mr. Félix Padilla, witnessed some of the screenings when, as a child, he was hired as phonograph operator:

“I was cranking the phonograph and when the attack on Columbus appeared on the screen, my grandfather would cue me to crank it with more impetus, making the crowd go wild. They would yell: ´Viva Villa! Mueran los gringos!´”6

It is important to remember that during the Depression, when the Padillas were screening their films, intolerance towards Mexican immigrants was high and racial segregation was the norm in the border area. However, the Padillas edited their film to be appreciated by both Anglo and Mexican audiences. Due to the use of bilingual inter-titles and to the interpretive ambiguity, the film could have had different readings and therefore satisfy audiences from both cultures.

Columbus a few days after Villas's Attack

Pancho Villa en Columbus was an open-structured film. When Mr. Félix Padilla passed away in 1936, Edmundo followed up the family tradition and he came up with the definitive version of the film, La Venganza de Pancho Villa. Edmundo added historical value to the film by incorporating documentary scenes borrowed from Historia de la Revolución Mexicana, a Mexican compilation documentary made by Mr. Julio Lamadrid in 1928. From it, Edmundo drew sequences showing the “real” Pancho Villa and different events of the Mexican revolution such as the Battle of Celaya, which might be an example of his method: he would start the sequence showing a Mexican newsreel of the actual event, and suddenly, would cut to an action-packed fake battle, filled with hundreds of extras, from one of the episodes of Liberty.

While trying to arrive to a coherent cinematic discourse on the life of Pancho Villa from this extremely contradictory materials, Edmundo Padilla found it necessary to film additional sequences that would later be inter-cut within his assemblage of appropriated footage. These include the opening sequence, now lost, when the mother makes a fatal confession to the young Pancho Villa; the abduction and subjugation of his father by federal soldiers, which sparks the rage of Pancho Villa, and his own assassination, recreated with friends and relatives in the outskirts of El Paso in 1930.

The film incorporates scenes shot in Texas by Edmundo Padilla exclusively for the final work

Some sequences which he did not modify and we see for the first time in a silent film in La venganza de Pancho Villa, represent some polemical historical events that shaped the United States and Mexico´s hazardous border in that era: The attack on Columbus, New Mexico; the Santa Isabel incident where 16 American engineers were slaughtered; and the little known event of the Battle of Ojos Azules, when Pershing´s expedition unsuccessfully confronted Villista soldiers.

But perhaps the best example of Padilla´s method is an amazingly edited denunciation of the 1914 American invasion of Veracruz, where he inter-cuts scenes from Birth of a Nation, 1914; naval battle newsreels from World War I; Liberty, 1916 and The Life of General Villa, 1914; to contest American representations of the other, of the enemy, in this case the Mexicans.

Perhaps acting not only as a metaphor, the title The Vengeance of Pancho Villa, suggests Padilla´s unstated intention: La venganza de Pancho Villa is a revenge against cultural stereotypes imposed by early American cinema. 

La venganza de Pancho Villa may now be considered as a film maudit, a precursor of what may be called Border Cinema, not only due to the geographical location of its practitioners, but in its attempt to freely cross, back and forth, the dividing lines set between political and non-politically correctness; fact and fiction, Anglo and Mexican cosmogony, Gringo and Greaser stereotypes, but most of all, because of its intended – and at times successful – transformation of meaning.

It is stated in Mr. Padilla´s logbook that La Venganza de Pancho Villa made $1280.00 pesos from September, 1936 to May, 1937. This figure represents the paid admission of at least 12,000 spectators, considering a 10-cent admittance fee.7

The Padillas´ leaflets of La Venganza de Pancho Villa suggest that it had its last run in October, 1937. Small letters at the bottom of the leaflet, read: “We will soon have sound equipment and films!” But Empresas Padilla never made the leap to the sound era.


1 Kevin Brownlow explored the participation of cameraman Charles Rosher and his relationship to Pancho Villa in The War, the West and the Wilderness, Alfred Knopf, New York, 1978.

2 From an interview with Mr. Edmundo Padilla, recorded by Magdalena Arias. Institute of Oral History, UTEP. El Paso, Texas, 1976.

3 According to Moving Picture World, it is possible to establish the following figures: In 1914, four feature films with Mexican villains were released. The figure rises to nine in 1915, and twenty in 1916, after the Columbus incident. Between 1914 and 1920, at least seventy nine greaser feature films were released.

4 From an interview with Mr. Mariano de la Torre, recorded by Gregorio Rocha in El Paso, TX. June, 2001.

5 There is an excellent study of the role of women in early American films in Benjamin Singer´s Melodrama and Modernity. Indiana University Press. 2001.

6 It is important to mention that William Randolph Hearst owned enormous tract of land and large numbers of cattle in the state of Chihuahua. By 1917, when Patria was released, Pancho Villa had already seized Hearst´s cattle and distributed it among the peons. The contents of Patria were so offensive to Mexico, that President Woodrow Wilson ordered Hearst´s film company to remove all signs in the film that referred directly to Mexico. Ever since 1914, Hearst had heralded an American armed intervention in Mexico.

7 Félix and Edmundo Padilla´s notes were written in a logbook, preserved by the Padilla family. This logbook has been a helpful tool in reconstructing the history of the different versions of La Venganza de Pancho Villa.

*This research was possible due to grants from the Fulbright-García Robles Research and Lecturing Program and the Fondo Nacional para la Cultura y las Artes, México.

I would like to thank the Library Special Collections Department of the University of Texas at El Paso, The Library of Congress Film Preservation Center, Filmoteca U.N.A.M, in Mexico, and above all, the Padilla family for their generous support in the development of this research.

Films cited:

La Venganza de Pancho Villa. Félix and Edmundo Padilla. Mexico/U.S.A. ca. 1930.

Liberty. 20-episode serial. Jacques Jaccard and Norman McRae. U.S.A. 1916.

The life of General Villa. William C. Cabanne and Raoul Walsh, U.S.A. 1914.

Historia de la Revolución Mexicana. Julio Lamadrid. Mexico, 1928.

*From Journal of Film Preservation 65 12/2002, pp. 24-29. Revue de la Fédération Internationale des Archives du Film.