Pedro Almodóvar’s Praise
(and what I did to deserve it)
In his recent musings about life under quarantine, Pedro Almodóvar mentioned how “overwhelmed” he was when sexy Sean Connery called to compliment him as he exited a screening of his powerful film Talk To Her. Overwhelmed. That’s exactly how I feel when Pedro mentions my name a few paragraphs later and writes about Chavela, the documentary I co-directed, “All I see and hear moves me to tears.” I catch my breath and read on.
Lola Garcia Rodríguez, one of his producers, had written to tell us Pedro liked the film when it first came out, but I’m completely blown away when he writes, “Even though I’ve already seen the documentary, it hits me with such emotion that I cannot control it, nor do I want to. I cry until the very last frame.” Whoa! Powerful words from a man whose work I absolutely adore. A tidal wave of emotion makes me realize I haven’t been breathing. I sit. And a huge grin spreads across my face. We made him cry! The moment is right up there with the time (back in my reporter days) when I interviewed Martin Scorsese, another movie master whose work I love, and he complimented me on the thoughtfulness of my questions. But I digress.
As I continue reading Pedro’s reminiscences of Chavela, my mind wanders down its own memory lane and I recall having to ask three times before he agreed to be in the film. The first time he was too busy finishing Julieta. The second time he said it would be too painful to talk about her because he hadn’t yet recovered from Chavela’s death — even though it had been 4 years. I understood, but I wasn’t about to give up.
I couldn’t. My co-director, Catherine Gund, and I knew there was no way we could make the film we wanted without Pedro’s participation. Although he wasn’t “the Spaniard” who had plucked Chavela from el hábito, the little cabaret in Coyoacan, Mexico where she’d made her comeback, and whisked her off to Spain like most people thought, (that honor belongs to Manuel Arroyo Stephens), Pedro had played a critical role in helping her attain international acclaim. No movie about her would be complete without him. Desperate after his second refusal, I finally emailed the wonderful Spanish producer Mariela Besuievsky, who’d become an advisor on the project, to see if she knew anyone who could help us reach him. “Oh you should have told me you were having problems! His producer is a good friend of mine,” she responded. Et voilá. Interview secured!
Even our Spanish crew was excited to be admitted to el deseo, his production company. When Lola showed us to his private office and left us alone to set up, we were like kids in a candy store, squealing with delight at the candid photos of him, Penelope Cruz, Antonio Banderas and other actors and celebrities we knew and loved lining the walls. We took pictures with the pictures, giggling as we went about our business then turning completely professional an hour later when he entered the room. “Please, sit here Mr. Almodóvar. Is the light ok, Pedro? Are you comfortable? Would you like water?”
Although he’d only planned to give us 20 minutes, the interview went so well that he spent almost an hour with us. I think it was a combination of my interviewing prowess (lol) and his undying love for Chavela. Although he’d said it would be painful, it soon became clear that he actually relished the opportunity to share his journey with “La Chamana” (the Shaman.) Charming, funny, and extremely eloquent with sharply detailed recall, he was everything we had hoped for and more. After we wrapped, he chatted a good 15 minutes and even took pictures with us.
Reading about how he used to kiss the stage before Chavela performed, reminds me how hard we scoured the planet looking for footage of him doing it — and how disappointed we were when we couldn’t find any. Footage of Chavela coming out on Colombian television at age 81 or saying her famous quote about how “Mexicans are born where ever they f***king want” was also nowhere to be found. We had wanted it ALL. But in the end, those moments weren’t as essential as we’d thought. Pedro, Chavela’s former girlfriend, Alicia Elena Perez Duarte, and Jose Alfredo Jimenez Jr, along with the unseen footage of Chavela conversing with a group of adoring young lesbians that Catherine had been blessed to shoot in 1991 (and then sat on for over twenty years), combined with Chavela’s inimitable, powerful presence and the other interviews we were lucky to secure were more than enough in the hands of our talented editor, Carla Gutierrez.
Not that the other interviews were chopped liver! Miguel Bosé (who Pedro writes about sending flowers for his birthday every year), Martirio, Eugenia León, and Tania Libertad are all luminous stars in their own right. They, and so many other generous souls, were kind enough to invite us into their homes and lives, eager to share their love for “la Señora.” As one after the other spoke of the powerful effect Chavela had on their lives, and how connected they remained to her even in death, I remember feeling cheated that I’d never met her while she was still walking planet Earth.
My time as an exchange student in Mexico City (from 1977 to 1978), coincided with the period where crazy, bad ass Chavela had been banished from the stage (and the country for a while) for stealing the girlfriend (Arabella Árbenz) of Emilio “el Tigre” Azcárraga, one of the most powerful men in the country — who also just happened to own the record label to which Chavela was signed. Evidently stealing rich men’s women was one of her favorite past times. So I didn’t ”meet” her until I watched Cat’s footage.
Recently recovered from years of heavy drinking (to put it politely), Chavela is a wise crone imparting hard won wisdom to the youthful women peppering her with questions. Flattered by their attention, she lets her guard down and answers them with candid humor and the most poetic language I’ve ever heard spoken extemporaneously. (Later I was amazed to learn how little formal education she had.) Watching her helped me understand the true meaning of the word “gravitas” and I was so impressed with her persona that even before I had heard her sing, I said yes to dedicating years of my life to celebrating hers.
When Pedro’s article came out, a friend in Spain sent it to me in Spanish. Then it was translated into English and sent by a second friend. But it wasn’t until Sara Khaki and Mohammad Reza Eyni, fellow filmmakers in Iran, emailed the Farsi translation that I realized how far my name had travelled on Pedro’s coat tails. And that I had come full circle.
Two years before my lifelong love affair with Mexico began, I befriended Mandana (Mani) Mousavi, a young Iranian girl whose family had fled after the overthrow of the Shah and landed in my hometown, Dayton, Ohio, of all places. I helped her with English and explained our wild, Western ways and Mani reciprocated by teaching me Persian words, sentences and songs, one of which I’ve managed to retain almost completely phonetically and melodically intact. I’d meant to become fluent in Farsi but instead have contented myself for years by singing the song, which is called Man o To (You and I), to Iranians and watching their faces blossom with surprise and delight at an African American woman singing in Persian. Evidently, it was a wildly popular song of a lovely singer named Googoosh and I sing it well enough to ignite fond memories.
Seeing Pedro’s missive (and my name) in Farsi, and having CineArte magazine rank Chavela as the number one Latin American documentary of the decade, makes me feel as if my childhood and adult lives have seamlessly merged and lets me know that the goal Catherine and I set when we first embarked on the journey — to introduce new audiences to Chavela Vargas — has been fulfilled tenfold. What a blessing.
