Stars and Stardom in Brazilian Cinema 9781785332999

Table of contents :
Contents
Acknowledgments
lllustrations
Introduction
CHAPTER 1 Consuming visions: Female stars, the melindrosa and desires for a Brazilian film industry
CHAPTER 2 A star system created by fans: Pernambucan cinema in the 1920s
CHAPTER 3 A star in the spotlight: Carmen Santos and Brazilian cinema of the 1920s
CHAPTER 4 Carmen Miranda: From national star to global brand
CHAPTER 5 Cinelândia magazine and the creation of home-grown movie stars in the 1950s
CHAPTER 6 Oscarito and Grande Otelo ‘The terrible twosome’
CHAPTER 7 Eliane Lage: A falling star in the skies of the tropics
CHAPTER 8 Radio stars on screen: Critiques of stardom in Moacyr Fenelon’s Tudo azul (1952)
CHAPTER 9 Jece Valadão, the ‘charming crook’ A star image between tradition and modernity
CHAPTER 10 José Mojica Marins versus Coffin Joe: Auteurism and stardom in Brazilian cinema
CHAPTER 11 As loiras: Brazil’s screen blondes
CHAPTER 12 A star is born: The rising profile of the non-professional actor in recent Brazilian cinema
CHAPTER 13 The black body reframed: Lázaro Ramos and the performance of interracial love
CHAPTER 14 Seu Jorge as a cross-media star: Between local authenticity and global appeal
CHAPTER 15 Latin lover or Latin(o) loser? Rodrigo Santoro and the Hollywood stereotype
Index

Citation preview

STARS AND STARDOM IN BRAZILIAN CINEMA

STARS AND STARDOM IN BRAZILIAN CINEMA Edited by Tim Bergfelder, Lisa Shaw and João Luiz Vieira

berghahn NEW YORK • OXFORD www.berghahnbooks.com

Published in 2017 by Berghahn Books www.berghahnbooks.com © 2017, 2018 Tim Bergfelder, Lisa Shaw and João Luiz Vieira First paperback edition published in 2018

All rights reserved. Except for the quotation of short passages for the purposes of criticism and review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without written permission of the publisher. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A C.I.P. cataloging record is available from the Library of Congress British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 978-1-78533-298-2 (hardback) ISBN 978-1-78533-843-4 (paperback) ISBN 978-1-78533-299-9 (ebook)

Contents Acknowledgements vii List of Illustrations viii .............................................................................................................................................................................................. Introduction1 Lisa Shaw and Tim Bergfelder ..............................................................................................................................................................................................  1. Consuming visions: female stars, the melindrosa and desires for a Brazilian film industry  23 Maite Conde ..............................................................................................................................................................................................  2. A star system created by fans: Pernambucan cinema in the 1920s 46 Luciana Corrêa de Araújo ..............................................................................................................................................................................................  3. A star in the spotlight: Carmen Santos and Brazilian cinema of the 1920s 60 Ana Pessoa ..............................................................................................................................................................................................  4. Carmen Miranda: from national star to global brand 73 Ana Rita Mendonça and Lisa Shaw ..............................................................................................................................................................................................  5. Cinelândia magazine and the creation of home-grown movie stars in the 1950s 93 Lisa Shaw ..............................................................................................................................................................................................  6. Oscarito and Grande Otelo: ‘the terrible twosome’ 111 João Luiz Vieira and Leonardo Côrtes Macario ..............................................................................................................................................................................................  7. Eliane Lage: a falling star in the skies of the tropics Ana Carolina de Moura Delfim Maciel

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 8. Radio stars on screen: critiques of stardom in Moacyr Fenelon’s Tudo azul (1952)144 Luís Alberto Rocha Melo ..............................................................................................................................................................................................  9. Jece Valadão, the ‘charming crook’: a star image between tradition and modernity162 Rafael de Luna Freire .............................................................................................................................................................................................. 10. José Mojica Marins versus Coffin Joe: auteurism and stardom in Brazilian cinema 178 Laura Loguercio Cánepa .............................................................................................................................................................................................. 11. As loiras: Brazil’s screen blondes 196 Stephanie Dennison .............................................................................................................................................................................................. 12. A star is born: the rising profile of the non-professional actor in recent Brazilian cinema 210 Charlotte Gleghorn .............................................................................................................................................................................................. 13. The black body reframed: Lázaro Ramos and the performance of interracial love 227 Ben Hoff .............................................................................................................................................................................................. 14. Seu Jorge as a cross-media star: between local authenticity and global appeal249 Katia Augusta Maciel .............................................................................................................................................................................................. 15. Latin lover or Latin(o) loser? Rodrigo Santoro and the Hollywood stereotype263 Daniel O’Brien .............................................................................................................................................................................................. Index283

Acknowledgments A decade ago the British Academy, as part of their UK-Latin American/Caribbean Link Programme, facilitated the creation of a network of scholarly interaction related to Brazilian cinema. We gratefully acknowledge the Academy’s support in fostering a link that has since grown into regular intellectual exchanges, ultimately resulting in this joint publication. Supporting this project from the start with their advice and recommendations were Professor Ismail Xavier (Universidade de São Paulo) and Professor Lúcia Nagib (University of Reading), whom we would like to thank particularly warmly. Equally helpful were the suggestions made by the anonymous reviewers of the book manuscript. At Berghahn, we were expertly guided and supported by Mark Stanton, Adam Capitanio, Chris Chappell, and Caroline Kuhtz. Above all, we would like to thank our contributors, who have shown u ­ nwavering commitment and patience as this volume has come to fruition. Tim Bergfelder (University of Southampton) Lisa Shaw (University of Liverpool) João Luiz Vieira (Universidade Federal Fluminense) September 2016

lllustrations  1.1 Cover of Cinearte magazine featuring actress Eva Nil, 1927.  2.1 Heloiza (Guiomar Teixeira) in A filha do advogado (1926).   3.1 Carmen Santos in a sensual pose to promote the film A carne. Photograph published in Selecta magazine on 24 January 1925.   3.2 Carmen Santos in a publicity photograph for the film Mademoiselle Cinema (1925).   4.1 Carmen Miranda in That Night in Rio (1941).   5.1 Cover of Cinelândia magazine from March 1954.  6.1 Oscarito and Grande Otelo in A dupla do barulho (1953).   7.1 Eliane Lage holding the Saci trophy for best actress, which she was awarded for her performance in Ravina (1958), alongside her children.   9.1 In Os cafajestes Valadão’s seductive character holds one girl in his arms while looking at another, while in A navalha na carne he plays a violent pimp who exploits the poor, old prostitute Neusa Sueli (Glauce Rocha). 10.1 Coffin Joe in Esta noite encarnarei no teu cadáver (1967).  10.2 Coffin Joe in Encarnação do demônio (2008).  11.1 Xuxa stars as Cinderella in Xuxa em o mistério da Feiurinha (2009).  12.1 Vinícius de Oliveira’s role as Dario in Linha de Passe once again emphasizes his association with marginalized, urban youth.  12.2 Josué (Vinícius de Oliveira) cries as he watches Dora’s bus leave at the end of Central do Brasil. The close-up emphasizes the importance of the character’s reaction for narrative closure.  13.1 Lázaro Ramos in Madame Satã (2002).  14.1 Seu Jorge in The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou (2004).  15.1 A model Hollywood Latino couple? Rodrigo Santoro with Jennifer Lopez in What to Expect When You’re Expecting (2012). 

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Introduction Lisa Shaw and Tim Bergfelder

The proliferating histories of screen stardom Stars and film industries centred on stars have been an important strand in the study and criticism of cinema. As early as the 1920s, theorists including Rudolf Arnheim, Béla Balázs, Siegfried Kracauer and Walter Benjamin discussed the ­significance of personae, images and iconic stars such as Charles Chaplin and Greta Garbo, and their integral function within the interconnecting aesthetic, social and affective systems that the new mass medium of cinema represented.1 Following the consolidation of Hollywood as an industry and as a popular art form in the 1930s and 1940s, the seemingly universal appeal of stars caught the attention of, among others, anthropologists such as Hortense Powdermaker,2 sociologists such as Edgar Morin3 and semioticians such as Roland Barthes.4 Within the nascent academic discipline of film studies in the 1970s, Richard Dyer’s groundbreaking book Stars (first published in 1979) mapped a field and methodology – or rather a set of methodologies – for the analysis of stars as a simultaneously ­aesthetic and social phenomenon of modern culture.5 Dyer’s text inaugurated a rich seam of scholarship that has gone from strength to strength in the last few decades and that shows no sign of abating today if the sheer number of publications is anything to go by.6 Nevertheless, while many of Dyer’s original observations and definitions still hold true today, there have been a number of developments in the field and in the actual cultural presence and social function of stars in the decades since the late 1970s that have taken star studies in new directions, with new priorities, new contexts and new parameters. Early star studies tended to assume a homology between the terms ‘star’ and Hollywood. Stars were seen as a key feature of the Hollywood system

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that ­distinguished it from other film cultures, which were seen to place greater emphasis on the notion of the director as auteur, or which championed ‘real’ and ‘authentic’ protagonists over and above ‘artificial’ star creations. Moreover, Hollywood, aided by the industry’s economic might, has often been perceived as the only truly popular cinema with a near-universal reach during the twentieth century. By contrast, most other cinemas have been seen to exist in a precarious state where the ‘authentic’ national culture is by definition an endangered, repressed niche, and the indigenous market is under perpetual threat of colonization by Hollywood. With such a dualistic perspective on Hollywood and the rest of world cinema, the investigation or even acknowledgement of stars outside Hollywood remained off the agenda for a long time. From the late 1980s onwards, however, the notion that stars were by and large a Hollywood phenomenon was increasingly challenged as part of a new trend in national film histories, which were keen to rediscover and re-evaluate homegrown popular genres, traditions and performers. In previous accounts, these domestic popular cinemas had been dismissed at best as irrelevant and marginal, at worst as inauthentic copies of Hollywood that needed to be overcome by a more enlightened and politically committed form of auteurist art cinema. In the new national film histories, by contrast, popular genres and stars are reassessed as legitimate and indeed typical expressions of a particular film culture, and a fertile ground for studying local identities. As a result of these interventions, the field of star studies has expanded considerably, and has led to a rich stream of ­publications on stars from a variety of contexts.7 While the last few decades have seen an increasing move away from the hegemony of Hollywood stardom towards a more global and international understanding of the phenomenon, there has also been a shift from a focus on stardom that is exclusively associated with cinema towards an acknowledgement that stars regularly cross media boundaries between film and television, the music industry, sports and other entertainment fields, and sometimes exist as ‘celebrities’ autonomous from any presence in a specific medium or from traditional notions of performative ability or ‘talent’. Of course, this phenomenon is not new; throughout the twentieth century many star performers traversed media boundaries, especially (but not exclusively) between the cinema, the stage, the music industry and, from the middle of the century onwards, television. Nevertheless, in an era of heightened media convergence since the 2000s,8 the idea of the star as a ‘brand’ and ‘franchise’ that can travel and translates easily across national as

INTRODUCTION . 3

well as media boundaries has gained renewed currency. Addressing this trend, Paul McDonald has noted that in the wake of Dyer’s Stars, many analyses were invested primarily in uncovering the symbolic function of stars within a particular cultural and social regime. But while McDonald concedes that ‘stars are texts, meaning, images and culture’, they are also at the same time economic and commercial entities, and this function has, if anything, gained in importance and ­priority over the past decades.9 In this edited volume, our aim is to trace the history of stardom in Brazilian cinema along the parameters of star studies as a discipline that we have mapped above. Many of the issues that have concerned scholars of stardom elsewhere we find replicated in the Brazilian case study: the uneasy and often unequal relationship between home-grown forms of popular cinematic culture versus the economic might of Hollywood distribution and the appeal of North American stars; the balance between genuinely original domestic stars and genres on the one hand and strategies of cultural appropriation and imitation on the other; the way in which cinema, especially in the early decades of the twentieth century, became a motor for modernity itself; the multiple forms by which popular cinematic stardom becomes a vector for prevailing and changing attitudes concerning gender, class, race, sexuality and national self-definition; and finally the cross- and intermedial connections within star trajectories that relate back to the permeability of media industries and art forms throughout film history. However, before we detail the specific structure of the book and the content of individual chapters, let us first trace the development of stardom in Brazil in broad outlines.

Early film stardom in Brazil Following Robert Stam’s groundbreaking study Tropical Multiculturalism,10 as with everything else in Brazilian cinema and culture more widely, the notion of stardom cannot be extricated from the question of race relations. The evolution of dominant discourses concerning the country’s racial self-definition can be traced – literally – in the faces of its film stars. It is important to remember that the beginnings of cinema in Brazil occurred less than a decade after the abolition of slavery in 1888, and thus local film production took shape in a post-abolition climate in which deep-rooted prejudice and discrimination against Afro-Brazilians persisted. Forced labour was replaced by the employment of white immigrants

4 . LISA SHAW AND TIM BERGFELDER

from Europe, and the ruling elite saw this shift as a means of modernizing as well as ‘whitening’ the population. Former slaves and their black and mixed-race descendants were deemed unsuitable to contribute to the construction of a civilized and forward-looking First Republic (1889–1930). A domestic film industry and a national audience of consumers were seen as central aspirations in the ­construction of modernity in Brazil, and the new republic used cinema to ­promote an ideal of Brazil that was cosmopolitan, urban and white. During the so-called belle époque of Brazilian cinema, which began in 1906 and came to an abrupt halt in 1912 as Hollywood asserted its might and flooded the Brazilian market, fiction films superseded the short non-fiction films that had been representative of the earliest attempts at domestic production. Nationally specific genres began to emerge, such as filmes policiais (‘police films’), based on real-life crimes; filmes cantados (‘sung films’) – musical comedies which involved performers singing live behind the screen in the cinema theatre; and filmes de revista – musical revues related to Brazil’s vaudeville tradition known as the teatro de revista. The period between 1911 and 1926 saw a spate of film adaptations of Brazilian literary texts, such as the novels of José de Alencar (1829–77). The stars of these various genres were largely drawn from other forms of popular entertainment, such as the circus, popular music and the teatro de revista. The comedy Nhô Anastácio chegou de viagem (Mr. Anastácio Returned from a Trip, 1908), for example, starred singer and acrobat José Gonçalves Leonardo in the lead role, and one of the most successful filmes cantados, the light-hearted political satire Paz e Amor (Peace and Love, 1910), starred well-known singer Antonio Cataldi. It was the teatro de revista, in particular, that provided a training ground for the first stars of the silent and early sound eras, including the actor and singer Augusto Aníbal (1887–1965), director-actor Procópio Ferreira (1898–1979), the Portuguese-born comic Mesquitinha (1902–56), singer Barbosa Júnior (1910–65), the Spanish-born comedian Oscarito (1906–70), Afro-Brazilian comic Grande Otelo (1917–93) and the diminutive comedienne Dercy Gonçalves (1907–2008). European immigrants were prominent on both sides of the camera in the silent era. Italian-born Vittorio Capellaro (1877–1943), for example, directed and starred in six literary adaptations between 1915 and 1926. A European physiognomy provided a passport to screen stardom, whereas Afro-Brazilian faces were conspicuous by their absence.11 One notable exception was Benjamin de Oliveira (1870–1954), a clown in the Spinelli circus who belonged to a tradition called circo-teatro.12 He starred as an Amerindian character in Os guaranis (The Guarani

INTRODUCTION . 5

Indians, 1908),13 a film he also directed and which was based on a circus show he had starred in.14 Credited as being the first black film actor in Brazilian cinema, tellingly, Oliveira’s career was brief, and he appeared in just two more films in minor roles in the sound era.15 Until the 1960s, the one exception that proved the rule regarding the hegemony of white stars within Brazilian cinema, and the concomitant exclusion of Afro-Brazilian faces, was Grande Otelo (literally ‘Big Othello’, the stage name of Sebastião Bernardes de Souza Prata; see Chapter 6 in this volume). In spite of the racism that implicitly underpinned official discourse, and which in turn impacted on the cinema, the myth of Brazil as a racial democracy was paradoxically perpetuated by the white elite, largely as an either explicit or implicit strategy to downplay the country’s traumatic legacy of slavery. The best-known defence of Brazil’s history as characterized by essentially harmonious race relations was anthropologist Gilberto Freyre’s pseudo-sociological study Casa grande e senzala (The Masters and the Slaves, 1933), but even earlier than that the abolitionist politician Joaquim Nabuco had compared Brazil to other slave economies in favourable terms. Beneath such rhetorical veneer, however, a racist press regularly whipped up anxieties over a black polluting menace throughout the first decades of the twentieth century, and the structuring absence of black characters and actors in Brazilian films during the silent era is an obvious reflection of such discourse. Sound technology arrived in Brazilian cinema at a time of dramatic political and social change. The first commercially successful talkie, Coisas nossas (Our Things, 1931), produced and directed by US record company executive Wallace Downey, consolidated the interaction between film and popular music in Brazil, with the recording industry and radio providing the film industry with readymade stars throughout the 1930s. Under the regime of President Getúlio Vargas (1930–45), nationalism was placed firmly at the top of the political agenda, and in spite of the involvement of North American expertise and capital, Coisas nossas was heralded in the press as a patriotic triumph. Vargas sought to create a sense of national belonging through the seemingly inclusive ideology of brasilidade or ‘Brazilianness’, which eschewed any acknowledgement of the country’s racial, ethnic and class differences. Popular culture played a key role in fostering brasilidade, particularly popular music, many of whose stars crossed over into cinema. The Afro-Brazilian origins of popular cultural forms such as samba were deliberately downplayed, leading to the emergence and promotion of white performers, such as the highly successful Carmen Miranda (1909–55), whose image could be

6 . LISA SHAW AND TIM BERGFELDER

applauded equally by the upper, middle and lower classes,16 and who effortlessly made the transition from the recording studios and radio to the film industry (see Chapter 4). Coinciding with the rise of white stars during the Vargas era, Grande Otelo, in contrast, became Brazil’s single acceptable black face, chosen to represent Afro-Brazilians at official functions attended by the president as ‘evidence’ of the mythical racial democracy that was taking shape within nationalist rhetoric. Otelo’s face stands out from the crowd in official photos of such events, and it is revealing that he was afforded little coverage in Brazilian film magazines, his racial origins evidently rendering him unsuitable as star material within the overall vision such publications disseminated of the national star system. Most of the early sound films were musicals that drew on the tradition of documentary films about the Rio de Janeiro carnival that dated from the silent era, but also on the template of the Hollywood ‘backstage’ musical. If the first generation of film stars in Brazil were ‘crossover’ performers from the teatro de revista, the circus, the record industry and the radio, this changed in the 1940s with the foundation of the Atlântida studios in Rio de Janeiro, which was explicitly modelled on the Hollywood studio system. Like its North American counterparts, Atlântida had a roster of stars under exclusive contract. Some of these performers, such as Oscarito and Grande Otelo, emerged from other sectors of popular entertainment. However, the majority had no prior show business experience and made their debut on screen, such as Eliana Macedo (1926–90; see Chapter 5), the ‘girl next door’ of countless Atlântida productions who personified the Hollywood-inspired ideal of pale-skinned beauty. Emulating the narrative of Hollywood’s star ‘discoveries’, Macedo’s talent was apparently first spotted by her uncle, the filmmaker Watson Macedo. Atlântida dominated film production in Brazil in the 1940s and 1950s, and constituted the most overt attempt to adopt a North American model of a star system in Brazil. Nevertheless, previous initiatives had already borrowed strategies from Hollywood in promoting home-grown stars since the 1920s, very often with the aid of the Brazilian press.

The creation of the Brazilian star system in the popular press As we have noted above, Hollywood occupied a dominant position in the Brazilian film market since the early decades of the twentieth century, and its hegemony extended not only to the kinds of films in exhibition, but also to the popular

INTRODUCTION . 7

appeal that Hollywood productions and stars enjoyed among Brazilian audiences. It is therefore not surprising that from the 1920s onwards, Hollywood provided the blueprint for Brazil’s nascent star system. A host of copycat film magazines emerged that were instrumental in fostering a sense of a fledgling film industry to which the creation of domestic stars was central. Ironically, at a time when the ubiquity of Hollywood products meant that Brazilian stars rarely appeared on screen, publications like Para Todos (1918–26), A Cena Muda (1921–55) and Cinearte (1926–42) set out to give the impression of a thriving vernacular film culture. It has been estimated that in its heyday the magazine Cinearte was read by 100,000 people from across Brazil and therefore played an unprecedented role in shaping the public’s perceptions and expectations in relation to screen icons.17 These popular publications, in line both with the template provided by US magazines such as Photoplay or The Moving Picture World and with hegemonic discourses of racial identity in Brazil, promoted ideals of white ‘European’ beauty and photogeneity for both male and female stars. In the silent era Brazil’s first screen actresses were fashioned in the style of their Hollywood counterparts, with whom they were directly compared. Tellingly, English terms were adopted by Brazilian journalists for classifying acceptable types of screen actress, who had ‘it’, ‘sex appeal’ or ‘spleen’, for example, and who covered the gamut of roles from ‘vamp’ to ‘ingénue’.18 Concessions were made to Brazil’s patriarchal traditions and Catholic conservatism, however, with the press attenuating the risqué connotations of the ‘star texts’ of actresses who played vamps on screen. The tacit tenets of Brazil’s racial hierarchy, historically underpinned by the ‘whitening’ ideal, were central to the aesthetics of the country’s star system, and it was no coincidence that an article in Cinearte in 1929 stated: Making quality films in Brazil must involve purifying our reality, by selecting aspects that deserve to be shown on screen: progress, works of modern engineering, our beautiful white people, our natural wonders. No documentaries, since you cannot totally control what is shown and undesirable elements can infiltrate them; we need a studio-made cinema, like the North American model, with well-decorated interiors featuring agreeable people.19 The role of film magazines in the creation and maintenance of a local star system endured into the 1950s, when magazines dedicated to the world of film (Cinelândia; Filmelândia), as well as those of the radio and popular music

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(Radiolândia; Revista do Rádio), continued to appeal to a wide readership. Like its predecessors, Cinelândia targeted female readers, as is revealed by the predominance of adverts for beauty products and articles on the beauty tips of Hollywood stars. The magazine encouraged its readers to ‘buy into’ the star system through various means of participation, such as by sending fan letters to the magazine (which were prominently published in its pages) or even becoming film stars themselves by entering the ‘Miss Cinelândia’ beauty contest. As early as 1928, a ‘Contest for Female and Male Photogenic Beauty’ was held in Brazil, which enticed would-be stars with the first prize of a contract with Fox studios in Hollywood.20 Modelling itself on the ‘search for a star’ competitions organized by major Hollywood studios, and emulated throughout the world, the ‘Miss Cinelândia’ contest offered readers the opportunity to win a contract with the Atlântida studios to appear in at least one feature film. Entry coupons were printed in the magazine, and it was clear that the judges were looking for a paleskinned brand of ‘Hollywood’ beauty, with the coupon requiring that entrants described their ‘tez’ or complexion, as well as sending in two photographs.

Stardom since the 1960s The left-wing, avant-garde Cinema Novo movement that emerged in the early 1960s constituted a backlash against the very idea of stardom. With its links to Italian neo-realism and the French Nouvelle Vague, the movement emerged as a reaction to and critique of Hollywood production methods, and explicitly condemned the efforts of Brazilian studios, such as Vera Cruz in São Paulo and Atlântida in Rio de Janeiro, in attempting to emulate the Hollywood star system. In its first phase (1961–64) in particular, Cinema Novo championed the use of hand-held cameras, location shooting and the casting of non-professional actors as an aesthetic strategy that aimed to develop a cinematic language better suited to the realities of life in Brazil. Cinema Novo was not a film culture centred on stars, but a cinema of auteurs, and it was the filmmakers themselves – young, politically committed and controversial – who became the icons of the movement, particularly Glauber Rocha, the creator of the classic Deus e o diabo na terra do sol (Black God, White Devil, 1964). Yet despite the pre-eminence of the director within the ethos of Cinema Novo, the movement did foster the career of some iconic performers, for example Othon Bastos, the lead in several films

INTRODUCTION . 9

directed by Rocha and Ruy Guerra. After a military coup in 1964, and even more so following the ‘coup within the coup’ of 1968, which introduced strict censorship and persecuted left-wing intellectuals, some Cinema Novo auteurs began to move away from the so-called ‘aesthetics of hunger’ in search of reaching a wider public. As a result, later productions made use of recognizable performers, not least one of the veterans from the popular cinema of the 1940s and 1950s, Grande Otelo, who became the indisputable ‘star’ of Joaquim Pedro de Andrade’s 1969 film Macunaíma (see Chapter 6) – not coincidentally one of the few examples of Cinema Novo to have made a significant impact at the box office. In the 1960s a more commercially oriented cinema adapted the work of two of Brazil’s most successful playwrights, Nelson Rodrigues and Dias Gomes, creating films that featured well-known stars in their casts. These included Jece Valadão (1930–2006; see Chapter 9), who played the eponymous hero of Nelson Pereira dos Santos’s film Boca de Ouro (Gold Mouth, 1963), and Anselmo Duarte (1920–2009), the leading man of many of the Atlântida chanchadas of the 1950s, who took the lead role in the highly acclaimed adaptation of Dias Gomes’s hit play O pagador de promessas (The Given Word, 1962), which also featured an appearance by Othon Bastos. The prominent use of stars continued throughout the 1970s and 1980s, most notably in showcases for the comedian Amácio Mazzaropi (1912–81) and the comedy quartet Os Trapalhões.21 Before establishing his own production company in 1958, Mazzaropi had been a well-known radio star, and had worked in television from its inception in the early 1950s.22 His film stardom drew on his acute understanding of the expectations of his audience, who were invited to identify with his character Jeca, the comic caipira or country bumpkin that he embodied in countless films. Television exposure was also an important factor in the success of the Trapalhões – a comedy foursome that made twenty-one films from the 1970s until the death of two of its members in the early 1990s.23 They debuted on the TV Excelsior channel in São Paulo in 1966, and subsequently had a show on TV Record, before making a highly lucrative move to TV Globo in 1977, which led to saturation advertising of the biannual release of their films – primarily aimed at children and teenagers – and the production of comic books, toys and a children’s clothing line.24 Crossover stardom between television and the cinema has been a defining feature of audiovisual culture in Brazil since the 1970s, and is perhaps best exemplified by the popular children’s entertainer, Xuxa (born 1963; see Chapter 11), who has enjoyed outstanding box office success since the 1990s. Since its creation

10 . LISA SHAW AND TIM BERGFELDER

in 1997, Globo Filmes, the film production wing of Brazil’s most powerful media conglomerate, has adopted a highly effective strategy of using casts with an established track record in TV Globo programmes, not least the all-pervasive telenovelas or soap operas. As Ben Hoff documents in Chapter 13 in relation to Lázaro Ramos (born 1978), contemporary actors move freely between films and popular television, and their recognizability and popularity among a wide audience undoubtedly contributes to the success of the films in which they appear. For example, in 2013 the ten highest-grossing Brazilian films were co-productions involving Globo Filmes and featuring stars who are well known to television audiences. Thanks to his visibility in telenovelas and recent Globo Filmes productions, as well as in international breakthrough hits, Lázaro Ramos is probably the most easily identifiable Afro-Brazilian actor today, rivalled only by the crossover popular music star Seu Jorge (born 1970; discussed in Chapter 14), who played the character of Mané Galinha/Knockout Ned in the film Cidade de Deus (City of God, 2002), and who also wrote and performed songs for the film’s soundtrack. However, in a country where an estimated 50% of the population have African ancestry, Afro-Brazilian stars are still overwhelmingly outnumbered by their white counterparts. This being said, with the so-called retomada or renaissance of Brazilian cinema from the mid 1990s onwards, stimulated by tax incentives for film producers, a growing trend for films that depict life in Brazil’s urban margins has given increased exposure to Afro-Brazilian characters and performers, and has given rise to a new generation of black and mixed-race stars. The internationally successful City of God, in particular, famously recruited the majority of its cast from among the reallife inhabitants of Rio de Janeiro’s favelas or shantytowns, to endow the film with a heightened sense of verisimilitude but also out of necessity, since as the film’s director Fernando Meirelles explained, there were simply not enough professional actors of Afro-Brazilian origin in Brazil. This use of ‘natural’ or non-professional actors in combination with more established performers has been a defining characteristic of recent film production in Brazil, and this leads to further interrogations of the phenomenon of stardom in domestic cinema (see Chapter 12).

Star studies in the Brazilian context As we have noted at the beginning of this introduction, national film histories have often focused more on the achievements of artistic movements and

INTRODUCTION . 11

­outstanding auteurs (such as Cinema Novo and Glauber Rocha, respectively, in the Brazilian case) than on the popular appeal of local genres and stars. Indeed, until recently, the study of stardom in Brazil tended to take the form of biographical accounts of a small number of iconic popular performers, such as Carmen Miranda and Grande Otelo, and these comprise publications that typically combine popular appeal with varying degrees of academic rigour. In recent years, more serious scholarship has appeared on figures such as Mazzaropi, Zé do Caixão/Coffin Joe, Grande Otelo and Oscarito,25 filling gaps in an otherwise patchy bibliography.26 However, apart from the work on Coffin Joe (see Chapter 10 in this volume), one area that has been relatively ignored, both in Brazil and elsewhere (and is also an acknowledged gap in this volume), relates to the Brazilian exploitation cinema of the 1970s, often dismissed under the term pornochanchada. In his pioneering study Boca do lixo, Nuno Cesar Abreu has demonstrated how crucially this popular and for a while dominant genre depended on the appeal of female star performers, some of whom are remembered and recognized to this very day.27 Yet in terms of scholarly investigation, many of these stars and indeed the whole period of the pornochanchada await closer investigation. By contrast, the female stars of early cinema have fared comparatively well in terms of scholarly attention, with Carmen Santos (­ 1904–52) being the subject of a book-length study,28 and the publication of an edited volume dedicated to the muses of the silent screen, Quase catálogo 3: Estrelas do cinema mudo Brasil, 1908–1930.29 The area of Brazilian stardom that has received the most sustained and rigorous critical attention has been the role played by the film press in fostering a star system in the 1930s, most notably Ismail Xavier’s groundbreaking analysis of the magazine Cinearte.30 However, texts that adopt a thematic rather than biographical approach are still relatively few in number, although they include the important study of black actors in Brazilian cinema by João Carlos Rodrigues, O negro brasileiro e o cinema, first published in 1988.31 A useful source of biographical information on Brazilian film stars from all periods in the nation’s film history can be found in a range of well-researched encyclopaedic and reference works, particularly the Enciclopédia do cinema brasileiro published in 2000.32 In addition, an extensively illustrated three-volume series, from the São Paulo-based Fraiha publishing house, is dedicated to the major names of the history of Brazilian cinema, both behind and in front of the cameras, between 1930 and the end of the 1970s.33

12 . LISA SHAW AND TIM BERGFELDER

Stars and Stardom in Brazilian Cinema The chapters in this volume are organized chronologically, so that through individual case studies a progressive trajectory and history of the phenomenon of stardom in Brazilian cinema can emerge. Maite Conde’s chapter examines Brazilian stardom of the 1920s, focusing on a young generation of female stars that emerged during this decade. Conde traces the elaboration of this early star system in the context of a vibrant urban consumer culture, one that depended on women as workers and as consumers. Her chapter is centred on two intersecting lines of enquiry. Firstly, it explores the ways in which the development of female star texts was inextricably and complexly related to an urban mass culture that emerged in early twentieth-century Brazil, placing it in the context of the country’s reorientation to a new context of global capitalism that emerged post-World War One. Conde highlights stardom’s dialogue with the figure of the melindrosa, Brazil’s version of the ‘New Woman’. Secondly, the chapter locates the complex and contradictory embodiment of female stars within discussions concerning the development of Brazilian cinema itself, more specifically the postwar desire to construct a national film industry. Luciana Corrêa de Araújo’s chapter considers the star system in relation to the cinema made in the city of Recife, in the state of Pernambuco in the northeast of Brazil, in the 1920s, a period of significant local film production. Her chapter focuses on the role of the press in the construction of a local star system, but also analyses the latter in relation to its creators (actors, directors, technical crew), the majority of whom embarked on filmmaking as a result of being dazzled by North American films and their stars. Carmen Santos, the subject of Ana Pessoa’s chapter, was one of the biggest stars of Brazilian cinema in the 1920s, but also an influential producer, raising questions about the relationship between stardom and authorship, and about the role of women’s active contribution to the national film canon. Pessoa draws attention to Santos’s deliberate strategies at the beginning of her career to establish a star persona and indeed a ‘brand’ for herself at a time when she had barely made any inroad into the film world; in this respect Santos’s emerging star image was more a virtual one fostered by the press than based on actual screen performances. As other chapters in this volume demonstrate, the sometimes significant discrepancy between star aspiration and actual cinematic presence became a recurring feature in the history of Brazilian stardom.

INTRODUCTION . 13

Ana Rita Mendonça and Lisa Shaw’s chapter discusses Brazilian cinema’s most prominent star export, Carmen Miranda, whose career in Brazil and later in Hollywood made her arguably the most famous Brazilian across the globe during the twentieth century, apart from sporting heroes such as Pelé, or a handful of  internationally acclaimed musicians. In addition to mapping Miranda’s ­transnational career, this chapter also discusses how her almost mythical persona and image could serve very different ideological functions, from the brasilidade of the Vargas regime, to the ‘Good Neighbour Policy’ adopted by the United States towards its Latin American neighbours, and including the aesthetically syncretic and politically progressive ethos of the ‘Tropicália’ movement of the 1960s. Lisa Shaw’s chapter notes the importance of the magazine Cinelândia in fostering a national debate about stardom in the 1950s. Through borrowing the techniques and features of US templates in constructing star discourse, the magazine included reviews of Brazilian and Hollywood films, film stills and publicity  shots of stars. Although Hollywood provided most of the material for  Cinelândia magazine, as with earlier Brazilian publications of this type, the stars of the Brazilian chanchada (a commercially successful tradition of musical comedies) were afforded equal status to their Hollywood counterparts, and imported star discourses were modified to suit local sensibilities. Shaw examines a number of specific campaigns, such as the organizing and promoting of a beauty contest designed to ‘discover’ and launch the careers of future screen stars. If Carmen Miranda is the quintessential representative of Brazilian cinema in the wider world, then within Brazil itself, the double act of Oscarito and Grande Otelo, discussed in the chapter by João Luiz Vieira and Leonardo Côrtes Macario, occupies perhaps the most central role. As outlined above, Grande Otelo’s position within the industry and on screen was both unique and remarkable, as was his shift from the popular cinema of his early career to the auteur productions in which he starred in his final decades. Both Otelo and Oscarito, however, also epitomize Brazilian cinema’s indebtedness to other cultural forms and media, including the circus and radio. Ana Carolina de Moura Delfim Maciel’s chapter recalls the career of Eliane Lage, the biggest star associated with the Vera Cruz film studio during its ­short-lived history from the late 1940s to the mid 1950s. Drawing on a number of definitions of stardom (by Morin, Maurois and Barthes), Maciel documents how

14 . LISA SHAW AND TIM BERGFELDER

Lage’s image was moulded by the studio’s press department, fostering a persona that denied the importance of cinema and preferred a life in the countryside to the glamour of the spotlight, leading to comparisons with Greta Garbo and Ingrid Bergman, in particular. However, unlike Hollywood actresses who remained in the audience’s imagination for decades, without the continued support of a dedicated means of star promotion, Lage’s legacy has been largely forgotten and today consists of faint signs and traces that highlight absence, the passage of time and broken dreams. Luís Alberto Rocha Melo’s chapter adopts a somewhat different approach to most of the other contributors in that his case study concerns a screenwriter, Alinor Azevedo (1913–74), and the latter’s script for the musical comedy Tudo azul (It’s All Right, 1952). Azevedo was one of the founders of the Atlântida studios in 1941 and one of the most active professionals within Brazilian cinema between 1940 and 1950. However, what makes this chapter relevant to the concerns of this book is the way in which Tudo azul represents a critique of the star system in terms of plot and formal structure. In this respect it sheds an important light on the perception and understanding of the phenomenon of stardom at this particular point in time. Rafael de Luna Freire’s chapter concerns Jece Valadão, one of the leading actors in Brazilian cinema during the 1960s and 1970s. It investigates Valadão’s image as the small-time crook or cafajeste (from the title of one of his most celebrated and controversial films) and tracks his highly successful career from his beginnings as a radio actor in the late 1940s through to his appearance in ­acknowledged classics such as Nelson Pereira dos Santos’s Rio, 40 graus (Rio, 40 Degrees, 1954). Whereas many of the stars discussed in the previous chapters are associated with either the mainstream Brazilian film industry and established popular genres, such as the chanchada, or alternatively the avant-garde auteur cinema of Cinema Novo, the career of José Mojica Marins or Coffin Joe, the subject of Laura Loguercio Cánepa’s chapter, is more idiosyncratic and occupies the margins of official film culture in Brazil on various levels. As the lead actor, director, writer and producer of his own films, Mojica Marins is both star and auteur, while his horror films have challenged over various decades the borderlines of respectability and social norms. Nevertheless, the unique persona of Coffin Joe represents in interesting ways how a seemingly foreign genre, horror, becomes rearticulated and ­transformed according to a typically Brazilian perspective.

INTRODUCTION . 15

Stephanie Dennison’s chapter analyses the preference within Brazilian cinema and television for blonde performers with a European phenotype, and how such stars are represented in contrast to more ethnically mixed or darkskinned actresses. Concentrating on successful blonde stars Xuxa and Vera Fischer, and bringing in Sônia Braga as a comparison, Dennison illustrates how much the question of race continues to haunt contemporary Brazilian media, and how this also inflects representations of gender. Charlotte Gleghorn’s chapter problematizes traditional definitions of stardom by looking at the way Brazilian cinema has used non-professional actors, who in the wake of their on-screen success have experienced rather mixed destinies. Films such as Pixote: a lei do mais fraco (Pixote, the Law of the Weakest, Babenco, 1980), Central do Brasil (Central Station, Salles, 1998), Cidade de Deus (City of God, Meirelles and Lund, 2002) and Linha de passe (Salles and Thomas, 2008) have juxtaposed performances by non-professional children with those of established adult actors. Drawing on press articles, interviews and the films themselves, Gleghorn suggests how the on-screen and off-screen personas of non-professional actors contribute to broader debates regarding authenticity and realism. Ben Hoff’s chapter discusses Lázaro Ramos, one of the most successful black actors of the last two decades, and a star who effortlessly crosses the boundaries between the media of television and cinema, and between popular genres and edgy art-house cinema. The focus of Hoff’s analysis is in particular how the films in which Ramos appears negotiate the contentious subject of interracial love (both homosexual and heterosexual), and also how Ramos’s star persona is ­primarily defined through his physical attributes. Katia Augusta Maciel’s chapter analyses the cross-media stardom of Seu Jorge, who since the 2000s has become an internationally acclaimed singer, and has also carved out a niche for himself as an actor in films such as City of God and Wes Anderson’s The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou (2004). For Maciel, Seu Jorge represents the quintessential case study of a star marked by a new era of media convergence, where the star’s fame and connection with his fans is negotiated through a variety of different channels. In the final chapter of this volume, Daniel O’Brien brings the trajectory of Brazilian stars and stardom up to the present day with a study of the career (to date) of Rodrigo Santoro. Arguably the most prominent Brazilian actor to make his name in Hollywood since Carmen Miranda’s heyday in the 1940s, Santoro

16 . LISA SHAW AND TIM BERGFELDER

has not managed to transform his on-screen persona into the kind of iconic representation of ‘Brazilianness’ that Miranda achieved (albeit at the expense of becoming something of a caricature). Instead he seems to have taken on the image of a more undefined foreigner, demonstrating that even today Hollywood stardom finds it difficult to accommodate non-Anglo-Saxon stars. To conclude, then, this volume aims to contribute to ongoing debates surrounding the phenomenon of stardom and its ever-shifting characteristics, as well as to the increasingly nuanced global scholarship on this subject, by exploring from a wide variety of angles a specific national context over the span of a century. Our aim is to break fresh ground by foregrounding the centrality of stardom to Brazilian film culture and to extend the hitherto scant bibliography on this aspect of the nation’s cinema. While we acknowledge the extent to which Hollywood has provided an enduring model, we seek to illustrate the importance of cultural specificity and diachronic shifts in the understanding of star texts and how they are created. Notes 1. See Sabine Hake, The Cinema’s Third Machine: Writing on Film in Germany, 1907–1933 (Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press, 1993). 2. Hortense Powdermaker, Hollywood, the Dream Factory: An Anthropologist Looks at the Movie-Makers (Boston: Little, Brown, 1950). 3. Edgar Morin, Les Stars (Paris: Editions du Seuil, 1957). 4. Roland Barthes, Mythologies (Paris: Editions du Seuil, 1957). 5. Richard Dyer, Stars (London: British Film Institute [BFI], 1979). 6. A comprehensive bibliography would be impossible here; indicative titles include: Richard Dyer, Heavenly Bodies: Film Stars and Society (London: BFI/Macmillan, 1987); Richard deCordova, Picture Personalities: The Emergence of the Star System in America (Champaign: University of Illinois Press, 1990); Christine Gledhill (ed.), Stardom: Industry of Desire (London: Routledge, 1991); Jeremy Butler, Star Texts: Image and Performance in Film and Television (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1991); Jackie Stacey, Star Gazing: Hollywood Cinema and Female Spectatorship (London: Routledge, 1994); Paul McDonald, The Star System: Hollywood’s Production of Popular Identities (London: Wallflower Press, 2000); Thomas Austin and Martin Barker, Contemporary Hollywood Stardom (London: Arnold, 2003); Lucy Fisher and Marcia Landy (eds), Stars: The Film Reader (London: Routledge, 2004); Andy Willis (ed.), Film Stars: Hollywood and Beyond (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2004); Martin Shingler, Star Studies: A Critical Guide (London: BFI/Palgrave Macmillan, 2012).

INTRODUCTION . 17

7. Indicative titles include Joanne Hershfield, Mexican Cinema, Mexican Women (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1996); Bruce Babington, British Stars and Stardom (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2001); Viyaj Mishra, Bollywood Cinema: Temples of Desire (London: Routledge, 2002); Chris Perriam, Stars and Masculinities in Spanish Cinema (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003); Guy Austin, Stars in Modern French Film (London: Arnold, 2005); Tytti Soila (ed.), Stellar Encounters: Stardom in Popular European Cinema (New Barnet, Herts: John Libbey, 2009); Mary Farquhar and Yingzhing Zhang (eds), Chinese Film Stars (London: Routledge, 2010); Carolina Rocha, Masculinities in Contemporary Argentine Popular Cinema (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012); Russell Meeuf and Raphael Raphael (eds), Transnational Stardom: International Celebrity in Film and Popular Culture (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013); Leung Wing-Fai and Andy Willis (eds), East Asian Film Stars (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2014). 8. Henry Jenkins, Convergence Culture: Where Old and New Media Collide (New York: New York University Press, 2006). 9. Paul McDonald, Hollywood Stardom (Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 2013), 4–5. 10 Robert Stam, Tropical Multiculturalism: A Comparative History of Race in Brazilian Cinema and Culture (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1997). 11. See Richard Dyer, White: Essays on Race and Culture (London: Routledge, 1997). 12. The circo-teatro combined sketch shows and short plays with musical performances and more conventional circus acts. For more details on this tradition and its links with cinema in Brazil, see Stephanie Dennison and Lisa Shaw, Popular Cinema in Brazil, 1930–2001 (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2004), 13–16. 13. Based on a novel by José de Alencar. 14. Oliveira and fellow Afro-Brazilian Eduardo das Neves are the two most famous examples of the so-called palhaço-ator (‘actor-clown’) tradition from the turn of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, which is seen as being a uniquely Brazilian phenomenon. Neves moved from the circus into the nascent recording industry and the teatro de revista. 15. Alma do Brasil (Soul of Brazil, 1931) and Inconfidência Mineira (Conspiracy in Minas Gerais, 1948). 16. Darién J. Davis, ‘Racial Parity and National Humor: Exploring Brazilian Samba from Noel Rosa to Carmen Miranda, 1930–1939’, in W.H. Beezley and L.A. Curcio-Nagy (eds), Latin American Popular Culture: An Introduction (Wilmington, DE: Scholarly Resources, 2000), 183–200 (188). 17. Fernanda Bicalho, Cinearte 1926–1930: A política do estrelismo (Rio de Janeiro: Centro Interdisciplinar de Estudos Contemporâneos, UFRJ, 1989), Papéis Avulsos, no. 21, p. 6. 18. Ibid., 7 and 11. 19. Cinearte, 11 December 1929, no. 198, p. 28. 20. Ana Pessoa, Carmen Santos: O cinema dos anos 20 (Rio de Janeiro: Aeroplano, 2002), 18.

18 . LISA SHAW AND TIM BERGFELDER

21. For an in-depth analysis of the films of Mazzaropi and the Trapalhões, see Dennison and Shaw, Popular Cinema in Brazil, 150–57. 22. Ibid., 150. 23. Ibid., 154. No fewer than fourteen of the twenty-five highest-grossing films released between 1970 and 1984 in Brazil were from the Trapalhões series. 24. Dennison and Shaw, Popular Cinema in Brazil, 157. 25. Glauco Barsalini, Mazzaropi: O Jeca do Brasil (São Paulo: Atomo, 2002); André Barcinski and Ivan Finotti, Maldito: A vida e o cinema de José Mojica Marins, o Zé do Caixão (São Paulo: Editora 34, 1998); Sérgio Cabral, Grande Otelo: uma biografia (São Paulo: Editora 34, 2007); and Flávio Marinho, Oscarito: O riso e o siso (Rio de Janeiro: Record, 2007). The star texts of Grande Otelo and Oscarito, along with Carmen Miranda, Eliana Macedo, Xuxa, Sônia Braga and Vera Fischer, among others, are examined in Lisa Shaw and Stephanie Dennison, Brazilian National Cinema (Abingdon: Routledge, 2007). 26. Works on Carmen Miranda’s life and career include: Cassio Emmanuel Barsante, Carmen Miranda (Rio de Janeiro: Editora Europa, 1985); Martha Gil-Montero, A Pequena Notável: uma biografia não autorizada de Carmen Miranda (Rio de Janeiro: Record, 1989); and Ruy Castro, Carmen: uma biografia (São Paulo: Companhia das Letras, 2005). Books on Miranda with a more academic approach include: Ana Rita Mendonça, Carmen Miranda foi a Washington (Rio de Janeiro: Record, 1999); Tânia da Costa Garcia, O ‘it verde e amarelo’ de Carmen Miranda (São Paulo: Annablume, 2004); Zeca Ligiéro, Carmen Miranda: uma performance afro-brasileira (Rio de Janeiro: Publit, 2006); and Lisa Shaw, Carmen Miranda (London: BFI/Palgrave Macmillan, 2013). The star’s film career in Hollywood has also been the focus of a number of important academic articles written in English by US scholars, including: Ana M. López, ‘Are All Latins from Manhattan? Hollywood, Ethnography and Cultural Colonialism’, in John King, Ana M. López and Manuel Alvarado (eds), Mediating Two Worlds: Cinematic Encounters in the Americas (London: BFI, 1993), 67–80; and Shari Roberts, ‘The Lady in the Tutti-frutti Hat: Carmen Miranda, a Spectacle of Ethnicity’, Cinema Journal 32(3) (1993), 3–23. Prior to the publication of Cabral’s biography of Grande Otelo in 2007, a collection of reminiscences about the actor by famous contemporaries and extensive photographs were published in Marly Serafin and Mário Franco (eds), Grande Otelo em preto e branco (Rio de Janeiro: Ultra-Set, 1987), in addition to Robert Moura’s short biography and overview of his career: Roberto Moura, Grande Otelo: um artista genial (Rio de Janeiro: Relume-Dumará, 1996). 27. Nuno Cesar Pereira de Abreu, Boca do lixo: cinema e classes populares (Campinas: UniCamp, 2006). 28. Pessoa, Carmen Santos. 29. Heloísa Buarque de Hollanda (ed.), Quase Catálogo 3: Estrelas do cinema mudo Brasil, 1908–1930 (Rio de Janeiro: CIEC-Escola de Comunicação/UFRJ and Museu da Imagem e do Som, 1991).

INTRODUCTION . 19

30. Ismail Xavier, ‘O sonho da indústria: a criação da imagem em Cinearte’, in Ismail Xavier, Sétima arte, um culto moderno: o idealismo estético e o cinema (São Paulo: Perspectiva, 1978), 167–97. 31. This study was republished in 2001 by Rio de Janeiro-based Editora Globo. 32. Fernão Ramos and Luiz Felipe Miranda (eds), Enciclopédia do cinema brasileiro (São Paulo: SENAC, 2000). 33. Eduardo Giffoni Flórido (ed.), As grandes personagens da história do cinema brasileiro, 1930–1959 (São Paulo: Fraiha, 1999); Eduaro Giffoni Flórido (ed.), As grandes personagens da história do cinema brasileiro, 1960–1969 (São Paulo: Fraiha, 2002); and Flávio Leandro de Souza and Eduardo Giffoni Flórido (eds), As grandes personagens da história do cinema brasileiro, 1970–79 (São Paulo: Fraiha, 2006).

References Austin, G. Stars in Modern French Film. London: Arnold, 2005. Austin, T., and M. Barker. Contemporary Hollywood Stardom. London: Arnold, 2003. Babington, B. (ed.). British Stars and Stardom. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2001. Barcinski, A., and I. Finotti. Maldito: a vida e o cinema de José Mojica Marins, o Zé do Caixão. São Paulo: Editora 34, 1998. Barsalini, G. Mazzaropi: O Jeca do Brasil. São Paulo: Atomo, 2002. Barsante, C.E. Carmen Miranda. Rio de Janeiro: Editora Europa, 1985. Barthes, R. Mythologies. Paris: Editions du Seuil, 1957. Bicalho, F. Cinearte 1926–1930 – A política do estrelismo. Rio de Janeiro: Centro Interdisciplinar de Estudos Contemporâneos/UFRJ, 1989. Buarque de Hollanda, H. (ed.). Quase Catálogo 3: Estrelas do cinema mudo Brasil, 1908–1930. Rio de Janeiro: CIEC-Escola de Comunicação/UFRJ and Museu da Imagem e do Som do Rio de Janeiro, 1991. Butler, J. Star Texts: Image and Performance in Film and Television. Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1991. Cabral, S. Grande Otelo: uma biografia. São Paulo: Editora 34, 2007. Castro, R. Carmen: uma biografia. São Paulo: Companhia das Letras, 2005. da Costa Garcia, T. O ‘it verde e amarelo’ de Carmen Miranda. São Paulo: Annablume, 2004. Davis, D. ‘Racial Parity and National Humor: Exploring Brazilian Samba from Noel Rosa to Carmen Miranda, 1930–1939’, in W.H. Beezley and L.A. Curcio-Nagy (eds), Latin American Popular Culture: An Introduction (Wilmington, DE: Scholarly Resources, 2000), 183–200. de Abreu, N.C.P. Boca do lixo: cinema e classes populares. Campinas: UniCamp, 2006.

20 . LISA SHAW AND TIM BERGFELDER

deCordova, R. Picture Personalities: The Emergence of the Star System in America. Champaign: University of Illinois Press, 1990. Dennison, S., and L. Shaw. Popular Cinema in Brazil, 1930–2001. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2004. de Souza, F.L., and E.G. Flórido (eds). As grandes personagens da história do cinema brasileiro, 1970–79. São Paulo: Fraiha, 2006. Dyer, R. Heavenly Bodies: Film Stars and Society. London: Macmillan, 1987. Dyer, R. Stars. London: British Film Institute, 1979. Dyer, R. White: Essays on Race and Culture. London: Routledge, 1997. Farquhar, M., and Y. Zhang (eds). Chinese Film Stars. London: Routledge, 2010. Fisher, L., and M. Landy (eds). Stars: The Film Reader. London: Routledge, 2004. Flórido, E.G. (ed.). As grandes personagens da história do cinema brasileiro, 1930–1959. São Paulo: Fraiha, 1999. Flórido, E.G. (ed.). As grandes personagens da história do cinema brasileiro, 1960–1969. São Paulo: Fraiha, 2002. Gil-Montero, M. A Pequena Notável: uma biografia não autorizada de Carmen Miranda. Rio de Janeiro: Record, 1989. Gledhill, C. (ed.). Stardom: Industry of Desire. London: Routledge, 1991. Hake, S. The Cinema’s Third Machine. Writing on Film in Germany, 1907–1933. Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press, 1993. Hershfield, J. Mexican Cinema, Mexican Women. Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1996. Jenkins, H. Convergence Culture: Where Old and New Media Collide. New York: New York University Press, 2006. Leung, W.F., and A. Willis (eds). East Asian Film Stars. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2014. Ligiéro, Z. Carmen Miranda: uma performance afro-brasileira. Rio de Janeiro: Publit, 2006. López, A. M. ‘Are All Latins from Manhattan? Hollywood, Ethnography and Cultural Colonialism’, in J. King, A. M. López and M. Alvarado (eds), Mediating Two Worlds: Cinematic Encounters in the Americas (London: BFI, 1993), pp. 67–80. Marinho, F. Oscarito: O riso e o siso. Rio de Janeiro: Record, 2007. McDonald, P. Hollywood Stardom. Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 2013. McDonald, P. The Star System: Hollywood’s Production of Popular Identities. London: Wallflower Press, 2000. Meeuf, R., and R. Raphael (eds). Transnational Stardom: International Celebrity in Film and Popular Culture. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013. Mendonça, A.R. Carmen Miranda foi a Washington. Rio de Janeiro: Record, 1999. Mishra, V. Bollywood Cinema: Temples of Desire. London: Routledge, 2002. Morin, E. Les Stars. Paris: Editions du Seuil, 1957. Moura, R. Grande Otelo: um artista genial. Rio de Janeiro: Relume Dumará, 1996. Perriam, C. Stars and Masculinities in Spanish Cinema. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003. Pessoa, A. Carmen Santos: O cinema dos anos 20. Rio de Janeiro: Aeroplano, 2002.

INTRODUCTION . 21

Powdermaker, H. Hollywood, the Dream Factory: An Anthropologist Looks at the MovieMakers. Boston: Little, Brown, 1950. Ramos, F., and L.F. Miranda (eds). Enciclopédia do cinema brasileiro. São Paulo: SENAC, 2000. Rocha, C. Masculinities in Contemporary Argentine Popular Cinema. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012. Roberts, S. ‘The Lady in the Tutti-frutti Hat: Carmen Miranda, a Spectacle of Ethnicity’. Cinema Journal 32(3) (1993), 3–23. Serafin, M., and M. Franco (eds). Grande Otelo em preto e branco. Rio de Janeiro: Ultra-Set, 1987. Shaw, L. Carmen Miranda. London: BFI/Palgrave Macmillan, 2013. Shaw, L., and S. Dennison. Brazilian National Cinema. Abingdon: Routledge, 2007. Shingler, M. Star Studies: A Critical Guide. London: BFI/Palgrave Macmillan, 2012. Soila, T. (ed.). Stellar Encounters: Stardom in Popular European Cinema. New Barnet, Herts: John Libbey, 2009. Stacey, J. Star Gazing: Hollywood Cinema and Female Spectatorship. London: Routledge, 1994. Stam, R. Tropical Multiculturalism. A Comparative History of Race in Brazilian Cinema and Culture. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1997. Willis, A. (ed.). Film Stars: Hollywood and Beyond. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2004. Xavier, I. Sétima arte, um culto moderno: o idealismo estético e o cinema. São Paulo: Perspectiva, 1978.

Tim Bergfelder is Professor of Film Studies at the University of Southampton. He is one of the editors of the journal Screen, and on the editorial advisory boards of Transnational Cinemas and Cinema&Cie. He is also a co-editor of the book series ‘Film Europa’ at Berghahn Books. His books as author and (co-)editor include: The Titanic as Myth and Memory: Representations in Visual and Literary Culture (I.B. Tauris, 2004), International Adventures: Popular German Cinema and European Co-productions in the 1960s (Berghahn, 2005), Film Architecture and the Transnational Imagination: Set Design in 1930s European Cinema (Amsterdam University Press, 2007) and Destination London: German-speaking Émigrés and British Cinema, 1925–1950 (Berghahn, 2008).

Lisa Shaw is Reader in Portuguese and Brazilian Studies at the University of Liverpool. She is author of The Social History of the Brazilian Samba (Ashgate,

22 . LISA SHAW AND TIM BERGFELDER

1999) and Carmen Miranda (British Film Institute/Palgrave Macmillan, 2013). She co-wrote (with Stephanie Dennison) Popular Cinema in Brazil, 1930–2001 (Manchester University Press, 2004) and Brazilian National Cinema (Routledge, 2007). She is currently completing a monograph for the University of Texas Press based on the project ‘Tropical Travels: Brazilian Popular Culture in Transnational Dialogue, 1880s–1950s’, for which she was awarded a British Academy/ Leverhulme Trust Senior Research Fellowship in 2011.

CHAPTER 1

Consuming visions Female stars, the melindrosa and desires for a Brazilian film industry Maite Conde

In the aftermath of World War One, women began to appear everywhere in Brazil. Dressed in modern styles from abroad, they adorned the covers of glossy magazines, with further snapshots sprinkled throughout the inside pages. Advertisers used women’s bodies to sell products. Novels centred on the behaviour of young women. Educators, doctors and jurists attempted to implement standards of female health and education.1 At the same time, filmmakers introduced female heroines, whose cinematic roles were reinforced by fanzines, such as Cinearte (1926–42), turning Brazilian actresses into movie stars. This chapter examines female stardom in 1920s Brazil. Looking across a cultural landscape of movies and fanzines, it explores the ways in which actresses’ star texts intersected with the ‘appearance’ of women in the country. In doing so, it looks at how the gendered appeal and content of 1920s stardom fed into contemporary discussions ­concerning Brazilian cinema. In pursuing the issue of women’s relationship to star discourses in the 1920s, this chapter has two broadly conceived and interrelated purposes: first, to explore the connections between the elaboration of Brazil’s star system in the 1920s and contemporaneous notions of femininity; second, to provide a challenge to those assessments that posit the Brazilian star system as merely a copy of Hollywood. As shall be demonstrated, Brazil’s Hollywood-inflected star system became the site of contradictions, as it sought to negotiate between modern desires for a Brazilian film industry and the country’s traditional constellations, highlighting new discourses of femininity and questions relating to class and race. Rather than an unproblematic imitation, Brazil’s star system employed Hollywood models and adapted them for the specific needs of the social and economic context, as well as the campaign for a national film industry.

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Figure 1.1 Cover of Cinearte magazine featuring actress Eva Nil, 1927.

This chapter’s particular subject is by no means new. Stardom in 1920s Brazil was the focus of academic studies conducted in the 1970s that were related to broader ways of thinking about and theorizing Brazilian cinema. Scholars Paulo Emílio Salles Gomes and Ismail Xavier examined the emergence of a star system in the 1920s, focusing on its complex relationship to the birth of a national film consciousness.2 These interventions emerged as part of a wider current of criticism associated with a decolonizing impulse that marked the Cinema Novo movement. Intersecting with issues concerning cinema, modernity and national identity, this particular work highlighted how Brazilian stardom (and by extension the identity of Brazilian cinema) was indelibly inflected by foreign models, specifically by Hollywood. As Salles Gomes and Xavier’s work highlighted, this paradoxical phenomenon was promoted through film magazines. Cinema became a regular feature of Brazil’s press after 1915, when Hollywood began exporting its entertainment to the region, providing it with films and extra-textual material such as publicity shots for magazines. Film reviews and photographs of US stars, along with gossip

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about their private lives, proliferated in publications such as Careta (1908–60) and Selecta (which from 1924 included a regular section on Brazilian cinema by Pedro Lima), as well as new movie magazines: Palcos e Telas (1918–21), Para Todos (1918–26), A Tela (founded 1919), Cine Revista (founded 1919) and A Cena Muda (1921–55).3 Fostering a familiarity with Hollywood’s products, this publicity was central to the consolidation of the Brazilian market, part of an aggressive strategy that aimed to make Brazilians good spectators of North American cinema. By 1921, of the total number of movies screened in Brazil, US imports represented 71%, a figure that rose to 86% in 1929.4 An offshoot of the magazine Para Todos, Cinearte boasted of its intention to aid Hollywood’s consolidation in the Brazilian market, describing itself as the natural intermediary between the latter and the Hollywood producer. At the same time, however, the magazine took an ardent interest in domestic cinematic activities, and its writers argued for the need for an industrial and commercial mode of production modelled on Hollywood. Cinearte’s emphasis on the need for a national film industry responded to shifts in Brazil’s cinematic landscape. Hollywood’s increasing dominance coincided with the demise of locally specific forms of filmmaking from previous decades, known as the belle époque of Brazilian cinema. During this period (roughly 1906–12), quickly produced documentaries fed into current events of local interest and fostered a habit of frequent moviegoing. Once it established itself in Brazil, Hollywood displaced this local cinema as audiences familiar with narrative styles and filmmaking techniques from the US saw the appeal of new kinds of films, one that Brazilian filmmakers also tapped into.5 In 1916 António Leal made the successful Lucíola, based on the celebrated Brazilian novel by José de Alencar. According to Alex Viany, Leal constructed a studio for this production, ‘constituting the start of the industrialization of our cinema’.6 The 1920s saw the production of a number of narrative films, especially in cities such as Recife (see the chapter by Luciana Corrêa de Araújo in this volume), Campinas, Porto Alegre and Cataguases. Alongside reports on US movies, Cinearte documented these cinematic ventures, endowing these independent regional projects with a united ‘Brazilian’ identity. Adopting the template of Hollywood’s fanzines, Cinearte included reviews of national films and printed copious photographs of their stars, in poses and clothes that were so similar to their US counterparts that, as Salles Gomes notes, readers had to carefully read the captions to determine their nationality.7

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In this way Cinearte created a specifically Brazilian star system, its spectacular movie stars projecting the image of a thriving national film industry. However, the limited exhibition of domestic films meant that the majority of the public had little access to the actual films that the Brazilian stars appeared in, their consumption relegated to features in journals like Cinearte. Salles Gomes thus writes that the magazine ‘created a fiction that had the semblance of an appearance of reality but that had little actual basis in it’, making it an example of Brazilian ­cinema’s ‘creative incapacity for copying’.8 Given the superficial qualities of this star system, it is hardly surprising that explorations of 1920s stardom have emphasized its mimetic qualities.9 Cinearte’s writers often stressed the similarity between Brazilian stars and their perceived Hollywood counterparts. A feature in the 9 October 1929 issue referred to actress Lelita Rosa as ‘the national Greta Garbo’ and to Lia Jardim as ‘Brazil’s Clara Bow’.10 For Xavier, Cinearte’s star system is an example of the ‘mimetic stance that dominated ideas concerning domestic cinematic production, from the postwar period. That is, a Brazilian cinema based on imported models’.11 Reflecting the homogenizing impulses of Hollywood and its domination over markets, Cinearte’s star system highlights, consciously or not, the dilemma of dependency that was a marked feature of Brazilian film theory in the 1960s and 1970s. Cinearte’s Hollywood-style stardom had practical intentions; its endeavour was, as the journal stated, to ‘make names. This will guarantee the success of our films’.12 By publicizing domestic cinema, the magazine aimed to foster a desire for Brazilian films, in order to create a space for domestic movies not just in the pages of the magazine but on the country’s screens too. All of this points to an ‘unlimited’ and ‘unconditional faith in the power of publicity’, and an overwhelming faith in the agency of magazine readers.13 Stardom did not merely project a national film industry; it was considered capable of conjuring it into existence, with stars manufacturing a Brazilian dream factory. The display of star bodies signified not just a fiction of the cinema’s presence in Brazil but also the commercial possibilities of an industry that could capitalize on the desires of a growing market of mass consumers. As Susan Besse points out, by the 1920s this market was predominantly composed of women.14 Brazil’s star system was connected to a broader culture related to female consumers, with films and fanzines linked to the appearance of women in society. Examining the content of Cinearte, and the preponderance of advertisements for female products, João Luiz Vieira suggests that women were the magazine’s

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principal audience and were visually and textually inscribed into its address.15 Maria Fernanda Bicalho has also demonstrated how Cinearte’s focus on female stars promoted new representations of femininity.16 Women were the objects of Brazilian cinema, as well as its target audience, with the star system catering to a mass market in which women occupied a key role.

Melindrosa: Brazil’s new woman That women featured prominently in Brazil’s star system is not surprising. As Gaylyn Studlar writes, ‘in the 1920s the American film industry operated on the assumption that women formed their most important audience’.17 Films were addressed to a female spectator and sexual difference was linked to a wellorchestrated exploitation of a star system aimed at women. Shelley Stamp and others have noted that Hollywood’s ascendency was yoked with the industry’s campaign to build its female audience, and producers and exhibitors openly and aggressively solicited women in narratives and extra-textual materials.18 Hollywood’s consolidation within the Brazilian market had a profound impact on Brazilian women. June Edith Hahner writes that ‘novel attitudes and images of female behaviour arrived in Brazil from the United States in easily assimilated form through the movies. Films portrayed women as independent working girls, modern heroines, and even as sexual temptresses’.19 Besse similarly notes that in Brazil, ‘female movie goers gained as role models sexy flappers and independent working girls who stepped out of traditional roles of resignation and modesty’.20 Hollywood disseminated new models of femininity in Brazil; nevertheless, as Hahner and Besse observe, these new models were imbricated with changes taking place in relation to the role and place of women in Brazil. These changes occurred within a broader ideological framework wrought by socio-economic shifts following World War One. These included the intensification of industrialization and urbanization in Brazil, and the rearticulation of the country’s import-export economy linked to the USA. While the USA had sought worldwide markets for its products before the 1910s, after World War One and the decline of European economies it strengthened and refocused its marketing strategies and established transport networks to reap the rewards of foreign markets, including Brazil. More US goods made their way into Brazil, enabling increasing numbers of Brazilians to participate in the ‘American way of life’.

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Magazine advertisements, department store windows and cinema sold the glamour of modernity in Brazil, associating it with a desire for American products that were no longer restricted to the country’s elite but were increasingly available to a mass market, one whose very emergence began to challenge traditional ­hierarchies of gender, as well as race and class.21 The mass dimensions of modernity had a profound effect on the traditional structure of Brazil, linked to significant changes taking place within the country’s female population. Although these changes were less pronounced in some areas of the country, historians document the weakening of traditional ideologies of gender during the 1910s, especially in urban centres. Expanding industrial and commercial venues provided more employment for working- and middle-class women. New technologies freed them from domestic chores, giving them freedom to pursue activities outside of the home. The development of urban leisure sites incorporated upper- and middle-class women into public life in new ways. This period therefore brought about a significant transformation for Brazilian women. Their integration into the workplace, as well as their emergence as a target in the expanding consumer economy, liberated large numbers of women from the long-established constraints of domesticity, making them more visible in public spaces. The press began to report on the appearance of women in public life. Illustrated journals, like O Jornal Illustrado, published snapshots of fashionable women in downtown areas in so-called ‘instantâneos’ (‘instants’). The photographs are vivid illustrations of women’s public visibility, testifying to the changing sexual boundaries of public life. The emergence of the new woman was broadly celebrated. Journalists marvelled that the ‘static woman became the active woman’,22 and writers celebrated the demise of ‘romanticism’s tubercular and lyrical woman’ favouring in her wake the emergence of ‘an athletic Eve’.23 The construction of this new image of Brazilian womanhood invariably stemmed from her opposition to previous cultural paradigms of femininity. Cinearte’s journalist, Álvaro Moreyra, positively contrasted the new modern ideal with prewar ­conceptions of femininity: Prewar women and postwar women, how different they are! I recall the former well, their silence and such nervous attitude, God in heaven! The definitive type, more or less a kind of gigolette, with deep eyes, a sorrowful mouth, hair standing on end, who due to the trance they seemed to embody, appeared to be

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not real bodies but strange shadows from the land of the dead. … Today, beauty is cheerful, healthy, has fun, laughs. Modern girls, used to sunlight, to freedom, movement, disdain the ashen domestic space, they want to smoke, they want light, they want excitement.24 Movement and freedom were the hallmarks of a revised femininity that symbolized modernity and liberation from past traditions. This emphasis on liberation echoed Brazil’s own freedom as a new nation and a utopian belief in a modernity that could sweep away the trappings of the old world and its colonial dependency on Europe. Cartoonist J. Carlos synthesized the contours of the new woman through the cultural construct of the melindrosa, which became a mainstay of print media and popular entertainment. As Beatriz Resende comments in her introduction to Benjamin Costallat’s novel Mademoiselle Cinema, published in 1923:25 With her short hair, red lips, short skirts and cloche hat, the melindrosa is an image of the age of the shimmy. Moreover, the melindrosa evokes the space she freely moves through, the vertiginous and cosmopolitan city of the 1920s. The melindrosa emerges from the pages of illustrated magazines, walks through the streets, crosses the avenues, goes to the movies, meets friends in coffee shops and uses public space.26 Dressed in short skirts and linked to the city and its leisure venues, the melindrosa projected a radical makeover of the image of female identity in relation to the family, superimposing traditional values of motherhood and domesticity with the appeals of the modern life of the city, its spaces of pleasure and its ­consumer-oriented culture. The melindrosa was inextricably linked to a consumer landscape, her buzz image emerging from the pages of magazines. Publications featured illustrations of Brazil’s ‘It girl’ alongside commentaries on her modern lifestyle, self-consciously drawing on discourses regarding changing femininity and the purchasing power of new women. Glossy magazines such as Revista Feminina catered to female consumers. These magazines dedicated considerable space to disseminating women’s public lifestyles. Women readers were crucial to these magazines largely because of the latter’s dependence on revenue from department store advertising aimed at female shoppers. They featured colourful ­advertisements that

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extolled the wonders of technological items and fashions, emphasizing women’s centrality to the consumer market. Popular novels also catered to women in their characters and storylines. In Mme. Chrysanthème’s 1922 novel As enervadas, the female narrator Lúcia details her ‘modern memoirs’, such as ‘delicious promenades to the movies, in order to hear warm music and the rhythm of tangos’.27 Costallat’s Mademoiselle Cinema describes the adventures of melindrosa Rosalina Pontes, which include travelling and shopping.28 These novels achieved commercial success in Brazil: Mademoiselle Cinema, for instance, sold a remarkable 140,000 copies in the 1920s, becoming a bestseller. Texts such as these emphasize the profitability of the new cultural landscape geared towards female consumers. They also testify to cinema’s place within this landscape. In 1924 Mademoiselle Cinema was adapted into a film starring Carmen Santos,29 a move that underlines how cinema belonged to a wider cultural world that was feminized.

New women and the movies Commentators from the period highlight the relationship between women and film in Brazil. In 1914, English traveller Audrey Bell described a number of scenes in Rio that included: the carioca girl stepping off the Rio Branco [avenue] in the course of her afternoon promenade with mother and sister, into a cinema hall for an hour. After that, or before, she tripped into one of several pleasant teahouses before returning home in her latest frock.30 Brazil’s exhibitors cashed in on a female audience, systematically keying into women’s leisure activities. Alongside synopses of individual films, movie programmes printed advertisements for shops that catered to ‘the fashionable woman’, suitably adorned with images of women going to the movies. Afternoon screenings were called ‘feminine sessions’ as they aimed to offer working women some diversion on their way home or intended to capitalize on upper-class ­women’s trips to shops surrounding the movie theatres.31 Women were therefore an integral part of the cinema. Indeed, the cinematic adaptation of literary classics, such as Lucíola, recalls the importance of women readers to the original novel.32 Filmmakers equally targeted female audiences,

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appealing to them on the basis of intertexts and ideological discourses, with particular narratives and especially via stars. This created an increasing demand for actresses to play leading roles. Carmen Santos, Didi Viana, Eva Schnoor and Lelita Rosa took on starring parts in films such as Braza dormida (Sleeping Ember, Humberto Mauro, 1928), Vício e beleza (Vice and Beauty, Antonio Tibiriçá, 1926), Morfina (Morphine, Nino Ponti and Francisco Madrigano, 1928) and Quando elas querem (When Women Love, Eugênio Kerrigan, 1925). These films created an opportunity for many women to improve their social standing. The daughter of a poor immigrant family, Carmen Santos, for instance, worked as a shop girl in a department store in Rio until 1919, when she responded to a notice in the magazine Para Todos for a competition seeking to discover new film actors.33 The appearance of actresses like Carmen Santos in Brazilian films emphasized women’s public visibility. Many films reinforced this focus in narratives that incorporated conflicts between traditional and modern ideals of womanhood, between the old and the new woman. In Quando elas querem, Clarinda, played by Laura Letti, is caught between her desires for independence and family duties, and at the end of the film she flies a plane to São Paulo in pursuit of her future husband. The film documents Clarinda’s physical movement and her interaction with technology. Such interaction is also a feature of Mocidade louca (Crazy Youth, Felipe Ricci, 1927), whose narrative centres on the predicaments of Yvonne Teixeira, played by Isa Lins, whose car breaks down early on in the film. Female characters are at the centre of, or at least implicated in, these movies. In Tesouro perdido (Lost Treasure, Humberto Mauro, 1927) and Retribuição (Retribution, Gentil Roiz, 1925), for instance, the female stars are caught up in stories involving bandits in search of treasure. In the former, the heroine Suzana (played by Lola Lys) is kidnapped by villains, and in the latter Almery Steves is one half of a couple who, in their quest for hidden riches, confronts a group of bandits. In other films the drama evolves from sexual conflict. Directors such as Humberto Mauro introduced sexual themes in their plots. In Sangue Mineiro (Blood of Minas Gerais, 1930), Carmen Santos plays a millionaire’s adoptive daughter who attempts suicide when the man she loves is unfaithful to her. She wanders into the countryside and tries to drown herself but is rescued by two young male cousins, who then both fall in love with her. What is alluded to in these films is the public nature of the new woman, via depictions of female characters in outdoor spaces and activities. Santos played up to her role as a new woman in interviews:

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In Mendes (in the state of Rio de Janeiro) I became a horsewoman, launching myself across hills and valleys in mad gallops, falling into precipices, almost dying three or four times. Today I can ride a horse like any fearless cowgirl. In Rio I trained to row, I race around on a motorbike and can drive a car at full speed with such daring that my chauffeur goes around saying I’m crazy.34 By referring to her horse riding and driving, Santos places herself at a great distance from previous domestic ideals of femininity that are problematized in many films of this era, whose narratives are marked by the dissolution of the home figured by absent fathers and especially mothers. Dissolution is also the subject of films dramatizing the fate of fallen women and vamps, such as Perdida (Lost Woman, João Stamato, 1916), Morfina and Vício e beleza, where traditional womanhood is blatantly challenged. The stardom of actresses such as Santos and Lola Lys was partly derived from their public visibility, which was supported by the new medium itself. Indeed, more than their actions and film careers, it was the physical appearance of actresses that underlined their status as stars. With their slender build, bobbed hair and pale complexions, actresses epitomized the modern woman. Drawing on women’s magazines, filmmakers highlighted stars’ modern style, dressing them in the latest fashions and surrounding them with elegant furnishings. Films paid particular attention to the appearance of the actresses, and directors made sure female stars were attired in modern clothes. Movies such as Braza dormida included numerous party scenes, providing ample opportunities to display sumptuous gowns worn by its actresses. Discussing his film A carne (Flesh) in 1924, director Leo Marten noted: The interiors were all filmed in the luxurious rooms of the Hotel 7th September,  which the Prefect kindly lent us. Additionally, the furniture is extremely lavish, consisting of expensive pieces. … The clothes too are the highest quality, chosen under my guidance. Lenita’s dresses are, of course, the best.35 Strategies such as these became central to Cinearte’s construction of stardom. Ana Pessoa notes that photography in particular was exploited in underscoring a star’s modern image. ‘Objects, clothes and makeup are used to create a sensual atmosphere, mixing the dramatic eroticism of the vamp with the ambiguous

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mystery of the femme fatale. Furs, tiaras, pearls, crowns of flowers, wonderful materials adorn the actresses’ bodies.’36 Female stars became spectacles of a conspicuous modernity that, as Pessoa highlights, enhanced their attractiveness. The female star’s attractive body, donned in fabulous fashions, became a site of visual pleasure and display in movies and in Cinearte, providing a relay of desire and identification with a modern world. The nexus between women, cinema, modernity and consumption, however, was far from universally celebrated. The press often condemned female moviegoers for neglecting their domestic duties: Dona Filomena – Filó among friends – the dignified and elegant wife of Pereira – a respectable grocer in Rio, is like all women who see themselves as fashionable, one of those types who by going to the movies forget everything; they forget that they are married, they leave their home to be taken care of by a rogue maid and their children to torment the patience of their neighbours.37 Charged with encouraging women towards a dereliction of their duties, film’s popularity with women was deemed a threat to the traditional Brazilian family. Criticism in particular focused on films that featured romantic embraces. Commentators condemned Hollywood-inspired licentious scenes as inappropriate for respectable Brazilian women: During the last few days the Cine-Palais has provided its audiences with a new foreign film called The Obstacle. In addition to the deplorable activities of its stars, it is a repugnant drama, whose most sympathetic character is a female musician who is in love and has not the faintest notion of morality, at least not the balanced morality possessed by Brazilian people.38 Such commentaries critiqued films as an immoral activity and potentially ­damaging to the young women who saw them. These anxieties stepped up calls for censorship in the press. The following article appeared in the publication O Malho on 16 January 1916: I cannot understand how these men continue to censure individuals, and yet they leave movie theatres, which are frequented by all types of people, in the arbitrary mercantilist control of the companies that exploit them.

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My brief observations here are long overdue and merely aim to lend weight to the development of our society. The police carefully survey suburban and urban theatres, in an effort to control the morality of individuals who frequent them. However, their attention should be directed towards the actual movies shown. But the police don’t care about the content of the films that are shown and they allow young women seeking innocent forms of entertainment to leave movie theatres with their brains full of depressing scenes.39 This quote highlights how concerns about the cinema focused less on prohibiting films or editing contentious scenes than on regulating the audience, and limiting women’s access to theatres that screened ‘inappropriate’ films. Censorship debates were concerned primarily with issues of exhibition and specifically ­women’s engagement with the public space of the cinema.40 Discussions of female spectatorship focused on the social ambience of the movie theatres. Denounced as unsafe and unhygienic spaces, movie theatres were seen as inappropriate spaces for respectable women. The darkness of the auditorium was said to provide an ideal venue for gatunos or thieves and, more worryingly, for sordid sexual activities, with the cinema becoming notorious as a place to ‘arrange amorous rendez-vous’.41 Consequently, women who frequented the movies were stigmatized, denounced as promiscuous and ‘more or less vulgar’.42 These concerns were not limited to female spectators. Severe reprobation was levelled at film actresses, whose public visibility was considered synonymous with a breakdown in sexual order that was precipitating a social crisis. Families objected to their daughters entering the film industry, and actresses, such as Augusta Guimarães, had to defy family and societal prejudice to embrace screen life. Actress Didi Viana recalls: There is something that saddens me greatly. It is witnessing how the problem of ‘being an artist’ is seen in Brazil. The bad name that a girl who works in the movies is given. Believe it or not, I am different now. I think differently. I thought I could flirt like any girl. But then I found out that as a movie artist, I couldn’t enjoy that right without suffering the effects of terrible criticism.43 Women’s public visibility as spectators and actresses clearly presented a threat to the traditional patriarchal organization of Brazil’s public life. However,

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reference to the vulgarity and promiscuity of female spectators and stars was also, I would argue, related to class and race. Indeed, criticism of the very space of the cinema as a potential place for illicit activities – both sexual and criminal – carried overtones of hysteria inspired by the uncontrollable mingling of people of different sexes, and also of different classes and races, and a fear that the medium’s mass appeal could contribute to the dissolution of all established hierarchical distinctions. Concerns over women’s relationship with the movies were thus inscribed with the ‘hidden subjects’ of film’s mass dimension, its promiscuous appeal presenting a challenge to the traditional contours of the country’s ‘respectable’ culture. Anxieties about the cinema thus displaced social and political concerns onto questions of respectability, couching deeper fears of the cinema as a plebeian medium.44 All of this represents a departure from the more mythical discussions of film in the USA, where the medium’s egalitarian appeal was hailed and the cinema was praised as a means of social integration, as ‘democracy’s theatre’.45 Deviations from this North American rhetoric derive from the particular history of the medium’s implantation in Brazil. The cinema, a fully formed foreign product, arrived in Brazil in 1896, only eight years after the abolition of slavery, when traditional hierarchies were still very much in place. The absence of a democratic ideology thus steered early discussions in a direction different to its American model. With hierarchic structures persisting alongside modernization and industrialization, the egalitarian appeal of the medium was perceived as a threat to Brazil’s social order and political system. Attempts to promote a national cinema therefore needed to carefully negotiate its modern configurations along more conventional lines. This negotiation was central to discourses concerning female stardom.

Ambivalent stars: negotiating the respectability of the movies In response to the anxieties outlined above, star discourses carefully negotiated the visual pleasures of the new woman alongside traditional qualities. Bicalho notes that cinematic melindrosas embodied contrasting types: ‘the innocent’ – an angelic woman – and her opposite, ‘the vamp’.46 Cinematic narratives also offset the modernity of female stars, their attractive images negotiated into more ­reassuring places, a strategy that no doubt helped films to avoid censure. Yet it was in Cinearte that this negotiation really came to the fore. Salles Gomes and

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Xavier note that the journal explicitly aimed to raise the respectability of the cinema and elevate film’s cultural status.47 Discussions of the cinema’s artistic qualities, underlined by the journal’s very title, helped to legitimize the medium, which was promoted as offering modern yet high-class products. The journal’s star discourse was part and parcel of this attempt at cultural legitimization, exploiting and reconfiguring Hollywood’s templates. Indeed, far from a superficial implant, the very notion of stardom helped to distinguish the actresses from the crowd, and Cinearte stressed stars’ inherent difference and otherworldliness. In the 9 October 1929 issue, for instance, actress Lia Torá is described as ‘[a] saint with a halo in search of an altar. With divinely feminine eyes that emanate sincerity, beauty and art’, while Carmen Santos is ‘a star descended from heaven and converted into the form of a woman’.48 At the same time, stars were imbued with an elusive ‘It’ quality, defined as an innate attractiveness that cannot be acquired.49 Such descriptions countered the belief that anybody could be a star. In Cinearte’s conception, Brazilian stars were born, their vocation divinely inscribed and predestined. The images of female stars reinforced their extraordinariness. Sumptuous dresses worn by actresses in publicity shots and movies stressed their modernity, yet the expensiveness of the materials (pearls, furs, tiaras) also imbued these clothes with a sense of luxury, associating them, and by extension film, with high society. This differentiated Brazil’s stars from the new working women of 1920s Hollywood cinema, such as Clara Bow and Evelyn Brent. Indeed, Shelley Stamp and Miriam Hansen note that Hollywood movies of the period often featured women eking out a living in the paid labour force, in narratives that assumed a more egalitarian discourse addressed primarily to working women.50 In doing so, Hollywood films opened up depictions of female behaviour that went beyond the domains of conventional respectability. This difference was not limited to Cinearte. Brazil’s films of the 1920s featured no working female characters. Actresses played the roles of daughters of millionaires or traditional landed families, as seen in Sangue Mineiro and Retribuição. The films associate their modern women with the elite, not the emerging working class, and they do not ground the texts in a modern social reality. Instead they offset the modern body of their cinematic melindrosas with more time-honoured qualities, their attractive images and active performances negotiated back into less contentious places, a strategy that no doubt helped films avoid censorship. The ubiquitous happy ending of these films sees the defeat of villains and the

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marriage of the heroine. This tension between modernity and tradition often figured in the actual mise en scène of the movies themselves: landscape (a marker for the regionalism of the productions and for the ‘Brazilianness’ of home-grown cinema) featured prominently in the films, in panoramic shots that depicted ­idyllic scenes, reminiscent of the country’s respected Romantic cultural tradition, rather than modern society. The setting contrasted (often quite awkwardly) with the modern image of female stars. In Retribuição, for instance, the fashionable dress of Almery Steves and especially her high heels look out of place in the countryside and effectively prevent her from catching the bandits, leaving this active work to the male hero. Acknowledged visually, the new woman’s activity is thus circumscribed by the narrative, which ultimately reinforces customary ­patriarchal roles. The new woman in Brazilian films was therefore associated with traditional society, which was reflected and reinforced in the pages of Cinearte. The magazine balanced the modern style of its female stars with portraits of their respectable backgrounds. Interviews with actresses were conducted at home in the presence of mothers and fathers, duly supported by photographs. An article on Lia Torá published on 2 January 1929, for instance, featured numerous images of the star at home with her sister, niece, mother and grandmother, firmly rooting her in a domestic setting. Such editorial features were often accompanied by personal revelations, and were in keeping with Hollywood’s publicity machine, which fed readers information about stars’ personal lives. While Cinearte employed this strategy, its columnists did not stray beyond the limits of a discourse that emphasized family and respectability. Writers reported on the home-loving nature of Brazilian stars, contrasting this trait with their modern image. Meeting Lia Jardim, who had starred in Morfina, Pedro Lima noted, ‘When I was introduced to Lia Jardim I immediately saw how photographs deceive. Of medium height, more on the short side, with short hair, she seemed more of an inoffensive flapper, just very nervous, simply gentle, attentive, sweet and docile’.51 The journalist remarks on a contradiction between the star’s image, propagated through photographs, and her real self. In doing so, he stresses the reality of Jardim’s childlike stature and docility, thereby downplaying her attractiveness and attenuating any potential threat that the star’s modernity may pose. Cinearte presented female stardom as the preserve of innocent ladies from respectable families. In an issue published on 16 January 1929, Pedro Lima noted that actresses were ‘people of a certain stature in society, and not just anyone from

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the street. This raises the moral status of film’.52 And in another issue he wrote that stars are ‘distinguished young family girls, society girls’, a feature that ‘provides the cinema with a greater seriousness’.53 The magazine chose to ignore the humble origins of many actresses; instead journalists penned stories about their decent backgrounds, supported by photographs. At a time when the country was undergoing profound transformations, its social and economic structures threatened by the mass forces of modernity, Cinearte reinscribed its modern stars within reassuring parameters of the past. In doing so, the journal manufactured a fiction of Brazil’s female stars and, by extension, of the country’s cinema as a modern ­industry that presented little threat to traditional social and power structures. In an editorial, Cinearte stressed its social vision of Brazilian cinema more generally: A cinema that teaches the weak not to respect the strong, the servant not to respect his boss, which shows dirty bearded unhygienic faces, sordid events and extreme realism is not cinema. Imagine a young couple who go to see a typical North American movie. They will see a clean-faced, well shaven hero with well combed hair, agile, a gentleman. And the girl will be pretty, with a nice body and cute face, modern hairstyle – photogenic. The couple that sees such a film will comment that they had already seen such images twenty times before. But over their dreaming hearts, there will not fall the shadows of any shocking brutality, any dirty face that might take away the poetry and enchantment. Young people today cannot accept revolt, lack of hygiene, the struggle and eternal fight against those who have the right to exercise power.54 Although this passage does not mention race, Robert Stam writes that ‘its call for clean and “hygienic faces”, as opposed to “dirty faces” and its generally servile stance toward the lily-white Hollywood model, suggests a coded reference to the subject’.55 Salles Gomes and Xavier have stressed the racial rhetoric of Cinearte, which was played out in its star discourse. References to the angelic and divine qualities of female stars were implicitly racial, and the glamour and modernity of stars were associated with an attractiveness that was respectable, clean and white. That this white ideal emerged in the 1920s is significant. At this time discussions concerning Brazil’s mixed-race population were prevalent, with a eugenic ideal seen as key to the nation’s progress. As Nancy Leys Stepan notes, these discussions

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were gendered, with women seen as crucial to the sexual reproductive economy of race.56 This ideal also informed Cinearte’s conceptions of female stardom. Female stars and types, such as the melindrosa, projected a new and liberating iconography, but they also prioritized an image of whiteness in a society with a racially mixed population. The visibility of Brazil’s stars in the cinema and in the pages of Cinearte draws attention to the simultaneous invisibility of blackness. At a time when black performers were entering mass entertainment, in the booming recording industry, they were not part of the country’s film culture, and were thus absent from its star system.57 Respectability was at the heart of Cinearte’s campaign for Brazilian cinema. This involved making sure that the cinema was seen as a modern commercial industry that could at the same time meet the expectations of the country’s traditional elite. As Xavier suggests, ‘the progressive sectors would be pleased to see the cinema as an industrial venture with clear socio-economic advantages, while the traditional sectors’ moral concerns would be appeased by the journal’s emphasis on the medium’s decency’.58 This influenced female stardom, which masked the challenges of modernity by projecting an image that catered to a female market and the country’s entrenched traditions. Far from being a case of outright mimicry of Hollywood’s dream factory, 1920s Brazilian stardom incorporated and reconfigured foreign models in ways that catered to the promises and challenges of the country’s modernity and its cinema. In films and fanzines, star discourses reflected constellations of a new mass public composed of an unprecedented number of increasingly visible women and p ­ reoccupied with the erosions of differences and hierarchies of class and race.

Notes An earlier version of this chapter, with the title ‘Negotiating Visions of Modernity: Female Stars, the melindrosa and Desires for a Brazilian Film Industry’, was published in the journal Studies in Spanish and Latin American Cinemas, 10(1) (2013), 23–43 Copyright © 2013 Intellect Ltd. This version is produced with the permission of the original publisher. All translations in this article are my own, unless otherwise indicated. 1. For more information on the increased visibility of women in Brazil at this time, see Susan Besse, Restructuring Patriarchy: The Modernization of Gender Inequality in Brazil, 1914–1940 (Chapel Hill and London: University of California Press, 1996).

40 . MAITE CONDE

2. Paulo Emílio Salles Gomes, Humberto Mauro. Cataguases. Cinearte (São Paulo: Perspectiva, 1974); I. Xavier, Sétima arte: Um culto moderno. O idealismo estético e o cinema (São Paulo: Perspectiva, 1978). 3. For a useful outline of Brazil’s film magazines, see H. Heffner, Breve histórico da imprensa especializada em cinema no Brasil Ms. 14455. Acervo da Cinemateca do Museu de Arte Moderna, n.d. 4. Based on information from the censors, cited in Fernão Ramos, História do cinema brasileiro (São Paulo: Art Editora, 1987), 107. 5. Hollywood studios established subsidiary offices in Brazil in the 1910s. Fox Pictures, for instance, opened a branch in Rio de Janeiro in October 1915. This initiative was followed by Famous Players-Lasky and Paramount, who opened offices there in 1916, and Goldwyn in 1917. See Chapter 3 in Kristen Thompson’s Exporting Entertainment: America in the World Film Market 1907–1934 (London: BFI, 1985). 6. Alex Viany, Introdução ao cinema brasileiro (Rio de Janeiro: Ministério da Educação e Cultura, 1959), 35. 7. Salles Gomes, Humberto Mauro, 336. 8. Ibid., 341. 9. Roberto Schwarz, Misplaced Ideas: Essays on Brazilian Culture, ed. and trans. John Gledson (London and New York: Verso, 1992). 10. Cinearte, 9 October 1929, n.p. 11. Xavier, Sétima arte, 119. 12. Salles Gomes, Humberto Mauro, 336. 13. Ibid., 337; Xavier, Sétima arte, 196. 14. Besse, Restructuring Patriarchy, 12–38. 15. João Luiz Vieira, ‘O Marketing do Desejo,’ in H. Buarque de Hollanda (ed.), Quase Catálogo 3. Estrelas do Cinema Mudo Brasil, 1908–1930 (Rio de Janeiro: CIEC/UFRJ/ MIS, 1991), 34–42. 16. Maria Fernanda Baptista Bicalho, ‘The Art of Seduction: Representations of Women in Brazilian Silent Cinema’, Luso-Brazilian Review 30(1) (1993), 21–33. A Brazilian version of this essay appears in Quase Catálogo 3. 17. Gaylyn Studlar, ‘The Perils of Pleasure? Fan Magazine Discourse as Women’s Commodified Culture in the 1920s’, Wide Angle 13(1) (1991), 7. 18. Shelley Stamp, Movie-Struck Girls: Women and Motion Picture Culture after the Nickelodeon (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2000), 6. See also Janet Staiger, Bad Women: Regulating Sexuality in Early American Cinema (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1995); Sumiko Higashi, Virgins, Vamps and Flappers: The American Silent Movie Heroine (St Albans: Eden Press, 1978). 19. June Edith Hahner, Emancipating the Female Sex: The Struggle for Women’s Rights in Brazil, 1850–1940 (Durham, NC and London: Duke University Press, 1990), 115. 20. Besse, Restructuring Patriarchy, 22. 21. Janet Staiger notes that by World War One, Hollywood did not see their products as

CONSUMING VISIONS . 41

2 2. 23. 24. 25. 26.

27. 28. 29. 3 0. 31. 32.

33.

catering only to restricted groups of people, but rather to a broader market, one that challenged certain boundaries – international ones certainly, but also boundaries of gender, class and ethnicity. See Staiger, Bad Women, 91. Miriam Hansen’s work on early US cinema has also shown how the development of Hollywood cinema (like the consumer culture that it was imbricated with) was demonstratively inclusive, allowing for the mixing of genders, and class and ethnic constituencies. This inclusiveness was no doubt illusory insofar as it pretended to a social homogeneity. Yet Hansen argues that this did make a difference for people who had hitherto been excluded from public life. See Miriam Hansen, Babel and Babylon: Spectatorship and American Silent Film (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1991). Cited in Besse, Restructuring Patriarchy, 28. Cited in Vicky Unruh, Performing Women and Modern Literary Culture in Latin America (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2006), 201. Álvaro Moreyra, A cidade mulher, Coleção Biblioteca Carioca, Vol. 19 (Rio de Janeiro: Prefeitura da Cidade do Rio, 1991), 25. Benjamin Costallat, Mademoiselle Cinema: Novela de costumes do momento que passa. (São Paulo: Ed. Costallat & Micciolis, 1923). Beatriz Resende, ‘A volta de Mademoiselle Cinema’ (Introduction), in Benjamin Costallat, Mademoiselle Cinema: Novela de costumes do momento que passa (Rio de Janeiro: Casa da Palavra, 1990), 9. Mme. Chrysanthème [Cecília Moncorvo Bandeira de Melo], As enervadas (Rio de Janeiro: Leite Ribeiro, 1922), 119. Costallat, Mademoiselle Cinema. See Chapter 3 in this volume, by Ana Pessoa, for more details of the career of Carmen Santos. Cited in Hahner, Emancipating the Female Sex, 80. João Luiz Vieira and Margareth Pereira, ‘Cinemas cariocas: da Ouvidor à Cinelândia’, Filme Cultura (47) (1986), 25–34. Between 1915 and the mid 1920s, an extraordinary number of literary classics were made into movies. Among the most frequently filmed were Iracema (Iracema, written by José de Alencar in 1865), O Guaraní (The Guaraní Indian, written by José de Alencar in 1857), Inocência (Innocence, written by the Visconde de Taunay in 1872), A moreninha (The Brunette, written by Joaquim Manuel de Macedo in 1844) and Ubirajara (Ubirajara, written by José de Alencar in 1874). The adaptation of these consecrated novels can be seen as part of a move to face up to Hollywood by forging a national cinema, one that had women, especially respectable middle-class women, as its prime audience. The competition was organized by the Omega Film studio, established in Rio de Janeiro by an American called William Jansen, in order to cast the film Urutau (1919). The discovery of this shop girl illustrates a clear link between female consumerism and film stardom in Brazil. See Lisa Shaw, ‘Women and Film in the New States of

42 . MAITE CONDE

34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43.

44.

45.

46. 47.

Brazil and Portugal: Carmen Santos, Beatriz Costa and Hollywood Archetypes’, unpublished paper. Palcos e Telas, 10 June 1920, n.p. Cited in Ana Pessoa, Carmen Santos: O cinema dos anos 20 (Rio de Janeiro: Aeroplano, 2002), 52. Ibid. Careta, 29 November 1920, n.p. Careta, 22 January 1916, n.p. O Malho, January 1916, n.p. Paulo Emílio Salles Gomes, Cinema: Trajetória no subdesenvolvimento (São Paulo: Paz e Terra, 1996), 66. Careta, 10 May 1913, n.p. Careta, 7 August 1920, n.p. Cited in H. Buarque de Hollanda, M.F. Bicalho and P. Moran. ‘As atrizes’, in H. Buarque de Hollanda (ed.), Quase Catálogo 3. Estrelas do cinema mudo no Brasil, 1908–1930 (Rio de Janeiro: CIEC/UFRJ/MIS, 1991), 28. These concerns regarding the cinema echoed broader debates around what Sueann Caulfield calls women’s ‘crise de pudor’ or crisis of morality. These debates responded to changes taking place not just in relation to women’s roles but also more broadly. Caulfield writes that ‘if changing gender roles were a sign of progress, they also signalled a potential disorder, one that emanated not from modernity but rather from the masses’. Caulfield writes that ideas of morality and respectability were used to reinforce hierarchical relations based not only on gender, but class and race as well. The cinema was part of these debates, as its mass appeal brought a new challenge to the country’s social order. Sueann Caulfield, In Defense of Honor: Morality, Modernity and Nation in Early Twentieth-Century Brazil (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2000), 82. Miriam Hansen, ‘Early Silent Cinema: Whose Public Sphere?’, New German Critique 29(2) (1983), 148. Of course, Hansen stresses that these discussions were mythical. Anxieties over the cinema’s ‘moral decline’ were equally voiced in the USA, and the idea that cinema was morally corrupting and socially dangerous, especially to women, was also strongly articulated. The difference from Brazil, however, was that these discourses were countered with an emphasis on the democratizing and civilizing potential of the movies for everyone, and the notion that, through its inclusive and mass nature, cinema could foster good citizenry. These mythical discourses were not present in Brazil, where film’s reach was received as a more negative and threatening aspect of the new medium. On the discourses on gender in the USA, see Staiger, Bad Women. Maria Fernanda Bicalho, ‘The Art of Seduction: Representations of Women in Brazilian Silent Cinema’. Luso-Brazilian Review 30(1) (1993), 21–33. Salles Gomes, Humberto Mauro, 315; Xavier, Sétima arte, 119.

CONSUMING VISIONS . 43

48. Cinearte, 9 October 1929, 6. 49. Cinearte, 6 June 1928, 14–15. 50. Stamp, Movie-Struck Girls, 137; Miriam Hansen, ‘The Adventures of Goldilocks: Spectatorship, Consumerism and Public Life’, Camera Obscura 8(22) (1990), 54. 51. Cinearte, 21 March 1928. 52. Cinearte, 16 January 1929. 53. Cinearte, 26 June 1929, 4. 54. Cited in Robert Stam, Tropical Multiculturalism: A Comparative History of Race in Brazilian Cinema and Culture (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1997), 66. 55. Ibid., 66. Richard Dyer writes that adjectives linked to ideas of cleanliness carry an explicit sense of whiteness that is also class related, with murkiness associated with poor, working-class and immigrant subjects. Richard Dyer, White: Essays on Race and Culture (London: Routledge, 1997), 113. 56. Nancy Leys Stepan, The Hour of Eugenics: Race, Gender and Nation in Latin America (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1996), 102–35. 57. An example is mixed-race Aracy Cortes, who in the 1920s and 1930s was a prominent recording artist and a star of the teatro de revista, Brazil’s version of vaudeville. She made a brief appearance in the movies, in a 1929 short titled Yayá (n. dir.), the title of one of her hit songs. The magazine Para Todos featured a photograph of her on 3 April 1925; however, her presence in Cinearte was negligible. While racially motivated, this notable absence must also be read as part of the journal’s move away from the popular theatrical traditions of film. 58. Xavier, Sétima arte, 194.

References Besse, S. Restructuring Patriarchy: The Modernization of Gender Inequality in Brazil, 1914–1940. Chapel Hill and London: University of North Carolina Press, 1996. Bicalho, M.F. ‘The Art of Seduction: Representations of Women in Brazilian Silent Cinema’. Luso-Brazilian Review 30(1) (1993), 21–33. Buarque de Hollanda, H., M.F. Bicalho and P. Moran. ‘As atrizes’, in H. Buarque de Hollanda (ed.), Quase Catálogo 3. Estrelas do cinema mudo no Brasil, 1908–1930. Rio de Janeiro: CIEC/UFRJ/MIS, 1991, 27–34. Caulfield, S. In Defense of Honor: Morality, Modernity and Nation in Early Twentieth-Century Brazil. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2000. Chrysanthème, Mme. [Cecília Moncorvo Bandeira de Melo]. As enervadas. Rio de Janeiro: Leite Ribeiro, 1922. Costallat, B. Mademoiselle Cinema: Novela de costumes do momento que passa. São Paulo: Ed. Costallat & Micciolis, 1923.

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Costallat, B. Mademoiselle Cinema: Novela de costumes do momento que passa. Rio de Janeiro: Casa da Palavra, 1999. Dyer, R. White: Essays on Race and Culture. London: Routledge, 1997. Hahner, J.E. Emancipating the Female Sex: The Struggle for Women’s Rights in Brazil, 1850–1940. Durham, NC and London: Duke University Press, 1990. Hansen, M. ‘The Adventures of Goldilocks: Spectatorship, Consumerism and Public Life’. Camera Obscura 8(22) (1990), 50–72. Hansen, M. Babel and Babylon: Spectatorship and American Silent Film. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1991. Hansen, M. ‘Early Silent Cinema: Whose Public Sphere?’. New German Critique 29(2) (1983), 147–84. Heffner, H. Breve histórico da imprensa especializada em cinema no Brasil. Ms. 14455. Rio de Janeiro: Acervo da Cinemateca do Museu de Arte Moderna, n.d. Higashi, S. Virgins, Vamps and Flappers: The American Silent Movie Heroine. St Albans: Eden Press, 1978. Leys Stepan, N. The Hour of Eugenics: Race, Gender and Nation in Latin America. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1996. Moreyra, A. A cidade mulher. Coleção Biblioteca Carioca. Vol. 19. Rio de Janeiro: Prefeitura da Cidade do Rio, 1991. Pessoa, A. Carmen Santos: O cinema dos anos 20. Rio de Janeiro: Aeroplano, 2002. Ramos, F. História do cinema brasileiro. São Paulo: Art Editora, 1987. Resende, B. ‘A volta de Mademoiselle Cinema’, in Benjamin Costallat, Mademoiselle Cinema: Novela de costumes do momento que passa. Rio de Janeiro: Casa da Palavra, 1999, 9–29. Salles Gomes, P.E. Cinema: Trajetória no subdesenvolvimento. São Paulo: Paz e Terra, 1996. Salles Gomes, P.E. Humberto Mauro, Cataguases, Cinearte. São Paulo: Perspectiva, 1974. Schwarz, R. Misplaced Ideas: Essays on Brazilian Culture. Ed. and trans. John Gledson. London and New York: Verso, 1992. Staiger, J. Bad Women: Regulating Sexuality in Early American Cinema. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1995. Stam, R. Tropical Multiculturalism. A Comparative History of Race in Brazilian Cinema and Culture. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1997. Stamp, S. Movie-Struck Girls: Women and Motion Picture Culture after the Nickelodeon. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2000. Studlar, G. ‘The Perils of Pleasure? Fan Magazine Discourse as Women’s Commodified Culture in the 1920s’. Wide Angle 13(1) (1991), 6–33. Thompson, K. Exporting Entertainment: America in the World Film Market 1907–1934. London: BFI, 1985. Unruh, V. Performing Women and Modern Literary Culture in Latin America. Austin: University of Texas Press, 2006.

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Viany, A. Introdução ao cinema brasileiro. Rio de Janeiro: Ministério da Educação e Cultura, 1959. Vieira, J.L. ‘O Marketing do desejo’, in H. Buarque de Hollanda (ed.), Quase Catálogo 3. Estrelas do Cinema mudo Brasil, 1908–1930. Rio de Janeiro: CIEC/UFRJ/MIS, 1991, 34–43. Vieira, J.L., and M. Pereira. ‘Cinemas cariocas: da Ouvidor à Cinelândia’. Filme Cultura 47 (1986), 25–34. Xavier, I. ‘Brazilian Cinema in the 1990s: The Unexpected Encounter and the Resentful Character’, in L. Nagib (ed.), The New Brazilian Cinema (London and New York: I.B. Tauris, 2003), 39–63. Xavier, I. O olhar e a cena. São Paulo: Cosac & Naify, 2003. Xavier, I. Sétima arte: Um culto moderno. O idealismo estético e o cinema. São Paulo: Perspectiva, 1978.

Maite Conde is University Lecturer in Brazilian Studies at the University of Cambridge and Fellow at Jesus College, Cambridge. Her research focuses on Brazilian literature and film, particularly in relation to the city and modernity. She is the author of Consuming Visions: Cinema, Writing and Modernity in Rio de Janeiro (University of Virginia Press, 2012), and editor and translator of Between Conformity and Resistance: Essays on the State, Culture and Politics by Marilena Chauí (Palgrave Macmillan, 2011). She is currently completing a book manuscript dealing with early cinema in Brazil.

CHAPTER 2

A star system created by fans Pernambucan cinema in the 1920s Luciana Corrêa de Araújo

A significant number of movies were produced in the second half of the 1920s in the city of Recife, the capital of the state of Pernambuco, in the northeast of Brazil. This period has been dubbed the ‘Recife Cycle’ in the classical historiography of Brazilian cinema, which uses the term ‘regional cycles’ to refer to focal points of production in the 1910s and 1920s outside the economic and cultural axis formed by the cities of Rio de Janeiro and São Paulo. The notion of a ‘cycle’ has been called into question in recent studies.1 Nevertheless, it is undeniable that this was a unique period in the history of filmmaking in Recife, which was home to at least twelve production companies. Between 1924 and 1930, more than forty films were shot and commercially exhibited, including shorts and feature films. Fourteen of these productions were fiction films, a considerable number given the scale of national production at the time. The year 1925 saw the greatest number of fiction films produced in the city: five films (four feature-length, one short) were released, set against an approximate total of twenty ­ fiction films produced nationally that year.2 The prolific nature of film production in Recife came to the attention of two journalists from Rio de Janeiro, Adhemar Gonzaga and Pedro Lima, who, since 1924, had been engaged in a campaign to promote Brazilian cinema, first in the magazines Para Todos and Selecta, and then in Cinearte, a publication launched in 1926. Gonzaga and Lima began to publicize the developments in Recife in their columns, which enjoyed nationwide circulation. They also promoted the creation of a local star system, fuelled by information about and photographs of the ­performers who appeared in Pernambucan films. The silent films produced in Pernambuco were not inspired by prevailing trends in Brazilian film culture of the time or that of earlier periods. The local

A STAR SYSTEM CREATED BY FANS . 47

mode of production was instead modelled on Hollywood, which had enjoyed a hegemonic position among Brazilian audiences since the late 1910s. Similarities between Brazilian fiction films from different regions during the silent era were due mostly to the common influence exerted by Hollywood; filmmakers had little or no knowledge of the films produced in other parts of the country. Young Pernambucan filmmakers and actors had grown up fascinated by US films and their admiration for American cinema had a major impact on the films they made in the 1920s. However professional they became, they never completely lost the mindset of fans. Although there were exceptions, films tended to follow Hollywood conventions, either through direct imitation or through the reinterpretation of certain genres and styles. While Gonzaga and Lima were attempting to promote local actors and actresses as stars, the filmmakers, in turn, were in fact the most avid consumers of the Hollywood star system. Gonzaga and Lima played a fundamental role at this stage in the development of silent cinema in Brazil, not only because they publicized local film projects, emerging domestic stars and filmmakers across various states, but also because they provided a forum for discussion and a channel of communication within a highly fragmented film culture. It should be pointed out, however, that Gonzaga and Lima did not promote all kinds of Brazilian film, but only those initiatives that adopted the Hollywood paradigm of fiction films made in studios, with ­large-scale investment in publicity and a star system. Gonzaga and Lima encouraged and even pressured the Recife filmmakers to send them regular news and good-quality photographs of actors and actresses. Meanwhile, the Pernambucan producers and actors, motivated by their enthusiasm for US cinema, were eager to set up a star system for the purposes of promotion and publicity, but also as a structuring element in their mode of production. On both counts, they encountered financial, geographical and ideological obstacles. Even in a city such as Rio de Janeiro, the country’s capital at the time, adopting the Hollywood paradigm had already proved difficult. In peripheral Recife, restrictions were even more keenly felt. Nevertheless, neither financial difficulties nor geographical isolation deterred local producers from establishing a star system based on their own terms, within available conditions and in accordance with the aims of the group. Retribuição (Retribution, Gentil Roiz, 1925), the first film produced by AuroraFilm, one of the main production companies of the period, attempted to launch the actress Almery Steves as a star. Before the film was shown or even finished,

48 . LUCIANA CORRÊA DE ARAÚJO

both Para Todos and Selecta published photos of Almery, accompanied by captions presenting her as its ‘star’.3 Writing about Aurora-Film, Gonzaga admonished: Remember that we need to make names. These will then ensure the success of subsequent films. Almery Steves, for example, the star of Retribuição, was very well received by audiences in Recife, judging by the letters we have received from there, asking us for information and to publish pictures of the actress. However, we have yet to receive a photograph that can be blown up for us to produce a colour version for publication.4 At the end of 1925, Para Todos published a full-page colour photo of the actress, who, by that stage, was ‘starring’ in her second film, Aitaré da Praia (Aitaré from the Beach, Gentil Roiz, 1925). The caption read: ‘Almery Steves, the Pernambucan starlet of Aurora films. Isn’t she a beauty? Isn’t she reason enough to be interested in Brazilian cinema?’5 In November 1926, Steves appeared on the cover of Selecta, in an edition that contained a two-page interview with the actress, illustrated with various photographs.6 The type of promotion provided for Steves was entirely consistent with the importance that Gonzaga and Lima’s columns accorded publicity and stardom. But investment in creating stars was also evident in the film itself. In the very first sequence of Retribuição, Steves’ character is photographed in a carefully composed shot, while she reacts to the death of her father by turning her face upwards in search of divine comfort: ‘Dear Lord! … give me the resignation to ­withstand the loss of my loving father’.7 At this point, the actress is framed in medium close-up and lit by an overhead light source. As she turns her face upwards, the light accentuates her features. The strategic insertion of a closeup, the lighting designed specifically for the framing of her face (different from that seen in the compositions that precede and follow this shot) and the studied movements of the actress betray a concern with creating a visual effect not only designed for intensifying the drama of the scene, but also for conferring star status on the actress. Every aspect – the arrangement of sequences, lighting, camera position – is marshalled to produce this particular effect. Most of the Pernambucan films of the 1920s were cast with amateur, nonprofessional actors, who were chosen for the supposed fit between their physical appearance and the ‘type’ they were to play (the naïve girl, the hero, the villain, the cynic, the comic sidekick and so on). The use of stage-trained actors was

A STAR SYSTEM CREATED BY FANS . 49

uncommon in Recife. One exception is the film A filha do advogado (The Lawyer’s Daughter, 1926), for which director Jota Soares contracted the actors Norberto Teixeira and Guiomar Teixeira, who were in the city at the time performing with the Viriato Correia Theatre Company. Neither, however, were stars, nor were they familiar to local audiences. They were chosen instead because it became difficult to find experienced as well as suitable actors. Recife’s entertainment circuit, as far as stage productions were concerned, was fed primarily by touring companies from other states or from abroad who performed for fixed seasons in theatres and cinemas; opportunities for local writers and performers were scarce. This may partly explain the relative lack of interaction and exchange between cinema and theatre in Recife during the 1920s.

Inspirations, imitations Jota Soares, actor, director, and jack-of-all-trades in various Pernambucan films of the 1920s, epitomizes the trajectory of a fan turned actor/filmmaker. In subsequent decades his memoirs became a principal source of reference for scholars studying the history of cinema in Recife. Since the 1920s, Jota Soares had been a knowledgeable and enthusiastic movie buff. The experience of producing films became even more exciting in so far as it brought him closer to the fictional ­universe on screen: making movies was, for him, akin to being in a film. In the early 1960s, many decades after the Recife cycle, Soares published more than a hundred articles on Pernambucan silent films, foreign movie stars and the local exhibition market, among other topics. Popular Hollywood serials were a recurrent focus of interest in his texts. Of Almery Steves, Soares wrote that she was ‘a determined young lady … Crazy for the adventures of Ruth Roland, Grace Cunard, Mary Walcamp and other feisty young ladies from American cinema’.8 Although serials (including the ‘serial-queen melodramas’, with female action heroines) had reached their peak in the United States by the 1910s, they continued to be shown in Brazil throughout the 1920s, especially in neighbourhood movie theatres and in smaller cities, and still appealed to audiences. In Retribuição the character played by Almery Steves retains only some vestiges of the ‘serial queens’, while the more sensational acts are performed by the male characters. One particular daring act, which runs the risk of going unnoticed by modern audiences, is when she declares her love for the hero, a detail that ­displeased one

50 . LUCIANA CORRÊA DE ARAÚJO

commentator of the day, who launched into a stern critique of this and other imitations of US films that he identified in this production.9 The fights between hero and villain, which were a frequent element in Brazilian films of the 1920s, were also heavily influenced by Hollywood serials, as well as westerns. There is a blatant similarity in the staging of fights and café/saloon bar sets between films made in different Brazilian states. A major influence was the Austro-American action serial star Eddie Polo, who became hugely popular with Brazilian audiences. In 1927, Gonzaga and Lima recalled Brazilian audiences’ first encounter with Polo in The Broken Coin (Francis Ford, 1915) and noted that ‘the system of fighting, American, was also new to our audiences and its success was simply terrific’.10 The ‘American system of fighting’ impressed many Brazilian fiction film directors who began working in the 1920s. In Pernambucan films, the physical strength of heroes, capable of beating bad guys with their bare hands and without recourse to weapons such as guns and knives, was highly prized. This resulted in the casting of athletes such as Euclides Jardim, a member of a local rowing team, who played the hero in A filha do advogado, and Oséias Torres de Lima, a Greco-Roman wrestling champion, who, in the role of the brother of the female lead in Retribuição, battled single-handedly against all the villains, ending the fight with his shirt ripped to reveal his muscular torso. These examples are redolent of another influence beyond Hollywood. Musclemen and other strong, athletic males had been popular in Italian silent movies since the success of the Maciste character in Cabiria (Giovanni Pastrone, 1914), and had found numerous imitators.11 In addition to Eddie Polo, another Hollywood star of the time who enjoyed great popularity among the cinema-going public in Recife was Lon Chaney, whose impressive performances led him to be dubbed ‘the man of a thousand faces’. His persona and characters would be incorporated into local cinematic productions, inspiring promotional materials produced by Jota Soares and serving as the model for the protagonist in Destino das Rosas (The Fate of the Roses, Ary Severo, 1930). Jota’s fascination with Chaney would lead him twice to recreate, in photographic sessions, the US actor’s most famous characters. He was photographed, for example, wearing heavy make-up in 1925 and 1926, in imitation of Chaney’s characterizations in The Hunchback of Notre Dame (Wallace Worsley, 1923) and The Phantom of the Opera (Rupert Julian, 1925). Para Todos published one of the photographs, to accompany the text ‘An Aurora [Studios] Character’.12 Jota was aware of the difficulties of showing Pernambucan films in Rio de Janeiro, a market

A STAR SYSTEM CREATED BY FANS . 51

dominated by foreign films (as was the Brazilian market in general), where film exhibitors would have been scarcely interested in screening unknown films from the northeast. He therefore made the most of the request for photographs to publicize his performances – hoping to gain a fan base among readers, if not among movie-goers. In a playful mood, but with a hint of genuine expectations, he wrote to Gonzaga in 1926, after sending the second batch of photographs, with the request: ‘please do me the favour of publishing them in order to drive the young ladies crazy’.13 It is likely that Chaney and the parts he played were also the inspiration for the hero of Destino das Rosas, the last silent feature film from Pernambuco to be released, in 1930, of which sadly no copy remains. Pedro Neves played a boy with a big heart, but who is crippled and lame. He is in love with a girl who allows herself to be seduced by the son of a farmer, and he ends up killing his rival, while the girl dies of grief. Neves referred to his character as ‘the hero of the film’.14 The description recalls the types made famous by Chaney, in that the protagonist, stigmatized by his physical defects, shows himself to be the better person, overcoming adversity and prejudice to become the true hero. Moreover, the characterization of the crippled hero demanded a performance strongly based on physical ability, following the style of the much admired US star, something that must have attracted Neves, who had worked as a circus performer and a transformist (his one-man show saw him dressed in a variety of roles, undergoing numerous changes of clothes, make-up, voice and posture). To exploit Neves’ talents as a character actor and acrobat, Aurora-Film produced a tworeel short, Herói do século XX (Hero of the Twentieth Century, Ary Severo, 1926), in which he played a comic character based on Buster Keaton. Another film in the same style, Tal e qual Harold Lloyd (Just Like Harold Lloyd) was announced by the Recife-based film production company Vera Cruz-Film (no relation to the Companhia Cinematográfica Vera Cruz, founded in São Paulo in 1949),15 but never materialized. Apart from explicit imitations, associations were frequently drawn between local actors and actresses and Hollywood stars. Foreign stars functioned as a template for Brazilian actors, to help them to be identified more easily with their character types and dominant features by audiences who were much more familiar with the US star system than with its nascent Brazilian counterpart. Gonzaga and Lima’s columns regularly resorted to such associations. In Selecta, Almery Steves is described as ‘one of the types beloved of von Stroheim, a Mary Philbin

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l­ ookalike’,16 while towards the end of the decade actress Mazyl Jurema, leading lady in No cenário da vida (On the Stage-set of Life, Luis Maranhão, 1930), declared in an interview: ‘This was the part I had always dreamt of. I only wish it weren’t so sad. I would prefer a happier, more vivacious part. More Joan Crawford’.17 Originating from the press or the performers themselves, such c­ omparisons also served as yardsticks for Brazilian women. In A filha do advogado, which he directed and starred in, Jota Soares combined the enthusiasm of the fan with the strategies of the professional, imbuing the film with his fascination with and up-to-date knowledge of the silver screen. The portrayal of the two female protagonists, for example, is fully in keeping with the fashions set by US films and reproduced in Brazilian magazines. The main character, Heloiza (Guiomar Teixeira), who at the beginning of the film is living on a farm and wears her hair long, goes to Recife, with her hair cropped short à la garçonne, a modern, boyish hairstyle (see Figure 2.1). Her look bears a striking

Figure 2.1 Heloiza (Guiomar Teixeira) in A filha do advogado (1926). Reproduced with the permission of the Fundação Joaquim Nabuco, Cinemateca Brasileira.

A STAR SYSTEM CREATED BY FANS . 53

r­ esemblance to the one made famous by Louise Brooks, and there is no doubt that Jota Soares was very familiar with the changes in women’s fashion and with Brooks herself, whose photographs appeared in Cinearte in 1926, at the start of her career. Another striking female character from A filha do advogado, albeit in a supporting role, was Antonietta Bergamine (Olíria Salgado), the fiancée of the villain. A law student, with an eye on the groom’s fortune, she also wears her hair short, but her appearance is exceedingly mannish, with combed-back hair and heavy dark-framed glasses. This image reflected another fashion in movie stardom, as can be seen in the pages of Cinearte, which show photographs of Hollywood stars such as Norma Shearer and Olive Borden dressed in men’s clothes.18 The male characters in the film were conceived according to certain archetypes. The hero, Lúcio Novaes (Euclides Jardim), is a successful journalist. Although an effort is made to establish the character as an intellectual, it is the actor’s physique that makes the greater impression, his rippling muscles visible even underneath a suit. Meanwhile, his rival, Helvécio, is the ‘cynical’ type, a term used at the time to designate the villain, the evil character who threatens the heroine. In contrast to Lúcio, every effort is made to provide appropriate actions and environments for Helvécio and his life of ‘dissolution and debauchery’: his pleas to his lawyer father for money; the nights he spends at the jazz club, surrounded by women and champagne; the increasingly intrusive passes that he makes at the naïve Heloiza, and so on. The careful camerawork that focuses on facial expressions and body movements helps to build up his character. Helvécio is played by the director himself, Jota Soares, who set up scenes with his character centre stage. To show the arrival of Helvécio at the house of his fiancée Antonietta, after coming out of a club at nine o’clock in the morning, Jota uses three shots, lasting more than a minute, in which the character walks along the pavement and enters the house by the front door. While the second shot is a close-up, the other two are full-figure shots. The audience accompanies the faltering steps of the character, who is visibly drunk. The actor’s performance and gestures are highlighted, emphasized by the framing and the duration of the shots. By doubling as director and actor, and playing the villain, Jota Soares must have taken pride in imitating one of the most feted and controversial figures in the cinema at that time: Erich von Stroheim. In addition to his renown as a director, Stroheim gained fame as a prototype of the cynical type, a category into which Jota sought firmly to place the character he played in A filha do advogado.

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Where’s the glamour? Although films from Pernambuco were only sporadically distributed in other states, readers of the Rio film magazines were becoming fans of Brazilian actors and actresses, writing letters in praise of them and asking for photographs and correspondence addresses, without ever having seen a single film in which they appeared. Unlike the Hollywood star system, which was firmly centred on the filmic experience, the incipient Brazilian star system touted by the Rio film press was almost entirely based on the reception of the magazines themselves. In Recife, on the other hand, where audiences actually had access to the films, the press did not play a systematic role in promoting the stars who were being feted by journalists and fans in Rio. The illustrated weekly magazines, which would have been the most fitting vehicle for bringing texts and images together, did publicize Pernambucan cinema, especially in its most prolific years (1925–26), but did not put special emphasis on stars. One of the principal Recife-based magazines of the period, A Pilhéria, presented itself as ‘an arts, humour and society weekly’. Pernambucan cinema was discussed in the form of commentaries on films and alongside photographs of actors, who were treated as tireless ‘amateurs’ within a group of ‘self-sacrificing’ locals who were willing to make movies despite adverse conditions. Coming from the lower and middle classes, actors and technical staff did not match the intended sophistication and modernity of the magazine, whose target readership was Recife’s worldly elite and traditional society. It comes as no surprise, therefore, that local actors and actresses were judged according to standards of social respectability. More important than promoting performers as stars was ensuring that they came from a respectable family, and if they were of less noble pedigree, they were lauded for their local Pernambucan origins rather than as stars. Another magazine, Rua Nova, publicized local film production through press notes and photographs, although it adopted a more critical stance. In the case of Jurando vingar (Swearing Vengeance, Ary Severo, 1925), the second feature film to come out of the Aurora-Film company, the plot was heavily panned, as were the performances of the actors and the ‘flagrant ­imitation of idiotic Americanisms’.19 Perhaps the greatest hurdle preventing these magazines from supporting a star system for Pernambucan cinema was the latter’s failure to include a basic ingredient: glamour. In 1926, two lavish silent film productions premiered: A filha do advogado and História de uma alma (The Story of a Soul, Eustórgio Wanderley,

A STAR SYSTEM CREATED BY FANS . 55

1926). Not without irony, A Pilhéria saw in these films ‘incontestable progress on our part in the “art of the silent screen”’ and praised the use of ‘excellent artistic vocations, which, for sure, will come to shine in the future as great stars of the highest order, on a par with the Normas and the Pola Negris, the Rudolph Valentinos and Ramón Novarros’.20 The magazine, however, unreservedly rejected the films themselves: ‘The shocking poor quality of the scenery, of the props and of the stars’ costumes and make-up perhaps poses the greatest obstacle to the full development of moving pictures here’.21 In order to overcome these deficiencies, the magazine encouraged production companies to join forces in setting up a permanent theatre company, like those that already existed in São Paulo and Salvador. The shameful deficiencies of local films were deemed to be a far cry from the luxury and glamour associated with the star system and with the cinema industry itself. Hence the argument for the theatre – a more viable, more traditional, less North American art form. A filha do advogado and História de uma alma were probably the most expensive films produced in the silent era in Recife and can be regarded as landmarks in overcoming the obstacles facing local film production. With these two films, the production companies concerned sought to achieve a greater level of professionalism, but they had to contend with the limitations of the exhibition market and the difficulties in having their films commercially screened in movie theatres outside the state of Pernambuco (the only way to ensure the financial return required to generate a profit and to guarantee continued production). Towards the end of the 1920s, the production of fiction features became increasingly sporadic, and the advent of sound, with its new and expensive technology, represented a further impediment. With a few exceptions, like the cameraman Edison Chagas, filmmakers abandoned the cinema, returning to their previous o ­ ccupations or pursuing careers in other fields. Meanwhile, Adhemar Gonzaga and Pedro Lima began to divide their attention between journalism and filmmaking. Since 1927, they had been working on Barro humano (Human Clay, 1929), directed by Gonzaga and produced by Lima. For two years, until its release in 1929, they relentlessly promoted the film in the pages of Cinearte. Barro humano gave them the opportunity to put into practice their ideas about Brazilian cinema, not only with regard to aesthetic issues but  also in terms of promotional strategies based primarily on stardom. This experience would lead Gonzaga to found his own production company, Cinédia, in 1930.

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Contemporary films In assessing the legacy of Pernambucan silent cinema, it is useful to draw comparisons with more recent films produced in the state. It is interesting to note how the hegemonic US influence and the interests of fans, which motivated the introduction of a local star system in Pernambucan fiction films in the 1920s, have given way to different trends in recent decades. Whereas silent filmmaking remained a phenomenon isolated from other local forms of artistic expression, a major structural element of more recent fiction feature films and shorts from Pernambuco is precisely the marked interaction with popular music, theatre, fashion and the visual arts from the region, with productions responding to stimuli from, and in turn exerting an influence on these other cultural forms. The most productive dialogue in recent years has been between cinema and the local music scene, as can be observed in Baile perfumado (Perfumed Ball, Lírio Ferreira and Paulo Caldas, 1997), a landmark film in contemporary Pernambucan cinema, linked not only musically but also conceptually to the Mangue Beat musical movement of the early 1990s, whose ideas of combining tradition with modernity, and regional forms with foreign influences, have had a significant impact on artistic expression in Pernambuco, including cinema. The new intermediality, as well as greater geographical exchange, is also leading to changes with regard to the role and use of performers. The range of actors and actresses currently appearing in Pernambucan feature films and shorts is highly diverse, and includes newcomers and veterans, from the cinema and the stage. If there is a star system in operation in contemporary Brazilian audiovisual media, it derives support and publicity less from the cinema than from television. This situation has also been exploited in Pernambucan films, with appearances by nationally renowned actors and actresses, such as Matheus Nachtergaele, Selton Mello and Giulia Gam. These are actors who are famous above all for their television roles, and their presence in recent films naturally arouses interest among viewers of soap operas and more commercial films. The appearance of well-known veteran actors in recent Pernambucan productions creates an interesting dialogue with Brazilian cinematic tradition, as in the case of Árido movie (Arid Movie, Lírio Ferreira, 2006). It is no coincidence that the parents of the main character are played by Paulo César Peréio and Renata Sorrah, paragons of Cinema Novo and Cinema Marginal,22 key movements in Brazilian cinema, to which the director Lírio Ferreira pays homage. In the same

A STAR SYSTEM CREATED BY FANS . 57

film, the presence on screen of José Dumont recalls a particular conception of the northeast and the region’s inhabitants that this actor has incarnated throughout his career. The film both incorporates and transforms this vision of the region, as it does with the Cinema Novo and Cinema Marginal traditions, as a way of proposing its own way of seeing and understanding the sertão (arid hinterland) region and the people of the northeast.23 As this chapter has tried to demonstrate, although the dialogue between tradition and modernity, and between regional and international culture, has been explicitly fostered by the Mangue Beat movement and Pernambucan cinema of recent decades, these dialogues were already present in the fiction films of the 1920s. Albeit not in a systematic way, Pernambucan silent film productions involved a series of cross-fertilizations, imitations and adaptations involving foreign cinematic models, especially those of Hollywood, and elements of national, regional and local cultures and ideological values. While recent films reach for a higher level of professionalism with regard to their casting choices, Pernambucan silent films provide fertile ground for understanding a particular type of star system, in which the fans themselves, without ceasing to be consumers, become creators. The submission to foreign models remains unchanged, but the variety of approaches, limitations and contributions arising from the reinterpretation of these models is unique and transforms the repertoire of the fans into a creative arena.

Notes This research was partially funded by a Postdoctoral Fellowship from the FAPESP (Fundação de Amparo à Pesquisa do Estado de São Paulo – The São Paulo State Research Support Foundation). 1. See, for example, G.N. Póvoas, ‘Histórias do Cinema Gaúcho: Propostas de Indexação 1904-1954’, PhD dissertation (Porto Alegre: Pontifícia Universidade Católica, 2005); L.C. Araújo, ‘O Cinema em Pernambuco nos Anos 1920’, in I Jornada Brasileira de Cinema Silencioso (São Paulo: Cinemateca Brasileira, 2007), 33, 71–76; A. Autran, ‘A Noção de “Ciclo Regional” na Historiografia do Cinema Brasileiro’, Alceu 20 (2010), 116–25. 2. Anon., ‘Filmografia Brasileira’, website of the Cinemateca Brasileira, retrieved 29 April 2010 from www.cinemateca.gov.br. The list may not be entirely accurate, as it is not clear whether some titles actually premiered during that year. 3. Anon., ‘Filmagem Brasileira’, Para Todos 308 (1924), 37; P. Lima, ‘O Cinema no Brasil’, Selecta 46 (1926), 20.

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4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22.

23.

Anon., ‘Filmagem Brasileira’, Para Todos 350 (1925), 40. Anon., ‘Almery Steves’, Para Todos 366 (1925), 43. Anon., ‘Almery Steves’, Selecta 45 (1926), 1; Lima, ‘O Cinema no Brasil’, 11–12. This and all other translations from the original Portuguese are by the author. P. Cunha (ed.), Relembrando o Cinema Pernambucano: Dos Arquivos de Jota Soares (Recife: Editora Massangana, 2006), 93. S. Campello, ‘Retribuição’, Diário de Pernambuco, 22 March 1925, 4. A. Gonzaga and P. Lima, ‘Entra Rolleaux!’, Cinearte 2(57) (1927), 8–9. See M. Dall’Asta, Un Cinéma Musclé: Le Surhomme dans le Cinéma Muet Italien (1913–1926) (Crisnée: Éditions Yellow Now, 1992). Anon., ‘An Aurora Character’, Para Todos 373 (1926), 53. J. Soares, Letter to Adhemar Gonzaga, Recife, 26 August 1926, consulted at the Cinemateca Brasileira, São Paulo. L. Bernardet, ‘O Cinema Pernambucano de 1922 a 1931: Primeira Abordagem’, masters dissertation (São Paulo: Universidade de São Paulo, 1970), 114. See Ana Carolina de Moura Delfim Maciel’s chapter in this volume for more information on the São Paulo-based Vera Cruz studios in the 1950s. Lima, ‘O Cinema no Brasil’, 11. Anon., ‘Mazyl Jurema, a Estrela do Norte’, Cinearte 230 (1930), 4–5 (4). Anon., ‘Norma Shearer’, Cinearte 1 (1926), 26; Anon., ‘Olive Borden’, Cinearte 7 (1926), 1. Anon., ‘Para uma Crônica Fútil’, Rua Nova 33 (1925), 26. J. Terceiro, ‘Na Arte do Silêncio … e na Arte da Palavra’, A Pilhéria 264 (1926), 21. Ibid. The term Cinema Marginal designates a heterogeneous group of films and filmmakers from the late 1960s and early 1970s, characterized by narrative experimentation, inventive film style and low-budget productions. The sertão has been a crucial geographical and symbolic space within Brazilian cinema since Cinema Novo, also inspiring the so-called ‘Nordestern’, a film genre influenced by Hollywood westerns.

References Araújo, L.C. ‘Aspectos do Cinema em Recife nos Anos 1920’. Postdoctoral monograph. Campinas: Universidade de Campinas, 2005. Araújo, L.C. ‘O Cinema em Pernambuco nos Anos 1920’, in I Jornada Brasileira de Cinema Silencioso (São Paulo: Cinemateca Brasileira, 2007), 33 and 71–76. Autran, A. ‘A Noção de “Ciclo Regional” na Historiografia do Cinema Brasileiro’. Alceu 20 (2010), 116–25.

A STAR SYSTEM CREATED BY FANS . 59

Bernardet, L. ‘O Cinema Pernambucano de 1922 a 1931: Primeira Abordagem’. Masters dissertation. São Paulo: Universidade de São Paulo, 1970. Campello, S. ‘Retribuição’, Diário de Pernambuco, 22 March 1925, 4. Cunha, P. (ed.). Relembrando o Cinema Pernambucano: Dos Arquivos de Jota Soares. Recife: Editora Massangana, 2006. Dall’Asta, M. Un Cinéma Musclé: Le Surhomme dans le Cinéma Muet Italien (1913–1926). Crisnée: Éditions Yellow Now, 1992. Gonzaga, A., and P. Lima. ‘Entra Rolleaux!’. Cinearte 2(57) (1927), 8–9. Lima, P. ‘O Cinema no Brasil’. Selecta 46 (1926), 20. Anon. ‘Almery Steves’. Para Todos 366 (1925), 43. Anon. ‘Almery Steves’. Selecta 45 (1926), 1. Anon. ‘An Aurora Character’. Para Todos 373 (1926), 53. Anon. ‘Filmagem Brasileira’. Para Todos 308 (1924), 37. Anon. ‘Filmagem Brasileira’. Para Todos 350 (1925), 40. Anon. ‘Filmografia Brasileira’. Cinemateca Brasileira. Retrieved 29 April 2010 from www.cinemateca.gov.br. Anon. ‘Mazyl Jurema, a Estrela do Norte’. Cinearte 230 (1930), 4–5. Anon. ‘Norma Shearer’. Cinearte 1 (1926), 26. Anon. ‘Olive Borden’. Cinearte 7 (1926), 1. Anon. ‘Para uma Crônica Fútil’. Rua Nova 33 (1925), 26. Póvoas, G. N. ‘Histórias do Cinema Gaúcho: Propostas de Indexação 1904–1954’. PhD dissertation. Porto Alegre: Pontifícia Universidade Católica, 2005. Terceiro, J. ‘Na Arte do Silêncio… e na Arte da Palavra’. A Pilhéria 264 (1926), 21.

Luciana Corrêa de Araújo teaches Theory and History of Film and Audiovisual Studies at the Federal University of São Carlos (UFSCar) in Brazil. Her research interests centre on Brazilian cinema history, with a particular focus on silent cinema and film criticism. She is the author of A crítica de cinema no Recife dos anos 50 (Film Criticism in Recife in the 1950s, Fundarpe, 1997) and Joaquim Pedro de Andrade: primeiros tempos (Joaquim Pedro de Andrade: Early Career, Alameda  Casa  Editorial, 2013), and has published a selection of book chapters and journal articles.

CHAPTER 3

A star in the spotlight Carmen Santos and Brazilian cinema of the 1920s Ana Pessoa

Carmen Santos was the biggest female star of Brazilian cinema in her time. Her journey to stardom started in 1919, and she went on to act in eight feature films. She also established a large studio and directed the ambitious historical epic Inconfidência Mineira (Conspiracy in Minas Gerais, 1948), in addition to being involved in many other projects. Her career ended prematurely due to her death from cancer in 1952. This chapter will explore the expectations, boundaries and prejudices that surrounded Carmen Santos’s journey. It will focus on the challenges she faced at the beginning of her career, both on a professional level, as she launched herself as an actress and producer in the nascent Brazilian film industry, and on a personal level, with her involvement in a long-term relationship outside wedlock, and how her attitudes and stance contributed to the emerging image of the modern Brazilian woman. In the 1920s major transformations were taking place in relation to women’s roles in Brazilian society, and in terms of the representation of women. The country was moving away from an agrarian economy towards a modernizing project of industrialization, with the population of the then capital, Rio de Janeiro, rising to more than one million inhabitants by the end of the decade. Illustrated magazines, such as Para Todos, A Cena Muda and Palcos e Telas, were avidly consumed in this era, particularly by female readers. The photographs they displayed stimulated women’s imagination, with magazines promoting cinema and images of the new woman. In 1920 the magazine Palcos e Telas published an interview with an enthusiastic Carmen Santos, under the title ‘A Future Star’, in which the teenage actress stated that cinema was her destiny and announced that she was leaving for the USA. A year previously, she had acted in Urutau (1919), after having been chosen in a ‘search-for-a-star’ competition advertised by the Rio film press.

A STAR IN THE SPOTLIGHT . 61

Directed by the American William Jansen, the film had positive reviews when it was shown at special screenings in Rio, but it never entered wider exhibition; its only print later disappeared. The editor of Palcos e Telas described Santos as follows: Beautiful, ‘mignone’, a lady with beautiful and expressive eyes, which have the same attraction when watering with tears as when shining with provocative malice, Miss Carmen Santos speaks with volubility and doesn’t keep quiet. For an hour she amuses us with her zesty happiness, natural petulance, her ideas and her projects, giving an impish moral impression of herself.1 In promoting herself, Santos employed the discourse of stardom by refashioning facts about her personal and professional life according to the ideals of the decade, and giving the impression of a young, free, bold and athletic woman, who wanted to conquer her own desires and aspirations. To this end she hid her humble Portuguese immigrant origins, the realities of her previous employment as a seamstress and shop assistant, and assumed the manners and habits of a rich girl, which she may have acquired when living with her boyfriend, Antônio Seabra, a young wealthy entrepreneur,2 who was the heir to a huge fortune. In the interview, Carmen declared: ‘I want to go [to the USA] alone in order to learn English out of necessity. As soon as I can make myself understood I will walk into the studio, state my aim and what I want, and I will be accepted in any of them’.3 The trip to the United States never materialized, but from 1923 onwards Carmen began an intensive campaign to publicize her projects and initiatives, counting on the interest of illustrated magazines, which were instrumental in promoting Brazilian cinema in this period. With the financial support of Seabra, she was also able to establish her own film company. In Brazil in the 1920s, the daily newspapers and illustrated magazines played a key role in promoting the star system, giving photographs of actresses pride of place on their covers and including endless articles about new films. The magazines Para Todos and Selecta were particularly important in this respect, and their reporter-editors Adhemar Gonzaga and Pedro Lima were fervent supporters of the achievements of Brazilian cinema (see also the chapter by Luciana Corrêa de Araújo in this volume). The commitment of journalists to win over the interest of magazine readers led them to look to Hollywood as a model, imitating the strategy of disseminating news and photographs from productions in progress,

62 . ANA PESSOA

but also to promote home-grown Brazilian actors and actresses in their coverage. The goal was to create a notion of stardom inspired by the formula of the Hollywood star system. Santos had become very aware of the value of publicity in relation to the film Urutau, which, although not gaining general exhibition, earned generous coverage in magazines and newspapers, giving her the status of film actress. Thus, the pursuit of her artistic career was dominated by the pursuit of publicity. The nascent Brazilian film industry of the first two decades of the twentieth century centred on the filming of political and social events, sports, military parades, inaugurations of buildings and new ships, and even riots and revolutions. In addition, the habits and customs of indigenous Brazilian people were captured by the cameras.4 Fiction films, however, were still infrequent, and initially only produced in small numbers in São Paulo and Rio de Janeiro. From 1923, however, the production of fiction films expanded to several different parts of Brazil. In that year, the editor of Selecta provided an overview of what would prove to be the economic difficulties faced by Brazilian cinema: The national movie industry … It is a pity, but it is necessary to confess we do not have one. … There is a lack of actors; in general the most daring filmmakers employ old hammy theatre actors, or individuals who could work as road sweepers, but are not cut out for the silent movie art; – a ‘star’ isn’t made like that, look at what happens in the USA, where the artist makes his ascent one step at a time, showing his or her skills to earn the status of leading man or leading lady. But what is particularly lacking here in Brazil is money. … Thus, until we have money, it is best to give up on the idea of a ‘national industry’ which, when it travels to other countries, gives a very poor impression of our artistic tastes.5 In this context of searching for ways and means, particularly financial, to produce fiction films, the ambitious projects of a genuine film actress, wilful and stubborn, supported by a wealthy businessman, were very well received. The backing of Seabra allowed Santos to maintain a firm grip over her own career and ambitions. In mid 1923, Para Todos included photographs of her in luxurious and exotic costumes, and announced the imminent release of A Realidade (The Reality), an adaptation of the novel A Carne (Flesh) by Júlio Ribeiro. The magazine also p ­ romised: ‘Then the artist will create Mlle. Cinema, [by] Benjamin

A STAR IN THE SPOTLIGHT . 63

Figure 3.1 Carmen Santos in a sensual pose to promote the film A carne. Photograph published in Selecta magazine on 24 January 1925. Reproduced with the permission and assistance of Fausto Fleury.

Costallat’.6 The two novels chosen by Santos, A Carne and Mademoiselle Cinema, depict young women who, upon discovering their sexuality, engage in extramarital affairs and become ostracized by society. These themes and the star’s photographic poses illustrate the irreverence and transgression that characterized Santos’s career, which challenged conservative morality and tuned into the ­eroticism and the spirit of the 1920s, the jazz age and its attendant moral revolution. Júlio Ribeiro’s novel A Carne had been dogged by controversy since its first publication in 1888, when, although praised as the greatest work of Brazilian literary naturalism, it was denounced by the Catholic Church for its blatant engagement with the subject of female sexuality. The plot concerns orphaned Lenita, heiress to a great fortune, who moves from the city to a farm belonging to some friends, where she becomes the mistress of Manduca, the divorced son of the farmers. Passion is surrounded by guilt and insecurity, which leads Lenita to leave

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the farm when she finds herself pregnant. In the capital, Rio de Janeiro, she meets a former suitor, who takes her in and marries her. Manduca, in despair after his abandonment, commits suicide. There is little extant information about this film, but it is clear that the practical and financial realities of production impeded its aspirations. Pedro Lima remembers the disastrous results of filming a dimly lit sequence, which provoked a violent altercation between Santos and the cinematographer of the film. Furthermore, Lima suspected that cans of negative had been stolen by some of the employees.7 The setbacks ultimately brought production to a halt, leaving a pile of debts and unfulfilled promises. In mid 1924, in the article ‘Listening to the Stars … Who is Carmen Santos?’, Santos is presented as one of the stars of Brazilian cinema, with Lima referring to her debut in Urutau and her persistence in building her career. Her difficulties are attributed to dishonest employees and chancers who took advantage of her womanhood. If I were a man!… She told us, teary-eyed – I would not always be duped as I have been, and certainly I would’ve seen all of my efforts realized! Unfortunately I am a woman, and, even more unfortunately, I’ve almost only trusted people who don’t deserve to be trusted at all. … I’m currently in negotiations with leading names in the Brazilian business community, as well as with foreign filmmakers, with a view to establishing a Brazilian film industry.8 After this demoralizing sequence of events, Carmen Santos resumed production in style. In June 1924 she appeared on the cover of the magazine A Idéa Illustrada and in a double-page spread, in various poses, she announced that she was about to return to making the film A Carne.9 Outdoor photography was said to have been completed in rural locations,10 while the interiors were filmed on luxurious sets, with valuable antique props and sophisticated costumes, made at her instruction. The director of the film was Czech-born Leo Marten, who was said to have gained his experience of filmmaking in Europe, and he was supported by a crew of skilled technicians. The magazine also mentioned that the total budget would be borne by the actress herself, and Santos announced the formation of a new production company, Filmes Artísticos Brasileiros (FAB), with studios in the Alto da Boa Vista area of Rio, whose construction was already being planned. The brand new premises of FAB were displayed in pictures and captions in the magazine in October 1924. One of the photographs from this period

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is similar to the scene of a film shoot:11 Carmen, wearing a tiara, is seated on a couch, with a long string of pearls around her neck. A man next to her is looking at her. The actor is not identified in the caption, but he is in fact the film’s director Leo Marten, who worked under the pseudonym Ivan Dolski. The production, however, suddenly stopped yet again without explanation, to the mirth of Adhemar Gonzaga in Para Todos, who wrote, in a caption to a small photograph: ‘A scene from A Carne, another film that Carmen Santos does not want to show to anybody. Let’s wait to see it in 4924’12 (this was a comic allusion to another film project, 4924, announced in the magazine). A year later, Pedro Lima celebrated the fact that a company in São Paulo was now filming Júlio Ribeiro’s novel, much to Carmen’s annoyance. After the premiere of that version of A Carne in São Paulo, however, Lima dismissed the production.13 Speculation about FAB’s version of the novel was brought to an end in September 1926 when it was announced that a fire at the studios had destroyed an ‘almost completed’ copy of the film.14 Carmen’s next project was another literary adaptation. Benjamin Costallat was one of the most successful writers of the period, and his 1923 novel Mademoiselle Cinema was considered one of his greatest achievements. The novel recounts the romantic adventures of Rosalina, daughter of a former minister, who, with her parents’ permission, experiences the social life of Rio de Janeiro. The family moves to Paris where they give in to all sorts of temptations: the father frequents brothels, his wife is obsessed with shopping, and his daughter eagerly pursues a secret affair with a married Brazilian journalist. The capricious temperament of Rosalina earns her the nickname of Mlle. Cinema – ‘changeable as a movie screen, changeable as a coloured ribbon’. Soon after, the young woman leaves the journalist, who seeks solace in cocaine, and the Parisian sojourn is brought to a halt by the death of her father from a heart attack in a brothel. Rosalina and her mother return to Brazil, and live their lives out of the limelight to evade society gossip, whereupon Rosalina meets Mário and begins a chaste romance and dreams of marriage. However, feeling herself unworthy of that love, she sends a farewell letter to Mário, confessing her past sins that prevent her from finding happiness. Censored in September 1924 for its affront to morality, the novel was eventually released and became a bestseller, generating five print runs and selling more than 140,000 copies by 1931. Although a film adaptation of the book had already been announced by Santos, even before its confiscation and subsequent success, the controversy

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­ ndoubtedly encouraged her to start work on the project, and by October 1924 u she began shooting. The film’s advertising campaign featured Santos and other actors, but without providing any more information about the adapted plot or details about the filming. The film’s director was once again to be Leo Marten, who also featured in the cast. Para Todos gave extensive coverage to the project, disseminating photos from the production between October 1924 and February 1925. Selecta, in turn, was more reticent about the film and made room only for a single photograph of Alex Orloff and Carmen Santos in November 1924. The magazine went on to report on the filming again in January 1925, but in March of that year it announced that ‘the films A Carne and Mlle. Cinema will only be released next year. She [Carmen Santos] is now building a studio and then will finish the interior scenes’.15 In fact, the gallery of images from the set of Mademoiselle Cinema did not include any indoor shots, only outdoor scenes generally featuring couples or groups. The promotion of the film was not restricted to images of the lead actress, extending rather to the entire cast, who were given prominence in individual portraits. The costumes were smart, with the men wearing suits and sports hats, while the female cast members adopted the sober elegance of European inspiration – dresses, furs and coats that hid their bodies, gloves, and delicate berets and hats that covered their short hairstyles. A photograph of a car, with Carmen Santos at the wheel, complements the impression of modernity conveyed by the sets (see Figure 3.2). The scenes published in the press, however, did not bear a direct relationship to the novel, and the magazines soon stopped reporting on the shoot’s progress. In mid 1925, as part of a series of cases used to illustrate his opposition to ‘the true villainy’ that prevailed in the cinema, Gonzaga in Para Todos criticized the ‘great foreign directors’, indirectly referring to Leo Marten, and mocked the misfortunes of the FAB studios, whose production had allegedly ground to a halt after its leading men spent time in jail, its extensive costumes were stolen and Santos suffered other misfortunes.16 As the examples from her early career indicate, Santos spared no effort to arouse the interest of journalists and systematically announced her initiatives: from the adaptation of controversial novels for the screen and the founding of her production company, FAB, to the construction of her own studio and the promise of several films, in an effort to reproduce the production schedules of the Hollywood majors. Within this strategy of attaining stardom, photography played a key part. The relationship between stardom and photography created a refined, seductive aesthetic, which drew on the careful study and c­ haracterization of the

A STAR IN THE SPOTLIGHT . 67

Figure 3.2 Carmen Santos in a publicity photograph for the film Mademoiselle Cinema (1925). Reproduced with the permission and assistance of Paula Seabra and Fausto Fleury.

posture of the actress, the setting and the lighting of the star. The ‘photogenic’ star was constructed by means of camera angles and lighting that sought to enhance the aura of a divine muse. Astutely aware of the importance of photography, Santos relentlessly promoted her image. Photos of her on set had limited use value, since these often only too clearly revealed the precarious conditions of Brazilian film production, starkly contrasting with high-quality promotional material circulated by foreign companies. Only two or three photos taken during the filming of A Carne were published, and even those from Mademoiselle Cinema,

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more numerous and diverse, are nothing more than records of unglamorous actors dressed in character. These deficiencies were, however, offset by the production of a varied and extensive collection of ‘artistic shots’ of the actress, ‘performed’ in the studio. Clothes, make-up and props were used to create an atmosphere of sleek sensuality, combining the impression of virginal innocence with the eroticism of the dramatic vamp, and the ambiguous mystery of the femme fatale. The look was sometimes youthful and mischievous, but could also come across as daring and experienced. Turbans, furs, tiaras, pearls, wreaths, shiny fabrics, whether embroidered or transparent, adorned the actress. Nudity was masked by elaborately worked dresses, but sometimes hinted at by pieces of fabric that slipped off the shoulders, or further suggested through diaphanous garments that exposed the lines of the body, especially the breasts. Her persistence in asserting her star status enabled Carmen to overcome the resistance of journals less responsive to national films, such as Ilustração Moderna. In a photographic section entitled ‘Queens of the Screen’, hitherto devoted entirely to US stars, Carmen was presented as the most popular ‘national star’. The frequency with which her photographs appeared in print did provoke a sarcastic fictitious dialogue penned by Gonzaga in Para Todos: ‘– I’m ruined, my dear, I do not know how to retrieve my fortune! – You can always become Carmen Santos’s photographer’.17 Hype aside, the strategy was effective. Pedro Lima mentioned her in his column dedicated to Brazilian actresses, and referred to ‘all shining stars of our firmament’. He noted that ‘it is only fair to include her since, although we have yet to see her perform, her efforts and disappointments have been quite considerable’.18 In 1925, despite not having been seen in a single film, Carmen Santos had indeed achieved her ambition: she was without doubt a celebrity in Brazilian cinema. Film magazines featured letters from fans requesting photos and information about the actress, while poems were written in her honour. Alongside one of Carmen’s photographs – elegantly dressed in a suit and brimmed hat, and holding a cane – Álvaro Moreyra dedicated a tribute to her, holding her up as the symbol of the modern woman of the 1920s: She is the photogenic kind. Whoever sees her, in the magazines, her head shots, judges her to be as tall as Nita Naldi. Actually she’s as tall as Mary Pickford, and thinner. Very slender. A slip of woman. Sometimes she looks like the tip of a cigarette, one of those she brings with her when she drops by here … On other

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occasions, when she leaves the studios early, we want to breathe her in, since she looks so much like those little perfume bottles popularized all over the world by the Syrian Bichara … It was for her that many years ago they invented the adjectival expression ‘bag of nerves’. And there is another word that defines her from top to bottom: stubborn. She has taken it upon herself to make Brazilian cinema. She is very capable of doing so.19 After a period out of the limelight, which followed the birth of her first child, Santos joined the Cataguases film group to star, under the direction of Humberto Mauro, in the now classic Sangue Mineiro (Blood of Minas Gerais, 1930). This positive experience encouraged her to develop the project for the film Lábios sem beijos (Lips without Kisses) with Adhemar Gonzaga, but filming was brought to a halt; the film was finally made under the direction of Mauro, with a new cast that did not include Santos. Following the birth of her second child, in September 1930, a screen test of hers ended up being included in the final version of the experimental Limite (Limit, 1931), directed by Mário Peixoto. The two of them immediately set out on an ambitious project, Onde a terra acaba (Where the Land Ends), to be filmed on the island of Marambaia, a location that demanded complex production logistics. Eventually Santos, the producer, and Peixoto fell out and the project was shelved. Peixoto never directed another film. Santos subsequently went on to produce a replacement project, using the same title (which had already been widely publicized in the press), with the support of Adhemar Gonzaga’s Cinédia studios, directed by Otávio Gabus Mendes. The plot was based on the love-life conflicts of Aurélia and Fernando, two characters from José de Alencar’s novel Senhora (Senhora: Profile of a Woman, 1875), but was transported to the 1930s and featured elegant sets and costumes, and a musical soundtrack. When the film premiered in 1933, the film was met with indifference by the public, who were by now used to Hollywood sound films. The continuous setbacks throughout her career never deterred Santos. In collaboration with Humberto Mauro, Santos made preparations to adapt to the demands of sound cinema; she established a new company, Brasil Fox Filme, later renamed Brasil Vita Filmes, and began building her own studios. In the mid 1930s, she produced quota films, capitalizing, like others, on legislation that had made compulsory the screening of Brazilian films in domestic movie theatres.20 Favela dos meus amores (Shantytown of My Loves, 1935) was the first full-length film made during this new phase of her career. The film’s romantic plot was set against

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the ­backdrop of one of the favelas of Rio de Janeiro, and involved an elegant and selfless teacher with whom two men fall in love – one a student who has set up a cabaret club in the slum, and the other a samba musician. The documentary sequences shot in Rio’s Providência favela attracted the attention of left-wing critics and the film’s box office success was respectable. This led Santos’s production company to make the film Cidade Mulher (Woman City, 1936), which centred on musical numbers and in which Santos played the daughter of a bankrupt theatrical impresario, who helps her boyfriend, a talented songwriter, to produce a hit theatrical revue. Santos was not content to play young, romantic women in supporting roles alongside the handsome male protagonists of these first Brasil Vita Filmes productions. In 1936 she announced that she was looking for a role that would match her personality: ‘As a result of my romantic gypsy temperament, of what I have gone through, of my way of understanding life, only powerful roles involving strong emotions satisfy me’.21 She immediately went on to take on the Inconfidência Mineira project, which would demand more of her as a businesswoman and as a producer and director than as an actress. She surrounded herself with advisors and specialists in order to guarantee the credibility of the plot, the sets and the costumes, and as well as playing the role of the historical figure Bárbara Heliodora, she took on the role of director, with the assistance of the photographer Edgar Brasil. While she sought to overcome the technical and financial difficulties posed by this ambitious project, Santos took on another project with Humberto Mauro, Argila (Clay, 1940). With this film she was given the romantic drama and the character of a mature and determined woman for which she had longed for so many years, playing a seductive widow who, by means of her love of art and passion for a talented local artisan, gives new meaning to her life. The restrictions imposed by World War Two meant that the production of Inconfidência Mineira would be regularly interrupted and would drag on for several years, with the film being finally released on 21 April 1948, and proving not to be a hit with audiences. From then until her death from cancer in 1952, Santos restricted her activities to managing the Brasil Vita Filmes studios, becoming involved in the production of lightweight films. In retrospect, it becomes clear that the experience of her debut film Urutau had a lasting influence on the teenage Carmen Santos, but also foreshadowed many of the difficulties she encountered subsequently. Refusing to be deterred by the technical limitations and financial difficulties faced by Brazil’s film­makers

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in the 1920s, she capitalized on every opportunity to be involved in films that bore the hallmarks of her ideas and personality, such as A Carne and Mademoiselle Cinema, and came to prominence with the help of illustrated magazines. Carmen did not manage, however, to overcome the difficulties involved in filmmaking, and some of her projects remained unfinished or never amounted to more than an announcement in the press. In addition to the adverse conditions for production, she also had to battle against gender prejudice. In this respect, the failings of Filmes Artísticos Brasileiros (FAB) and the fire in the studio’s laboratory in 1926 seemed to signal the impossibility of a woman taking the reins of her own film career, a transgressive act in that era.

Notes All translations in this chapter are my own, unless otherwise indicated. 1. Palcos e Telas 116, 10 June 1920. 2. Seabra, who came from an elite family, was her long-term partner and father of her two children, although the two never married. It is said that he blocked the release of Urutau to save the reputation of his partner, and by extension his socially superior family. 3. Palcos e Telas 116, 10 June 1920. 4. For example the ethnographic films of Major Tomas Reis, such as Rituais e festas Bororo (Rituals and Festivals of the Bororo Tribe, 1917) and those of the documentary maker Silvino Santos, notably his No país das Amazonas (In the Country of the Amazons), a full-length production that records the economic power of the state of Amazonas that was screened at the Centenary Exhibition of Brazilian Independence in 1922. 5. Selecta 9, 3 March 1923. 6. Para Todos 242, 4 August 1923. 7. Interview with Pedro Lima conducted by Ana Pessoa and Vera Brandão, 6 August 1984. 8. Pedro Lima, ‘Ouvindo estrelas… – Quem é Carmen Santos’, Selecta 21, 24 May 1924. 9. A Idéa Illustrada 28, 15 June 1924. 10. As Santos stated in the article: ‘I reproduced with maximum fidelity all the scenes filmed in the countryside and on the farms, using the same locations in which Júlio Ribeiro set his novel’. 11. Para Todos 296, 16 August 1924. 12. Para Todos 319, 4 January 1925. 13. Pedro Lima, ‘Estabilizando’, Selecta 16, 21 April 1926.

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14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20.

Pedro Lima, ‘O preço da fama’, Selecta 39, 29 September 1926. Selecta 12, 21 March 1925. Para Todos 341, 27 June 1925. Para Todos 331, 18 April 1925. Selecta 51, 23 December 1925, 34. Álvaro Moreira, ‘Carmen Santos’, Para Todos 321, 7 February 1925. Decree-law 21.240, of April 1932, was the first government measure introduced to defend Brazilian cinema. At the same time as establishing film censorship, it made compulsory the screening of educational films within every film programme, and of fortnightly newsreels. It also made reference to financial incentives and assistance for Brazilian film producers, as well as distributors and exhibitors. 21. Z. Naide, ‘Ouvindo a estrela de “Cidade Mulher”’, O Jornal, 29 June 1936.

References Costallat, B. Mademoiselle Cinema: Novela de costumes do momento que passa. São Paulo: Ed. Costallat & Micciolis, 1923. Lima, P. ‘Estabilizando’. Selecta 16, 21 April 1926. Lima, P. ‘O preço da fama’. Selecta 39, 29 September 1926. Lima, P. ‘Ouvindo estrelas… – Quem é Carmen Santos’. Selecta 21, 24 May 1924. Moreira, A. ‘Carmen Santos’. Para Todos 321, 7 February 1925. Naide, Z. ‘Ouvindo a estrela de “Cidade Mulher”’. O Jornal, 29 June 1936. Ribeiro, J. A Carne. São Paulo: Teixeira & Irmão, 1888.

Ana Pessoa is a researcher at the Casa de Rui Barbosa Foundation in Rio de Janeiro, where she directs the Memory and Information Centre and is head of the research group ‘Museum-House: Memory, Space and Representations’. Her publications include the books Carmen Santos e o cinema dos anos 20 (Carmen Santos and the Cinema of the 20s, Aeroplano Editora, 2002), Cartas do sobrado (Letters from the Two-Storey House, Edições Casa de Rui Barbosa, 2009) and, with Pedro Correia do Lago and Júlio Bandeira, Palliere e o Brasil (Palliere and Brazil, Editora Capivara, 2011). In addition, she has written numerous articles and book chapters, and is editor of the volume II Encontro Luso Brasileiro de Museus-Casas: Jardins privados do século XIX (2nd Luso-Brazilian Meeting of Museum-Houses: Private Gardens from the Nineteenth Century, Edições Casa de Rui Barbosa, 2011).

CHAPTER 4

Carmen Miranda From national star to global brand Ana Rita Mendonça and Lisa Shaw

The scant surviving footage of Carmen Miranda in Brazilian films includes her performance of the Dorival Caymmi song ‘O que é que a baiana tem?’ (‘What does the baiana have?’) in Banana da terra (Banana of the Land,1 Wallace Downey, 1939), released to coincide with the Rio de Janeiro carnival in early 1939. Here she launched the iconic look that she would make famous and transform into Brazil’s quintessential national dress: the stylized baiana outfit2 that combines a fruit-laden turban with a midriff-revealing, cropped, peasant-style blouse, a long bias-cut skirt and an excess of necklaces, bracelets and hooped earrings. In spite of performing just two musical numbers in the film, which would prove to be her last screen appearance in a Brazilian production,3 tellingly it was Carmen’s name and image that were prominently featured in the production’s publicity material. The title of the song, which is also the recurring refrain, draws us hypnotically to its inherent question, as it refers to its performer, Miranda: ‘What does the baiana have?’, or perhaps more accurately, ‘What is it about the baiana?’. This question implicitly posed itself both to her contemporary audiences of the 1930s and 1940s and to those who later revised their conceptions of her. ‘She has charm like no one else’, declares a line in the song, as if its composer, Dorival Caymmi, knew beforehand that Carmen Miranda would be responsible for his first musical hit, and that she would in turn commence the international phase of her career to the sound of this self-referential song. This chapter will examine Carmen’s transformation from a national star of the music and film industries in Brazil in the 1930s into a global icon. It will first focus on the way her star persona functioned during her lifetime, before considering how her image and legacy have subsequently circulated in Brazil and elsewhere, and in various media and cultural contexts. In his seminal study Stars, Richard

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Dyer discussed the essential fascination of the star and proposed that polysemy or polyphony was a central feature of star texts.4 Following his lead, this chapter aims to decipher Carmen’s star text in all its polyphonic dimensions. Interest in the inherent magnetism of stars, in Carmen’s particular musical and performance style and in her personal and professional trajectory has fuelled the longevity of her legacy. The emphasis on each of these elements varies, depending on the particular reading of her star text. This chapter will seek to uncover the multiple layers of her performances as an actress, singer, entertainer and trendsetter. 

The emergence and consolidation of Carmen’s star status in Brazil in the 1930s Carmen’s interaction with the culture industry in Brazil began in the 1930s.5 Like many of the first film actors in Brazil, Carmen was already a star of popular music and radio when she made the transition to the screen. This was a common move, since the majority of Brazil’s early sound films were musicals, which loosely integrated performances by famous singers and popular musicians. In 1930 her recording of the song ‘Pra você gostar de mim’ (So You’ll Like Me), better known as ‘Taí’ (That’s It) was the hit of the year, breaking all record sales, and was the song on everyone’s lips during the Rio carnival celebrations that year. Following this success, she became the most famous female singer in Brazil, at just twentyone years of age. By the end of the 1930s she had made almost three hundred records. André Luiz Barros points out that even before she became an actress she sang like one – that is to say, her vocal style was characterized by theatricality, lengthening notes for effect, and she incorporated facial expressions and expansive hand movements into her performances.6 According to Barros, Joubert de Carvalho, the composer of ‘Taí’, allegedly said when he first heard Carmen’s voice: ‘It was as if, as well as hearing her, I was seeing her too, such was the striking personality that sprang out of the recording’.7 Zeca Ligiéro notes that in her live vocal performances Carmen would often make witty asides, and favoured songs with humorous lyrics which allowed her to give free rein to her natural comic skills and love of exaggeration.8 Not blessed with a vast vocal range, Carmen relied heavily on theatrical effects when singing, playing with the sounds of language and introducing short spoken exclamations and asides to inject life into the lyrics, in addition to drawing on a wide range of facial expressions, eye movements and

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smiles.9 Her engaging performance style as a singer hinted at the ease with which she would make the transition to the screen. Carmen’s film career in Brazil was closely bound up with the tradition of musical films that drew on the nation’s carnival traditions, and the annual celebrations and musical styles of the city of Rio de Janeiro, Brazil’s then capital, in particular. Since the silent era, documentary films had incorporated footage from the street carnival in Rio, and Carmen appeared in O carnaval cantado no Rio (Rio Carnival in Song, 1932), the first sound documentary on this popular theme. The film combined footage of the elite’s costume balls and street carnival processions with scenes featuring popular musicians and performers, including Carmen, performing in the studio. In her second film, A voz do carnaval (The Voice of Carnival, 1933), she was one of a roll call of well-known singers and composers that presented the audience with the hit carnival sambas and marches (marchas or marchinhas) from 1933, interspersed with real footage of street carnival ­celebrations in Rio, tenuously linked together by a plot filmed in the studio. Alô, alô, Brasil! (Hello, Hello, Brazil!, 1935) once again featured scenes of carnival and shots of the city of Rio, while the simple plot centred on a young man from the countryside who goes to the big city in search of a female radio star. Carmen’s proven star status in the world of popular music was reflected by the fact that she provided the film’s closing number, the marchinha ‘Primavera no Rio’ (Springtime in Rio). Stills of this performance reveal Carmen’s use of hand gestures and animated facial expressions, and by all accounts, she stole the show with this number. A few months after the release of Alô, alô, Brasil!, Cinearte magazine stated: ‘Carmen Miranda is currently the most popular figure in Brazilian cinema, judging by the sizeable correspondence that she receives’.10 The public was enchanted by ‘A Pequena Notável’ (‘The Remarkable Girl’), a nickname given to Carmen by a Brazilian broadcaster and which endured among her fans in Brazil. Countless readers wrote in asking the magazine to publish interviews with Carmen or photographs of her. Her imminent departure for Europe was announced on more than one occasion, and her name was repeatedly linked to other Brazilian and Argentine film projects, which even though they never materialized, reflected the popular perception of her as a budding international film star.  Carmen was central to the success of Alô, alô, carnaval! (Hello, Hello, Carnival!, 1936), another musical that again featured a roll call of star performers from the world of popular music and radio. By the Brazilian standards of the day, Alô, alô,

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carnaval! was a major production: the backstage plot provided the rationale for the inclusion of a grand total of twenty-three musical numbers. The lavish sets recreated the interior of Rio’s plush Atlântico casino, which was also used for some location shooting, and the backdrops for some musical numbers, including Carmen and her sister Aurora Miranda’s rendition of ‘Cantoras do rádio’ (Radio Singers), were art deco designs by the acclaimed illustrator J. Carlos (also known as Jotinha). Nevertheless, the technical and budgetary constraints experienced by the nascent Brazilian film industry were still very much in evidence. Each musical number was filmed simultaneously in just one take by three cameras from different angles, with the resulting footage being edited together in a rather mechanical fashion. Furthermore, performers were obliged to provide their own costumes, and thus Carmen’s dressmaking and millinery skills, acquired when she was a sales assistant in a hat shop, proved very useful. She created many of her own outfits, including the lamé trouser suits worn by her and Aurora for the performance of ‘Cantoras do rádio’, one of the high points of the film. It is revealing that the few close-ups used in Alô, alô, carnaval! are of Carmen (otherwise the camera rarely moves, remaining fixed on medium or medium long shot framing of the performers). She was to make just one more film in Brazil, Banana da terra, before being ‘discovered’ by the Broadway impresario and theatre owner Lee Shubert (one of the famous Shubert brothers) and ‘exported’ to the USA in May 1939.

Carmen on Broadway and in Hollywood Shubert had witnessed Carmen’s baiana persona first hand during her performance at Rio de Janeiro’s upscale Urca casino in February 1939 and immediately set about signing her to his theatrical empire. Just a few months later, on 17 May 1939, Carmen and her backing band, the Bando da Lua, arrived in New York. She premiered on Broadway in the show Streets of Paris on 19 June 1939, and despite performing just three numbers, she became an overnight sensation, as did her baiana costume. In a column syndicated to newspapers all over the USA, the columnist Walter Winchell reported that a new star had been born who would save Broadway from the slump in ticket sales caused by the popularity of the New York World’s Fair of 1939. Winchell’s praise for Carmen and her Bando da Lua (known in the USA as the Moon Gang) was repeated on his daily show on the ABC

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radio network, which reached fifty-five million listeners.11 As soon as news of the so-called ‘Brazilian Bombshell’ reached Hollywood, 20th Century-Fox began to develop a film to feature Carmen. The working title of the project was The South American Way, the title of one of the songs she performed to such rapturous applause in New York, and her performances in what would be later released as Down Argentine Way (1940) drew heavily on her Broadway debut. This was the first of a series of so-called ‘Good Neighbour’ musicals starring Carmen, in which she functioned as a de facto Latin American envoy, personifying the official US policy of using popular culture, particularly film, to foster closer links and greater understanding between the United States and Latin American nations.12 Such was Miranda’s frenetic schedule on Broadway that she was unable to travel to Los Angeles to shoot her scenes for Down Argentine Way, so 20th Century-Fox sent a film unit to New York and rented a sound stage in the city. In the final film, she performs just three musical numbers for an appreciative diegetic audience in a nightclub in Buenos Aires, and appears for less than five minutes on screen, although her audiovisual impact far outstrips her screen time, and she appears in third place in the credits, after Betty Grable and Don Ameche. Without prior introduction or contextualization, Carmen abruptly confronts audiences in the film’s opening scene, where she sings in medium close-up ‘South American Way’ in a spectacular baiana costume, designed by acclaimed wardrobe artist Travis Banton. Her dress exploits to the full the potential of Technicolor, not least in its combination of bright red and gold lamé fabric, from which her turban is also made, and in the abundance of golden necklaces and bracelets that adorn her body. A notable feature of her opening vocal performance is her exaggeratedly accented English, with the word south becoming ‘soused’, a colloquial term for drunk at the time, just as it had done in her renditions of the song on Broadway. The Fox studios were well aware that her mispronunciation of this word in Streets of Paris made audiences laugh out loud, as it had been widely reported on and mimicked in the press, with Carmen being instructed by Lee Shubert not to correct this mistake throughout the run of the Broadway show, even when her English had greatly improved.13 From the outset, Fox were clearly intent on manufacturing her linguistic difference as a key component of her ‘Latin’ alterity. Carmen went on to appear in a further thirteen Hollywood films, including Weekend in Havana (1941), Springtime in the Rockies (1942) and The Gang’s All Here (1943). In the latter three films she is given second-place billing and ­dominates the opening frames, testimony to her acknowledged audience appeal. However, her

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musical numbers take precedence over her narrative function, and serve primarily to underscore her ‘Latinness’ and its inherently laughable nature. Carmen rarely appeared in anything other than a version of the baiana costume, and in these three films her outfits are characterized by their gaudiness, with clashing fabrics, increasingly adorned turbans and an excess of costume jewellery – a distinct departure from Banton’s more elegant designs in her previous two Hollywood productions, Down Argentine Way and That Night in Rio (1941). In Hollywood she was able to draw on the comic skills she had displayed in live vocal performances back in Brazil, complementing her love of subtle innuendo with verbal and physical clowning. As it evolved in Hollywood, her star text relied on image and sound in equal measure, and she provided a prime example of the complex ‘configuration of visual, verbal and aural signs’ that constitutes a star persona, and which, as Dyer argues, must be particular to the individual in question, making them easy to recognize regardless of the role they are playing on screen.14 Hollywood’s increasingly caricatured, ‘cartoon-Latina’ Carmen went on to be copied endlessly in consumer culture, and has continued to circulate well beyond both Brazil and the USA. It is notable that all the roles that Carmen played in her Hollywood films had an underprivileged position in the romantic plot – a central feature of classical Hollywood narratives – and she was never part of the lead couple. Yet,  compared with the American actresses in the same films, her femininity is heightened and naturalized by the US tradition of associating Latin America with the natural world. It is no coincidence that fruit permanently hovers over Carmen’s head as decoration on her turbans. Hers is also a femininity marked by the North American vision of Latin American women, oscillating between a sometimes aggressive, sometimes gentle sensuality, in a movement of opposites typical of stereotypes. The objections raised by Carmen herself about the limitations imposed on her due to her Latin American origins are reflected in her performance, alongside Groucho Marx, in the film Copacabana (1947), made at a time when she was no longer under contract with a major Hollywood studio.  In the form of the French character Fifi and the Brazilian character Carmen, both played by the star, she turns her professional dilemma into comedy. There is no trace of a turban adorning Fifi’s long blonde hair, and in her shows after World War Two, Carmen made a joke about her newly dyed blonde hair when introducing one of her parodic songs, ‘I make my money with bananas’.15  In this song, Carmen plays with the possibility of changing her ever-present turban for a hairstyle like

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Deanna Durbin’s, or maybe doing a love scene with Clark Gable, who could have been the leading man to her leading lady in any film of the era. She was also increasingly unhappy with having to feign a ‘Latin’ accent and having to adhere to scripts that forced her to endlessly commit comic malapropisms. Off screen she spoke English very well, with little accent, but in Hollywood productions she was constrained by grammatically flawed, clichéd ‘Latin-speak’, peppered with comic linguistic gaffes (‘I just spilled the cat out of the beans’ and ‘I wash my face of the whole business’, to name but two).16 Carmen sought to subvert these visual and linguistic stereotypes, however, by introducing unscripted asides in the Portuguese language into her dialogue and integrating excerpts from Brazilian songs into her musical performances, part of a wider strategy of ‘winking’ at the audience as a way of undermining the cultural straightjacket imposed on her by Hollywood. Nevertheless, her increasing stereotyping by Hollywood had a ­significant effect on the reception of her star image back home in Brazil.

The reception of Carmen’s international success back in Brazil The year 1930, when Carmen’s first hit record was released, had marked the beginning of a new political era under President Getúlio Vargas (1930–45). The Vargas regime combined an emphasis on industrialization, modernization and urbanization with a strong focus on fostering a notion of national identity referred to by the neologism brasilidade or ‘Brazilianness’. Popular culture was a crucial element in this ideology, and through radio programmes, popular songs, newspapers and magazines, feature films and newsreels the defining features of Brazilian nationhood were articulated. As the biggest domestic radio star of the 1930s, Carmen had provided the perfect embodiment of this period of patriotism and optimism. After she had departed for the United States in 1939, many people back home – from the government to fans and patriots – regarded Carmen as Brazil’s international envoy. During her run on Broadway in 1939, Carmen visited the Brazilian government’s pavilion at the World’s Fair in New York.  There she promoted Brazilian coffee, surrounded by samples of Brazil’s raw materials that were strategically important in wartime, and projections of films about the nation’s modern state capitals.  Just like the Brazilian pavilion itself, designed by celebrated architects Oscar Niemeyer and Lúcio Costa, the balance between nature and manufactured material in the ‘export’ version of Carmen Miranda was a delicate one.

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Hot on the heels of Carmen’s success in the USA, Brazilian critics began to discuss her integration into North American show business. Public scrutiny, generally polarized between approval and disapproval, was articulated in reports, editorial columns, film reviews and letters from readers. The central debate was whether Carmen fulfilled the expectations of accurately projecting Brazil’s ideal self-image and the nation’s representation in the international arena. In 1940 she was cheered in the streets of Rio de Janeiro when she returned for a visit after a year in the United States. Days later, however, she was coldly received by a high-society audience brought together by the Brazilian first lady, Darcy Vargas, for a charity show.  Class, however, is not the only explanation for this negative reaction. Readers’ letters elicited by the popular film magazine, A Cena Muda, reveal the contradictory reception given by Brazilians to the ‘international’ Carmen. ‘She just worried about pleasing the Americans who pay her the dollars, forgetting that those dollars come from here as well’, said one of the letters.17 ‘Frankly, I wouldn’t like to be in her shoes. What a heavy weight she carries on her small shoulders! To represent Brazil, make the nation well known as soon as possible, make its songs appear in all the films that she stars in, be the interpreter of our art’, replied another.18 ‘I’ll watch her movies in the crazy hope of seeing her improve the concept Americans have of Brazil, however, I confess that I’ve done it three times and was disappointed. I prefer Brazil to be unknown than hardly known at all.’19  When Carmen died in 1955 at the age of forty-six, she received the mythical status given to stars who die unexpectedly, which helped lessen the unease caused by her ‘North American’ persona among the Brazilian public. This process of reconciliation began during her last visit to Brazil between December 1954 and April 1955, after fourteen years away, when she looked prematurely aged and was suffering from a nervous breakdown. The emotional reaction that her death provoked among Brazilians found its culmination in her grandiose funeral in Rio de Janeiro. However, a few days later, in the midst of the posthumous tributes, she was again described as someone who ‘strived to create the most humiliating and false impression of Brazil’.20

The posthumous ‘idea’ of Carmen Miranda Two years after her death, in another attempt by the Brazilian state to reach out to  the international baiana, the first exhibition took place of her memorabilia, donated by her family to the Brazilian government. This was a time when Brazil

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was engaged in new modernizing projects, such as the foundation of Brasilia as the new purpose-built federal capital city, the development of a consumer goods industry, and in cultural terms,  the emergence of the bossa nova musical style and of Cinema Novo (the avant-garde, leftist ‘new cinema’ movement). In this context Carmen Miranda was only remembered in the form of a bronze bust erected in the Largo da Carioca, a square in downtown Rio de Janeiro located in a ­neighbourhood where she had once lived. Carmen Miranda became a topic of discussion again in the late 1960s with the emergence of the ‘Tropicália’ (or Tropicalism) movement, a new artistic, intellectual and media vision that expressed Brazil’s desire for modernity. Singer and composer Caetano Veloso gave his song ‘Tropicália’ (1968) the status of a manifesto, and in its lyrics Carmen Miranda’s name appears, alongside a reference to the song ‘A Banda’ (The Band, Chico Buarque, 1966), echoing in the final verse: ‘Viva a band-da-da, Carmen Miranda-da-da’ (‘Three cheers for the bandnd-nd, Carmen Miranda-da-da’). In his autobiography Tropical Truth (originally published in Portuguese in 1997, and in 2003 in an English translation), Veloso describes the Tropicalist movement and explains its connection with Carmen: The fact that she had become a caricature as a result of her Hollywood success, something we had grown up feeling a little ashamed of, made the mere mention of her name a bomb that the tropicalista guerrillas would, fatefully, seize.  But to deploy such a bomb meant likewise the death warrant of that shame, issued as a challenge to the acceptance of American mass culture (and therefore of Hollywood, where Carmen had shone), acceptance as well of the stereotypical image of a sexually exposed Brazil, hypercolourful and fruit-full (which was the very image Carmen carried to such extremes) – an acceptance that had evolved because of our realization that both mass culture and that stereotype did (or could) reveal more far-reaching truths about Brazil than anything to which we had been previously limited.21 The encounter with Tropicalism gave an impetus to the revival of Carmen’s persona, absorbing in a positive way the inevitable stereotyping that had surrounded her throughout her career. In his revisionist take on the best-known Brazilian performer ever, Veloso imitated her physical gestures, adopting an iconic element of her musical repertoire on stage. Exiled in England during the Brazilian military dictatorship (1964–85), he sang ‘O que é que a baiana tem?’ when performing in

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London and Paris, and even after his return to Brazil. He twisted his hands, rolled his eyes and made sudden pauses in his rendition of the song, thus in a single performance making a tacit comment on his exile from Brazil, the nation’s position in the international imagination and the sexual ambiguity attributed to him. Carmen’s revival in the 1960s and 1970s also included a revalorization of the popular cultural milieu in which she had lived. In the 1972 Rio carnival she was the subject of samba school Império Serrano’s display,22 and  stars of Brazilian show business impersonated her in this memorable parade, including actresses Leila Diniz and Marília Pêra. That same year, Pêra played Carmen on stage, the first of several occasions. ‘At the time, in 1972, at the height of the military dictatorship, performing as Carmen Miranda was politically incorrect’, she commented years later. In a cartoon by Henfil, published in the satirical opposition magazine Pasquim, the actress was shown being buried dressed as Carmen Miranda, implying that she was one of a group of Brazilian celebrities alienated by their association with the dictatorship, in her case via her performance as Carmen. As the actress explained, ‘It was as if Carmen belonged to the dictatorship for having gone to the United States’.23 As the Tropicalist appropriation of the Carmen Miranda myth and her revival in the 1970s indicate, Carmen’s legacy is closely linked to the idea of artistic reinvention, and this has been a theme of many posthumous engagements with her star text. In her own lifetime, Carmen negotiated with the Hollywood studios over the songs and plots that featured in her films, and after World War Two she sought to move her film persona away from the primacy of national identity, as other foreign Hollywood actresses, such as Ingrid Bergman, Marlene Dietrich and Rita Hayworth, successfully did.  Carmen never managed this, however, and the limited screen choices that led to her ultimate decline are the theme of the song ‘The Soul of Carmen Miranda’ by John Cale, which appears on the album Words for the Dying (1989).  Cale’s song sees Carmen being trapped in the ‘sideshows of history’, and suggests that it is impossible to ignore the affection she felt for her audiences, as if she were on first-name terms with all the boys entranced by her dancing. It is as if Cale senses that it was Carmen who, better than anyone else, put into practice the cordiality that Brazilian sociologist Sérgio Buarque de Holanda said would be Brazil’s ultimate contribution to the world.24 As Brazil’s principal global emissary, Carmen is repeatedly still associated with representations of Brazil abroad, as noted, once again, by Veloso, her great ­interpreter.25 A further example of avant-garde re-workings of her persona is the play Foi Carmen Miranda (It was Carmen Miranda) written by Antunes Filho,

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founder of the Brazilian theatre group Macunaíma. First performed in 2005, this highly unconventional play attempts to locate Carmen’s place in the national imagination, continuing in the tradition of incisive experimental works. It depicts the source of Carmen’s artistic persona, consecrated as a fetish, as lying in her joyful character as a young girl.  Carmen wears her first baiana costume again, but the classical content of her appearance is emphasized by the addition of a Japanese mask that adorns the back of her head, transforming her into a spinning top with two faces, with 360 degrees to rotate through the world. 

From samba star to global brand Appreciation  of the ‘contemporary Carmen Miranda’ has maintained the star’s polyphonic characteristics. There are, in the first instance of course, admirers of Carmen’s songs and musical repertoire. She is still fondly remembered as a recording artist, and credited with having made a significant contribution to the history of Brazilian popular music, particularly in the genres of samba and the carnival march, the main local rhythms in Rio in the 1920s and 1930s. Her original recordings have been reissued on several compilation CDs, the highlight of which is the collection by the Odeon record company that was re-mastered at London’s Abbey Road Studios. Carmen’s songs continue to come into contact with ‘before and after’ moments in the evolution of Brazilian popular music, either in critical or historical analyses or in the form of re-recordings. In a contemporary context, ‘O que é que a baiana tem?’ is only occasionally heard in its original version, as sung by Carmen and accompanied by the Bando da Lua. At the same time, her repertoire and songs that refer to Carmen have been recorded by successive generations of Brazilian musical stars, including Veloso, Eduardo Dusek, Elis Regina, Marisa Monte, Ney Matogrosso and Rita Lee. Irrespective of her qualities as a singer and performer, however, what has made Carmen such an enduring global icon extends beyond her professional or personal achievements, and nowhere is her central function as a representative of a vague notion of ‘Latin Americanness’ more evident than in the realm of advertising. As the most iconic aspect of her image, her tutti-frutti hat alone has inspired countless commercials – promoting anything from electrical appliances to fruit yoghurts. As recently as 2011, the major US department store Macy’s sought to use her image to promote a clothing line. Other consumer products that draw on

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Carmen’s star persona include the Brazilian fashion brand Malwee’s ‘Chica Boom Chic’ collection for women, and the Chica Boom Brasil company’s high-quality ‘Carmen Miranda’ line, which includes bags, wall clocks, a range of crockery and place mats, all of which feature the star’s image.26 In the appropriately titled article ‘Carmen Miranda Inc.’, Barros writes that Carmen has literally become a trademark, patented by her family to market a line of products such as perfume and clothing. Her heirs reportedly receive an average of twenty requests per week to reproduce her image on objects that range from bikinis to children’s books and from jewellery to fridges, and in December 2011 five cases of ­unauthorized use of her image were being pursued by the Brazilian legal system.27  Of course, this commercialization of Carmen’s image is far from new. In fact, it dates back to the star’s lifetime and began as soon as Carmen burst onto Broadway in 1939. Having actively participated in the construction of her own ‘star look’ back in Brazil, Carmen was no doubt astutely aware of the potential that her show business persona offered for lucrative commodification in the USA. While still on Broadway, but particularly after her move to Hollywood, Carmen’s connotations of ‘tropical’ exoticism were appropriated to promote a diverse range of consumer goods, ranging from turbans, costume jewellery and platform shoes to children’s colouring books and dolls. Her iconic look, as well as her voice, became a trope of ‘Latinness’ and by the end of the 1940s her stage and screen persona was already so ubiquitous in US popular culture as to render explicit reference to the star unnecessary in order to promote ‘tropical’ or ‘exotic’ products. This is best exemplified by the case of the United Fruit Company’s logo Chiquita Banana, a cartoon character that implicitly brought to the consumer’s mind Carmen’s brand of ‘tropical’ femininity and her caricatured representations in the popular media in particular. More than half a century after her death, her image, even when simply used in the form of a photograph without a caption, remains an effective evocation of a variety of qualities such as exoticism, humour, style and sensuality, as well as a gay or camp aesthetic.

Queer readings, camp sensibilities and fans Apart from commercial exploitations referred to in the previous section, the gay community’s adoption of Carmen Miranda has played an essential role in preserving her myth.  The queer cult of Carmen embraces musical celebrations of

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her work, fashion, experimental art and advertising. Carmen’s gay cult status can thus be compared to that of other divas such as Judy Garland, Marlene Dietrich and Liza Minnelli, but it stretches well beyond queer readings of her star text. Her association with a camp aesthetic linked to the queer world has persisted over the years. This association came to the fore in the late 1960s with the parodic and sexualized re-reading of the star by the Tropicalist movement, referred to above, but already during her lifetime Carmen was linked to a gay sensibility and giving rise to queer interpretations. Immediately following the premiere of Banana da terra in Brazil in 1939, hundreds of men took to the streets of Rio wearing a version of the baiana costume that Carmen wore in the film. Rio’s carnival has a long tradition of cross-dressing, but previously men had borrowed clothes from their female relatives, whereas in 1939 these male revellers were clearly taking their lead from Carmen’s screen image and, as James Green has argued, were taking part in a festive subversion, a public affirmation of their notions of masculinity and femininity, notions that both challenged and reinforced gender norms of the time.28 Men had dressed as baianas in the Rio carnival prior to 1939, but gay men only began to do so after seeing Carmen’s performance in this film, instantly recognizing her camp quality and availability for parody, and thus commenced the fetishization of key aspects of her visual style within gay culture.29 Carmen’s screen persona soon became a popular choice for professional drag acts in the USA too. Sergeant Sascha Brastoff, duly transformed, embodied her in shows held in United States Army camps during World War Two, and in the early 1940s Carmen and a group of friends visited a nightclub in San Francisco where two transvestites were performing as ‘Carmen Miranda and Alice Faye’.30 In the 1950s the female impersonator Johnny Rodríguez imitated Carmen on stage in his cabaret shows in Las Vegas and San Juan, Puerto Rico, just one further example of performative tributes.31  The adoption of her persona by male cross-dressed performers is stimulated on the one hand by her extreme femininity, present in her gestures, expressions and dress, and on the other hand by her slightly androgynous look, and the heavier facial features and body that she progressively acquired as she aged.  In general, Carmen’s male transvestism is the low camp type, which makes explicit the nature of gender construction, and today can be found in musical numbers staged in LGBT venues, in gay parades or in the Brazilian carnival, either in so-called blocos (local groups who parade in the streets in the Rio carnival) or  at gay parties.  The high camp transvestism, the version that seeks to replicate as realistically as possible the star in ­question, is less common. In the case

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Figure 4.1 Carmen Miranda in That Night in Rio (1941). DVD screen capture.

of Carmen, the best example is Erick Barreto’s performance in the film Carmen Miranda: Bananas is my Business (1995), where he brings the star back to life, from her departure for the United States until her death. This poignant performance led Carmen’s sister, Aurora, to keep a photograph of Barreto performing as her sister in her wallet, as if it were a photograph of a real family member. Queer readings of Carmen’s star text have often focused on her performance in Busby Berkeley’s film The Gang’s All Here (1943), especially the extravagant ‘The Lady in the Tutti-frutti Hat’ production number, in which the director’s trademark kaleidoscope choreography is taken to extremes (with the significant difference that, unlike in Berkeley’s traditional sequences, Carmen is afforded endless closeups and transformed into the visual centrepiece of the sequence), and the mise en scène is dominated by oversized, swaying phallic bananas. Physical clowning is the order of the day, with exaggerated facial expressions, winks to the camera and rapid movements of the eyes and mouth emphasized by close-ups and the fact that all her hair is hidden beneath her headdress – the latter laden with a large

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bunch of what appear to be real bananas and oversized imitation strawberries. An androgynous Carmen adopts a bug-eyed expression as she plays a mock xylophone made of bananas,32 and sings ‘I wonder why does everybody look at me/ And then begin to talk about a Christmas tree?/ I hope that means that everyone is glad to see/ The lady in the tutti-frutti hat’. The word gay actually features in the lyrics of the song, and can be understood both in the sense of joyful and as the meaning we associate with the term today, in a typical case of a queer reading, combining visibility and camouflage. All her musical numbers in The Gang’s All Here are so self-consciously camp and exaggerated as to undercut the ‘Latin’ stereotypes that they seemingly endorse. In ‘The Lady in the Tutti-frutti Hat’ number in particular, her performance lends itself to what Susan Sontag calls ‘double interpretation’ (a key component of camp performance),33 as indicated perhaps by her knowing literal wink to the camera at the start of the number. The features of camp that Sontag’s influential essay on the subject identifies in an effort to define and rescue so-called bad taste (and which explicitly refers to Carmen as a prime example) lead us directly to the essence of Carmen’s star text.34 Many of the characteristics of the star’s screen persona chime with key facets of camp, as defined by Sontag: a spirit of exaggeration and artifice as an ideal; stylization and ‘being-as-playing-a-role’; flamboyant mannerisms susceptible to a double interpretation; gestures full of duplicity, with a witty meaning for cognoscenti; and a playful, anti-serious, comic vision of the world.35 Carmen was a unique personality, with a high degree of awareness of her own image, whose persona hinged on artifice. Cultural manifestations related to her, like transvestism, re-recordings of her repertoire and her influences on visual style, shift between a queer identity and a ‘gay sensibility’, both of which are integral to the world of camp, which, although not restricted to gay audiences, is mainly cultivated by them.36 Carmen has always inspired devotion among the gay community. Gay fans would greet her in her dressing room during her European tour after the war, as her sister Aurora, who accompanied her, would later recall.37 In her screen performances in Hollywood, she sometimes knowingly alluded to this following; in addition to the ‘gay’ reference in the song ‘The Lady in the Tutti-frutti Hat’, in the film Doll Face (1945), in an unabashedly camp performance of the rumba ‘Chico, Chico (from Porto Rico)’, she sings: ‘Chico, Chico … every gay muchacho want to go where he go’. Carmen’s persona can be used to reconcile what Sontag identifies as the apolitical content of camp. Although the use of her stereotype is ­entertaining, it is necessarily linked to the politics of representation, making

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explicit the sexualities contained in queer subjectivity. The camp spirit helps to dissolve moralistic prejudices, and everything that earns the official stamp of ‘camp’ is greeted with a smile that is not one of derision, but rather affection.  Affection has indeed been a key element in many fan discourses devoted to Carmen. Those dedicated to the cult of Carmen have frequently focused on her personal life, evidencing the identificatory nature of fan participation in the star system. Committed collectors preserve media sources, iconography and memorabilia related to the star, and Brazilian fans have also produced works in her honour, such as paintings and ceramics, as well as a copy of her striking handwriting. The Carmen Miranda Museum in Rio de Janeiro, founded in 1976, came into being only as a result of a campaign waged by her fan club in Brazil, and now houses some of her original costumes, hats, shoes and jewellery, as well as documents, photographs, clippings, awards and works created by fans, including lovingly documented scrapbooks.38 Richard Dyer’s essay on the queer cult to Judy Garland sheds light on this same kind of celebration of the star.39 As Dyer argues in relation to Garland’s gay male fans, when a female star’s personal problems come to light (such as Garland’s suicide attempt), she is distanced from the ordinary image enjoyed until then, leading the gay community, who seek to overcome their invisibility, to identify with her. In the case of Carmen, her ‘non-ordinariness’ is immediately obvious from her physical appearance. In the last years of her life, like Garland, Carmen suffered from depression, and fans’ awareness of this fact leads to one of the forms of queer celebration of the star – research into her personal life, which focuses, for example, on her love life, affairs and the causes of her depression in the years preceding her death.

Conclusion The first comprehensive biography of Carmen Miranda was p ­ ublished  by  Abel Cardoso Junior in 1978, followed by an illustrated book by Cássio Emmanuel Barsante in 1985.40 Academic interest in Carmen in Brazil has flourished since the late 1990s, and placed a focus on analysing the background of the star, who until then had not been historically contextualized.41 Carmen’s life and career have been read against the history of immigration to Brazil and the evolution of the nation’s popular music, radio and cinema industries. Her links to the ‘Good Neighbour Policy’ still cause some discomfort, as demonstrated by Ruy Castro, who refused to overtly

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link her Hollywood performances with politically motivated appropriation of the star on the part of the studios in his monumental biography, published in 2005.42 As this chapter has argued, although Carmen Miranda’s singular career was marked by disruptions, displacements and disappointments, her success on Broadway and in Hollywood also gave her a unique opportunity to become a global screen icon on a scale that has never been achieved by any other Brazilian star before or since. Her star text and its cultural afterlife have been defined by their ‘in-betweenness’ on many levels: in between national(ist) ideas of Brazilian identity versus North American stereotypes; in between the cultural industries of the music business, musical theatre and the film industry; in between popular culture and the avant-garde; in between artistic autonomy and commercial exploitation; in between authenticity and being a brand; and in between social respectability and subcultural affection. Her unique place within Brazil’s national imaginary nowadays seems uncontested.

Notes All translations in this chapter are our own, unless otherwise indicated. 1. Banana da terra is also the Portuguese translation for plantain. 2. A baiana outfit was traditionally worn by Afro-Brazilian women who sold food in the streets of the cities of Salvador and Rio de Janeiro in the colonial era and beyond. Both the style of dress and the dishes they served were of African heritage. Baiana outfits also continue to appear in carnival in a wide range of stylizations. The term baiana, literally a woman from the state of Bahia, refers to the women who wear this costume. 3. This sequence of the film was reused in the follow-up production from the Sonofilmes studios, Laranja da China (Orange from China, 1940), largely to enable the studios to use Carmen’s name to promote the film. By 1940 she had already left Brazil for the USA. 4. R. Dyer, Stars (London: British Film Institute, 1979). 5. Carmen was born in Portugal in 1909, and that same year her family went to Brazil in search of work as part of a large migratory wave. More than simply manpower for the service sector, European immigrants provided the genetic breeding stock for the project of racial ‘whitening’ cherished by the fledgling Brazilian Republic established in 1889. Living in downtown Rio de Janeiro, where her father was a barber, young Carmen helped her mother in a small guesthouse, and also worked outside the home, as a shop assistant and a milliner. 6. A.L. Barros, ‘Carmen Miranda Inc.’, Bravo 17 (February 1999), 48–56 (56).

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7. Ibid., 54. 8. Z. Ligiéro, Carmen Miranda: uma performance afro-brasileira (Rio de Janeiro: Publit, 2006), 67. 9. Ibid., 68. 10. Cinearte, 15 May 1935, 10. 11. R. Castro, Carmen: uma biografia (São Paulo: Companhia das Letras, 2005), 210. 12. The ‘Good Neighbour Policy’ dated from the beginning of the twentieth century but was reactivated in 1933 by President Franklin D. Roosevelt. With the outbreak of World War Two, the policy was intensified in a concerted effort to strengthen cultural, economic and political ties between North and South America in order to attenuate the financial and geo-strategic threats posed to the USA by the conflict. The Office of the Coordinator of Inter-American Affairs, created in 1944 and headed by Nelson Rockefeller, had a motion pictures division, which, in addition to sponsoring the production of newsreels and documentaries for distribution in Latin America, actively encouraged the Hollywood studios to produce feature films with Latin American themes, settings and stars. 13. Castro, Carmen, 206. 14. Dyer, Stars, 34. 15. The song was written by Ray Gilbert. 16. These examples of her characteristic malapropisms feature in the film The Gang’s All Here. By the time she starred in Greenwich Village in 1944, there was a grammatical slip or a humorous distortion of an idiomatic expression in virtually all of her lines. 17. A Cena Muda, 16 March 1943, 3. 18. A Cena Muda, 4 May 1943, 7. 19. A Cena Muda, 6 April 1943, 6.  20. Diário de Notícias, 16 September 1955. 21. C. Veloso, Tropical Truth: A Story of Music and Revolution in Brazil (London: Bloomsbury, 2003), 167. 22. The term escola de samba (literally, samba school) refers to the neighbourhood carnival associations that participate in the parades of the annual Rio carnival. 23. Anon, ‘Chica Bum Chic Marília’, O Globo, 17 September 2005, 3. 24. S. Buarque de Holanda, Raízes do Brasil (Rio de Janeiro: José Olympio, 1988), 106–7. 25. C. Veloso, ‘Carmen Miranda Dada’, Folha de São Paulo, 22 October 1991. Also published as ‘Pride and Shame’ in The New York Times, 20 October 1991. 26. For more details of the use of Carmen’s image for the purposes of marketing and product endorsement, see L. Shaw, Carmen Miranda (London: British Film Institute/ Palgrave Macmillan, 2013), 83–98. 27. Barros, ‘Carmen Miranda Inc.’, 49. 28. J. Green, Beyond Carnival: Male Homosexuality in 20th-Century Brazil. Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1999, 1–2. 29. Ibid., 204–205.

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30. Castro, Carmen, 365. 31. For further details, see J.E. Laureano Pérez, ‘Negociaciones Especulares: Creación de una cultura gay urbana en San Juan a partir de la Segunda Guerra Mundial hasta principios de los 1990’, PhD thesis, Universidad de Puerto Rico, 2011. Pérez also makes reference to appearances by Rodríguez as Carmen in Mexican-Puerto Rican film co-productions. 32. Carmen had recently undergone botched cosmetic surgery, and according to her biographer Ruy Castro, she had to wear a prosthetic nose when filming this production. Castro, Carmen, 353. 33. S. Sontag, ‘Notes on “Camp”’, in S. Sontag (ed.), Against Interpretation and Other Essays (New York: Picador, 2001), 3–14. 34. Ibid. 35. Ibid. 36. ‘Chica Chica Boom Chic’, the title of one of the songs performed by Carmen in the film That Night in Rio (1941), is explicitly referred to by Brazilian writer Antônio Bivar in his camp novel Chic-A-Boom, published in 2005, in which Carmen is evoked in a single scene where the megacity of São Paulo is reinvented. A. Bivar, Chic-ABoom (São Paulo: A Girafa, 2005). 37. Personal communication with Ana Rita Mendonça. 38. The museum held a special exhibit of items created by fans as a tribute to Carmen in 1990. Jornal do Brasil, 8 August 1990. 39. R. Dyer, ‘Judy Garland and Gay Men’, in R. Dyer, Heavenly Bodies: Film Stars and Society (London: Macmillan, 1987), 141–94. 40. A. Cardoso Junior, Carmen Miranda, cantora do Brasil (Sorocaba, São Paulo: published by the author, 1978); and C.E. Barsante, Carmen Miranda (Rio de Janeiro: Europa, 1985). 41. Examples of this trend can be seen in A.R. Mendonça, Carmen Miranda foi a Washington (Rio de Janeiro: Record, 1999); S. Pereira de Sá, Baiana internacional: as mediações de Carmen Miranda (Rio de Janeiro: MIS Cultural, 2002); and T. Da Costa Garcia, O ‘it verde e amarelo’ de Carmen Miranda (São Paulo: Annablume, 2004). 42. Castro, Carmen.

References Barros, A.L. ‘Carmen Miranda Inc.’. Bravo 17 (February 1999), 48–56. Barsante, C.E. Carmen Miranda. Rio de Janeiro: Europa, 1985. Bivar, A. Chic-A-Boom. São Paulo: A Girafa, 2005. Buarque de Holanda, S. Raízes do Brasil. Rio de Janeiro: José Olympio, 1988. Cardoso Junior, A. Carmen Miranda, cantora do Brasil. Sorocaba, São Paulo: published by the author, 1978.

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Castro, R. Carmen: uma biografia. São Paulo: Companhia das Letras, 2005. Da Costa Garcia, T. O ‘it verde e amarelo’ de Carmen Miranda. São Paulo: Annablume, 2004. Dyer, R. Heavenly Bodies: Film Stars and Society. London: Macmillan, 1987. Dyer, R. Stars. London: British Film Institute, 1979. Green, J. Beyond Carnival: Male Homosexuality in 20th-Century Brazil. Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1999. Laureano Pérez, J.E. ‘Negociaciones Especulares: Creación de una cultura gay urbana en San Juan a partir de la Segunda Guerra Mundial hasta principios de los 1990’. PhD thesis, Universidad de Puerto Rico, 2011. Ligiéro, Z. Carmen Miranda: uma performance afro-brasileira. Rio de Janeiro: Publit, 2006. Mendonça, A. R. Carmen Miranda foi a Washington. Rio de Janeiro: Record, 1999. Anon. ‘Chica Bum Chic Marília’. O Globo, 17 September 2005. Pereira de Sá, S. Baiana internacional: as mediações de Carmen Miranda. Rio de Janeiro: MIS Cultural, 2002. Shaw, L. Carmen Miranda. London: British Film Institute/Palgrave Macmillan, 2013. Sontag, S. ‘Notes on “Camp”’, in S. Sontag (ed.), Against Interpretation and Other Essays. New York: Picador, 2001, 3–14. Veloso, C. ‘Carmen Miranda Dada’. Folha de São Paulo, 22 October 1991. Veloso, C. Tropical Truth: A Story of Music and Revolution in Brazil. London: Bloomsbury, 2003.

Ana Rita Mendonça is a television journalist in Brazil. She has a Masters in Communication and Culture from the Federal University of Rio de Janeiro, and is author of the book Carmen Miranda foi a Washington (Carmen Miranda went to Washington, Editora Record, 1999).

Lisa Shaw is Reader in Portuguese and Brazilian Studies at the University of Liverpool. She is author of The Social History of the Brazilian Samba (Ashgate, 1999) and Carmen Miranda (British Film Institute/Palgrave Macmillan, 2013). She co-wrote (with Stephanie Dennison) Popular Cinema in Brazil, 1930–2001 (Manchester University Press, 2004) and Brazilian National Cinema (Routledge, 2007). She is currently completing a monograph for the University of Texas Press based on the project ‘Tropical Travels: Brazilian Popular Culture in Transnational Dialogue, 1880s–1950s’, for which she was awarded a British Academy/ Leverhulme Trust Senior Research Fellowship in 2011.

CHAPTER 5

Cinelândia magazine and the creation of home-grown movie stars in the 1950s Lisa Shaw

Since the early 1920s, film magazines were instrumental in fostering a sense of a fledgling film industry in Brazil to which the creation of home-grown stars was central. They were thus responsible for creating a national understanding of film stardom at a time when the so-called Brazilian ‘stars’ rarely appeared on screen, as a consequence of the domination of the Brazilian market by Hollywood (see the chapters by Luciana Corrêa de Araújo and Ana Pessoa in this volume). As Marsha Orgeron has argued in relation to Hollywood in the 1920s, fan magazines ‘serve as crucial repositories of information about celebrity making’,1 and a study of the Brazilian magazine Cinelândia,2 which overtly took its inspiration from US magazines such as Photoplay, The Moving Picture World and Motion Picture, illuminates how home-grown star discourse was manufactured in Brazil in the 1950s. Cinelândia, which was published between 1952 and 1964, emulated the techniques of its counterparts in the United States to target female film spectators/magazine readers, incorporating interviews with Brazilian and North American stars (the latter conducted by Hollywood journalists and translated into Portuguese), film stills, publicity shots of stars supposedly in their real home environment, a ‘search for a star’ contest, gossip columns and readers’ letters. The magazine actively sought the cooperation of the Brazilian studios in its creation of a star discourse, as its editorial declared in the debut edition of May 1952: ‘We hope that national studios will organize themselves to facilitate our task, having photos taken of stars and their homes, facilitating reports, supplying, in short, previously unpublished and interesting material’,3 and although Hollywood provided most of the material for Cinelândia magazine, as with earlier Brazilian publications of this type, Brazilian cinema stars were afforded equal status to their Hollywood counterparts, with the first cover photograph of a Brazilian star, Josette Bertal, appearing

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as early as the eighth edition in December 1952.4 This chapter will examine the techniques used by the magazine to promote the concept of Brazilian film stardom, considering in particular how the Hollywood template was modified to best suit local cultural specificities and sensibilities.

‘You too can be a star’: advertising and the ‘Miss Cinelândia’ contest Like US magazines, Cinelândia was aimed at a female readership, as the predominance of adverts for beauty products attests.5 It often also contained articles on the beauty tips of Hollywood stars. As Orgeron writes in relation to Hollywood fanzines of the 1920s, the magazines themselves ‘were advertisements, and their pitch was attainability: if you buy this, you can be like star X’.6 Adopting this template, Cinelândia included advertisements for beauty products that featured references to and images of female film stars, encompassing both Hollywood and Brazilian performers. In the September 1955 issue,7 for example, an advert addresses the reader as follows: ‘Blonde like Marylin [sic] Monroe? Brunette like Miss Cinelândia 1954? You should all use Mystik powder blusher by Mme. Campos’. It is accompanied by a photograph of Avany Maura, crowned ‘Miss Cinelândia’ in 1954, posing with several examples of the beauty product in question. Maura is thus implicitly aligned with one of Hollywood’s most popular and beautiful stars, Marilyn Monroe, drawing on a strategy of parallel stardom, discussed in more detail below. In countless editions of the magazine, famous names from the world of Brazilian cinema and/or the radio, such as Adelaide Chiozzo, Dircinha Batista and Norma Bengell, advertise Eucalol soap,8 just as Hollywood’s sweetheart, Debbie Reynolds, advertises Lever soap in the pages of the same magazine. The recourse to star discourse and images in advertisements for beauty products encouraged Brazilian women to actively respond to and participate in the star system via consumption of both the products in question and of Cinelândia  magazine itself. Their active involvement in the star system was further encouraged  by  the publication’s continual promotion of its own version  of  Hollywood’s  ‘search for a star’ contests, the ‘Miss Cinelândia’ competition.9 As Eva Woods has argued in the context of Spanish cinema, beauty contests formed part of the creation of a star discourse in a range of national contexts. They were

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fundamental in building fan support and creating star images that encouraged forms of gratification and fulfilment. Contests provided a ‘practised space’ in which female spectators could manipulate their fantasies within a controlled environment that fused their potential selves with their real self.10 The ‘Miss Cinelândia’ contest offered readers the chance to win a contract with the Atlântida studios to appear in at least one feature film, and it was promoted as follows: ‘Our competition is a golden gateway which will lead to great ­surprises for those who dream of a film career’.11 Some winners were treated to a trip to California and a screen test at a Hollywood studio, such as Wilma Sozzi, ‘Miss Cinelândia 1955’, who is pictured in the magazine chatting ‘intimately’ with Tony Curtis, and visiting both Universal and Warner Brothers studios.12 A report by Zenaide Andrea entitled ‘Wilma in Wonderland’ includes a photograph of the former ‘Miss Cinelândia’ clutching a signed photograph of Tony Curtis. We are told that she had returned to Brazil even prettier than before and with a ‘typically Hollywood hairstyle’.13 Entry coupons for the contest were printed in the magazine alongside a brief text that began: ‘Do you want to be a movie star? Enter this competition organized by Cinelândia magazine that is open to girls from all over Brazil’. The possibility of becoming a film star via this competition was emphasized by countless articles about or interviews with stars who had been ‘discovered’ in this way. For example, Julie Bardot, from the south of Brazil, is the subject of a feature entitled ‘A Blonde from the Pampas’. The former civil servant tells us: Like all teenagers, I dreamed of one day becoming a film star … But when I decided to give up my civil service job I was still far from considering it as a career. I needed to work and I decided to become a model. I took part in shows for the biggest fashion houses in Rio and São Paulo. Soon after I entered the ‘Miss Cinelândia’ competition, allowing myself to be seduced by the power that the silver screen holds over almost all our generation.14 On two occasions in this short quotation, Julie Bardot identifies with all the young people of her generation, thus embracing the magazine’s readers and encouraging their dreams of stardom. In Michael Aronna’s view, no matter how few and illusory cases of stars being ‘discovered’ via such contests were, ‘this story line nevertheless became a source of vicarious solidarity and luxurious hope for the female consumers of film, the tabloid press and sundry film magazines’.15

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Cinelândia repeatedly stressed that the ‘Miss Cinelândia’ contest did not simply discover one star each year, but rather afforded a platform for many young women to realize their dreams, some of whom were offered contracts even before the winner was crowned: many other ex-contestants of the Miss Cinelândia contest have made it in Brazilian cinema, proving that the contest has achieved its true objectives. Ana Beatriz, Agnes Fontoura, Julie Bardot, Monique, Gina Monti, Miriam Percia, and many others, have all withdrawn from the competition, having already signed contracts to star in Brazilian films and today have careers in the ­industry, almost all of them very successful.16 Throughout the run-up to the finals of the competition, the magazine reported on parties organized to ‘introduce’ the contestants to the media and the film industry. In 1954, for example, a journalist writes: contestant number 1, Gina Monti, from Rio de Janeiro, was given a warm welcome in the Cinema Club and since then has been besieged by offers to work in the film industry, and it looks likely that even before the final contest she will appear in one or more Brazilian films.17 A two-page spread on the ‘Miss Cinelândia’ competition in 1955 reports on the parties held in honour of the finalists and their visit to the Atlântida studios.18 The readers are given details of two cocktail parties, one held in Rio de Janeiro, the other in São Paulo, at which the finalists were introduced to supposedly influential representatives from the worlds of radio, television and the press. Various photographs of the contestants mixing with Atlântida’s stars, such as Fada Santoro, Eliana, Oscarito, Cyl Farney and Avany Maura (the previous year’s ‘Miss Cinelândia’), and journalists accompany the report. As if to lend credibility to the notion of Brazilian film stardom, we are informed that the next ‘Miss Cinelândia’ will, in addition to a contract with Atlântida, win a trip to New York, travelling in the ‘celebrity airplane’, ‘one of Varig’s luxurious Super-G Constellation aircraft’.19 Readers are reminded that this ‘is an exceptional prize, which will increase the importance of this national competition’, and that Hollywood star Walter Pidgeon travelled on the plane’s inaugural flight from the USA with Varig airlines. An accompanying photograph shows the US star Jeanne Crain about to climb aboard the said aircraft, waving to her fans.

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‘Our stars are as good as yours’: Cinelândia in Hollywood and parallel stardom According to a report in the magazine in August 1955, the Miss Cinelândia contest ‘will open, to the winner, the doors of the seventh art in Brazil, and who knows maybe also abroad’.20 The same item then refers to Inalda de Carvalho, 1953’s winner, who looked set to become ‘a true star of film dramas, with the possibility of success even abroad, whether it is Paris, London and Rome, or in Hollywood’. The magazine makes it clear that genuine Brazilian stars have the potential to make a career for themselves in Hollywood. Indeed, we learn that Brazilian heartthrob John Herbert has in fact already signed a Hollywood contract, underlining that the ultimate dream of Brazilian stars can become a reality.21 In the October 1956 (1st fortnight) issue, an article by Louis Serrano, the magazine’s correspondent in Los Angeles, entitled ‘Miss Cinelândia in Hollywood’, is accompanied by a photograph of Wilma Sozzi and Tony Curtis chatting intimately; another image features her alongside Jeanne Crain at Universal Studios and another one shows the Brazilian ‘starlet’ at Warner Brothers studios.22 The magazine itself is depicted as part and parcel of Hollywood stardom, as we see in the March 1956 (1st fortnight) issue, where photographs of Grace Kelly reading copies of Cinelândia are proudly displayed.23 Serrano reports on ‘the growing interest in Brazil within American cinema’,24 and the magazine leaves the reader in no doubt that Brazil’s star system is every bit as glamorous as its Hollywood equivalent. It reports, for example, on the premiere of the Brazilian film Rebelião em Vila Rica (Rebellion in Vila Rica, 1957), drawing a direct comparison with Hollywood premieres: ‘Male and female stars attended the premiere, which was very reminiscent of those that take place in Hollywood’.25 The strategy of parallel stardom, by which Brazilian stars were overtly aligned with a Hollywood (or sometimes European) counterpart, has a long tradition in Brazilian cinema, as Luciana Corrêa de Araújo’s chapter in this volume attests. This strategy was central to the magazine’s promotion of domestic stars, as the following examples illustrate: Tônia Carrero, the star of the São Paulo-based Vera Cruz studios, is described as having a swimming technique worthy of Esther Williams, thanks to ten years spent residing at the prestigious Ipanema beach-front address of Avenida Vieira Souto;26 the Brazilian actress Andrea Byard, born in São Paulo, is described as ‘our Dorothy Lamour (in a blonde and improved version)’, who also ‘reminds us a little of Marilyn Monroe’;27 Neide

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Aparecida, a former Brazilian television star about to appear on the big screen, shares a certain physical similarity, we are told, with ‘the beautiful Liz Taylor’, but her virtues exceed those of the Hollywood star: ‘the same big, dark, deep eyes. But, without  doubt, a much more sincere soul and capable of remaining faithful, for  a  long  time, to her true love’;28 and Norma Bengell, to coincide with her role  as  a Brigitte Bardot lookalike in the comedy O homem do sputnik (Sputnik Man, 1959), is pictured in a film still with comedian Oscarito, with the caption: ‘No,  it isn’t Brigitte Bardot that is co-starring with Oscarito, but Norma Bengell’.29  It seems no coincidence that the same edition features a double-page  spread entitled ‘BB unmasked’ about the French movie star.30 Similarly, the  magazine describes Neide Landi as ‘the Brazilian Marilyn Monroe’, a­ longside a photograph of her striking a pose worthy of the Hollywood sex symbol, with the caption: ‘Here is the Brazilian star in a new pose for her fans, very similar to Marilyn Monroe’,31 and Luely Figueiró is compared to Gina Lollobrigida.32 This technique of parallel stardom is not, of course, unique to Brazilian cinema,33 but it was a particularly salient feature of Cinelândia’s depiction of the leading lady of countless chanchadas (musical comedies) from the Atlântida studios, Eliana Macedo.34 Her similarity to US star Debbie Reynolds was deliberately emphasized, as can clearly be seen in two of the front covers of the magazine where they share hairstyles, jewellery and make-up.35 Both were their respective nation’s sweethearts, epitomizing youth, vitality, prettiness, sweetness and whiteness. Eliana’s youthful, ‘to-be-looked-at’ good looks are clearly evaluated by the standards set in Hollywood, and Brazilian cinema followed Hollywood’s lead in terms of the foregrounding of pale complexions and the concurrent marginalization of dark skin. The unwritten rules of Brazil’s racial hierarchy, historically underpinned by the insidious ideology of ‘whitening’, were central to the Brazilian star system’s visual aesthetics from the silent era onwards. The judges of the ‘Miss Cinelândia’ contest were clearly looking for a light-skinned brand of ‘Hollywood’ beauty, as is evidenced by the entry form, which required entrants to state their ‘tez’ or complexion, as well as sending in two photographs of themselves. In film stills and publicity shots, both Eliana and Debbie are dressed to appear younger than their years, often with their hair in ponytails. Their promotion in Cinelândia also stressed their childlike/adolescent qualities, even when both were married women in their mid to late twenties. Eliana’s on-screen love interest,

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Figure 5.1 Cover of Cinelândia magazine from March 1954.

the handsome Cyl Farney, was equally portrayed as any match for a Hollywood matinee idol: ‘Tall, dark-haired and friendly, with a physical and emotional ­ presence that makes him very similar to the younger generation of Hollywood stars’.36 As if to strengthen the association between broad-shouldered Cyl and his Hollywood counterparts, in the magazine’s regular feature ‘Cinelândia’s indiscretions’, ostensibly a readers’ letters page,37 a certain L.R. from Pedreira asks: ‘Are the Farney brothers (Dick and Cyl) Brazilian or North American?’ to which the magazine replies: ‘They are ultra Brazilian’ (‘brasileiríssimos’). Dick’s name is Farnésio Dutra, and Cyl’s is Cyleno Dutra’.38 Although Hollywood stars provided most of the copy and images for Cinelândia magazine, as with earlier Brazilian publications of this type, the stars of Brazilian cinema, particularly those under contract to the Atlântida studios, like Eliana and Cyl Farney, were depicted as more than a match for their North American equivalents.

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Behind closed doors: gossip and glimpses into ‘private’ lives As Orgeron writes in relation to Hollywood, ‘by the 1920s, curiosity had been institutionalized and in effect normalized, at least in relation to the movie industry, whose studios and fan magazines fed the public information (however fabricated) about stars’ lives’.39 Gossip thus became central to the creation of a star’s enigma, and Cinelândia employed this strategy, albeit avoiding any hint of salaciousness and abiding, instead, by the standards of decorum deemed appropriate in the world’s largest Catholic nation and a predominantly conservative patriarchy. Romance is, of course, the main focus of speculation, but the discourse centres on marriage plans and subsequently parenthood. Impending motherhood is constantly speculated on. For example, in Cinelândia’s August 1958 (1st fortnight) edition, there is a photograph of Eliana knitting in her nightdress, accompanied by the following text: ‘No, it’s not what you are thinking, although Eliana likes the idea of the stork arriving and hopes that he will at the right time’. Motherhood is clearly an expectation of Brazil’s female stars. Neide Aparecida, for example, is asked if she wants children and replies: ‘a childless couple is certainly only worth half a couple with children. A boy and a girl is what I long for in my future home’.40 In his analysis of Hollywood fan magazines of this era, Richard Dyer has revealed a dominant concern with the problems of love, such as unhappy marriages, separations and divorces, and a suggestion that Hollywood itself is somehow to blame.41 In the case of Brazilian stars, however, the image of romance, courtship and matrimony is unfailingly rose-tinted. The actress Inalda de Carvalho, ‘Miss Cinelândia 1953’, is reported to have fallen in love with a mystery man, also from the film world, who loves her ‘with all his soul’.42 The item tantalizes the reader by ending with the rhetorical question ‘Could it be true?’ In January 1956 (1st fortnight), in the regular column by Zenaide Andrea entitled ‘O que eu vi nos estúdios’ (‘What I Have Seen in the Studios’, an imitation of the Hollywood ‘insider gossip columns’ by the likes of Hedda Hopper, whose own column sometimes featured in the Brazilian magazine in Portuguese translation),43 we learn that Carvalho and the director Carlos Manga will marry in March of that year, and the reader is addressed with the question ‘Did you already know?’ More subtle strategies designed to catch the reader’s attention are employed by the magazine, such as the positioning of photographs alongside article titles that are designed to mislead. One such example is a photograph of Cyl Farney on bended knee handing flowers to Avany Maura (whose real-life romance with journalist Darwin

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Brandão is reported on earlier in the same issue), next to the headline ‘Marriage on the high seas in the early morning’. (The headline in fact refers to a report on the wedding of US actor John Bromfield and Larri Thomas.)44 Double-page spreads featuring text and a range of photographs of stars allegedly caught unawares in their homes are a recurrent feature of Cinelândia. One such fabricated glimpse into the intimate world of the stars centres on screen actor Hélio Souto on the eve of his wedding to an heiress, Maria Helena Morganti.45 The text is accompanied by various photographs showing the brideto-be serenading her future husband on the guitar, the two of them perusing their bookshelves, Morganti having a fitting for her wedding dress, and one of her lying on a bed, supposedly talking on the telephone (although she is smiling directly into the camera in an obvious pose), with a caption that reads: ‘In the apartment that has yet to be tidied up, Maria Helena answers the telephone that never stops ringing’. Other photographs show Hélio feeding his fiancée (‘the last lunch as single people’) and posing bare-chested holding aloft two large hand weights (‘Hélio’s athletic pose with dumbbells’), while the couple are pictured alongside canteens of cutlery (‘some of the innumerable presents that they have received’). Similarly, in an article entitled ‘Fights and Kisses: Sonia Mamed and Augusto César Make Up in Their Own Way’, the two actors in question, who married in 1956, are shown fooling around ‘at home’, with one photograph of her pretending to throw a chair at him, and another of them about to kiss (hence the article title).46 The ordinariness of this new female star is underscored by a photograph of Sonia pretending to wash her husband’s socks, with the caption: ‘Another pair of socks? Good heavens! … When will I be able to relax?’ (Readers are encouraged to believe that the maid, who takes care of the washing, failed to turn up for work and Augusto urgently needs a clean pair of socks.) Rumours of a separation are alluded to by the reporter, Zenaide Andrea, but these are soon quashed, and the domestic order of matrimony is reasserted: ‘we took them by surprise and visited them at home and later in the studios. As soon as you see them you can tell that their love for each other has not died, quite the reverse … Do you still believe in the rumours about this couple separating? Well I don’t, but I could be wrong’. In fact, the journalist is proved wrong – in the September 1959 (2nd fortnight) edition, in the regular ‘Out of Focus’ section, it is reported that the couple have separated, but Mamed denies that her husband was violent towards her, adding: ‘I wish him all the happiness in the world, and I just want to be with my little boy, who is the biggest joy in my life’.

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Cinematic nobility and family values Dyer identifies the role of ‘fate’ as one of the inherent elements in the semiotics of Hollywood stardom, based on the idea that anyone can be a star if fate intervenes on his or her behalf. Within Brazilian star discourse as articulated in Cinelândia, the notion of stardom as a predestined, innate gift is reiterated, but is taken one step further via associations with what could be termed a kind of noble or aristocratic birthright. A feature on ‘Miss Cinelândia 1953’, Inalda de Carvalho, for example, refers to her as having the demeanour of a princess who was born to have a glorious future.47 Female stardom is portrayed as the preserve of demure young ladies from elite families, reflecting Brazil’s rigidly hierarchical class structure,48 and in turn reinforcing the notion that consuming films and their stars is a perfectly respectable pastime for the female readers of Cinelândia. A report about the filming of Atlântida’s film, Colégio de brotos (College of Chicks, 1955), mentions that Cyl Farney had invited several society ‘senhoritas’ to appear in the production, including his own cousin, the daughter of an army general.49 In an item about Avany Maura, which accompanies a photograph of her being given a basket of flowers by the elegant Cyl, resplendent in tails, on the occasion of her screen debut in Atlântida’s Vamos com calma (Let’s Go Quietly, 1956), she is described as a ‘debutante’, a term which in Portuguese literally refers to a first-time film star but equally suggests her aristocratic demeanour.50 In the same vein, ‘Miss Cinelândia 1955’, Wilma Sozzi, is blessed with the pseudo-aristocratic air of a would-be Grace Kelly: Seeing her like this, so natural and happy under the bright sunlight of a Rio afternoon, we could better observe the purity of her features. So we commented: ‘You have a Florentine profile’, to which she replied, ‘We are all from Paraná, from Curitiba, as you know. However, my paternal grandfather was from Florence…’. But it was not only from her father, Aleardo Sozzi, that Wilma inherited a little of the traditional European blood. Her mother, Mrs. Cecília Bezerra Leite Sozzi, also has, among her ancestors, some French relatives, the Count and Countess of Monastier. We can thus conclude that the simple and democratic Wilma belongs, in some ways, to the aristocracy of the Old World … She is thus the first star of Brazilian cinema to have her roots in the Gotha Almanac.51 Similarly, leading male stars are depicted as true gentlemen, with sophisticated tastes and hobbies. In a feature entitled ‘The Farney Brothers’, we learn that ‘Cyl

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and Dick also contribute to the elegance of their domestic environment with their own creations, revealing new and unsuspected (by their fans) artistic skills … As for Cyl, his favourite hobby is wood carving … With two rather crude tools that he fashioned himself he has already made some masks with rather unsettling expressions, in line with modern tastes’.52 Speculation about Cyl’s love life stresses his popularity with the opposite sex but always asserts his non-threatening, chivalrous comportment. During the filming of Colégio de brotos at the Atlântida studios, we learn that he was the centre of the competing attentions of various blondes and brunettes involved in the film (‘making their first screen appearance, in virtually every case’) and looking for love. ‘As far as one could tell, however, Cyl did not lose even a little of his now famous self-control in such circumstances, giving each of them equal attention’.53 A particularly Brazilian aspect of the ‘stars at home’ features is the emphasis placed on close family ties and thus implicit respectability. In the feature ‘The Farney Brothers’, cited above,54 the two handsome, young white male movie stars are photographed sitting either side of their mother, Dona Iracema Dutra e Silva, in their home, all smiling for the cameras. We are told: ‘The three constitute one of the nicest and most close-knit families that you could imagine’. Above all, it is the young men’s devotion to and respect for their mother, and their caring, sweet natures, that are underlined, which serves to tone down their sex appeal, thus rendering them acceptable for respectable young female readers/spectators. They are pictured walking their dog in the garden of the mansion in the then elegant Rio hillside district of Santa Teresa, where they reside with their widowed mother. Cyl is shown to be protective of his mother, as it is his dog, King, a German shepherd, who guards the house and keeps intruders at bay. The elegance of the home and the surroundings are highlighted (‘it is all about seclusion, peace and quiet and poetry, up there’), with the house, built in 1927 by the (implicitly wealthy) Dutra family, being described in minute detail: ‘Its architecture is linked to the Spanish Missions style, decorated with beautiful and authentic ceramic tiles from Seville, and its interior is lovingly equipped with rare furniture and ornaments’. We learn that it is soon to be renovated, and that a garage and swimming pool will be built in the gardens. It is suggested that they will employ Láu, the son of their former nanny, as their chauffeur, and the reader learns that ‘the idea of the swimming pool is also very exciting for little Dina, Láu’s little sister, who enjoys swimming and is a big fan of Esther Williams’. The luxurious lifestyle of the Hollywood stars is translated into a Brazilian context,

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but a culturally specific emphasis is placed on the extended family’s presence (including servants, who seem to be part of the household) in this elegant dwelling. Cyl (like his brother, Dick) is a patriarchal figure, who takes care not just of his blood relations but of the extended network of household employees, as if they were part of the family. ‘Farnésio (Dick) and Cyleno (Cyl) are the greatest friends that ever existed, confirms Dona Iracema’, and it is apparent that such solid family values are not incompatible with stardom, wealth and luxury; the report ends with Cyl having to leave for the Atlântida studios, as he is late for a meeting to edit a film, but the reader is reassured that ‘his powerful Jaguar soon solved the problem, smoothly taking us back to the city, and taking the star to his new hobby’. He is a toned-down playboy, who enjoys elegant pastimes and the trappings of wealth, but displays no hint of predatory womanizing – rather he is the model son, brother and future husband/family man/elite patriarch par excellence.

Consuming the ‘American dream’? The July 1957 (2nd fortnight) issue of Cinelândia, in which Cyl features as ‘Star of the Fortnight’, updates us on his luxury star lifestyle: ‘Cyl Farney has unveiled his new swimming pool at his mansion in Santa Teresa, that is worthy of a Hollywood star’.55 In a later article entitled ‘Swimming Pool of the Stars’, we learn that ‘Cyl Farney likes to get together around his swimming pool fun groups of Brazilian and foreign film stars’.56 It is accompanied by photographs of Cyl in swimming trunks lounging by the pool and goofing around with his friends. As the reporter, Zenaide Andrea, writes: ‘Like we see in Hollywood, where stars get together around their wonderful blue swimming pools, for a chat and a drink in between swims, it’s here, in the shade of the trees and flowers of the aristocratic mansion of our star, that, when there’s a clear blue sky, we can now find the nicest personalities from Brazilian – and even foreign – cinema’.57 The following year Cyl is pictured ­alongside his pool once again, reclining on a sun lounger, recovering from a ‘crise de esgotamento físico’ (‘bout of physical exhaustion’) worthy of any Hollywood star.58 Cyl Farney’s mansion, swimming pool and even his bout of exhaustion are clearly indexes of his star status and allude directly to Hollywood star discourse. Material success and the ability to consume are central to Brazilian stardom

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as well as to its Hollywood template, as illustrated in an article on Ankito, a male comic star from a family of circus performers, who tells the reader that his favourite hobby is to ride around on his Lambretta scooter, although ‘he owns no less than two Cadillacs’.59 Similarly, readers learn that ‘theatre and film actress, successful singer, Marlene is … one of the most elegant women in Brazilian show  business. She has an up-to-date collection of dresses and hats, which keep up her fashionable silhouette, both here in Brazil and in her constant trips abroad’.60 Hollywood stars were depicted in fan magazines as both extraordinary and ordinary by combining images of glamour with those of domesticity, a technique that was emulated by other national star systems, not least the Brazilian variant.61 As Dyer has argued, the extraordinary/ordinary paradox is rendered believable by the stars being depicted as ordinary people who simply live more expensively than the rest of us, but whose characters and values are not essentially transformed by this life of luxury. Dyer suggests that stars may serve to legitimate the notion that human attributes exist independently of material circumstances.62 I would argue that Brazilian stars are depicted in the pages of Cinelândia as deserving of their luxurious lifestyles by virtue of their ‘noble/aristocratic’ bearing, their good breeding bestowing upon them a moral and emotional superiority to their Hollywood counterparts by virtue of their unswerving respect for wholesome, conservative, patriarchal family values (in contrast, for example, to the likes of husband-snatching Elizabeth Taylor),63 and their failure to be ultimately seduced by the superficial frippery of consumerism. Eliana (Macedo), for example, is praised for choosing to make her own clothes and for asking her mother to create her screen costumes. An article published in Cinelândia in July 1954 claimed that Brazil’s ultimate ‘girl next door’ only wore glamorous outfits on screen, preferring a more modest wardrobe in private. According to Dyer, Hollywood stardom can be seen as a version of the ‘American dream’, organized around the themes of consumption, success and ordinariness, albeit with an undercurrent which ‘sours’ the dream, and in which love, marriage and sex are constants.64 In 1950s Brazilian star discourse, as articulated through Cinelândia magazine, consumption is not so conspicuous and is tempered by the good taste and moral compass of stars who are far from ordinary, but rather of a kind of ‘noble’ lineage, born to rule the firmament. The more modest, wholesome and enduring ‘Brazilian dream’ is consequently not ‘soured’ by the failure to abide by moral codes.

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Conclusion Building on the traditions established by Brazilian film magazines such as Cinearte, Cinelândia magazine looked to its Hollywood predecessors and contemporaries for valuable lessons throughout its fourteen-year existence. It thus borrowed key strategies from Hollywood’s heavily editorialized star discourse, such as promoting a ‘search for a star’ contest and featuring advertisements that relied on star endorsements, both of which fostered greater reader/spectator identification with foreign and home-grown stars as well as increased consumption of films, beauty products and the magazine itself. Likewise, Cinelândia drew on a symbiotic relationship with Hollywood in its recourse to parallel stardom or ‘stardom by association’, drawing on a kind of stellar syncretism to align Brazilian stars with Hollywood counterparts, the latter’s stardust inevitably rubbing off on the local stars in the process. Magazines of this type and the techniques they employed were clearly by no means restricted to Brazil, and it is precisely the way the star discourse that they articulated was adapted to suit local environments and readerships that proves so fascinating. Bruce Babington has proposed that ‘the institutions of film stardom exhibit major constants running across different film cultures, but each national cinema produces different inflections of them’, with the crucial task being to pin down what Dyer terms the ‘specificities’.65 Following this lead, Ginette Vincendeau has identified the cultural specificities of the French star discourse in film publications as centring on the emphasis placed on food, ‘with recurrent scenes of stars cooking and accounts of their favourite dishes’.66 In the case of Cinelândia, the importance of gossip and ‘insider information’ relating to the lives of Brazilian stars is obviously borrowed from Hollywood publications, but it comes across as more innocent and wholesome when compared with the scandals associated with North American movie stars.67 Family values and patriarchal obligations, which even embrace domestic staff and employees, are stressed at the expense of any whiff of scandal or improper behaviour, as Brazilian stars are portrayed as a de facto aristocracy, born with star quality and impeccable morals. True gentlemen, like Cyl Farney, are depicted as patriarchs in the making, young, handsome, gallant and wealthy, but posing no sexual threat to their ladylike costars, adoring fans or hegemonic societal codes. Although Cinelândia repeatedly asserted that Brazilian stars were more than a match for their Hollywood cousins in terms of good looks, talent and material success, the dominant impression ­created is that they were, in fact, morally far superior.

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Notes 1. M. Orgeron, ‘Making It in Hollywood: Clara Bow, Fandom, and Consumer Culture’, Cinema Journal 42(4) (2003), 76. 2. Originally launched as a monthly publication, by 1955 Cinelândia was published every fortnight. 3. This and all other translations from the original Portuguese are by the author. 4. J.L. Vieira, ‘Foto de cena e chanchada: a eficácia do “Star System” no Brasil’, Master’s dissertation, Universidade Federal do Rio de Janeiro, 1977, 27. 5. Although the advertisements were predominantly for women’s beauty and household products, the magazine also recognized the likelihood of male readers and included advertisements for cigarettes, chewing gum, bicycles and motorbikes that often featured images of sophisticated male consumers, some of whom were stars of Brazilian radio, theatre and cinema, such as Rodolfo Mayer, who advertised ‘Chicletes’ chewing gum. 6. Orgeron, ‘Making It in Hollywood’, 79–80. 7. Cinelândia, September 1955 (1st fortnight), 51. 8. Norma Bengell is pictured lying in a bubble bath in a seductive pose worthy of Marilyn Monroe, Cinelândia, January 1959 (2nd fortnight) and Cinelândia, March 1959 (2nd fortnight). 9. This competition was sponsored by Cinelândia magazine, the newspaper O Globo and the Rádio Globo station, all of which formed part of the emerging Globo media group under the direction of Roberto Marinho, and by the Atlântida Cinematográfica film studios. Marinho had clearly struck a deal with Luiz Severiano Ribeiro, owner of the leading film exhibition circuit in Brazil and of the Atlântida film studios, whose productions the magazine fiercely promoted in preference to the output of other domestic film producers. Vieira, ‘Foto de cena e chanchada’, 25. 10. E. Woods, ‘From Rags to Riches: The Ideology of Stardom in Folkloric Musical Comedy Films of the Late 1930s and 1940s’, in A. Lázaro Reboll and A. Willis (eds), Spanish Popular Cinema (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2004), 45. 11. Cinelândia, July 1956 (1st fortnight), 13. 12. Cinelândia, October 1956 (1st fortnight). 13. Cinelândia, September 1956 (2nd fortnight). 14. Cinelândia, July 1954, 30. 15. M. Aronna, ‘Testimonial Intent and Narrative Dissonance: The Marginal Heroes of Biografía de un cimarrón and Canción de Rachel by Miguel Barnet’, unpublished paper, 25. Cited in Woods, ‘From Rags to Riches’, 41. 16. Cinelândia, December 1955 (1st fortnight), 11. 17. Cinelândia, July 1954, 55. 18. Cinelândia, January 1956 (2nd fortnight), 50–51. 19. Ibid., 55.

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20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33.

34. 35.

36. 37.

38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46.

Cinelândia, August 1955 (2nd fortnight), 50–51. Cinelândia, February 1959 (2nd fortnight), 75. Cinelândia, October 1956 (1st fortnight), 18–19; 54. Cinelândia, March 1956 (1st fortnight). Cinelândia, September 1954, 20. Cinelândia, October 1958 (1st fortnight), 70–71. Cinelândia, September 1954 (2nd fortnight), 30. Cinelândia, 1954, no month. Cinelândia, February 1959 (2nd fortnight), 68. Cinelândia, April 1959 (2nd fortnight), 30. Ibid., 40–41. Cinelândia, April 1959 (2nd fortnight). Cinelândia, September 1959 (1st fortnight), 66. In her keynote address ‘“Dismodernity” and New Mexican Cinema’, delivered at the conference ‘New Latin American Cinemas: Contemporary Cinema and Filmmaking’, University of Leeds, 28–30 June 2005, Andrea Noble discussed how the star of 1930s Mexican melodrama, Andrea Palma (1903–87), for example, was described as the Marlene Dietrich from Vera Cruz, and clearly modelled herself on the Hollywood star. Such ‘parallel stardom’, Noble argued, provides an interesting commentary on cinematic relations between two countries, one of which is invariably the USA. As Maite Conde notes in Chapter 1, this technique was adopted in the 1930s and 1940s by the Brazilian film magazine, Cinearte. For references to the physical similarities of these two stars, see Vieira, ‘Foto de cena e chanchada’, 36, and R. Stam, Tropical Multiculturalism: A Comparative History of Race in Brazilian Cinema and Culture (Durham, NC and London: Duke University Press, 1997), 103. Cinelândia, December 1958 (1st fortnight), 68. As Orgeron has written, ‘Fan letters … make material fans’ desire to emerge from anonymity, to create a concrete existence for themselves in relation to the star system’. Orgeron, ‘Making It in Hollywood’, 79. It may well also have been the case that some of these letters were invented by the magazine’s editorial staff to reinforce certain strategies inherent to the manufacturing of star texts. Cinelândia, September 1956 (1st fortnight). Orgeron, ‘Making It in Hollywood’, 76. Cinelândia, February 1959 (2nd fortnight). R. Dyer, Stars (London: British Film Institute, 1979), 52. Cinelândia, December 1954 (1st fortnight). Hopper’s column was entitled ‘Mexericos de Hollywood’ (‘Hollywood Gossip’). Cinelândia, January 1956 (2nd fortnight), 48. Cinelândia, March 1956 (1st fortnight), 48–50. Cinelândia, April 1958 (1st fortnight), 68–69; 82.

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47. Cinelândia, August 1954, 34–35. 48. See Maite Conde and Luciana Corrêa de Araújo’s chapters in this volume for details of an identical discourse in earlier Brazilian film magazines. 49. Cinelândia, December 1954 (1st fortnight). 50. Cinelândia, January 1956 (2nd fortnight), 48. 51. February 1956 (2nd fortnight), 49. The Gotha Almanac is a respected directory of Europe’s highest nobility and royalty first published in the latter half of the eighteenth century. 52. Cinelândia, March 1956 (2nd fortnight), 50–51; 54. 53. Cinelândia, July 1956 (2nd fortnight). 54. Cinelândia, March 1956 (2nd fortnight), 50–51; 54. 55. Cinelândia, July 1957 (2nd fortnight), 67. 56. Cinelândia, May 1958 (1st fortnight), 68–69; 82. 57. Ibid. 58. Cinelândia, December 1959 (2nd fortnight), 72. 59. Cinelândia, August 1958 (1st fortnight), 73. 60. Cinelândia, July 1958 (2nd fortnight), 73. 61. For details of the adoption of this strategy within French film stardom, see G. Vincendeau, Stars and Stardom in French Cinema (London and New York: Continuum, 2000), 15. 62. Dyer, Stars, 49–50. 63. Neide Aparecida is described as strikingly similar to Taylor, ‘but, without doubt, a much more sincere soul and capable of remaining faithful, for a long time, to her true love’. Cinelândia, February 1959 (2nd fortnight), 68. 64. Ibid., 39. 65. B. Babington, ‘Introduction: British Stars and Stardom’, in Babington (ed.), British Stars and Stardom (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2001), 4. Babington argues that stars of non-Hollywood cinemas ‘give things to home audiences that Hollywood luminaries cannot – reflections of the known and close at hand, typologies of the contingent, intimate dramatizations of local myths and realities’. Ibid., 10. 66. Vincendeau, Stars and Stardom in French Cinema, 16. 67. Dyer cites, for example, the following cases widely reported on in the US film press: Fatty Arbuckle’s rape case, Ingrid Bergman’s illegitimate child, the murder of Lana Turner’s gigolo boyfriend and Judy Garland’s drunken breakdowns. Dyer, Stars, 69. In contrast, Eliana (Macedo)’s marriage to the previously married radio star, Renato Murce, scarcely featured in Cinelândia, which preferred to show images of her alongside her whiter-than-white on-screen love interest Cyl Farney, and rumours of domestic abuse within Sonia Mamed’s marriage are soon dispelled and even turned into a source of amusement in the article ‘Fights and Kisses: Sonia Mamed and Augusto César Make Up in Their Own Way’, Cinelândia, April 1958 (1st fortnight), 68–69; 82.

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References Babington, B. (ed.). British Stars and Stardom. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2001. Dyer, R. Stars. London: British Film Institute, 1979. Noble, A. ‘“Dismodernity” and New Mexican Cinema’. Keynote address, ‘New Latin American Cinemas: Contemporary Cinema and Filmmaking’, University of Leeds, 28–30 June 2005. Orgeron, M. ‘Making It in Hollywood: Clara Bow, Fandom, and Consumer Culture’. Cinema Journal 42(4) (2003), 76–96. Stam, R. Tropical Multiculturalism. A Comparative History of Race in Brazilian Cinema and Culture. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1997. Vieira, J.L. ‘Foto de cena e chanchada: a eficácia do “Star System” no Brasil’. Master’s dissertation, Universidade Federal do Rio de Janeiro, 1977. Vincendeau, G. Stars and Stardom in French Cinema. London and New York: Continuum, 2000. Woods, E. ‘From Rags to Riches: The Ideology of Stardom in Folkloric Musical Comedy Films of the Late 1930s and 1940s’, in A. Lázaro Reboll and A. Willis (eds), Spanish Popular Cinema (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2004), 40–59.

Lisa Shaw is Reader in Portuguese and Brazilian Studies at the University of Liverpool. She is author of The Social History of the Brazilian Samba (Ashgate, 1999) and Carmen Miranda (British Film Institute/Palgrave Macmillan, 2013). She co-wrote (with Stephanie Dennison) Popular Cinema in Brazil, 1930–2001 (Manchester University Press, 2004) and Brazilian National Cinema (Routledge, 2007). She is currently completing a monograph for the University of Texas Press based on the project ‘Tropical Travels: Brazilian Popular Culture in Transnational Dialogue, 1880s–1950s’, for which she was awarded a British Academy/ Leverhulme Trust Senior Research Fellowship in 2011.

CHAPTER 6

Oscarito and Grande Otelo ‘The terrible twosome’ João Luiz Vieira and Leonardo Côrtes Macario

Any book on Brazilian film stars would be incomplete without a mention of Oscarito and Grande Otelo, the most famous comic double act in the history of popular entertainment in Brazil. If one had to choose a single iconic image to sum up popular Brazilian cinema, it would have to be one of this pair of comedians. There are plenty of such images to choose from, ranging from a photograph of them dressed in tuxedos in the film from which this chapter takes its title – A dupla do barulho (The Terrible Twosome, 1953) (see Figure 6.1) – which today aptly decorates an entire wall in the main lobby of a cinema in Rio de Janeiro,1 to one of a pair of incongruous cowboys from Matar ou correr (To Kill or Run Away, 1954), a parody of Fred Zinnemann’s High Noon (1952).2 Together the duo maintained an international tradition of double acts whose visual humour relies on oxymoronic physical contrasts – in this case skin colour and ethnic features.3 In the chanchada musical comedies, with which they became synonymous, the very dark-skinned Afro-Brazilian Grande Otelo was often the butt of racial jokes, his mere physical characteristics being the source of easy humour,4 while the white goofy-faced Oscarito provided the perfect comic foil to the equally pale-skinned but tall and handsome leading men, such as Cyl Farney.5 The chanchada dominated Brazilian film production between the mid 1930s and the mid 1950s. Released to coincide with the annual carnival celebrations, this quintessential Brazilian genre relied on a formula that included performances of musical numbers, especially hit carnival sambas and marchinhas, a mix of comic stars like Oscarito and Grande Otelo, and good-looking white leading men and leading ladies, all of whom helped to frustrate the evil plans of the omnipresent villain of the piece. Grande Otelo was the notable exception that proved the rule regarding the hegemony of white stars and the concomitant exclusion of

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Figure 6.1 Oscarito and Grande Otelo in A dupla do barulho (1953). DVD screen capture.

Afro-Brazilian faces within the chanchada, and indeed within Brazilian cinema as a whole until the 1960s. The chanchadas also contained a parodic dimension, often poking fun at Hollywood films or establishment figures, appealing to a wide audience familiar with US imports. The highly successful formula was perfected by the Rio-based Atlântida studios, which from 1947 was headed by the powerful mogul Luiz Severiano Ribeiro Jr., owner of the largest chain of cinema theatres in Brazil between the 1930s and the 1960s.6 With guaranteed exhibition of Atlântida’s productions throughout Brazil, their chanchadas became the most popular domestic film genre and the stars of these films, such as Oscarito and Grande Otelo, became ingrained in the public’s consciousness, where they have

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remained to this day, in much the same way as Laurel and Hardy in the Englishspeaking world, to whom they are often compared. This chapter will trace the evolution of their careers, focusing in particular on their performances in chanchadas and illustrating how these were informed by their background in other popular performance traditions, such as the circus and the teatro de revista (Brazil’s equivalent of vaudeville). It will also consider how their post-chanchada careers diverged, and how each star survived the aesthetic and political changes brought by the Cinema Novo movement from the late 1950s to the early 1970s.

Oscarito’s early years as a popular performer of stage and screen Oscarito was born Oscar Lorenzo Jacinto de la Concepción Imaculada Teresa Diaz in Málaga on 18 August 1906, into a traditional Spanish circus family. He and his parents arrived in Rio de Janeiro the following year, thanks to his aunt, Lili Cardona, and her husband, Oscar – both already working in the teatro de revista – who promised them abundant work in Brazil’s then capital. During the first decade of the twentieth century, Rio was experiencing the arrival of modernity and undergoing urban changes that aimed to transform it into a tropical version of Paris. A new urban plan partially influenced by Haussmann’s ideas for Paris redesigned central areas of the city, bringing new energy to activities such as entertainment, live theatre and, of course, the increasingly popular medium of the cinema. The story goes that long before he paired up with Grande Otelo, the barely two-year-old Oscarito had appeared alongside the famous Afro-Brazilian clown Benjamin de Oliveira (arguably the first Brazilian black film star) in a film adaptation of José de Alencar’s novel O Guarani (The Guarani Indian, published in 1857), a production by the Photo-Cinematographica Brasileira studios entitled Os Guaranis (The Guarani Indians, 1908). By the time he was four or five years old, Oscarito was working in the circus, where he learned the tools of his trade as a popular performer over the next twenty years. Having performed as a clown named Excêntrico (Eccentric) at the Democrata circus in Rio the previous year, in 1932 Oscarito Brenier, as he was then known, made his first appearance in the teatro de revista, in the characteristically irreverent show ‘Calma, Gegê’ (‘Calm down, Gegê’ – a title that incorporated a common nickname for President Getúlio Vargas).7 It was on the popular stage that his comic skills were honed and where

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audiences began to identify with him and his Everyman persona. He went on to enjoy a successful career in the teatro de revista, travelling to Portugal in 1933 with Jardel Jércolis’s company. It was also in 1933 that Oscarito made his cinematic debut in adult roles, appearing in A voz do carnaval (The Voice of Carnival), directed by Adhemar Gonzaga and Humberto Mauro, a ‘semi-documentary’ produced by the Cinédia studios that showcased the annual carnival celebrations in Rio. It was the first Brazilian production to feature direct sound recorded in the streets, merging these documentary sequences with comic scenes. Oscarito went on to feature in two hit films produced by the Sonofilmes studios, Bombonzinho (Little Bombom, directed by Joracy Camargo, 1938) and Céu azul (Blue Sky, directed by Ruy Costa, 1940), and the studios gave him his first leading role in the musical comedy Banana da terra (Banana of the Land, 1939), which starred Carmen Miranda. He appeared in a total of nine productions from the Cinédia and Sonofilmes studios, and in 1944 he signed an exclusive contract with the Atlântida studios, for whom he worked until 1962, appearing in thirty-three films, invariably in a starring role, becoming the company’s unofficial trademark, and according to Luiz Severiano Ribeiro, its ‘gold mine’.8 Oscarito was a top-billing actor who worked both in films and on the stage, a guarantee of box office returns in both media. In 1938, promotional material for the play O cantor da cidade (The City Singer) at the famous Recreio theatre in Rio, advertised Oscarito’s performance as an undoubtedly ‘comic creation that will cause 100 laughs an hour’, forever linking his name to the genre of comedy.9

Oscarito in the chanchadas of Atlântida Oscarito became the main attraction at the Atlântida studios, which had a team of actors under contract, a technique borrowed from Hollywood that helped to ensure the popularity of its increasingly recognizable stars and by extension the success of the films they appeared in. He could turn his hand to anything, and has often been compared to Chaplin, the Mexican comedian Cantinflas, and his Italian counterpart, Totò, who also earned their professional stripes in varied forms of popular entertainment. His success as a comic performer stemmed from his background in the circus and his aptitude for physical clowning, and on screen he repeatedly used his dynamic and malleable body to hilarious effect. Furthermore,

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his facial features – especially the shape of his mouth, highlighted by his cheeks and nose – recalled the contours of the classic clown mask. His puny body and odd looks made him the perfect underdog on screen, a comic Everyman figure who was able to elicit both laughter and identification among the largely humble ­chanchada audiences. Dennison and Shaw argue that he: frequently portrayed a displaced rural-urban migrant, or an equally unassuming character, who from being down on his luck finds his fortunes temporarily overturned in a carnivalesque inversion of societal hierarchies that was the trade mark of a chanchada plot. His screen persona encapsulates the very Brazilian concept of jeitinho or using one’s wits to evade the law or get around an obstacle in life. He is an archetypal malandro, another pole of popular identity in Brazil, who rejects ‘respectability’ and hard toil in favour of a lazy ­existence on the margins of society.10 Oscarito excelled at slapstick and visual humour, as can be seen in highly memorable performances, such as in the chanchada Este mundo é um pandeiro (The World is a Tambourine, 1947), where he uses seductive shoulder movements to create a hilarious cross-dressed version of Rita Hayworth in Gilda (1946). Other notable examples of his physical clowning include his parody of Nijinsky’s ‘modern’ dance (in A dupla do barulho), or of the mannerisms of Elvis Presley in his rambunctious impersonation in De vento em popa (Wind in the Sails, 1957). Brazilian audiences delighted in his parodic rendition of former president Getúlio Vargas, whose characteristic gestures and speech patterns he exaggeratedly reproduced in Nem Sansão nem Dalila (Neither Samson Nor Delilah, 1954). Oscarito’s perfect alchemy with Grande Otelo, whom he had worked with earlier in Noites cariocas (Rio Nights, 1935) and Céu azul, began to take shape at the Atlântida studios in the production Tristezas não pagam dívidas (Sadness Pays No Debts, 1943). After Luiz Severiano Ribeiro’s takeover of the Atlântida studios, Oscarito was given star status within the studio’s star system, and after his supporting role in O caçula do barulho (The Unruly Youngster, 1948) he was the star attraction of the landmark chanchada Carnaval no fogo (Carnival on Fire, 1949). In a range of chanchadas produced by the studios, he and Grande Otelo performed parodic inversions of race and gender, such as their rendition of Romeo and Juliet in the famous balcony scene in Carnaval no fogo, which involved Grande Otelo’s ‘Juliet’ wearing an i­ncongruous blonde plaited wig.

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By the 1950s, Oscarito had become a well-loved film star, and he was able to set up his own theatre company, which performed plays by authors like José  Wanderley and Mário Lago, some of which were later adapted for the cinema, giving rise, for example, to the films O golpe (The Coup, 1955), Papai fanfarrão (Boastful Daddy, 1956) and O cupim (The Termite, 1959), all directed by Carlos Manga.11 Following the decline of Atlântida and the rise of popular television programmes during the period of Cinema Novo, Oscarito appeared in just three more films after 1962. Nevertheless, popular television – more s­ pecifically the comic quartet Os Trapalhões (The Goofy Gang), the most successful comic performers to emerge on Brazilian television and subsequently in the cinema throughout the 1970s and 1980s – clearly owed a debt of gratitude to Oscarito’s screen performances. Indeed, it is no coincidence that as early as 1954, Oscarito was starring in the weekly comic TV show ‘Trapalhadas de Oscarito’ (Oscarito’s Goofy Antics). Oscarito’s last two films, before his untimely death due to heart disease in 1970, were the parody A espiã que entrou em fria (The Lady Spy Who Came in from the Cold, 1967) and the musical comedy Jovens Prá Frente (Smart Youth, 1968), in which he plays a melancholic but likeable priest.

Grande Otelo’s show business beginnings Grande Otelo (the stage name of Sebastião Bernardes de Souza Prata) was born in Uberabinha (now Uberlândia), a rural town in the state of Minas Gerais, in Brazil’s southeast. He claimed to have been born in 1915, but a recent biographer found the correct year to be 1917.12 He was wet-nursed by the wealthiest (white) woman in town, and became ‘part of the family’, in a not uncommon phenomenon in Brazil of informal interracial ‘adoption’ and fostering. His adoptive ‘brother’ was also named Sebastião, leading inhabitants of the town to call them the Tião-Tião duo, but also the Black and White Duo. He was taken under the wing of white families several times during his childhood, almost always due to his artistic talents, and it took him a long time to grasp the notion of racism, as he often reminded interlocutors that it was a white woman who first fed him and white families that enabled him to obtain a good education at the best schools available. Nevertheless, these opportunities did not prevent him from running away from most of the places he would call home.

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He was a precocious child, singing and reciting poetry that he learned from the daughter of the owner of the hotel in his small home town, and charging tourists a small fee to listen to him. Before long he was on stage, having found his way into a circus that visited his town, playing the role of the clown’s wife in a circus play. In this part he was already ‘carnivalized’ – a tiny child, with a pillow acting as his derrière and huge fake breasts, pre-empting the comic transvestism that he became famous for in the chanchada films. His biographers state that initially he was terrified when he saw a group of fellow performers wielding guns and he ran away as fast as he could, leaving the pillow and ‘breasts’ behind. The audience loved it, by all accounts, and he had discovered his slapstick comic skills. As a boy Grande Otelo spent his earnings on trips to the cinema, but his natural charm soon gained him free access to Brazilian and Hollywood movies. He took a particular interest in the first black faces he saw on screen, initially white actors in blackface, but later also Afro-Americans in patronizing, stereotypical roles. He identified especially with the Hollywood comic character Topsy, a young black girl played by Mona Ray, and the African-American child star Allen Clayton Hoskins, who played Farina in the ‘Our Gang’ series of comic shorts between 1922 and 1931. Grande Otelo’s big break came in 1924 when he was spotted performing in his home town with the Serrano circus by the classical singer Abigail Gonçalves, who took him to São Paulo and began teaching him the rudiments of acting. His debut with the Gonçalves theatrical company came in 1926 in a play entitled Pés pelas mãos (Big Trouble) in which his character announced, in a heavy fake accent, that he was the son of German immigrants – a visual joke at the expense of his very black skin. He then went on to briefly become the child star of the first all-black theatre company in Brazil, the Companhia Negra de Revistas (1926–27). In 1932 he joined another theatre group, the Companhia Jardel Jércolis  – the same company that took Oscarito to Portugal the following year – and, due to his diminutive stature, he was nicknamed ‘o pequeno Otelo’ (the small Othello). He naturally preferred the English stage name ‘Great Othello’, which he ‘Brazilianized’ and used throughout his life.13 As was the case with Oscarito, Grande Otelo also worked in radio and composed songs (many of which would feature in the soundtracks of chanchadas). He was a frequent performer at Rio’s Urca casino in the late 1930s, sharing the stage with the likes of Carmen Miranda and Josephine Baker. Alongside Baker, already a famous international star, Grande Otelo performed the song ‘Boneca de pixe’ (‘Tar Doll’) at the casino in 1939, a number that

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became a kind of trademark in his career and that he reproduced many times with different female performers, such as Virgínia Lane, Vera Regina (herself a sort of Josephine Baker lookalike), Betty Faria and Watusi.14

Grande Otelo’s first forays into film A biographical interview that Grande Otelo gave to a magazine prompted the Atlântida studios to produce a film loosely based on his life – Moleque Tião (The Kid called Tião, 1943) – in which he also starred. The fact that this was the first feature film released by the studios gives ample proof of Grande Otelo’s nascent star status. Atlântida initially set out to produce films with a more social-­realist focus, only later succumbing to the commercial allure of the proven chanchada formula, and Moleque Tião reflected these earlier, loftier aims. Another milestone in Grande Otelo’s career at Atlântida was the melodrama Também somos irmãos (We Are Also Brothers, 1949), the first Brazilian production to deal directly with the issue of racial prejudice. In this film, he played one of two black boys who were adopted by a white millionaire. Renato (Aguinaldo Camargo) and Altamiro (or Miro, played by Otelo) are brought up in the company of their two white brothers and Renato falls in love with his white stepsister Marta (Vera Nunes). In one of the most memorable sequences from this remarkable film, Renato, all dressed up for his graduation ceremony in the Law Faculty, wearing an impeccable white suit, leaves home to go to the graduation ball. Outside his humble home it is muddy underfoot, and his friends and neighbours provide a wooden board so that Renato can set off unscathed, a symbolic rite of passage as he begins his ascent up the social hierarchy. They all greet him with a round of applause, referring to him as ‘the pride of the community’. His brother Miro, however, always rebellious, is more inclined to gambling, music and drinking, and the narrative contrasts Renato’s ‘whitening’ process with Miro’s revolt and the pride he takes in his ‘black blood’. Grande Otelo’s performance in this film was  so  powerful that  Brazilian film critics awarded him a best actor prize in 1949.15 Before appearing in this unusual melodrama, Otelo had been noted and admired by none other than Orson Welles, during the filming of RKO’s unfinished ‘Good Neighbour Policy’ project, It’s All True in 1941–42. Welles became fascinated with Grande Otelo, whom he cast as the lead character in the ‘Carnival’

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section of It’s All True, and the two became friends. As Catherine Benamou has astutely noted, unlike the chanchadas, where Grande Otelo’s characterizations and choreography are respectful of established Brazilian social codes, Welles’ editing of this pan-American project gave his presence equal weight and placed him in ‘uncomfortable’ proximity, in the eyes of the Vargas regime (1930–45), to ‘white’ ­performers such as the singers Linda Batista and Emilinha Borba. Benamou ­suggests that: Othelo’s blackness, as both social identity and phenotype, is accentuated by his immersion in neighbourhood ranchos and preparations for the big Carnival event in favelas. In It’s All True, Othelo is no longer a ‘token’ black actor in a sea of relative whiteness; rather, by openly assuming his Afro-carioca subjectivity in ‘Carnaval’, he literally opens the stage door so that others in that community can reach the screen: black star and black extras become symbolically and spatially intertwined.16

Grande Otelo and the chanchada tradition It was the Atlântida chanchadas that Grande Otelo, like Oscarito, would become synonymous with, and he too was able to transfer his stage antics, as perfected in the circus and the teatro de revista, to the big screen. In a perfect example of the genre, Aviso aos navegantes (Calling All Passengers, 1950), Otelo plays a cook on board an ocean liner. On discovering a stowaway played by Oscarito, Otelo’s character exploits his knowledge, in a classic case of carnivalesque inversion that is particularly striking in the Brazilian postcolonial historical context (a black man forcing the white man to work for him). Nevertheless, the two characters eventually become close friends, something which Grande Otelo claimed was never true off screen; he and Oscarito respected each other, but they had very different personalities, and both were highly competitive.17 Grande Otelo was destined to be Oscarito’s sidekick as a consequence of his skin colour, but in A dupla do barulho the latter made a conscious decision to play second fiddle on screen. Grande Otelo quit the shoot before filming was completed, allegedly due to friction between the two actors. The film’s narrative plays, in part, on a feeling of resentment on Grande Otelo’s part, as it tells the story of the mishaps of a duo of itinerant artists, Tonico (Oscarito) and Tião

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(Grande Otelo), who travel around Brazil searching for fame and fortune. The duo’s trip is marred by difficult but humorous situations, especially when Tião starts to feel neglected. One could argue that the success of the Atlântida films depended on the conflict between its two comic stars, with the studio using it to promote a public image of the duo as rivals. In an Atlântida newsreel, film crew and studio personnel gather together to celebrate future projects (that were never completed), while Oscarito and Otelo pretend to be arguing at first, a sort of staged fight in which there is a dispute to see who gets closer to their boss, the producer Severiano Ribeiro.18 In Carnaval Atlântida (Atlântida Carnival, 1952), Grande Otelo plays a screenwriter who loses his job and finds a new position as a cleaner in a film studio. Although they both appear in this film, he and Oscarito do not feature as a double act. Oscarito portrays a professor of Greek philosophy, contracted by the fictional studio to supervise the script of an adaptation of the story of Helen of Troy. In a musical number, Grande Otelo appears dressed in a Greek toga attempting to dance the samba. His hilarious slapstick performance demonstrates the impossibility of adopting a classical notion of beauty in the land of carnival and samba, and also of producing a big-budget ‘Hollywood style’ biblical epic in Brazil.19 The comic duo’s last on-screen appearance together was in Matar ou correr. Their brilliantly funny performance in this spoof western epitomizes their work as a double act, nearly culminating in an accidental erotic encounter between the two, when Kid Bolha (Kid Bubble, played by Oscarito), the fearful sheriff of the frontier town of ‘City Down’, with his eyes closed, almost kisses his buddy Ciscocada (Grande Otelo), mistaking him for the leading lady.20 After Matar ou correr, Grande Otelo left Atlântida to make films with producer and director J.B. Tanko, such as the chanchada Metido à bacana (A Fake Smart, 1957). He soon formed another comic double act, this time with Ankito, an extremely talented acrobatic actor from São Paulo who also had a circus background. Together they appeared in a series of successful chanchadas in the late 1950s and early 1960s. Interestingly, in this partnership with the white Ankito, Grande Otelo was given more equal status and agency on screen than in his pairings with Oscarito, as can be seen in É de chuá (It’s Groovy, 1958), where he is the head of a poor ‘samba school’, while Ankito plays his assistant. His final chanchada was Os cosmonautas (The Cosmonauts, 1962), in which he formed one half of a comic duo with Ronald Golias, who thus became the third white comedian to team up with the Afro-Brazilian star.21

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Grande Otelo in Cinema Novo and beyond The great testament to Grande Otelo’s acting ability and versatility is the seemingly effortless way in which he turned his talents to both comedy and drama. Building on his starring roles in Atlântida’s Moleque Tião and Também somos irmãos, he gave a mesmerizing and acclaimed performance in 1957 in the seminal protoCinema Novo film Rio, Zona Norte (Rio, North Zone), directed by Nelson Pereira dos Santos. He played the role of popular composer Espírito da Luz, who tries to break into radio and the recording industry but dies tragically in a train accident. This was followed by his leading role in the highly successful realist thriller O assalto ao trem pagador (Assault on the Pay Train, 1962), a film that anticipated the aesthetics of the emerging Cinema Novo movement – the respected avant-garde and politically oriented face of Brazilian films throughout the 1960s. Although critically acclaimed on a national and international level, Cinema Novo produced very few domestic commercial successes until the then fiftyyear-old Grande Otelo starred in Joaquim Pedro de Andrade’s Macunaíma (1968–69), adapted from the eponymous modernist novel by Mário de Andrade. He shared the role of the eponymous protagonist with white actor Paulo José, with the latter being instructed by the director to copy Grande Otelo’s characteristic gestures, movements and facial expressions, especially his eye-rolling. Grande Otelo was the biggest star in the film, which reworked certain elements of the chanchada genre, offering new options to some of the problems Brazilian cinema had at that time, not least commercial appeal.22 Macunaíma was not – as some chanchadas were – a parody of a specific film, but instead satirically quoted from and mixed together references to numerous films and intertexts. It became a landmark in Brazilian film history because it went against the grain of what was expected of a Cinema Novo film. It embodied the crossroads – both political and aesthetic – of Brazilian cinema at the time, seeking to understand and explain the nation, like the wider movement itself, but also trying to reach a wider audience by means of comedy, establishing a new connection with fans of the chanchada. Part of this strategy involved using actors and actresses who were associated with this genre in the popular imagination, not least one of its biggest stars, Grande Otelo. Ironically, for most of the film, it is Paulo José and not  Grande Otelo who appears on screen as Macunaíma, but nevertheless the role, and by extension the film, became synonymous with the Afro-Brazilian star.

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Macunaíma proved to be crucial for Grande Otelo’s career and personal life at that juncture. Reinvigorated by this departure from his previous career, he made a smooth transition to experimental movies.23 His acting skills, persona, extensive career and established range as a performer made him a great asset to filmmakers. In 1973 he was invited by Júlio Bressane – a director identified with the so-called ‘marginal’ cinema of Rio de Janeiro – to star in O rei do baralho (The King of the Deck of Cards), a meta-chanchada, or a parody of a parody. This film was made at the same Cinédia where both Oscarito and Grande Otelo had started their careers. In casting a chanchada icon as protagonist, Bressane repeated the successful strategy employed by Joaquim Pedro de Andrade in Macunaíma four years earlier. In Bressane’s film, Grande Otelo’s character is involved in a discreet affair with a voluptuous woman (played by Marta Anderson), obviously modelled on Jayne Mansfield.24 Although the narrative frequently disrupts the viewer’s expectations, it offers a conventional happy ending as the two protagonists, who barely touched throughout the story, end up in a prolonged kiss in the style of a classic Hollywood film. In addition to O rei do baralho, Grande Otelo collaborated with Bressane on Agonia (Agony, 1978), in which he played a small role. Also in 1978, Grande Otelo played the role of Friday in an adaptation of Robinson Crusoe entitled As aventuras de Robinson Crusoé (The Adventures of Robinson Crusoe, 1978). In 1987 the star reprised the character of Macunaíma in a freer and more experimental adaptation, Exu Piá, coração de Macunaíma (Exu Piá, Heart of Macunaíma, directed by Paulo Veríssimo). Roberto Moura, in his biography of Grande Otelo, mentions that one of the reasons Veríssimo wanted to revisit Macunaíma was because he felt the Afro-Brazilian star lacked screen time in the earlier version of Macunaíma.25 Exu Piá, coração de Macunaíma, unlike de Andrade’s film, where Grande Otelo dominates the first part but from then on the white Paulo José takes centre stage, allows both Macunaímas to coexist on screen, re-creating the chanchada strategy of a black and white double act. A section of the film depicts Grande Otelo in a carnival parade, using footage of one of the elaborate floats from the Rio carnival, which in this case represents a mythological creature. Veríssimo used Grande Otelo’s star status to publicize the film, with the latter featuring in an advertisement in which he performed a parody of Spielberg’s E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial dressed as the alien protagonist of the Hollywood blockbuster. In later life Grande Otelo appeared more frequently on television than Oscarito, displaying the full range of his acting talent as an entertainer, a c­ omedian

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and also as a ‘serious’ actor in telenovelas (soap operas).26 He was a TV presenter and interviewer, and both he and Oscarito frequently featured in advertisements. In the final phase of his career, Grande Otelo became the face of the popular Rio de Janeiro chain of opticians, Óticas do Povo (The People’s Optician), with his trademark smile and catchphrase ‘Óticas do Povo … morou?’ (The People’s Optician … get it?). By the time of his death in 1993 at the age of seventy-six, Grande Otelo had outlived his former screen partner Oscarito by more than two decades.

Conclusion As the most famous double act of the chanchadas, the mainstay of film production in Brazil between 1945 and 1960, Oscarito and Grande Otelo were household names all over the country. As Dennison and Shaw argue, the knowledge that the duo’s screen antics were enjoyed by audiences across the country helped Brazilians to imagine a national community.27 Their roles as underdogs and anti-heroes who triumph over social superiors gave audiences two popular role models to identify with, representing between them the black and white urban masses. White, yet as downtrodden as the marginalized poor in the audience, Oscarito embodied an intrinsic ‘Brazilianness’ in the chanchada, a genre whose claims to ‘national’ essentialism relied on its humour.28 By the end of each film, Oscarito’s characters always scored a small victory over authority or the social elite, usually by a quirk of fate or slightly underhand ruse.29 Grande Otelo, with his very marked racial features, often played roles that required him to seemingly acquiesce to ethnic jokes and the subordination of Afro-Brazilian identity. As Robert Stam has argued, The privileging of the figure of Grande Otelo as the key black actor, and his pairing with white co-stars, had the effect of isolating him from his black brothers and sisters. As a lone representative of black Brazil, he was made to bear a heavy ‘burden of representation’.30 Oscarito’s film career ended alongside the demise of the chanchada, although if he had lived a little longer, he would certainly have had a chance of rediscovery in the works of more alternative filmmakers (such as Rogério Sganzerla, Júlio

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Bressane or, even later, Ivan Cardoso, among others). In contrast, Grande Otelo’s legacy extends beyond his persona in the chanchadas. Through the radically new opportunities offered to him by the Cinema Novo movement of the 1960s and 1970s, he went on to enjoy an acclaimed career as a versatile screen actor in a series of dramatic roles, and thus blazed a trail for a new generation of talented Afro-Brazilian film stars, notably Antônio Pitanga, Milton Gonçalves, Zózimo Bulbul, Ruth de Souza, Léa Garcia and Zezé Motta.31 Notes 1. The Estação Botafogo 1 cinema in the district of Botafogo. 2. High Noon was released in Brazil with the title Matar ou morrer (To Kill or Die), and the title of the Brazilian parody was an obvious play on words. 3. The duo’s contrasting skin colour brings to mind the staple of the Brazilian and particularly Rio de Janeiro diet, arroz com feijão (white rice with black beans). 4. In the chanchada E o mundo se diverte (And the World Has Fun, 1948), for example, Grande Otelo’s character answers the phone and describes himself to the woman on the other end of the line as follows: ‘tall, neither fat nor thin, narrow nose, thin lips’. When asked if he is ‘moreno’ (dark), he replies that he is more on the fair side. As Stam argues, ‘the “gag” is premised on the self-rejection engendered by the “ideology of whitening”’. R. Stam, Tropical Multiculturalism. A Comparative History of Race in Brazilian Cinema and Culture (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1997), 95. In a later scene, a camera explodes in his face and that of his white sidekick, Oscarito. The latter is covered with black soot whereas Grande Otelo is dusted with white powder, in a typically carnivalesque overturning of ethnic hierarchies. Society’s ethnic prejudices are seemingly endorsed in this film, when a middle-class white character condescendingly says to the lowly stagehand, played by Grande Otelo: ‘Não sei como uma cabeça tão preta pode ter um pensamento tão claro’ (I don’t know how such a black head can have such clear [also literally ‘pale’] thoughts). 5. See Lisa Shaw’s chapter in this volume. 6. In 1947, Luiz Severiano Ribeiro Jr. became the principal shareholder of Atlântida and became directly involved in film production. 7. Oscarito first imitated President Getúlio Vargas in the theatrical revue ‘Calma, Gegê’, a comic performance that he would reprise twenty-two years later in a parody of Cecil B. DeMille’s Samson and Delilah (1949), the chanchada Nem Sansão Nem Dalila (Neither Samson nor Delilah, 1954). 8. Interview (‘História do Cinema Brasileiro’ series) with Oscarito by the Museu da Imagem e do Som, Rio de Janeiro, 11 September 1968. This represented the longest exclusive contract in the history of the Atlântida studios. Oscarito also performed

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9. 10. 11.

12. 13.

14.

15.

16. 17.

18. 19.

20.

stints on the radio, having been employed by the Tupi radio station in 1942, and he recorded two big musical hits: ‘A Marcha do Gago’ (‘The Stutterer’s March’, a musical number that features in the chanchada Carnaval no fogo [Carnival on Fire] of 1949) and ‘A marcha do neném’ (‘The Baby’s March’), one of the funniest numbers in the chanchada Aviso aos navegantes (Calling All Passengers, 1950). He was even credited as a composer, creating along with Grande Otelo the theme song from the film A dupla do barulho, in which the comic double act starred. Correio da Manhã, 28 October 1938, 19. L. Shaw and S. Dennison, Brazilian National Cinema (Abingdon: Routledge, 2007), 130–31. In 1948, his dedication to and passion for the theatre had earned him the award for best actor, given by the Associação Brasileira de Cronistas Teatrais (Brazilian Association of Theatre Critics). S. Cabral, Grande Otelo: uma biografia (São Paulo: Editora 34, 2007), 20–21. Like other, lesser-known black actors of this era, his stage name (‘Big Othello’) was clearly racially inspired (as well as alluding ironically to his diminutive stature). His black male contemporaries included ‘Little Black Prince’ and ‘Blackout’, for example, and the actress ‘Black Pearl’. Watusi, a former Moulin Rouge star, is a famous Brazilian singer, dancer and actress who performed ‘Boneca de pixe’ with Otelo in 1983 in the spectacular musical show Golden Rio – the inaugural performance at the Scala in Rio, then considered the largest performance venue in South America. Previously thought to be lost, a copy of Também somos irmãos has recently been discovered, and the film proves to have been a precursor to the socially committed cinema made by Nelson Pereira dos Santos in the mid to late 1950s. C. Benamou, It’s All True: Orson Welles’s Panamerican Odyssey (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2007), 236–37. In an interview for the famous television programme ‘Roda Viva’ in 1987, when Grande Otelo was asked about his relationship with Oscarito, he played down the alleged rivalry and resentment. He stated that whenever shooting was complete, ‘I would go my way and Oscarito would go his’. More information about the relationship between the two can be found at http://www.rodaviva.fapesp.br/ materia/203/entrevistados/grande_otelo_1987.htm. The sequence can be viewed on the official Atlântida website: http://www. atlantidacinematografica.com.br/. João Luiz Vieira, ‘Industrialização e cinema de estúdio no Brasil: a fábrica Atlântida’, in A. Gatti and R. de L. Freire (eds), Retomando a questão da indústria cinematográfica brasileira (Rio de Janeiro: Caixa Cultural/Tela Brasilis, 2009), 43–44. The parodic strategies of this spoof western include puns and wordplay, as reflected in its title. The name of the fictional town of City Down would obviously recall for audiences the ‘Brazilianized’ pronunciation of the English ‘sit down’. The name of the

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21.

22. 23.

24.

25. 26.

27. 2 8. 29. 30. 31.

character Ciscocada (a pun on the Brazilian coconut sweet cocada) is clearly an irreverent allusion to the Hollywood cowboy Cisco Kid, with the further comic twist that the Brazilian ‘version’ of the heroic cowboy is incongruously black. Grande Otelo was involved in this project at the same time as working on O assalto ao trem pagador (Assault on the Pay Train, 1962), in a highly divergent dramatic role. This was not the first time he had displayed his dramatic versatility by working on two contrasting projects in the same year. Back in 1949, he starred in the classic chanchada Carnaval no fogo as well as in the racial melodrama Também somos irmãos. Also in 1952, he played the studio janitor in Carnaval Atlântida and the tragic gangster sidekick in Amei um bicheiro (I Loved a Gangster, 1952). João Luiz Vieira, ‘Chanchada e estética do lixo’, Contracampo: Revista do Mestrado em Comunicação, Imagem e Informação 5 (2000), 170. Grande Otelo also made incursions into the so-called pornochanchadas (soft-core sex comedies) of the 1970s, such as in Deixa amorzinho… deixa (Forget It, My Love… Forget It, 1975) or Tem alguém na minha cama (There’s Someone in My Bed, 1976). The fact that the two lovers have noticeably different ages and racial identities provides an interesting intertext with Oscarito and Grande Otelo’s pairing as Romeo and the black Juliet, respectively, in Carnaval no fogo. Roberto Moura, Grande Othelo: um artista genial (Rio de Janeiro: Relume Dumará, 1996). Some of the more famous telenovelas in which Grande Otelo appeared are TV Globo’s ‘Os ossos do barão’ (The Baron’s Bones, 1973–74), ‘Sinhá Moça’ (The Landowner’s Daughter, 1986) and ‘Mandala’ (Mandala, 1987). In the 1990s he was cast in a weekly comedy series ‘A escolinha do Professor Raimundo’ (Teacher Raimundo’s Infant School), which, in turn, was an adaptation of an eponymous radio programme broadcast in 1950 by the Mayrink Veiga radio station in Rio, both of which were directed by the comedian Chico Anísio. S. Dennison and L. Shaw, Popular Cinema in Brazil, 1930–2001 (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2004), 118. Shaw and Dennison, Brazilian National Cinema, 140. Ibid., 131. Stam, Tropical Multiculturalism, 103. The latter famously starred as the eponymous protagonist of Xica da Silva (1976), seen as a ground-breaking role for an Afro-Brazilian woman. Nevertheless, in interview Motta revealed that one of the film’s producers wanted to cast a lighterskinned woman of mixed race for the role, considering her to be ‘too ugly’ to please film executives. In spite of the raft of prizes that the film garnered, Motta laments that she was not invited to star in a leading role in subsequent films and nor was she asked to feature on the front cover of any magazine. Interview with Zezé Motta by Cléa Cury, in Filme Cultura 40, ‘O Negro no cinema brasileiro’, August–October 1982, 17. Motta has, in fact, gone on to enjoy a busy career in film and television.

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References Benamou, C. It’s All True: Orson Welles’s Panamerican Odyssey. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2007. Cabral, S. Grande Otelo: uma biografia. São Paulo: Editora 34, 2007. Dennison, S., and L. Shaw. Popular Cinema in Brazil, 1930–2001. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2004. Gatti, A., and R. de L. Freire (eds). Retomando a questão da indústria cinematográfica brasileira. Rio de Janeiro: Caixa Cultural/Tela Brasilis, 2009. Moura, R. Grande Othelo: um artista genial. Rio de Janeiro: Relume Dumará, 1996. Shaw, L., and S. Dennison. Brazilian National Cinema. Abingdon: Routledge, 2007. Stam, R. Tropical Multiculturalism. A Comparative History of Race in Brazilian Cinema and Culture. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1997. Vieira, J. L. ‘Chanchada e estética do lixo’. Contracampo: Revista do Mestrado em Comunicação, Imagem e Informação 5 (2000), 169–182.

João Luiz Vieira is professor in the Department of Film and Video at the Federal Fluminense University in Niterói, Rio de Janeiro. He has a PhD in Cinema Studies from New York University (1984), and was a Fulbright Visiting Scholar in the Media Arts Department of the University of New Mexico (1996) and in the Department of Cinema and Comparative Literature at the University of Iowa (2002). He is author and editor of a number of works, including Cinema Novo and Beyond (MoMA, 1998) and Câmera-faca: o cinema de Sérgio Bianchi (Cineclube da Feira, 2004), and has published book chapters in World Cinemas, Transnational Perspectives (Routledge, 2010), The International Film Musical (Edinburgh University Press, 2012) and The Brazilian Road Movie: Journeys of (Self) Discovery (University of Wales Press, 2013) among many others.

Leonardo Côrtes Macario has an MA in Communication and Culture and a PhD in Comparative Literature. His main areas of research are Brazilian cinema, particularly the chanchada tradition and Cinema Novo, carnival music in film, and the links between film and literature. He has published articles about Brazilian films such as Macunaíma (1969), Carnaval Atlântida (Atlântida Carnival, 1952) and Aviso aos navegantes (Calling all Passengers, 1950). 

CHAPTER 7

Eliane Lage A falling star in the skies of the tropics Ana Carolina de Moura Delfim Maciel

In 1949, the Companhia Cinematográfica Vera Cruz (Vera Cruz Filmmaking Company) was founded, in the city of São Bernardo do Campo, São Paulo state, by two entrepreneurs – Franco Zampari and Francisco Matarazzo Sobrinho – with the aim of producing films on an industrial scale, something never before achieved in a country that traditionally had lagged behind others in this respect. Just a few years later, in 1954, the company went bankrupt, leaving a legacy of eighteen feature-length films and an unfulfilled dream.1 Within this historical context, this chapter analyses the career, star persona and film roles of actress Eliane Lage – considered the major star of the Vera Cruz studios – and how her image was moulded by their publicity department. The foundation of the studios in São Bernardo do Campo, located within the metropolitan area of São Paulo, formed part of a wider expansion of cultural life in the city. Between 1949 and 1953, twenty film companies were set up, most significantly Maristela (1950–58), owned by Mário Audrá Jr., Ruggero Jacobbi and Carlos Alberto Porto, which made twenty-four films (including co-productions), and Multifilmes S.A. (1952–55), founded by Mário Civelli and responsible for the production of nine films. Following in the footsteps of Vera Cruz, the company Produtora Cinematográfica Brasil Filme S.A. (1955–59) was created by actor, playwright and producer Abílio Pereira de Almeida, which used Vera Cruz’s facilities and many of the latter’s former technical staff. None of these companies ­survived the decade. It was within this context of patchy film production characterized by brief booms, which was unable to contend with the might of Hollywood imports, that Eliane Lage made her debut. She appeared in just five films, a modest number but enough for film critics to compare her to internationally famous

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actresses like Greta Garbo and Ingrid Bergman. The main difference, however, was that, unlike her Hollywood counterparts who appeared in a steady stream of productions over several decades, Lage lacked the continuous backing from the  studio system that a large-scale, longstanding film industry would have provided. In seeking to situate Eliane Lage within the period that she worked as an actress, from 1950 to 1959, and to understand the role of film stars in the ­imagination of generations of movie-goers, it is helpful to consider the work of scholars who have reflected on the ‘star system’ by which film stars are elevated to the status of idols through a process that relies on and is driven by the mass media. According to Edgar Morin, the cinema offers us a ‘fantastic feeling of reality’, and we are dealing, essentially, with ‘artificially reproduced images’,2 and men and women who are essentially imaginary. As has been noted repeatedly within academic star studies over the past decades, the cinematic world bears a striking resemblance to the ‘real’ world, as in its realm we encounter beings who display the movements, speech and points of view of people who evince feelings and are involved in plots informed by day-to-day life, thus bringing us face to face with the confusion between the ‘represented’ world and the ‘real’ one. Seated passively in the cinema, the spectator ingests this representation as food for his/ her dreams. Morin argued that the viewer is powerfully seduced during the act of ‘contemplating’ a film presentation.3 In his text Esquisse d’une Psychologie du Cinéma (published in 1946), critic André Malraux noted that in cinema a ‘collective instinct’ is catalysed by the ‘mythic’ power of the film star.4 Morin followed up on Malraux’s idea of the film star as a ‘myth’, as did Roland Barthes in Mythologies (first published in 1957), who conceived of mythology as ‘a narrative chosen by history’.5 Barthes reflected on the power of history to transform the real into discourse and to determine who remains and who ‘dies’ in the collective mind. Other scholars of the phenomenon of stardom have concentrated on its commercial and industrial connotations. In the star system, film producers construct an effective publicity machine, stars are fabricated on an industrial scale and their stardom extends beyond the borders of Hollywood to embrace a worldwide audience. Dedicating herself to the study of this theme, anthropologist Hortense Powdermaker, in her book Hollywood, the Dream Factory (published in 1950), noted that, initially, the studios did not encourage the star system. In her analysis, it all began when fans started writing letters asking for information

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about their favourite actors, though at first the studios did not encourage the fan mail for fear that the stars would demand higher salaries.6 Seven years later – in Les Stars – Edgar Morin considered the ‘birth’ of the star phenomenon to be the result of market competition. According to his analysis, the public was responsible for the transformation of actresses into goddesses, but the star system carried ­forward by the studios was responsible for their ‘fabrication’.7 With the expansion of Hollywood, and its version of industrially produced stardom, the American way of life became disseminated via cinema screens on a global scale from the 1920s onwards, and one of the places where its influence was acutely felt was in Brazil. The poet Blaise Cendrars recounts an episode that occurred during his visit to Rio de Janeiro in the 1920s, which suggests the reach of Hollywood-driven ideals at that time: … I had found myself in Brazil when the screening of Platinum Blonde had had such a success in Rio de Janeiro that in less than a week all of the beautiful mulatto girls and languid negresses who go out at sunset to walk on the Avenue or to enjoy the coolness of the seashore at Flamengo beach had let down their hair and made themselves up with hot-pink make-up.8

Fleeting stars Throughout the twentieth century, Brazilian filmmaking faced various difficulties that prevented it from being consolidated as an industry. In spite of the failure of various film companies in the early decades of the twentieth century, there was a sizeable domestic film audience. For example, in the 1940s, in the cities of Rio de Janeiro and São Paulo, 80% of the population went to the cinema at least once a week. However, the films screened were predominantly Hollywood productions. Such was the might of the North American star system that it became fixed in the imaginary of Brazilian spectators from the early 1900s. In order to compete, it was not uncommon for some Brazilian actresses to be compared with a specific Hollywood star. Thus, Lídia Mattos had ‘less of a bust than Jayne Mansfield’,9 and Silvia Fernanda had legs ‘à la Marlene Dietrich’.10 Some stars were placed on equal footing with their foreign counterparts, such as Eliana Macedo who, according to the critic in the magazine Cinelândia, is ‘more than a match for Betty Grable, or Jane Russell’.11

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Brazilian films were also the focus of favourable comparisons. Writing in the magazine O Cruzeiro, a critic stated that Sinhá Moça (The Landowner’s Daughter,  a Vera Cruz production from 1953) was the ‘Brazilian Gone with the Wind’.12 To bear a resemblance to Hollywood was desirable, but to be accepted into the Hollywood studio system was the ultimate success. With this in mind, the actress Ilka Soares confessed in the pages of Cinelândia magazine: ‘I can already imagine going past a cinema on Hollywood Boulevard and seeing my name in multi-coloured lights above the entrance. “La Soares, in such-and-such a film, alongside some Hollywood leading man or other”’.13 References to the Hollywood model permeated the press and the popular imagination throughout the 1950s. Domestic film magazines heavily promoted North American film stars, leaving little space for Brazilian cinema. Reading the first editorial statement published in the magazine Cinelândia, for example, allows us to understand how foreign cinema was publicized in Brazil. With correspondents in Hollywood and Europe, and agreements with the Dell Publishing Company and the Margood Publishing Corporation of New York, Cinelândia acquired imported material to fill its columns.14 In its first issue the magazine acknowledges its own shortcomings, affirming that Brazilian cinema needs greater ‘coverage’ and requesting that domestic film companies help by sending to the editors ‘kodachromes of the stars and their residences … thereby furnishing new and interesting material’.15 Responding to the need of the periodicals and deploying a publicity system of unprecedented proportions in Brazil, Vera Cruz fed the press information concerning its productions and stars. A careful analysis of this material reveals the elements that gave shape to the star persona of Eliane Lage.

Eliane Lage’s star persona [Eliane Lage] was our Ingrid Bergman … . I was the one who invented her, ­discovered her, because I think that she was ‘my’ Ingrid Bergman.16 Eliane Margaret Elisabeth Lage, daughter of a Brazilian father (Jorge Ivan Lage, 1907–69) and an English mother (Margaret Hodge, 1908–79), was born in Paris in 1928 and arrived in Brazil as an infant. After her parents separated and her mother went back to Europe, she went to live on an island off the coast of the state of Rio

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de Janeiro that belonged to her great-grandfather on her father’s side, Antônio Martins Lage, a millionaire who owned shipyards, a shipping company and coal mines. After a brief spell living with her mother in Europe, in 1949 she decided to return to Brazil. During the holidays of that year, she spent a few days in São Paulo and came to the attention of the Vera Cruz studios at a lunch hosted by the entrepreneur and patron of the arts Francisco Matarazzo Sobrinho and his wife Yolanda Penteado to welcome the foreign technical staff who were arriving to work for Vera Cruz.17 One of the first major challenges faced by the studios was to find a qualified labour force, which led them to ‘import’ en masse foreign professionals. Among these was Tom Payne, who had arrived from England to take up the position of first assistant on the production Caiçara (Adolfo Celi, 1950), and who would go on to marry Eliane.18 Although it could have chosen its major star from a group of actresses who had appeared in previous films, Vera Cruz preferred an unknown actress, revealing a ‘new face’ to star in its first film. A little before the film’s release in 1950, Lage’s first publicity photograph appeared in the programme of the Teatro Brasileiro de Comédia (Brazilian Comedy Theatre).19 The text ­evidences Vera Cruz’s aim to promote Lage as a new discovery: Eliane Lage … plays the female lead role in Caiçara, a name unknown ­yesterday and who in a few weeks will be acclaimed by the Brazilian public as one of the greatest revelations on stage or screen of all time.20 To coincide with her debut appearance on screen, a ‘biography’ was constructed for her that placed a great deal of emphasis on her wealthy background, her avoidance of ‘stardom’,21 her love for her husband, her preference for a life out of the limelight, and her love of nature. In 1951, a brief summary of the actress’s career appeared in the magazine A Cena Muda: She has lived in France, in Italy, and Greece. For two years, her classic beauty lived under the Greek sun, her profile was blended with those of the statues that neither time nor war has managed to destroy, which still stand as the emblems of an extinct civilization. Later, came the homesickness. Eliane missed Brazil.  …  When she returned, she did not even dream that she was about to enter the cinema, to star in a movie, to become famous throughout Brazil. When Eliane arrived Brazilian cinema was at the top of the agenda; Cavalcanti

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had arrived a short time before, and Vera Cruz had just been created. Tom Payne had also just arrived. And he was in charge of ‘discovering’ the ‘Marina’ of the pioneering studio’s first film. Destiny arranged the encounter between the filmmaker and the future ‘star’, at an elegant dinner, at the Matarazzo residence. Tom saw Eliane and had no doubt that she would be the great ‘star’ of national cinema. Eliane resisted for some time. But in the end she did the screen test. The rest of the story is already well known … . The romance that would ensue during the filming of Caiçara culminated in a romantic marriage between the ‘star’ and the director, in the interior of the state of Rio Grande do Sul, where they were staying on location.22 The fact that she had come from a ‘traditional family’ – even though the Lage economic empire had begun to crumble in the postwar years – was a common talking point. In July 1951, the magazine Foco featured a small text introducing the actress: ‘Eliane Lage is from Rio de Janeiro, the daughter of one of the state’s most important families’.23 The magazine A Cena Muda also mentioned her social status: ‘Although Eliane descends from the wealthy bourgeois, fortunately she’s not at all uppity’.24 Her famous encounter with Tom Payne was also the focus of media attention. According to Eliane herself, it was love at first sight that made her decide to become an actress. In 1952, in an autobiographical text published in the magazine Cinelândia, she confirmed her ‘reluctance’ to take a screen test for the film Caiçara: I didn’t want to agree to this test, which did not remotely feature in my plans. I resisted because I didn’t want to get involved at all. But Tom insisted, he was persuasive, he assured me that just taking the test entailed no commitment. Finally, I decided to do it, just to make this very nice, friendly guy happy. To my surprise, I passed the test … .25 Throughout the 1950s, the Paynes were treated reverently by the press, whose curiosity about the couple was matched by respect for their privacy. They lived on a farm, something that provided endless column inches for the reporters; it was with manifest pride that Eliane carried out agricultural chores at her home, the Granja Nuporanga, because working on the land seemed to give her greater pleasure than starring in films. As she said in an interview published in Cinelândia:

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I always wanted to make my dream come true with my own hands and, therefore, I threw myself into work, really laborious work, soon after we bought Nuporanga … We ploughed a good portion of the land … And we did it with great satisfaction every morning, bright and early, soon after I had fed the chickens … Tom says that, for a ‘ploughman’, I’m a very good actress … and here is a little taste of my paradise, with its sunny mornings and serene nights lit by the glimmering light of poetic lamps.26 The Granja Nuporanga was besieged on several occasions by journalists and photographers. After all, a film director and his film star wife who also raised chickens sparked widespread curiosity. In the article ‘A rainha do cinema brasileiro encontrou a felicidade na velha fórmula “o amor e uma choupana”’ [‘The Queen of Brazilian Cinema Finds Happiness in the Old Formula “Love and a Cabin”’], her bucolic lifestyle, once again, is the theme: The faraway town of Cotia, at the top of a hill that the electric power lines have not yet reached, and which the inhabitants call Nuporanga, is home to a strange and happy couple, who represent the pinnacle of Brazilian filmmaking nobility. Eliane Lage, her husband, director Tom Payne, their little girl Viviane Elizabeth, a turkey called Dinarte, a calf named Ângela, and two much loved canine stars called Chiquita and Dona de Pontiac…27 Vera Cruz’s ‘estrela de primeira grandeza’ (‘star of the highest order’, as she was designated at that time) dressed casually in everyday life. Photographs of her at the farm, wearing thick jackets and jeans, carrying ducks, brushing horses, ploughing the land, pumping water from the well or lying in a hammock, definitely did not resemble typical photographs of Brazilian stars at that time, who in contrast adopted an overtly glamorous aura. Of the Brazilian stars of that era, Tônia Carrero, another actress contracted at Vera Cruz, projected an image of the alluring, sophisticated actress, who in public dressed very elegantly and was seen at a wealth of social and cultural events. At the other end of the spectrum was Eliana Macedo (see Lisa Shaw’s chapter in this volume), who appeared in many of the popular chanchadas in the 1940s and 1950s made by the Rio-based Atlântida studios, and was considered by the critics as an actress with a more down-to-earth appeal. Eliane Lage, in contrast to both, debunked the realm of film stardom by overtly turning her back on its material trappings and glamour in

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favour of a r­ eclusive existence and a rather aloof demeanour, a fact that at times left the press rather disoriented. In addition to describing her as ‘fabulous’, ‘charming’, ‘intelligent’ and ‘capable’, a Cinelândia reporter stated: ‘there are few people like you in Brazil. There should be many more … . You might not be approachable, but that doesn’t matter… you, Eliane Lage, are a vocation’.28 When film releases and future projects became scarce, due to the imminent closure of Vera Cruz, Lage and Payne were described as the protagonists of a bucolic scene on their farm as follows: The timid sun of the São Paulo winter made its presence known above the field still moist from the nocturnal drizzle. Eliane Lage could not resist: she lay down on a pile of hay, and asked her husband, filmmaker Tom Payne, to make her a cup of yerba mate tea…29 With the demise of Vera Cruz, the couple moved to Guarujá (a coastal town in the south of São Paulo state), and for some years – though to a lesser degree – they continued to be the subject of news reports, despite the fact that Tom Payne went on to work in different areas such as civil construction and antique dealing. In 1963, Cinelândia presented a brief retrospective of the couple’s careers and ended with the following request: ‘… it would be magnificent if the Paynes would continue to give a great deal of consideration to our national cinema and if they would decide to return … a good director like Tom Payne and a great star like Eliane Lage are always very much welcome. We all wish that they would return’.30 But this never happened. Despite several attempts, Payne never managed to revive his film career.31 When their marriage broke up in 1965, Lage took to earning her living in a variety of ways, for example as a translator, tour guide and saleswoman. In the 1960s she commuted from her home in Petrópolis to Rio de Janeiro to sell the Encyclopaedia Britannica. In 1977 she moved to Pirenópolis in the state of Goiás, where she still resides to this day. This move sealed her fate, and in subsequent decades her public image has become gradually scarcer, except for rare appearances in the press. The leitmotif of Eliane Lage’s public statements was that she never intended to go into filmmaking, and that once she was in the business her film career was not her main priority, and perhaps this was the overriding reason for her lack of exposure and withdrawal from the public eye.

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Figure 7.1 Eliane Lage holding the Saci trophy for best actress, which she was awarded for her performance in Ravina (1958), alongside her children. Courtesy of Eliane Lage’s personal archive.

Lage’s screen roles Everybody thought that I was the great actress that I didn’t think I was, I never liked my performances … . Tom [Payne] used to say, ‘you have presence, you don’t need to do anything. You have presence…’. I thought that was a bit of nonsense.32 Lage repeatedly made this type of comment, declaring that she did not consider herself a talented actress and that she had never remotely planned on pursuing an acting career, having only done so as a consequence of falling in love with

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Payne. These are the leitmotifs of her written and spoken declarations, and in the biographical documentary Eliane (Maciel, 2002) she explicitly states: ‘I would not have been involved in cinema if I hadn’t fallen in love … Never! I had other plans’. The ‘accidental’ nature of her stardom is corroborated by references to the rather improvised strategies used by filmmakers working for the studios. In the film Terra é sempre terra (Land is Always Land, 1951), for example, Lage was given the secondary role of Dora simply because she was visiting Payne on location when the original actress suffered an accident. Experimentation and sometimes even improvisation were the defining characteristics of Vera Cruz’s productions, irrespective of their genre. Consequently, it was not possible to employ the strategy of typage for the actors and actresses under contract with the studios, since they were required to play very diverse characters. Faced with the problem of a lack of professional actors, the choice of star was dictated by wholly subjective criteria. As Lage explained in relation to her casting as Marina, the heroine of Caiçara (1950): Tom and I happened to sit down opposite each other – we were worlds apart. I wasn’t listening to the conversation, neither was he, and totally out of the blue someone asked Tom: ‘And you, what do you think?’ And he said ‘Me? What do I think about what?’ He didn’t even know what the person was referring to. ‘The actresses. Where are we going to find the actress?’ At which point Tom said, ‘The actress for the film? I don’t see any problem, she’s sitting here right in front of me!’ and I [laughter] wanted the ground to swallow me up.33 She thus became the star of Vera Cruz’s first feature film, in the role of Marina, a poor young woman obliged by economic circumstance to marry an uncouth boat builder and live with him on a small island. On screen and in publicity material for the film, Lage was represented in a naturalist style, betraying the fact that the film’s director, the Italian Adolfo Celi, took his inspiration from the actresses of European neo-realism. In the photographs used to promote the production, she appears in simple cotton dresses, shawls and without make-up, and it was no coincidence that there were frequent comparisons between Stromboli (Roberto Rossellini, 1950) and Caiçara, giving rise to a trend (still in vogue) for commenting on the similarities between Lage and Ingrid Bergman. For the Vera Cruz studios, under the influence of producer Alberto Cavalcanti, Lage fulfilled perfectly the requirements of the kind of female star that they wished to promote: a beautiful face, natural hair and casually dressed. Having no acting experience whatsoever, she followed

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advice given by Payne, who suggested a minimalistic performance based on contained emotion and the avoidance of exaggeration. This gave rise to a performance that differed markedly from those given by other Brazilian actresses at that time.34 In her next role as the eponymous protagonist of Ângela (Tom Payne and Abílio Pereira de Almeida, 1951), she plays a wife who suffers at the hands of her scornful gambling husband. The storyline, based on a short story, did not appeal to Lage, who had a preference for historical dramas and strong female characters.35 It was thus no coincidence that the epic Sinhá Moça (1953), in which she played the daughter of a slave-owning landowner who takes an active stance to free the slaves, thus coming into direct conflict with her father, was her favourite film. Nevertheless, Lage has stated that she was not satisfied with her own performance: ‘[In] Sinhá Moça I have always thought that Ruth [de Souza] was fantastic, but I wasn’t. I’ve never liked my performance’.36 Definitively bringing her fleeting career to an end, Lage played the eponymous heroine of her fifth film Ravina (1958). Shot after the Vera Cruz studios had declared bankruptcy and produced by the Brasil Filme S.A. studios, Ravina was not directed by Payne, a factor that further aggravated Lage’s unhappiness with the film, which had been written especially for her by the cinema critic Rubem Biáfora, the film’s director.37 She plays the role of a femme fatale, seducing the men in her immediate circle, and in promotional material her character was described as ‘innocent and fatal’, with the plot outlined as follows: ‘A torrent of emotions, in the most lavish, strange and passionate drama ever produced by Brazilian cinema’. Despite these claims, the storyline of Ravina lacked a coherent thread, as Lage herself recognized: the plot was so strange, it was all very odd; the uncle who was kind of in love with her [Ravina] but not really, had a cousin who was also kind of in love with her but not really, and there was someone else who popped up and killed the cousin, it was very confusing! All I know is I spent the whole time running around with these two men chasing me.38

Conclusion Lage’s star text centred on her ‘detachment from the cinema’, her being ‘different from the norm’ and her comparison with the ‘great goddesses’ of Hollywood. She

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portrayed herself as something of an ‘accidental’ star, who never really considered herself to be a true actress. Her five screen roles were very diverse, ranging from her debut performance as a humble and defenceless young woman, to an epic heroine, and finally to a femme fatale. The Vera Cruz studios clearly did not have a specific star text in mind for Lage, eschewing the strategy of typage. The diversity of her roles was by virtue of necessity, reflecting the precarious economic and professional conditions faced by the studios, and her casting, by her own ­admission, the consequence of fortuitousness. The Brazilian ‘star system’, notably that created by the Vera Cruz studios, has been given scant attention by Brazilian scholars. In general, the tendency is to treat it as a poor imitation of the hegemonic Hollywood model, a point of view that is also extended to the films produced by the domestic industry, considered ‘dependent’, ‘peripheral’ and ‘underdeveloped’, to adopt the terms used by Paulo Paranaguá.39 In his analysis, Vera Cruz’s policy when it came to casting its actors and actresses was ‘elitist’ since it ignored the ‘Rio de Janeiro film tradition’ (in other words, the chanchada musical comedies). The São Paulo star system can thus be summarized in just a few words, he argues: ‘the self-promotion of São Paulo café society’, with limited reach and being restricted to the tittle-tattle ­published in high-society gossip columns.40 Simply alluding to a series of dichotomies – Rio de Janeiro v São Paulo; elite v popular; national v imported – does not reveal, however, the real causes of the failure of the Vera Cruz studios. Paranaguá is right when he states that in the 1960s, with the advent of Cinema Novo, the concept of stardom is transferred onto the figure of the director. One of the most notorious directors of that avantgarde movement, Glauber Rocha, published (a few years after Vera Cruz had ground to a halt) a book with revisionist pretensions in which he stated that the 1950s had been ‘the most complex decade in the history of Brazilian cinema’, resulting in ‘a hundred or so films’, none of which was any good.41 Taking one’s inspiration from North American films was seeking to base Brazilian cinema on ‘rotten foundations of foreign cinema’.42 In short, the legacy of Vera Cruz could be described as a ‘detestable principle of imitation, of copying the great American directors’.43 I would like to challenge the view that the adoption of the North American studio system was the main cause of the failure of the Vera Cruz studios. As I hope to have shown in this chapter, in the 1950s Hollywood had already created and consolidated the industrial-scale output of its films, stars and related

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consumer goods. Despite the pioneering spirit displayed by a small number of ­entrepreneurs based in Brazil, it would prove impossible – without the due support of a national film policy – for a film industry to succeed that from the outset was a hostage to imported raw materials (namely, film stock) and that depended on the North American majors Universal Pictures and Columbia Pictures to ­distribute its products. Given this context, it was the presence of North American cinema, and its domination of the Brazilian market – and not the adoption of Hollywood’s production methods – that made the establishment of cinema on an industrial scale in Brazil an impossibility. In June 1954, when Vera Cruz was wrapping up its activities, the filmmaker and essayist Paulo Emílio Salles Gomes published in the newspaper Diário da Noite an article entitled ‘O Ópio do Povo’, in which he stated that Brazil, in terms of cinema, only existed as a market for the consumption of films. Within this context, imported films amply benefitted from a currency exchange mechanism that allowed foreign film companies to export, according to Gomes, ‘seventy per cent of the profits obtained from the exploitation of their films in Brazil’. The author argued that the Brazilian authorities set aside ‘a veritable fund’ of eleven million dollars per year for foreign film production.44 It is symptomatic that information of this kind has diminished with the passing of the decades, being replaced by criticisms that fail to reveal the real reasons for the failure of the Brazilian film industry.

Notes This chapter was based on research conducted in the course of my doctoral thesis, which gave rise to the publication of the book: A. Maciel, Yes, nós temos bananas: cinema industrial paulista: a companhia cinematográfica Vera Cruz, atrizes de cinema e Eliane Lage (São Paulo: Alameda Editorial, 2011). I would like to thank Lina Maciel Pereira de Souza, Daniel Maciel Pereira de Souza, Caco Souza, Lúcia Nagib, Lisa Shaw and Tim Bergfelder. All translations in this chapter are my own, unless otherwise indicated. 1. Even today Brazil does not have a film industry on an industrial scale. A combination of factors led to the early demise of Vera Cruz: the excessive cost of the construction of the studios and the purchase of imported equipment; the significant financial commitment involved in making the films, with various productions failing to cover their costs at the box office; the inefficiency of government subsidies and the absence of an adequate policy to protect domestic film production; film projects

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2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16.

17. 18.

19.

20. 21.

that were commenced but eventually abandoned; the low price of theatre tickets; and financial problems arising from distribution contracts with Universal Pictures and Columbia Pictures. E. Morin, O cinema ou o homem imaginário, preface to the new edition (Lisbon: Relógio D’água, 1997), 14. Ibid., 17. A. Malraux, Esquisse d’une Psychologie du Cinéma (Paris: N.R.F., 1946). R. Barthes, Mitologias (Rio de Janeiro: Bertrand Brasil, 1999; original edition: R. Barthes, Mythologies (Paris: Editions du Seuil, 1957), 132. H. Powdermaker, Hollywood, the Dream Factory: An Anthropologist Looks at the MovieMakers (Boston, MA: Little, Brown, 1950). E. Morin, As estrelas de cinema (Lisbon: Livros Horizonte, 1980; originally published as Les Stars; Paris: Editions du Seuil, 1957), 79. Cited in ibid., 157. Cinelândia, May 1963. Cinelândia, September 1953 (2nd fortnight), 20. Cinelândia, July 1953 (2nd fortnight), 23. See also Lisa Shaw’s chapter in this volume. O Cruzeiro, 20 June 1953, 93. Cinelândia, July 1953, 38. Cinelândia, July 1953. Cinelândia, ‘Aos Leitores’ [To the Readers], ‘Aqui está a Cinelândia!’ [Here is Cinelândia!], introductory editorial, May 1952. Mauro Alice (born 1925), a film editor who began his career at Vera Cruz as an assistant to Oswald Hafenrichter (an Austrian-born editor); in an interview with the author, 6 June 2005. Cinelândia, ‘Casei-me com o diretor’, June 1952, 5. In a life interwoven with their experiences in the film industry, Tom and Eliane began their courtship during the filming of Caiçara and were married during the shooting of Ângela (Payne and Abílio Pereira de Almeida, 1951), the second film the actress starred in. This relationship resulted in their three children, Vivien (1953), Vanessa (1956) and Thomas (1960), as well as Eliane Lage’s participation as an actress in five films: Caiçara, Ângela, Terra é sempre terra (Land is Always Land, Tom Payne, 1951), Sinhá Moça (Tom Payne, 1953) and Ravina (Rubem Biáfora, 1958). Shortly before inaugurating the Companhia Cinematográfica Vera Cruz, businessman Franco Zampari founded the Teatro Brasileiro de Comédia (1948– 64), where he introduced a style of theatre based on well-executed, previously unperformed plays, using highly skilled technical teams and excellent actors. A Cena Muda, no. 19, 1950. Although the fledgling Brazilian film industry could not be compared to Hollywood, and thus the notion of a ‘star system’ differed markedly in the two geographical

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22.

23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42.

contexts, the films in which Eliane Lage starred were celebrated with sumptuous premieres, clearly modelled on their Hollywood counterparts, reached large audiences and remained in exhibition for considerable periods. Lage, however, remained at a distance from this local star system. A Cena Muda, 31 May 1951, 4. Alberto de Almeida Cavalcanti (1897–1982) was living in England when he was invited to assume the position of producer in chief at Vera Cruz. He had been living for several years outside Brazil, having begun his artistic career in Paris, as a set designer for Marcel L’Herbier and Louis Delluc. Throughout his career, Cavalcanti gained experience in various areas of filmmaking, working as a sound engineer, screenplay writer, editor, producer and director. His first film, Le Train Sans Yeux (Train without Eyes), was released in 1927. In 1933 he moved to England where he worked as a sound engineer, and later as a producer with director John Grierson’s GPO Film Unit. Still in England, he worked at Ealing Studios, where he directed films including Champagne Charlie (1944) and They Made Me A Fugitive (1947). Other films he directed include Dead of Night (1945) and The Life and Adventures of Nicholas Nickleby (1946). Cavalcanti’s work with Vera Cruz was as meteoric as the company’s existence. He started working there in January 1950, and left the position one year later, in 1951. Foco, July 1951, front cover. A Cena Muda, 20 August 1951, 32. Cinelândia, ‘Casei-me com o director’ [I Married the Director], June 1952, 5. Cinelândia, October 1952, 30. Cinelândia, July 1954 (1st fortnight), 31. A Cena Muda, 29 March 1951, 32. Ibid., 21. Cinelândia, March 1963, 60 and 70. Tom Payne never filmed again; he died in 1996, at eighty-three years of age. E. Lage, 2002, in interview in the documentary Eliane (Maciel). E. Lage, January 2002, in interview with the author. E. Lage, January 2002, in interview with the author. E. Lage, 2002, in interview in the documentary Eliane (Maciel). Ibid. Her professional difficulties with Biáfora led her to decide never to make another film. E. Lage, 2002, in interview in the documentary Eliane (Maciel). Ibid. P. Paranaguá, ‘Brasil: star system y medio de comunicación de masas’, Cine Cubano 110 (1984), 37. Ibid., 39. G. Rocha, Revisão crítica do cinema brasileiro (São Paulo: Cosac & Naify, 2003), 71. First published in 1963 by the Rio de Janeiro publisher Civilização Brasileira. Ibid., 75.

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43. Ibid., 83. 44. P.E. Salles Gomes, Diário da Noite, 5 June 1954.

References Barthes, R. Mythologies. Paris: Editions du Seuil, 1957. Barthes, R. Mitologias. Rio de Janeiro: Bertrand Brasil, 1999; originally published as Mythologies. Paris: Editions du Seuil, 1957. Maciel, A. Yes, nós temos bananas: cinema industrial paulista: a companhia cinematográfica Vera Cruz, atrizes de cinema e Eliane Lage. São Paulo: Alameda Editorial, 2011. Malraux, A. Esquisse d’une Psychologie du Cinéma. Paris: N.R.F., 1946. Morin, E. As estrelas de cinema. Lisbon: Livros Horizonte, 1980; originally published as Les Stars. Paris: Editions du Seuil, 1957. Morin, E. O cinema ou o homem imaginário, preface to the new edition. Lisbon: Relógio D’água, 1997. Paranaguá, P. ‘Brasil: star system y medio de comunicación de masas’. Cine Cubano 110 (1984), 35–41. Powdermaker, H. Hollywood, the Dream Factory: An Anthropologist Looks at the MovieMakers. Boston, MA: Little, Brown, 1950. Rocha, G. Revisão crítica do cinema brasileiro. Rio de Janeiro: Civilização Brasileira, 1963. Rocha, G. Revisão crítica do cinema brasileiro. São Paulo: Cosac & Naify, 2003. Salles Gomes, P.E. Diário da Noite, 5 June 1954.

Ana Carolina de Moura Delfim Maciel has a PhD in History from the University of Campinas (UNICAMP), Brazil, and was a post-doctoral researcher at the Museu Paulista (University of São Paulo) and the Centre de Recherches Historiques (EHESS-CNRS) in Paris. She has published academic articles and book chapters in the areas of historiography, memory and audiovisual studies. She is the author of the book Yes, nós temos bananas: cinema industrial paulista: a companhia cinematográfica Vera Cruz, atrizes de cinema e Eliane Lage (Yes, We Have Bananas: Industrial Cinema in São Paulo: the Vera Cruz Film Company, Film Actresses, and Eliane Lage, Alameda Editorial, 2011) and has made several documentary films. She is currently a researcher at the Centre for Memory Studies at UNICAMP.

CHAPTER 8

Radio stars on screen Critiques of stardom in Moacyr Fenelon’s Tudo azul (1952) Luís Alberto Rocha Melo

Rio de Janeiro, the 1950s: in the studios of the Rádio Continental station, a broadcaster introduces some of the biggest names in Brazilian popular music, such as Marlene, Jorge Goulart and Carmélia Alves. Outside the studios, an unknown samba composer, Ananias Fregoso, paces up and down the corridor, as he dreams of becoming a big name himself. The programme announced by the broadcaster has an ironic title, ‘Você tem a sua vez’ (You Have Your Chance), and is sponsored by the makers of Etéreo mattresses, who provide the listeners with  the sweetest dreams. This is how Ananias Fregoso’s adventure begins.  The  situation thus described is a scene from Tudo azul (It’s All Right, 1952), a carnival film directed by Moacyr Fenelon.1 Mixing the conventions of musical and comedy drama, it makes ironic observations about Ananias’s daily life and his desire for fame and recognition in the world of popular music and the radio. For some Brazilian film historians, such as Alex Viany and Paulo Emílio Salles Gomes, Tudo azul exemplifies the renewal and innovation within the carnival musical genre at the time.2 In his pioneering study Introdução ao cinema brasileiro, first published in 1959, Viany discussed the film as ‘the most satisfactory of the carnival musical films produced to this day’, although, according to him, the inclusion of the carnival theme deforms a story that is essentially an ‘enjoyable observation of the everyday life, capers and dreams of a humble book-keeper obsessed with samba but tormented by the most ordinary domestic and professional problems’. Interestingly, when discussing Tudo azul, Viany did not use the (then) discredited generic category chanchada, but chose instead the term ‘filmusicarnavalesco’ (a contraction of ‘filme musical carnavalesco’ [carnival musical film]) in the same pejorative sense. For Viany, and for the majority of film critics

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from that period, there was a distinction in terms of value between an ordinary musical comedy and a carnival musical comedy. A musical film did not need to be associated with the carnival genre. This distinction arose from a condemnation of the chanchada’s commercial aspirations. The fact that the chanchadas repeated successful formulae and were made to tight deadlines was seen as prejudicial to the image of Brazilian cinema in the eyes of the more discerning public. My aim in this chapter is to examine how Tudo azul deals with one of the main features of the carnival musical genre, that is, the presence of radio stars who often performed in the musical numbers of these films. Even though it abides by the most characteristic traditions of musical comedies, Tudo azul presents a critique of stardom, as the concept could be understood in the context of carnival musicals made in the 1940s and 1950s. Alinor Azevedo’s screenplay has been singled out by Viany and Salles Gomes as a key factor in the film’s creativity.3 The script was based on an original storyline of Azevedo’s own creation (entitled Mar de rosas [Bed of Roses]) and on an idea by journalist and writer Henrique Pongetti. Azevedo described the genesis of Tudo azul as follows: I wrote [in Mar de rosas] about a daydreaming accountant who strove to be recognized as a popular composer. In a way, this character portrayed what I had gone through myself when I was an employee at the Social Security Department. … This screenplay was based on very personal emotions. Then I received an urgent call from Flama studios. I took a taxi and rushed there: they asked me to turn the project into a carnival film and even imposed a title on me, Tudo azul. It would have been impossible for me to resist. I grabbed a red pencil and, however soppy it may sound, I wept as I cut the best parts out of Mar de rosas.4 Before I analyse the film in more detail, I will briefly summarize the plot of Tudo azul. Ananias Fregoso (Luiz Delfino) is an employee of an insurance company who cannot get his sambas recorded. His life is tough. A poor man, he keeps arguing with his bad-tempered wife Sofia (Laura Suarez) and finds it difficult to provide for their four children. To make matters worse, Ananias is in love with Maria Clara (played by the singer Marlene, a famous radio performer), but his love is unrequited. She is the secretary at the company he works for and is having an affair with her boss, the intractable Pompeu (Milton Carneiro). One night, unable to endure his routine pressures, his wife’s moods and his own frustrations any longer, Ananias sleeps badly. The voices of Pompeu, Maria Clara and Sofia

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echo in his head, affirming that he will never be anybody in life, and that there is only one solution: suicide. So that is the course of action that Ananias decides to follow, but only in his dream. The poison he takes does not kill him, however, and he is transported instead into a ‘fantasy world’, a universe where there is only ­happiness and success. From this moment all of Ananias’s wishes come true. Sofia turns gentle and loving, dedicated and generous enough to share her husband with Maria Clara, who falls in love with Ananias as well. His boss promotes him to be the head of the insurance company’s ‘Happiness Department’ for being an exemplary musician who understands the soul of the people. Pompeu allows him to do whatever he pleases at work and gives him a substantial pay rise. Ananias’s sambas start to be recorded and performed by the big names of radio: Carmélia Alves, Dalva de Oliveira, Linda Batista, Virgínia Lane, Black-Out and even Maria Clara (Marlene) herself. Any tune Ananias composes on the piano immediately becomes a huge hit. The film’s musical numbers then begin to feature, one after the other. Everything is so perfect that Ananias starts to get bored. After a spectacular musical number, with Carmélia Alves singing a baião (a musical genre from Brazil’s northeast), Ananias is surrounded by numerous fans and almost has his clothes torn off. At the peak of his success, he wakes up from his dream and faces reality again. But his once difficult routine, living with his wife and four small children in a humble rented apartment, now seems attractive to him, precisely because it is real. As the plot synopsis already indicates, the film’s narrative structure is divided into two parts. In the first half, tales of everyday types and situations, and observations on daily life prevail. The second half enters the fantasy world of carnival, and this is where almost all of the musical numbers are concentrated. In the following pages two sequences from the film will be analysed in detail. Both feature musical numbers and present formal tensions in the way they make use of and criticize stardom at one and the same time. These two sequences take place at two distinctive moments in the narrative. The first, which begins with the opening credits and culminates in the musical number ‘Mundo de zinco’ (by Nássara and Wilson Batista),5 presents a classic narrative sequence with realist intentions, founded on space-time continuity. The second sequence in the second half of the film includes the musical number ‘Lata d’água’ (by Luiz Antônio and Jota Júnior)6 and is characterized by a non-realist mode of representation and by a fragmentation of space and time.

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‘Mundo de zinco’ and radio stars: illusion and disillusionment in the realm of stardom Tudo azul begins like many other films whose main attractions are Rio de Janeiro and its popular music. Over the opening credits we see a still image of the iconic statue of Christ the Redeemer, accompanied by a musical medley that leaves no doubts as to Tudo azul’s aims: it is another carnival musical. However, it is unusual that the first musical excerpt sung during the credits has such melancholy (albeit tongue-in-cheek) lyrics as ‘Apanhador de papel’ (‘Litter Collector’, by Peter Pan and Afonso Teixeira): ‘Oh, what a sad and cruel life/ The man who collects litter has/ His profession is rubbish/ He can only go home/ After filling up the bag’. These lyrics capture the mood of Tudo azul, which is essentially a drama with both comic and serious moments, the latter hidden beneath the apparent vitality of a typical carnival film. After the opening credits, aerial shots of Rio de Janeiro (Copacabana beach, the arches of the former aqueduct in the Lapa district, the central railway station and parts of the city centre) are accompanied by a voice-over that recalls the jingoistic newsreels from the 1930s until the 1950s, which exalted the virtues of the Brazilian nation. The strong and vibrant voice extols musical, fun-loving and good-humoured Rio de Janeiro, ‘where all kinds of dances and songs are danced and sung’, and where no one laughs at another’s misfortunes but everyone laughs at their own; a ‘good-humoured land, always young and musical’, the capital of popular rhythms and home of the carioca,7 that ‘poor old friend, happy and hospitable’, who smiles and plays samba all year round. The broadcaster’s voice continues: ‘It’s in this land of rhythms and inspiration from so many consecrated composers, that you, listener, probably an unrecorded composer yourself, will now have your shot at fame!’ The word ‘listener’ reveals that the voice-over does not come from outside the diegesis (such as the narration in a newsreel), but originates from a radio station, and this is confirmed in the following scene, which takes place inside the Rádio Continental station.8 By means of a cut, we are transported from the aerial views of Rio de Janeiro to the closed space of a radio studio. As soon as the broadcaster is physically presented to us, his speech does not refer to the carioca ‘soul’ or to the ‘essence’ of this musical people anymore, but to the Etéreo mattress, which provides ‘the sweetest dreams’ for those who buy it, and whose manufacturers are the official sponsors of the programme entitled ‘You Have Your Chance’ (a title that seems

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to ironically refer to Ananias). This programme offers, in the broadcaster’s words, ‘a reality’: the amateur composer may hear his song recorded by the ‘big names of radio’. The scene cuts to a succession of close-ups of ‘big names’, with the voiceover announcing each singer at the exact moment that his or her face appears on the screen, one by one, as if in a parade, each of them greeted with the sound of applause off screen: Marlene, Dalva de Oliveira, Jorge Goulart, Carmélia Alves, Black-Out and Linda Batista. As the film moves from shots of rooftop aerials into the interior of the radio studio, it leaves the ‘ideal’ world behind and enters a ‘real’ one, implying for the first time the existence of two separate universes. The voice extolling the virtues of Rio de Janeiro now has a specific owner (it belongs to the radio broadcaster) and fulfils a commercial function (the announcement of a programme sponsored by the manufacturers of a particular product). The name of the mattress – Etéreo (Ethereal) – maintains the ironic tone, which is a constant in Tudo azul. The six close-ups of the ‘big names of radio’ in some ways echo the ‘idealistic’ world conjured up by the opening images of the rooftop aerials: they do not belong to the diegetic universe of the radio station, since the neutral background and the framing itself – the close-up – prevent backdrop identification as well as spatial continuity with the former shot of the broadcaster in the studio. Moreover, while we see the stars singing, we do not hear their voices, just the diegetic applause. Thus, by the second scene of Tudo azul, the film’s musical attractions are confirmed for the audience, a key feature of the musical film’s relationship with its public. The two initial scenes are not only a means of giving the spectator narrative information; they also function as critique. The images of the aerials, which pick up the sound waves of the radio, give way to the capitalist reality of a sponsored programme in the studio. Even before Ananias Fregoso appears on screen, he has already been presented to us: he is just one more would-be composer, made invisible by the immense number of aerials and the close-ups of the inaccessible stars. The third scene marks Ananias’s physical entrance into the storyline. While he walks with a smile on his face through Rádio Continental’s corridors, the broadcaster wraps up the speech we have been hearing during the two previous scenes, in an off-screen voice transmitted by the station’s internal speakers, reiterating that ‘with the Etéreo mattress there will be no more bad night’s sleep and no more undiscovered composers because… You Have Your Chance!’ The look of fascination on Ananias’s face, as he holds a small roll of paper in his hands (the sheet music of the song he is trying to record), reinforces the ironic message of the words.

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We next see Ananias in the large and well-equipped office of the radio station’s artistic director (Antônio Nobre), who is sitting behind his desk. The director argues with him impatiently: ‘I cannot command the will of the singers nor am I a mattress manufacturer! Therefore I cannot nurse your dreams!’ Meanwhile, in the studio, singer Jorge Goulart rehearses with Dante Santoro’s combo. The musicians begin to play the introduction to ‘Mundo de zinco’ but are interrupted by an employee who announces Ananias’s arrival. Goulart declares he does not wish to see another ‘would-be composer’, but Ananias bursts in to talk directly to Goulart, only to be impatiently turned away once more. Ananias enquires ‘Didn’t you promise me you’d record my song?’ to which Goulart replies: ‘I did, but there are twenty others ahead of you!’ As he is about to leave, Goulart tells Ananias to come back the following year and leaves. Scenes Four and Five, which take place in the artistic director’s office and in the studio with Goulart, respectively, reinforce the critical depiction of stardom in Tudo azul. The film not only avoids presenting the world of radio as glamorous, but also makes it seem a decidedly callous environment, as one of its ‘big names’, Goulart, causes deep disappointment for Ananias as he is rejected once more. In a further disillusionist strategy, Goulart appears in shirtsleeves during a rehearsal with musicians against a non-theatrical backdrop. From the initial images of rooftop aerials to Goulart’s hostile treatment of Ananias, the narrative advances essentially a dramatic plot with no comic interludes, yet overall the film retains the typical structure of a musical film. The performance of ‘Mundo de zinco’ by Goulart and Santoro’s so-called ‘regional band’ begins.9 The scene is composed of twelve shots and is well integrated into the narrative. The action focuses only on the auditorium where the number is in progress, thus fulfilling audience expectations of a musical film. Here Goulart sings to the evident delight of his diegetic fans. On the other hand, the musical number also creates a sense of isolation for Ananias, who is diegetically excluded from the scene. The number gives a strong realist impression in the classical narrative sense: indeed, what we see is a singer performing for an audience in a radio auditorium. There is no rupture in the diegesis and the scene is in continuity with the previous one (where Goulart dismisses Ananias and goes to give his performance). Furthermore, the scene alternates shots of the singer with those of the audience who watch him, thus creating a distancing effect. Consequently, when Jorge Goulart prepares to perform his musical number, we not only have a star before us: we know he is a singer committed to the

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commercial inner workings of the world of the radio, involving sponsorships and advertisements, and that this influences his choice of songs as well as his rejection of many others. The public, on the other hand, seems unaware of all this. Those who, like Ananias, attempt to break through the barrier and cease to be just another listener, seeking to become instead a distinct face among the ‘big names of radio’, must comply with the rules of the game. If they cannot negotiate, their songs will remain unrecorded and they will be excluded, just like Ananias during the ‘Mundo de zinco’ number. The critical attitude that Tudo azul advances towards the commercial side of the showbiz world is manifested precisely in the film’s manipulation of the carnival musical genre. As the musical number by Goulart commences, the viewer has already been confronted with the deceptions behind the radio broadcaster’s words (which link ‘dream’ and ‘reality’ in the form of the commercial sponsorship by the makers of the Etéreo mattress), they have witnessed the hostility of the artistic director and the narrative has demystified the image of Goulart. The ‘Mundo de zinco’ musical number (the first in Tudo azul) thus does not encapsulate the typical joie de vivre of a musical film; on the contrary, it is the crowning moment of Ananias’s frustration.

‘Lata d’água’: from Marlene’s Hollywood-style stardom to shantytown realism The scene leading up to the musical number analysed below, ‘Lata d’água’, begins in the hotel suite where Ananias resides after becoming successful. It takes place in the carnival universe to which Ananias is transported in his dream. Immediately before the ‘Lata d’água’ number, an argument between Ananias, Maria Clara and Sofia has occurred, and Ananias refuses to go out for dinner with the two women and resolves to work at the piano. Sofia leaves Maria Clara in the room with Ananias, and Maria Clara picks up a magazine to read. Ananias starts playing the first eight notes of ‘Lata d’água’ on the piano. He tests the musical phrase and crafts chords and flourishes for the song. This action is narrated in five shots that alternate between Maria Clara on the sofa and Ananias at the piano. The emphasis of the scene falls on Ananias creating the melody. Attracted by the emerging song, Maria Clara joins Ananias in the composition of the samba. The two of them end up creating the lyrics and melody for ‘Lata d’água’ together, and when

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Maria Clara asks Ananias ‘which samba is this?’ he answers that it is ‘being born’ at that very moment. When he repeats the same eight-note melody upon her request, she has a sudden creative inspiration and states that she has found a ‘terrific motif’ for the song. After the musical number inspired by Maria Clara begins, she quickly moves to the back of the living room in the hotel suite, at the exact moment that the lights go down and highlight the background, creating a silhouetted cut-out of Marlene’s body as she dances to the sound of the theme’s introductory drums. A travelling shot leaves Ananias (who is at the piano) out of the scene, and the living room is transformed into a virtual stage via lighting effects. The real/unreal dichotomy is reworked here within the limits of the conventions of a musical film and the ‘transdiegesis’, that is, the ‘inversion of the actor-character relationship’: Maria Clara becomes the singer Marlene.10 Before Maria Clara/Marlene starts singing, there is a cut from the hotel suite to location shots of a favela, with washerwomen carrying cans of water on their heads and walking in single file through the narrow streets of the slum. This cut is surprising and reinforces the film’s refusal to be constrained by narrative continuity, especially because the scene at the hotel suite is at night and the slum shots all take place in the daytime. The ‘Lata d’água’ musical number is composed of six shots taken in the shantytown, outdoors, and two close-ups of Maria Clara/Marlene singing in the hotel suite. The two close-ups are similar to the ones seen at the beginning of the film (in the scene where the radio broadcaster announces the ‘big names’, Marlene being one of them). This not only creates new temporal relationships (redirecting us to the beginning of the film and above all to Ananias’s imaginary), but also reinforces the ambivalence of the transdiegetic sign (‘Maria Clara’ becomes – or turns back into – ‘Marlene’). The appearance of the shantytown in Tudo azul, for its part, is extremely significant and needs to be analysed within the broader context of Brazilian cinema. In 1951, the year the film was made, the slums of Rio de Janeiro had been little visited by filmmakers. Favela dos meus amores (Shantytown of My Loves, Humberto Mauro, 1935), Berlim na batucada (Berlin to the Samba Beat, Luiz de Barros, 1944) and Também somos irmãos (We Are Also Brothers, José Carlos Burle, 1949) were some exceptions to the rule, and it is worth noting that the screenplay for the first of these films was penned by Henrique Pongetti, and that for the third film by Alinor Azevedo – the two writers who would later join forces in Tudo azul. According to Sérgio Augusto, Moacyr Fenelon’s idea for Tudo azul was to ‘bring

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together a story by Alinor and another by Henrique Pongetti, which also had a popular composer as its star and a Rio de Janeiro slum as its background’.11 However, when the film was made, the ‘background’ was entirely altered and only the six shots of the shantytown remained; as the latter was no longer the main social setting for Tudo azul, it became the location for only one musical number. Even so, in 1952 this represented a novelty in terms of carnival films.12 The most striking aspect of the six slum shots is precisely their beauty. The framing gives great importance to the harmonious composition of visual elements, creating sinuous lines and vanishing perspectives that reveal a desire for classicism and a gaze of aesthetic intentions. There is in fact a photogenic rationale in each of these shots: the upward and downward angles draw attention to the shacks, which are in turn emphasized by the heavy cloudy sky as well as the city that stretches as far as the horizon. The washerwomen enter the frame with their backs to the camera, balancing cans full of water on the top of their heads, and then follow the winding path up the hill. Other women, in line with the lyrics of the song, lead children by the hand. The two close-ups of Marlene singing correspond to a different interpretation of photogeneity, namely that of the star system. The use of a filter to soften the shape of her face and hair, and the backlight that creates a kind of aura around the face of the actress/singer, point directly to the cinematographic style consecrated by Hollywood. These two universes (the favela and Marlene singing) initially appear to be contrasting and irreconcilable. However, the film carefully ties them together, either by means of successive cross fades or by the  song itself, whose lyrics are directly related to the slums of Rio de Janeiro.13 The recourse to cross fades softens the passage from the indoor/ night-time  shots  (Ananias’s  apartment) to the outdoor/daytime shots (the slum) and builds an artificial proximity between two different worlds. The favela thus acquires an ambivalent meaning: it can either be seen as complementary to (or an illustration of) the lyrics Marlene is singing, or it can be understood as a counterpoint to and critique of the standardization of the musical numbers in Brazilian cinema, as a sign of a desire for rupture. The natural light over the washerwomen of the favela, and the studio reflectors over the singing star, create correspondences, but sometimes seem to clash in an effort to become the dominant aesthetics. Marlene’s presence in the musical number is rich in extra-cinematic meanings: the singer became notorious in the 1950s for the (actually fabricated) rivalry

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she nursed towards another so-called ‘queen of the radio’, the singer Emilinha Borba. According to Miriam Goldfeder: Marlene appeared to represent relatively liberal standards, not only regarding her image but also because of her repertoire. Via her personal image the singer proposed a partial rupture with the moralist-conservative aspect so typical of her rival. Sophisticated and modern, she drew attention to herself via a more sensual and audacious image, which lacked the moralistic element so ­characteristic of her ‘opponent’.14 Although mostly from a conformist perspective, Marlene’s entire musical repertoire as a popular singer invokes the world of the workers and the exploited, the condition of female slum-dwellers and that of dispossessed labourers.15 In this sense, the presence of a favela in the ‘Lata d’água’ number in Tudo azul is also a reinforcement of the ‘audacious’ image conveyed by the singer within the record industry, which further points to Tudo azul’s ambiguity regarding the ­phenomenon of stardom. Despite having made or participated in the production of many carnival films, Moacyr Fenelon and Alinor Azevedo were, each in their own way, quite resistant to the genre. Whenever possible they tried to work on their own projects, usually dramatic films with subjects and settings far removed from the realm of the carnival musical. Tudo azul is an unusual film for its time in that it evidences the critical intentions of its creators. Nevertheless, this stance is adopted in a film that returns to the tradition of carnival films from the 1930s, which were mostly connected to the world of radio. This tradition goes back to the birth of the sound film in Brazil; following the North American model, local production turned to ‘backstage plots’ set in popular theatres, casinos and radio stations. According to João Luiz Vieira, ‘the presence of radio in Brazilian cinema, not only through the characteristic greeting “alô” (hello), but mainly via the constellation of male and female stars from the radio and recording industry’, was consolidated for good with Alô, alô, Brasil! (Hello, Hello, Brazil!, Wallace Downey, 1935). Downey’s film, which enjoyed great box office success, appeared when radio started to become popular and influence the ‘behaviour of the inhabitants of developing Brazilian state capitals’.16 The mutual interactions between radio, the record industry and the cinema illustrate that in Brazilian popular musical comedies stardom cannot be understood at a strictly cinematic level. It is a wider phenomenon, the result of the

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interplay between the cinema and a nascent ‘culture industry’, which included not only the radio and the record industry, but also the press and, from the second half of the 1950s onwards, television. It is also important to note, however, that the dialogue between cinema and radio not only resulted in carnival musicals. From 1941 onwards, with the arrival of serialized radio dramas in Brazil, radio started to provide cinema with a new source of inspiration and even a counterpoint to the tried and tested carnival musicals.17 The radio serial altered the consumption patterns of radio listeners, reshaping programming schedules. It began to compete for large audiences with the news and with comedy and musical programmes. Radio serials represented new ways of accessing fiction, which corresponded, for their part, to profound alterations in the planning and marketing strategies of the broadcasting stations.18 In relation to stardom, the success of radio serials went as far as threatening the hegemonic position of male and female radio singers. The popular magazine Carioca presented data from the Brazilian census and Rádio Nacional, the audience leader among radio stations at the time, to attest to the public’s preference for radio serials: Whether you accept it or not, serials are the big attraction in Rio de Janeiro broadcasting at the moment. If there is any doubt about this, I dare someone to show me, right now, any existing radio star who, singing in a given programme, be it daytime or night-time, would be able to reach 43.6% of the 35,000 radio sets in the Federal District (Rio de Janeiro), which amounts to about 520,000 listeners.19 The influence of the radio drama serials on Brazilian cinema thus cannot be dismissed, as the trajectory of Tudo azul’s director testifies. Moacyr Fenelon always attempted to make films with popular appeal, alternating between the production of dramas and musical comedies. In both cases, radio and its stars were sources of inspiration. The first film directed by Fenelon after leaving the Atlântida studios, Obrigado, doutor! (Thank You, Doctor!, 1948), was an adaptation of an eponymous radio serial, written by Paulo Roberto, which had been a great success. The main character, Doctor Maregal, was played by the Rádio Nacional star Rodolfo Mayer and the remaining cast was made up of contracted actors from the Rádio Mayrink Veiga station, like Jaime Faria Rocha, Auricélia Bernard and Castro Viana. The other dramas directed by Fenelon were equally written by – or adapted from the work of – known radio serial authors. Although

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he never abandoned the production of popular musical comedies, Fenelon realized that the dialogue with radio serials could offer a dual advantage: on the one hand, it allowed him to make dramatic films and escape the carnival musical formula, and on the other, it was a strategy that, at least theoretically, had the potential to obtain good box office receipts because the stars, authors and texts were already familiar to radio audiences. The ironic view presented in Tudo azul regarding the idols of the radio and the record industry derives partly from transformations in the world of radio itself, which took place from 1940 onwards, when the hegemony of the musical programmes and their hitherto invincible stars – male and female singers – became momentarily threatened.

Conclusion The story of undiscovered composer Ananias allowed Azevedo and Fenelon to create a critique of the milieu of radio stardom; this should not lead us, however, to the conclusion that Tudo azul is not committed to endorsing the star system. After all, the film presents itself as a big musical spectacle, a platform for male and female stars from the radio or popular music. The main intention of those responsible for the making of Tudo azul was to produce a spectacle unlike any other, committed to artistic and technical quality and with a staging style that drew on realism. The production costs amounted to around two million Brazilian cruzeiros20 (just under double the average budget for a Brazilian film at the time) and the project took five months (from August to December 1951) to progress from pre- to post-production. On the eve of its premiere, the reporter and film critic Manoel Jorge, who also worked as a publicist for the Flama studios, promoted Tudo azul in the pages of the newspaper Diário Popular, stressing the scale of the release: We hope the film will take over the city … . It’s well made, has a great cast and will have a big release: twenty-five theatres! The most monumental p­ resentation ever granted to a film anywhere in the world! There will be twenty-five houses welcoming the generous public – which has never been a problem for Brazilian cinema – a public that will receive a just reward in the form of Tudo azul!21 The film was indeed a great box office hit. Released on 11 February 1952, in twenty cinemas in Rio de Janeiro (five fewer than Manoel Jorge predicted), it

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remained in exhibition for a further week. Two days later, it was released in thirteen cinemas in São Paulo, where it also ran for two weeks. In another news report, Manoel Jorge describes the ‘favourable reaction of the public’: theatres, which would normally have five daily sessions, had to alter their timetable to six daily sessions during the week, and even seven at the weekend. At the end of the text, a statement by producer Rubens Berardo is included, in which he claims that he will continue making carnival films, albeit following the criteria that guided Tudo azul: ‘The stories will continue to follow the same artistic standards, and we won’t accept anything a cut below what the specialized crew from Flama has achieved up to now’.22 His statement alludes to Flama’s slogan: ‘A Brazilian cinema shaped to the tastes of the most demanding spectators’.23 Besides advertising the spectacular features of Tudo azul, Flama also promoted the stars and leading actors Luiz Delfino and Laura Suarez, though adopting another type of publicity approach: the foregrounding of their realistic acting style. This strategy was connected to Fenelon and Azevedo’s desire to develop stories and characters closer to everyday life and real-life dramas. Shortly before they began shooting Tudo azul, the Rio de Janeiro newspaper Última Hora published an interview with Luiz Delfino in which the actor analysed the features of his character, Ananias: In my life, I have been what I’ll impersonate (in Tudo azul) in the role of Ananias, a real and philosophical character, one of those men wandering around … in Rio, in São Paulo, everywhere in the world. … Ananias is an ­ordinary middle-class man, who works because he is obliged to, without any particular interest in doing so, filling up his life with just about anything. But he earns very little and he can barely provide for his family. That’s the enduring problem of many people … The complications of the big city keep Ananias busy: the lack of housing, the lack of public space, the lack of food, the lack of clothes, the lack of fun and the lack of money. It’s the drama of a class living in ‘the middle ground of everything’. I was this Ananias, just as any Última Hora reader could have been, a man with many aspirations and ideas, many aims, trapped in his simple life, frustrated in everything, at the mercy of a colourless destiny, without knowing what to do to live decently.24 In the press release for the film, the influence of Italian neo-realism is mentioned, but it is curious that this connection is not established by either the director

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or the writer, but by actress Laura Suarez, who plays Sofia, Ananias’s wife. She described her part as follows: I play Ms. Sofia. Ms. Sofia is a heroine of everyday life, a housewife of the present; too many children, too little money, no meat for dinner, and the rent is in arrears … A very interesting part, following the Italian realist tradition. A journalist who visited the studio during the production said I looked like a little [Anna] Magnani.25 I was unbearably vain for the rest of the day.26 The idea behind Tudo azul was to invest in popular spectacle, but avoiding the aspects considered vulgar in the musical comedies commonly made in that era: caricatured characters, coarse jokes and musical numbers not perfectly integrated into the story. Flama’s aim with Tudo azul was to raise the standard of the carnival musical comedy. In the above-mentioned review published in the newspaper Diário Popular, Manoel Jorge affirms such an intent: ‘We must call an end to this myth that the carnival film corrupts audiences and does not represent the national film industry’. ‘After all’, he adds, the carnival film has brought, for a long time now, ‘the most positive box office results for the industry’. A film producer cannot make films for film clubs or for the critics; he needs his films to be shown, Jorge argues. ‘And to more people, the better! And if the majority chooses the carnival musical, we shall satisfy them!’27 To sum up, the narrative and style of Tudo azul entered into a dialogue with the stardom tradition of the carnival and radio musicals of the 1930s, but this dialogue was not melancholic or nostalgic. On the contrary, it revealed the weathering of an old pattern and its necessary renewal, not only by creating a new form of spectacle, but also by investing in male and female stars committed to a realistic cinema. As Tudo azul makes clear, what interested Moacyr Fenelon and Alinor Azevedo was not the dream world of the ‘big names’, but the reality of the common people.

Notes All translations in this chapter are my own, unless otherwise indicated. 1. Besides having been a veteran sound technician who began working with film in the late 1920s, Moacyr Fenelon (1903–53) was one of the founders of the Atlântida Cinematográfica studio in 1941, together with Paulo and José Carlos Burle, Alinor Azevedo, Nelson Schultz and Arnaldo de Faria.

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2. A. Viany, Introdução ao cinema brasileiro (Rio de Janeiro: Ministério da Educação e Cultura, 1959), 166; and Paulo Emílio Salles Gomes, ‘Panorama do cinema brasileiro: 1896/1966’, in Salles Gomes, Cinema: trajetória no subdesenvolvimento (Rio de Janeiro: Paz & Terra, 1986), 75. 3. Journalist Alinor Albuquerque de Azevedo (1913–74) was one of the most enterprising professionals working in Brazilian cinema during the 1940s and 1950s, writing screenplays for the Atlântida, Flama and Vera Cruz studios. 4. A. Viany, ‘Operação (anti-)chanchada: depois de 18 anos, Alinor Azevedo chega à tela com “Passarinho”’ (interview with Alinor Azevedo), Shopping News, Rio de Janeiro, 27 March 1960. 5. Literally, the title of the song means ‘zinc world’, but it is a reference to shantytown dwellings with their corrugated iron roofs. 6. The title of this song means ‘can of water’ and its lyrics refer to the washerwomen of the shantytowns who carry cans of water on their heads as they climb the hillsides. 7. Carioca is the adjective used to refer to something or someone from the city of Rio de Janeiro. 8. The real-life Rádio Continental station – as well as the magazine Cruzeiro do Sul and the newspaper Diário Popular – belonged to Rubens Berardo, owner of the Flama studios and producer of Tudo azul. 9. The term ‘regional band’ refers to the groups who played Brazilian popular music and performed as backing bands for professional singers. The lyrics of ‘Mundo de zinco’ are as follows: ‘That zinc world of Mangueira shantytown/ Awakens to the train whistle/ A dark mulata, a sleeping mat/ A wooden shack/ Any rogue in Mangueira has/ Mangueira is close to heaven/ Mangueira will see my death/ But my name will go down in history/ Samba was my glory/ I know many dark mulatas will cry over me’. 10. The notion of ‘transdiegesis’ comes from a text by Marc Vernet. Building on a study about the use of the look to the camera within the conventions of classical narrative films, the author references North American musical comedy, where the characters frequently sing looking directly into the camera. Vernet underlines that, in the musical number, the ‘star’ imposes him/herself upon the character, giving rise to the phenomenon of transdiegesis: the public in the theatre starts relating not to the ‘character’ but to the ‘star’ (singer or dancer). M. Vernet, ‘Le regard à la caméra’, in Figures de l’absence – de l’invisible au cinema (Paris: Éditions de L’Étoile, 1988), 13–15. 11. S. Augusto, Este mundo é um pandeiro: a chanchada de Getúlio a JK (São Paulo: Companhia das Letras, 1989), 125–26. 12. The favela shots delighted the critic Carlos Ortiz: ‘The idea of illustrating the carnival theme with the picturesque reality of the Pinto slum, instead of using relatively banal frames staged in the studio, is undoubtedly one of this musical’s most pleasing elements’. C. Ortiz, ‘Tudo azul’, Folha da Manhã, São Paulo, 19 February 1952. Usually opposed to films showing favelas or their inhabitants, the critic Pedro Lima also

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13.

14. 15. 16.

17.

18.

19.

highlights these scenes praised by Ortiz, but from another aesthetic perspective: ‘As we see, Tudo azul … is clean-cut, with very interesting photography of Rio de Janeiro shot from above and some photogenic shots taken in a favela’. P. Lima, ‘Tudo Azul’, O Jornal, Rio de Janeiro, 15 February 1952. The lyrics to ‘Lata d’água’ are as follows: ‘Can of water on her head/ There goes Maria/ There goes Maria/ She goes up the slope of the slum and doesn’t get tired/ With her hand she leads the child/ There goes Maria/ Maria washes clothes up there/ Fighting for her daily bread/ Dreaming of life down in the city/ Which ends where the slum begins’. M. Goldfeder, Por trás das ondas da Rádio Nacional (Rio de Janeiro: Paz & Terra, 1980), 73–74. Ibid., 82–83. J.L. Vieira, ‘A chanchada e o cinema carioca (1930–1955)’, in F. Ramos (ed.), História do cinema brasileiro (São Paulo: Art Editora, 1987), 142. Among the attractions drawn from the world of radio in Alô, alô Brasil!, the most notable are: Carmen and Aurora Miranda, Francisco Alves, Mário Reis, Almirante, Ary Barroso, Barbosa Júnior, Custódio Mesquita, the Bando da Lua and Dircinha Batista. In 1948 the magazine A Cena Muda made the following point: ‘The news that competent actor Rodolfo Mayer will make a brief comeback on film in a dramatic movie (Obrigado, doutor!, based on a radio serial) is quite significant, in so far as it is certainly necessary that a piece with sentiment and logical progression be written to make the most of his talent, since his participation in musical films without rhyme or reason, improvised at this time of the year [carnival], is absolutely not appropriate’. ‘Rodolfo Mayer volta ao cinema’, A Cena Muda 28(7), Rio de Janeiro, 17 February 1948, 8. As Renato Ortiz points out, in 1932 a new law allowed advertising in the daily programming of Brazilian radio stations. This encouraged their commercial aspect and later led announcers to become programme producers themselves, hiring writers, actors and translators to work on radio serials. In the 1950s the permitted quota for advertising announcements increased from 10 to 20% of airtime, and thus radio became the main means of spreading mass popular culture: ‘With radio, programmes like talk shows or [those featuring] assorted musical performances, and especially the radio serial, introduced in Brazil in 1941, appeared. The latter soon became the typical product of the radio of the time; between 1943 and 1945 Rádio Nacional went as far as producing 116 serials, with a total of 2,985 episodes’. R. Ortiz, A moderna tradição brasileira: cultura brasileira e indústria cultural (São Paulo: Brasiliense, 1988), 39–40. O. Portella, ‘O teatro do rádio por dentro’, Carioca 643, Rio de Janeiro, 29 January 1948, 35. Significantly, besides ‘radio-actors’ – performers like Rodolfo Mayer, Celso Guimarães, Ismênia dos Santos, Floriano Faissal, Castro Viana, Yara Salles, Sarah Nobre and Saint-Clair Lopes – radio serials also invented another sort of ‘stardom’,

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20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27.

that of the ‘radio-authors’, that is, writers of serials and plays for the radio. Oduvaldo Vianna, Berliet Ghiaroni and Amaral Gurgel, among others, were equally celebrated in the pages of magazines devoted to the world of radio. Matos Pacheco, ‘Produzem-se grandes filmes em um estúdio bem pequeno’, Última Hora, Rio de Janeiro, 1 November 1952. M. Jorge, ‘Tudo azul’, Diário Popular, Rio de Janeiro, 5 February 1952. M. Jorge, Untitled, Diário Popular, Rio de Janeiro, February 1952. FLAMA-Repórter (1), Seção de Divulgação Cinematográfica da Flama, Rio de Janeiro, October 1952, 1. L. Delfino, ‘Quando a vida se encarrega de ensinar a valorização da arte’, Última Hora, Rio de Janeiro, 10 August 1951, 5. Anna Magnani was an Italian actress made famous in Brazil with her appearance in Roma, Cittá Aperta (Rome, Open City, Roberto Rossellini, 1945). ‘Laura Suarez e o elenco’, press release, Rio de Janeiro, 1951; and ‘Laura Suarez e o script’, press release, Rio de Janeiro, 1951. Jorge, ‘Tudo azul’.

References Augusto, S. Este mundo é um pandeiro: a chanchada de Getúlio a JK. São Paulo: Companhia das Letras, 1989. Delfino, L. ‘Quando a vida se encarrega de ensinar a valorização da arte’. Última Hora, Rio de Janeiro, 10 August 1951. Goldfeder, M. Por trás das ondas da Rádio Nacional. Rio de Janeiro: Paz & Terra, 1980. Jorge, M. ‘Tudo azul’. Diário Popular, Rio de Janeiro, 5 February 1952. Lima, P. ‘Tudo azul’. O Jornal, Rio de Janeiro, 15 February 1952. Ortiz, C. ‘Tudo azul’. Folha da Manhã, São Paulo, 19 February 1952. Ortiz, R. A moderna tradição brasileira: cultura brasileira e indústria cultural. São Paulo: Brasiliense, 1988. Pacheco, M. ‘Produzem-se grandes filmes em um estúdio bem pequeno’. Última Hora, Rio de Janeiro, 1 November 1952. Portella, O. ‘O teatro do rádio por dentro’. Carioca 643, Rio de Janeiro, 29 January 1948. Ramos, F. (ed.). História do cinema brasileiro. São Paulo: Art Editora, 1987. Salles Gomes, P.E. Cinema: Trajetória no subdesenvolvimento. São Paulo: Paz & Terra, 1986. Vernet, M. Figures de l’absence – de l’invisible au cinema. Paris: Éditions de L’Étoile, 1988. Viany, A. Introdução ao cinema brasileiro. Rio de Janeiro: Ministério da Educação e Cultura, 1959. Viany, A. ‘Operação (anti-)chanchada: depois de 18 anos, Alinor Azevedo chega à tela com “Passarinho”’ (interview with Alinor Azevedo). Shopping News, Rio de Janeiro, 27 March 1960.

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Vieira, J.L. ‘A chanchada e o cinema carioca (1930–1955)’, in F. Ramos (ed.), História do cinema brasileiro. São Paulo: Art Editora, 1987, pp. 129–87.

Luís Alberto Rocha Melo is a lecturer in Cinema and Audiovisual Studies at the Arts and Design Institute of the Federal University of Juiz de Fora in Brazil. He has directed the films Nenhuma fórmula para a contemporânea visão do mundo (Seeing with Eyes-Free, 82', 2012) and Legião estrangeira (Foreign Legion, 70', 2011), among others. He has also published his research in film magazines, and edited the book Acervo Alex Viany (E.T.A. Consultoria e Informática, 2009), in which he published the chapter ‘Alex Viany e os caminhos do cinema no Brasil’ (‘Alex Viany and the Routes of Cinema in Brazil’).

CHAPTER 9

Jece Valadão, the ‘charming crook’ A star image between tradition and modernity Rafael de Luna Freire

The ‘Modern Brazilian Cinema’ that emerged in the 1950s and 1960s during a relatively short period of democracy in between two dictatorships has often been described as being marked by a ‘critical realism’ that focused on depicting the country’s social malaises. This same period also witnessed a new approach to representing moral issues on screen. This chapter aims to emphasize the role of the actor Jece Valadão (1930–2006) in this changing environment, tracing the evolution of his star text from a period when the national cinema was perceived to be almost excessively prurient to a time, two decades later, when there was a general anxiety concerning the vulgarity of Brazilian films. In 1941, on the occasion of a special screening of a risqué silent film called Lábios sem beijos (Lips without Kisses, Humberto Mauro, 1930), a romantic comedy which in spite of its title features lots of kissing, the respected critic Renato de Alencar noted that Brazil’s national cinema had evolved in terms of morality since Mauro’s film.1 Although de Alencar acknowledged the poor quality of recent domestic films, he found it reassuring that they were at least more conservative in terms of moral outlook. In contrast to Lábios sem beijos, many Brazilian productions of the early 1940s were considered tame even by traditionalist wartime audiences, motivating fans to write letters to magazines such as Cine-Rádio Jornal complaining about the ‘lack of kisses’ in domestic films.2 In the first half of the 1940s, the Brazilian film industry experienced an economic crisis and censorship under the dictatorship of President Getúlio Vargas, in addition to the restrictions imposed by World War Two. This context limited investment in film projects deemed controversial or overly daring, as they were understood to be against ‘national interests’. Financial constraints have usually been blamed for the mediocrity (or even the non-existence) of Brazilian cinema

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during this period. However, there was another obstacle to overcome – there were regular comments from the public complaining about the unattractiveness of the faces that appeared in Brazilian features and shorts. The actors – and even the non-actors in the documentaries – were compared very unfavourably to the glamour and beauty of American stars by some readers of film magazines and journalists alike. In Hollywood, talent could help to overcome even ugliness, as was the case with Bette Davis, as one Brazilian critic controversially noted. However, if Brazilian actors were not talented, they should at least be physically attractive, he argued.3 What this critic could not accept was that Brazilian cinema was both poor quality and ugly. During the 1940s, film production in Brazil mostly consisted of comedies, musicals made for the carnival holiday period, and romantic dramas starring actors or singers with established stage or radio careers. The biggest box office draws were films that combined all these elements – a genre that would subsequently become known as the chanchada. These musical comedies involved a romantic couple, a memorable villain and plenty of humour thanks to the participation of popular comedians such as Oscarito and Grande Otelo.4 In the postwar period, chanchadas proved to be more successful than ever, but they were also extremely inoffensive. This reflected a generally conservative tendency in Brazilian society at the time, as film scholar José Carlos Monteiro has noted: No filmmaker … ever dared to cast in chanchadas stars with the same sex appeal as their Hollywood counterparts. There was never a hint of the blatant sensuality of Rita Hayworth’s Gilda (the only imitation of Hayworth possible was a comic parody by Oscarito in Este mundo é um pandeiro [The World is a Tambourine, 1947]) and none of the erotic insinuation of the likes of Betty Paige. There wasn’t any kind of bad behaviour (like that of the French femmes fatales) nor any voluptuous bodies on show … In the name of morality, our chanchada stars were reserved, restrained and repressed.5 Among the studios producing chanchadas from the late 1940s onwards, Atlântida Cinematográfica in Rio de Janeiro was the most successful, developing a roster of contract actors and actresses whose fame derived exclusively from their films. ‘Bad guys’ were often played by less attractive performers such as José Lewgoy or Renato Restier. Eliana Macedo was the studio’s best-known performer, cast in ‘girl next door’ parts as a kind of ‘Brazilian Debbie Reynolds’.6 The

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­ andsome Anselmo Duarte, who had no acting experience prior to his film debut, h was the leading man of choice at Atlântida and became so popular that he was lured away from Rio by the Vera Cruz studios, founded in São Paulo in 1949. Vera Cruz sought to create, ‘for the first time’, through unprecedented financial and technical investment, ‘a truthful Brazilian cinema’, as their advertisements stated. This meant, among other things, attaining a level of sophistication that would satisfy critics and the cultural elite, who had looked down on practically all previous Brazilian films. To fill Duarte’s shoes in the 1950s, Atlântida turned to Cyl Farney – who ably played ‘the good guy’ (and could credibly solve problems with his fists when necessary)7 – and, later, to John Herbert. Farney and Herbert were handsome, white, looked like ‘Hollywood stars’ and their American-sounding names also gave the impression of an international flair. However, Herbert differed in certain respects from the more ‘respectable’ Duarte and Farney. In fan magazines, ‘athletic John’ was photographed on the beach in swimming trunks, and displaying a lot of bare flesh, while journalists made much of his background as a ‘water polo champion’.8 In contrast, Duarte and Farney virtually never appeared shirtless in films or in publicity stills. In order to match Herbert’s appeal, Vera Cruz hired the tall blonde stage actor Jardel Filho, which resulted in film magazines dubbing him an ‘athlete in cinema’, and citing his vital statistics, including the dimensions of his biceps.9 In the standoff between the two studios, Herbert became the youthful sporty star of chanchadas set and produced in Rio, while the stronger, sexier Jardel became a firm favourite in São Paulo-based melodramas. Jardel can be seen as the Brazilian equivalent of Marlon Brando, having coincidentally been discovered in a Brazilian stage production of Eugene O’Neill’s play Desire under the Elms in 1947. With the rising popularity of ‘beefcake’ stars such as Herbert and Jardel Filho, attention was inevitably drawn to their romantic counterparts. While the ‘naive girl’ (best represented by Eliana Macedo or Fada Santoro) remained key to most Brazilian comedies and musicals in the first half of the 1950s, the film press kept looking for a genuine Brazilian pin-up or a Brazilian vamp among national starlets. Nevertheless, as already noted in the quote by Monteiro above, there was never a fully successful sexy local equivalent of Rita Hayworth, Ava Gardner or Marilyn Monroe, except for the purposes of parody. Although critics disapproved of what was considered to be the gratuitous or even pornographic nature of chanchadas that began to include semi-naked dancers and singers, they also complained about Brazilian cinema’s lack of realism with regard to its treatment

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of sex (­especially when contrasted with post-war European cinema or that of other Latin American countries) or its depiction of violence (in comparison with American film noir).10 A press commentary on the making of the film Na senda do crime (The Road to Crime, Flaminio Bollini Cerri, 1954), a thriller produced by Vera Cruz, illustrates this perception: ‘a little bit of violence and realism won’t hurt our cinema, [which is] already full of corny stories filmed in slow motion’.11 This lack of sex and violence in Brazilian cinema both in front of the cameras and behind the scenes was noted. In her analysis of fan magazines Cinelândia and A Cena Muda between 1952 and 1955, Margarida Adamatti observed that, compared to the gossip about Hollywood stars published in Brazilian magazines, there was little to report about Brazilian movie starlets’ personal lives because they apparently did not have as many affairs or multiple marriages.12 In 1952 A Cena Muda put it this way: ‘In Brazilian cinema, nobody fights with anybody, nobody gossips about anybody, nobody is jealous of anybody. Everyone works in an atmosphere of order and progress. For God’s sake! This must be very boring!’13 Despite the criticisms aired in the early 1950s, a new generation of Brazilian cinema was emerging, which was refocusing on questions of realism and authenticity, and was eager to innovate and explore new horizons – not only in aesthetic and political terms (as many scholars have shown), but also in the area of social morality. Some independent productions, such as Dominó negro (Black Cloak, Moacyr Fenelon, 1950), Quando a noite acaba (When the Night is Over, Fernando de Barros, 1950) and Cais do vício (Harbour of Vice, Francisco José Ferreira, 1953), told crime stories involving marijuana trafficking, while melodramas produced by the Maristela studios in São Paulo, such as A presença de Anita (Anita’s Presence, Ruggero Jacobbi, 1951) and Meu destino é pecar (My Fate is to Sin, Manuel Peluffo, 1952), featured plots that dealt with risqué topics such as adultery. As will be demonstrated in the remainder of this chapter, Jece Valadão played a major role in this transition. Whether working as an actor, producer or director, he was a driving force in challenging and changing prevailing mores in Brazilian cinema. Valadão’s roots were humble. Born in a small town in the state of Espírito Santo in 1930, Gecy (his original birth name)Valadão was the son of a railway employee.14 In his youth, he worked as a shoeshine boy and as a tailor’s apprentice. While still in his teens, Valadão left home and travelled throughout Brazil and South America, acquiring various skills, such as how to play cards and pool, and, according to later interviews, perfecting his art of seducing women. Back home in Brazil in 1948, he started his career in the entertainment industry at a newly

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established local radio station as an actor and announcer, and before long worked at other small radio stations in the nearby cities of Juiz de Fora and Campos dos Goytacazes. Finally, he headed for Rio de Janeiro, where he managed to secure a job with the influential Rádio Tupi station. His income as a radio actor was soon augmented by money earned selling advertising space in a radio programme that he had also begun to produce. From early on, however, his main objective was to achieve fame as an actor, and he decided to try his luck in the movies. At the Atlântida studios, the director Watson Macedo told him that in order ‘to be a movie star he had to be as handsome as Cyl Farney’.15 Owing to his darker skin and mixed-race caboclo appearance (Valadão’s ancestry was a mix of native Indian and European), Valadão was given only small roles, reflecting the Hollywood-inspired ‘whitening’ aesthetic of the studios and its star system. It is worthy of note that he acted in two of the few films made by Atlântida that were not musical comedies, but instead were concerned with social problems. He played a waiter in Também somos irmãos (We Are Also Brothers, José Carlos Burle, 1949), a melodrama that atypically dealt with the question of race in Brazil. (The black comedian Grande Otelo, the tokenistic Afro-Brazilian presence in Atlântida’s chanchadas, uncharacteristically was given a leading role in this dramatic film.)16 Valadão then played a member of a gang led by a good-hearted criminal (a badly shaven Cyl Farney) in the noir-ish thriller Amei um bicheiro (I Loved a Gangster, Jorge Ileli and Paulo Vanderley, 1952).17 In 1953 he finally landed his first leading role, in the drama Nobreza Gaúcha (Gaucho Nobility), under the direction of Rafael Mancini and produced by the Sacra Filmes studios in the south of Brazil. However, fights between the director and Valadão and other cast members almost led to litigation, and eventually Valadão was replaced in the role. The actor’s rebel streak would subsequently find a more productive outlet. In the early 1950s, the influential yet clandestine Brazilian Communist Party attracted many actors and intellectuals, and had a great impact on the organization of workers’ associations and unions. Valadão was one of those performers who actively attended meetings that attempted to organize film business employees. He took part in the groundbreaking 1st Brazilian Film Congress in 1953, where he first met communist filmmaker Nelson Pereira dos Santos and cinematographer Hélio Silva, who invited him to take part in their first feature film, a low-budget independent production. He thus became the director’s assistant and also acted in Rio, 40 graus (Rio, 40 Degrees, Nelson Pereira dos Santos, 1954), a film now considered the most important precursor of the Cinema Novo movement of the

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1960s. Financed via a cooperative system, and made by a team of people new to filmmaking, the film was heralded by the magazine A Cena Muda as an example of ‘collective cinema’, one of the only viable solutions to overcoming the problems faced by filmmakers in Brazil.18 Delayed by problems with the censors, Rio, 40 graus was released in 1956. It influenced a younger generation of filmmakers who wanted to see more realistic and socially aware films with nationally relevant storylines and characters. For his role as a crook, Valadão won the best actor prize at the Rio de Janeiro International Film Festival. In his memoirs, he suggested that he almost did not win the prize since the judges thought the role was played by a real criminal.19 ‘A Star is Born’ was the title of a magazine article about Valadão from 1956, which stated: ‘Once in a while, in Brazilian cinema an actor turns up who makes it because of his spontaneous acting style, because of the human way he brings to life the character on the screen’.20 In addition to appearing in other musical comedies and Latin American coproductions, Valadão was cast in Pereira dos Santos’s next film, Rio, Zona Norte (Rio, North Zone, 1957). Grande Otelo played the leading role of Espírito da Luz Soares, a talented but poor samba composer who lives in one of Rio de Janeiro’s slums. Valadão was cast as the businessman Maurício, supposedly Espírito’s friend, who helps the Afro-Brazilian musician get his songs recorded on disc by radio stars, but who, in the end, steals his compositions, cheats him out of the money he deserves, and denies him credit for writing the songs. Many subsequent analyses of the film have focused on the function of the character Moacyr (played by Paulo Goulart) in the narrative. The latter is a sophisticated white musician who admires Espírito’s talent but does nothing at all to help the samba composer before he dies. Nevertheless, he eventually decides to go back to the slum to rescue Espírito’s compositions and prevent them from being forgotten. Critics have argued that through the inclusion of the character Moacyr, Rio, Zona Norte emphasizes the political importance of the intellectual left-wing artist as an intermediary for effective dissemination of popular culture.21 In contrast, few critics have drawn attention to Valadão’s role as Maurício, apart from commenting on his obvious lack of scruples (especially in comparison to the excessive goodness and naivety of Espírito). Nor have they noted the contrast between him and Moacyr – who does not really belong to the poor slums and offers no meaningful help. Maurício, on the other hand, moves effortlessly between the slums and the radio stations, and he is at home in both worlds,

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using his savvy for his own benefit. His appearance – midway between Otelo’s blackness and Goulart’s whiteness – renders him not only a morally ambiguous character, but also a socially liminal figure that, in Pereira dos Santos’s optimistic and politicized view, must and will be transcended in the future by an intellectual middle class aware of its ‘historical role’.22 Valadão’s success in Rio, Zona Norte was followed by other film and stage roles before he turned his full attention to producing. He contracted Miguel Torres for a script about the playboys of Rio de Janeiro, a world that Valadão knew well. It was also a world that had currency at the time due to various high-profile incidents, like the controversial Aída Curi case in 1958. Curi was an eighteen-year-old girl who died after falling (or being pushed) from a Copacabana apartment block, while trying to avoid being raped by two upper-class young men. This and other cases of youth violence led to a moral panic concerning juvenile delinquents, which was associated with the popularity of rock and roll and the availability of drugs.23 This was the generation of the ‘juventude transviada’ – literally, wayward youth (and also the Brazilian title of Rebel Without a Cause (1955), Valadão’s favourite film). Meanwhile, gossip magazines such as Escândalo (1949–59), a Brazilian version of the infamous North American Confidential, specialized in scandalous exposés that increasingly involved national celebrities. Valadão contracted the Mozambican filmmaker Ruy Guerra to direct the film. The latter had recently arrived from France where he had studied at the renowned Institut des Hautes Études Cinématographiques (IDHEC). The resulting film, Os cafajestes (The Hustlers, 1962), produced by Valadão’s newly founded company Magnus Filmes, was strongly indebted to the French Nouvelle Vague in its employment of long takes (almost all shot on location) and the existential emptiness of the characters – leading some critics to consider it a Brazilian À bout de souffle (Breathless, 1960). What was much more evident in Os cafajestes than in Jean-Luc Godard’s first feature film, however, was the underlying political commentary on class conflict embodied by the two main protagonists – the good-looking smalltime crook Jandir (played by Valadão) and middle-class playboy Vavá (Daniel Filho), who hires the former to seduce his uncle’s mistress Leda (Norma Bengell) in order to blackmail his wealthy relative with compromising photographs. Despite problems with censorship (or perhaps even because of them), Valadão’s production became a huge domestic hit. The film shocked audiences by showing in detail the rolling and smoking of a marijuana joint, but it also attracted attention for featuring the first ever full-frontal nude scene in Brazilian cinema,

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with Norma Bengell’s Leda being stark naked for about four minutes when Jandir and Vavá steal her clothes on a deserted beach in order to take pictures of her. Os cafajestes is possibly also the first Brazilian film to explore explicitly the sensuality of the male body. Convinced by Leda that the old rich uncle will not pay a ransom for her pictures, Jandir decides to seduce the young and inexperienced Vilma (Lucy de Carvalho), Vavá’s loving cousin and the daughter of his rich uncle. His irresistibly exhausted, wet body lying on the sand at night after rescuing Vilma from being drowned, visible only in the beam of a car’s headlights, is obviously there ‘to be looked at’. Exhibited at international film festivals in Berlin and San Francisco, Os cafajestes exported well abroad and returned handsome profits to its producer. Subsequent to the film’s release, the term Cinema Novo began to be used more often. In an interview years later, Valadão declared that it was he who actually coined the name of the most important film movement in Brazilian cinema: ‘I wanted a film that would make me money. When I saw the finished film I got scared. It wasn’t Swedish cinema [as he called the cosmopolitan Vera Cruz productions], or a chanchada. I thought I had to find a slogan. So I called it: Cinema Novo Brasileiro [New Brazilian Cinema]. I put it on the trailer’.24 Whether he was the creator of the term or not,25 Valadão’s persona became completely associated with the character of the cafajeste – a charming rogue and a seductive hustler – and he would continue to exploit it from that moment on, in front of the camera as a film star and behind it as a film producer and public personality. After all, as Richard Dyer has suggested, ‘a star’s physiognomy carries the meanings of her/his image in whatever film she or he makes, in whatever character she or he plays’.26 The second film that Valadão produced was Boca de Ouro (Gold Mouth, 1963), the first film adaptation of an eponymous play by Nelson Rodrigues.27 Some years previously, when Valadão had decided to pursue theatre to improve his acting skills, he had auditioned for Nelson Rodrigues’s play A mulher sem pecado (The Woman without Sin). During the production, he became romantically involved with, and eventually married, actress Dulce Rodrigues, owner of the theatre company in question, and younger sister of the well-known controversial playwright, considered the father of modern Brazilian theatre after the 1943 staging of Vestido de noiva (Wedding Dress), directed by the Polish émigré Zbigniew Ziembinski.28 Valadão substantially improved his skills in the style of acting associated with Nelson Rodrigues’s theatre.29

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Figure 9.1 In Os cafajestes Valadão’s seductive character holds one girl in his arms while looking at another [bottom], while in A navalha na carne he plays a violent pimp who exploits the poor, old prostitute Neusa Sueli (Glauce Rocha) [top]. Photograph from the Film Archive of the Museu de Arte Moderna, Rio de Janeiro, reproduced with the permission of Alberto Magno, Magnus Filmes Ltda. Still from the film Os cafajestes by director of photography Tony Rabatoni. Still from the film A navalha na carne by still photographer Valentin.

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Aware of the commercial potential of realistic streetwise themes after producing Os cafajestes, Valadão decided to adapt Rodrigues’s recent play Boca de Ouro for the screen, and invited his former partner Nelson Pereira dos Santos to direct the film. Film scholar Ismail Xavier has argued that Pereira dos Santos tried to adapt his neo-realist aesthetic and political commitment to the work of an author who, at that time of political radicalization, was considered by the younger generation as alienated and politically conservative.30 Xavier also notes that this collaboration occurred in a context of liberation within Brazilian cinema akin to what was taking place within cinema internationally, as exemplified by Les Amants (The Lovers, Louis Malle, 1958), a film cited in one of Rodrigues’s works. Thomas Elsaesser has pointed out how, within this context, for American audiences – and Brazilians too, one could argue – ‘the labels “art” and “European” began to connote a very particular kind of realism, more associated with the explicit depiction of sex and drugs than with political or aesthetic commitment’.31 Inspired by Kurosawa’s Rashomon (1950) and Welles’ Citizen Kane (1941), Boca de Ouro, both the play and the film, depicts three different versions of a meeting between a supposedly adulterous housewife and a notorious criminal (whose nickname is derived from his mouth full of gold teeth), told by one of his former mistresses when interviewed by a journalist. In each version, Valadão’s bandit is shown with a different personality – as a violent but seductive criminal, as a good-hearted ‘Robin Hood’ figure from Rio’s poorer suburbs, and as a murderous coward – always in opposition to the supposedly cuckolded husband (Daniel Filho). In what is often considered his best performance, Valadão masterfully invests the naturalistic language of Rodrigues’s play with cynical humour and crude cruelty. Before releasing the film (which included a very daring scene of a contest involving three women exposing their bare breasts), Valadão sold the rights to another producer. He subsequently performed in or produced three other films based on his brother-in-law’s plays, in what came to be known as the ‘first cycle’ of Rodrigues’s adaptations for the screen in Brazil. After the release of Os cafajestes and Boca de Ouro, which have retained their cult status in Brazilian film history to the present day, not least owing to the directors’ subsequent participation in the Cinema Novo movement,32 Valadão became acknowledged as one of the most important producers in Brazilian cinema. He went on to explore the multifaceted image of the cafajeste in more ‘commercial’ productions – crime films, urban comedies, melodramas and historical ­adventures, some of which were actually artistically quite sophisticated films.33

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For a variety of reasons, including the country’s political radicalization in the 1960s, particularly after the 1964 coup and subsequent dictatorship, Valadão distanced himself from Cinema Novo – a reaction shared by other Brazilian film producers such as Jarbas Barbosa (producer of Deus e o diabo na terra do sol [Black God, White Devil]) and Herbert Richers (producer of Vidas Secas [Barren Lives]). Later in that decade Valadão was viewed as an exclusively commercial entrepreneur. Nonetheless, his interest in reaching Brazilian film audiences and creating box office successes was later echoed by Cinema Novo’s filmmakers in the early 1970s, when their common goal was to ‘conquer our market’ and their common enemies were foreign (Hollywood) movies.34 To conclude on Jece Valadão’s contributions to Brazilian film history: in the late 1950s and early 1960s he had achieved prominence for portraying the ‘vulgar and mixed-race leading man’35 demanded by a young generation who desired a new Brazilian cinema distinguished by its dramatic seriousness (the polar opposite of the undemanding chanchada), modernity (in terms of language and technique) and popular tone (with stories and characters taken from real life, expressing a true ‘Brazilianness’, counter to the lavish and ‘inauthentic’ Vera Cruz productions). Young Valadão attained virtually the same natural qualities as those possessed by the extraordinary veteran Grande Otelo, but with a sex appeal that the diminutive Afro-Brazilian actor could never attempt to carry off except for comic effect. At the same time, Valadão’s ‘vulgarity’, his ‘authentic’ speech and appearance, characteristic of an ‘ordinary Brazilian bloke’, made him more sought-after than the likes of white actors Cyl Farney or Anselmo Duarte, who were increasingly seen as artificial and unrealistic. Although Valadão personified the character of the ‘urban rogue’ on screen, the type was not exclusively his in the 1960s. During the first half of the decade, other actors were successfully cast as tragic poor criminals who had no choice but to pursue a life of crime: Agildo Ribeiro, for example, in films like Tocaia no asfalto (Ambush on the Asphalt, Roberto Pires, 1962) and Na mira do assassino (In the Sights of the Murderer, Mario Latini, 1967), or black newcomers Eliezer Gomes and Antônio Pitanga. Chosen from a plethora of candidates without prior experience, Gomes gained acclaim in the role of Tião Medonho, the gang leader in Assalto ao trem pagador (Assault on the Pay Train, Roberto Farias, 1962), a popular heist film that was seen, together with Os cafajestes, as a harbinger of a Brazilian new wave. Pitanga, star of urban crime dramas like A grande feira (The Big Fair, Roberto Pires, 1962) and A grande cidade (The Big City, Carlos Diegues,

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1965), went on to become one of the most sought-after actors of Cinema Novo. The mixed-race Nelson Xavier also became famous for playing the malandro (a hustler similar to a cafajeste, but with a more human side), and, as a former member of the seminal Teatro de Arena theatre group, he was one of the most exciting actors of the new generation who crossed over from Brazilian theatre to the big screen. One must also not forget Milton Ribeiro, who achieved fame as the cruel bandit in the biggest Vera Cruz hit O cangaceiro (The Bandit, Lima Barreto, 1954). In the following years, Ribeiro was cast again and again in the role of a brutish rural bandit in films that came to be called nordesterns (westerns set in the northeast region of Brazil). In the late 1960s, Valadão’s polysemic persona assumed the character of a funny, cynical and untamed ‘Don Juan’ in the aptly titled comedy As sete faces de um cafajeste (The Seven Faces of a Cafajeste, Jece Valadão, 1968). The star, director and producer would go on to be one of the pioneers of a series of films that represented the modernization of Brazilian film comedy in terms of language and themes, but most of all in the depiction of sex and nudity. In the following years Valadão became one of the more experienced figures in a group of new young actors and producers responsible for an increasing number of very commercially successful soft-core sex comedies that were decried as pornochanchadas by angry critics – films as ‘bad’ as the earlier chanchadas, but now also ‘pornographic’ (although this they were certainly not, not least because of rigorously applied censorship after 1968). Faithful to his personality, he preferred to call his films pornocafajestadas. More importantly, Valadão became a television personality, largely owing to his role as a harsh judge on the popular musical TV talent show ‘Discoteca do Chacrinha’. His persona, however, was forever associated with male chauvinism, and as such became strongly challenged by the emerging feminist movement from the 1970s. While championing free love and questioning the virginity taboo, Valadão was proud of being a homophobic machão (macho man), whose provocative statements such as ‘There’s no such thing as an honest woman, just a badly seduced one’, or ‘Women definitely like to be beaten, but only by the right man and at the right moment’ were frequently quoted.36 In the course of less than two decades, Valadão had gone from being a poor young actor to being one of the most powerful film producers in Brazil. At the beginning of his career, he was part of a generation that aimed to change Brazilian cinema, demanding more realism on screen and more freedom behind the

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camera. After becoming a film producer, he continued to explore the appeal of his own star text, but tested its flexibility in different genres. However, by the end of the 1960s the radical cultural changes taking place in Brazilian society had overtaken him, even though he tried to resist. Bordering on middle age but still with the self-confidence of the cafajeste, he invested in the persona of the ‘last tough guy’ (a kind of Brazilian Clint Eastwood) and of the ‘last machão’ (who supposedly knew what a woman really desired). Although he initially represented modernity as a film star, in the later stages of his career Valadão became a figure increasingly associated with tradition and conservatism.

Notes I would like to thank Deanna Wilcox, João Luiz Vieira, Lisa Shaw and Tim Bergfelder for their help in revising this chapter. All translations of Portuguese quotations are by the author. 1. At the time Lábios sem beijos was released, a critic commented that Brazilian film stars had learned to kiss only very recently, in melodramas like Barro humano (Human Clay, Adhemar Gonzaga, 1929) and Sangue Mineiro (Blood of Minas Gerais, Humberto Mauro, 1930). (Cinearte, 17 December 1930, 4). 2. A Cena Muda, 8 July 1941, 3; Cine-Rádio Jornal, 3 December 1941. 3. A Cena Muda, 26 May 1942, 3. 4. See also the chapter by João Luiz Vieira and Leonardo Côrtes Macario in this volume. 5. J.C. Monteiro, ‘Tropical Venus: Women in/out of the chanchadas’, paper presented at the Stardom in Brazilian Cinema seminar, Universidade Federal Fluminense, Niterói, 9–11 January 2007. 6. L. Shaw and S. Dennison, Brazilian National Cinema (Abingdon: Routledge, 2007), 127. 7. See Lisa Shaw’s chapter in this volume for more details on Cyl Farney’s representation in the film press. 8. Cinelândia, July 1954, 48. 9. Cinelândia, July 1954, 44. 10. R.L. Freire, ‘Carnaval, mistério e gangsters: o filme policial no Brasil (1915–1951)’, PhD thesis, Universidade Federal Fluminense, 2011, 380–409. 11. Cinelândia, 19 August 1953, 47. 12. M. Adamatti, ‘A crítica cinematográfica e o star system nas revistas de fãs: A Cena Muda e Cinelândia (1952–1955)’, MA dissertation, Universidade de São Paulo, 2008, 52. 13. Cited in ibid., 48.

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14. His name, creatively misspelt, was taken from the biblical figure, Jesse. 15. J. Valadão, Memórias de um cafajeste (São Paulo: Geração Editorial, 1996), 54. 16. For more details on Grande Otelo’s role in this film, see the chapter in this volume by João Luiz Vieira and Leonardo Côrtes Macario. 17. Although only playing a minor character, Grande Otelo is the scene stealer in this film, in a powerful sequence in which he dies trying to protect the gang from the police. 18. A Cena Muda, 24 March 1954, 4. 19. Valadão, Memórias de um cafajeste, 63–64. 20. Unidentified clipping from the Cinédia Archive, Rio de Janeiro. The author would like to thank Alice Gonzaga for providing access to this archive. 21. A. Autran, ‘Do rádio à televisão: o personagem negro em dois filmes brasileiros’, paper presented at the 19th Encontro da Compós conference, Pontifícia Universidade Católica do Rio de Janeiro, June 2010. 22. Rio, Zona Norte, like many other films made by left-wing Brazilian filmmakers of that time, expresses the belief that the socialist revolution will result from the solidarity between the Brazilian proletariat and the nationalistic bourgeoisie against international capitalist interests. 23. The problem of juvenile delinquency was already a regular topic in chanchadas from the late 1950s. In one example, Garotas e samba (Girls and Samba, Carlos Manga, 1957), Valadão plays a cafajeste (rogue or hustler) who uses his position in a radio station to try to seduce the naive singer Didi (Adelaide Chiozzo). He asks her to attend a business meeting in his apartment at night, where he gets her drunk. A probable rape is only prevented by the arrival of Didi’s friend, Zizi (Sonia Mamed). 24. Jece Valadão, O Pasquim, 14 April 1971, 3. 25. The film critic Ely Azeredo is usually considered to be the one who first coined the term Cinema Novo. 26. R. Dyer, Only Entertainment (London: Routledge, 1992), 67. 27. The aforementioned Meu destino é pecar was, in fact, the first film adaptation of Nelson Rodrigues’s work, but it was a version of a popular serial that the author published in a newspaper, under the pseudonym Suzana Flag. 28. Valadão later stated that he initially thought Rodrigues was very wealthy. In reality, the family managed their personal finances badly and spent in advance the grants promised by the government that never actually materialized. Years later Valadão would say that he married Dulce just for the money while continuing to be what he termed the ‘most single’ married man in Rio de Janeiro. R. Castro, O anjo pornográfico: a vida de Nelson Rodrigues (São Paulo: Companhia das Letras, 1992), 20–21. 29. Alongside critical acclaim, Rodrigues’s work suffered heavy attacks from the censors and conservative sectors of society. They complained about his mix of popular characters and language, and elements realistically drawn from Rio de Janeiro’s

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30.

31. 32.

33.

34.

35.

36.

working-class suburbs and woven into tragic but humorous dramas that resembled the work of Eugene O’Neill or Tennessee Williams, covering moral taboos such as incest and adultery. See R. Castro, ‘O cafajeste rodriguiano por excelência’, in E. Pupo (ed.), Nelson Rodrigues e o cinema (Rio de Janeiro: Centro Cultural Banco do Brasil, 2004), 93–94 (93). I. Xavier, O olhar e a cena (São Paulo: Cosac & Naify, 2003), 175–76. Rodrigues was by no means considered to be morally conservative, however, and his work was often deemed shocking and even pornographic. T. Elsaesser, ‘Putting on a Show: The European Art Movie’, Sight and Sound 4(4) (1994), 23–27 (25). Ruy Guerra and Pereira dos Santos’s subsequent films were Os Fuzis (The Guns, 1964) and Vidas Secas (Barren Lives, 1963), respectively, and both were acclaimed by critics worldwide. I have explored elsewhere the prejudice associated with the term ‘Brazilian commercial cinema’ in relation to the controversial first screen adaptation of Plínio Marcos’s play Navalha na carne (Razor in the Flesh), the 1969 low-budget film that Valadão produced and starred in, but which was directed by the young Braz Chediak. R.L. Freire, Navalha na tela: Plínio Marcos e o cinema brasileiro (Rio de Janeiro: Tela Brasilis/CAIXA Cultural, 2008). R. L. Freire, ‘O produtor Jece Valadão’, in F. Veríssimo (ed.), As muitas faces de Jece Valadão: 75 anos de cinema (Rio de Janeiro: Centro Cultural Banco do Brasil, 2006), 16–18. P.E. Salles Gomes, ‘Panorama do cinema brasileiro: 1896/1966’, in Salles Gomes, Cinema: trajetória no subdesenvolvimento (São Paulo: Paz & Terra, [1966] 1996), 7–83 (81). See, for instance, O Globo, 5 April 1973, 7.

References Adamatti, M. ‘A crítica cinematográfica e o star system nas revistas de fãs: A Cena Muda e Cinelândia (1952–1955)’. MA dissertation, Universidade de São Paulo, 2008. Autran, A. ‘Do rádio à televisão: o personagem negro em dois filmes brasileiros’. Paper presented at the 19th Encontro da Compós conference, Pontifícia Universidade Católica do Rio de Janeiro, June 2010. Castro, R. O anjo pornográfico: a vida de Nelson Rodrigues. São Paulo: Companhia das Letras, 1992. Castro, R. ‘O cafajeste rodriguiano por excelência’, in E. Pupo (ed.), Nelson Rodrigues e o cinema (Rio de Janeiro: Centro Cultural Banco do Brasil, 2004), 93–94. Dyer, R. Only Entertainment. London: Routledge, 1992. Elsaesser, T. ‘Putting on a Show: The European Art Movie’. Sight and Sound 4(4) (1994), 23–27.

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Freire, R.L. ‘Carnaval, mistério e gangsters: o filme policial no Brasil (1915–1951)’. PhD thesis, Universidade Federal Fluminense, 2011. Freire, R.L. Navalha na tela: Plínio Marcos e o cinema brasileiro. Rio de Janeiro: Tela Brasilis/ CAIXA Cultural, 2008. Freire, R.L. ‘O produtor Jece Valadão’, in F. Veríssimo (ed.), As muitas faces de Jece Valadão: 75 anos de cinema. Rio de Janeiro: Centro Cultural Banco do Brasil, 2006, 16–18. Monteiro, J.C. ‘Tropical Venus: Women in/out of the chanchadas’. Paper presented at the Stardom in Brazilian Cinema seminar, Universidade Federal Fluminense, Niterói, 9–11 January 2007. Salles Gomes, P.E. Cinema: trajetória no subdesenvolvimento. São Paulo: Paz & Terra, [1966] 1996. Shaw, L., and S. Dennison. Brazilian National Cinema. Abingdon: Routledge, 2007. Valadão, J. Memórias de um cafajeste. São Paulo: Geração Editorial, 1996. Valadão, J. O Pasquim, 14 April 1971, 3. Xavier, I. O olhar e a cena. São Paulo: Cosac & Naify, 2003.

Rafael de Luna Freire is a lecturer in Brazilian Film History in the Film and Video Department at the Federal Fluminense University (UFF), Niterói, Brazil. His latest book is Cinematographo em Nictheroy: História das salas de cinema de Niterói (Cinematograph in Niterói: A History of Cinema Theatres in Niterói, Niterói Livros, 2012) and he is currently researching the conversion to sound in Brazilian cinema in the 1930s.

CHAPTER 10

José Mojica Marins versus Coffin Joe Auteurism and stardom in Brazilian cinema Laura Loguercio Cánepa

Best known by the Brazilian public for his appearances on radio and television programmes since the 1960s, José Mojica Marins is also one of the most original Brazilian filmmakers. He made his directorial debut in the 1950s, and caused controversy in 1964 with his third feature-length film, À meia-noite levarei sua alma (At Midnight I’ll Take Your Soul), the first Brazilian horror film, in which Zé do Caixão/Coffin Joe, a kind of alter ego of Mojica himself, made his first appearance. This film, which was surprisingly successful at the box office, gave rise to the first wave of horror productions within Brazilian audio-visual media. Around ten films were released in the following years, accompanied by countless TV and radio programmes, popular songs, as well as comic strips, advertisements, plays and other cultural products starring Coffin Joe, which were soon absorbed by media culture in Brazil. In this chapter I trace Mojica’s career as a unique auteur and also the characteristics that have made Coffin Joe such an iconic presence in Brazil. Born on Friday 13 March 1936, in the city of São Paulo, Mojica was the only child of Antônio Marins and Carmem Mojica, both descendants of Spanish immigrants. Films were part of his life from very early on, as his father was the manager of a cinema in Brás, a central district of São Paulo. A few years later, the young José began making short films with a 9.5 mm camera that his parents had given him as a present. Starring himself and his neighbours, these early films were shown in amusement parks and churches. In 1953, at the age of 18, he founded Cia. Cinematográfica Atlas (the Atlas Film Company) via a system of shares sold to his friends, while giving acting lessons as a way of raising money for his movies. Already these early experiences showed elements of Mojica’s subsequent working practices. For example, in his acting classes he exposed aspiring performers to emotionally intense scenarios, generally creating tension or fear. His students

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were then encouraged to react in an exaggerated manner, with the aim of quickly generating emotions typical of the most popular film genres, particularly comedy, action/adventure, melodrama and horror. During this time Mojica was already styling himself as a teacher and a star. In 1957 he released his first feature-length film: the western A sina do aventureiro (The Adventurer’s Fate), which remained in cinemas for three weeks in São Paulo, achieving respectable box office success. The attention of critics, meanwhile, focused on the brutality of the film’s scenes of violence. A sina do aventureiro was then shown on the exhibition circuit of the poorer outlying districts of the city for two years, gaining prominence at special screenings where the main actress, Tônia Eletra, performed a live striptease. The film’s notoriety cemented Mojica’s role as master of ceremonies, always surrounded by students and fans, and able to release films in the manner of a traditional itinerant circus show. While his acting school prospered as a result of his newfound celebrity status, Mojica embarked on a film inspired by the Spanish hit melodrama, Marcelino pan y vino (Miracle of Marcelino, Ladislao Vajda, 1955). Meu destino em tuas mãos (My Destiny in Your Hands, 1963) starred Mojica himself alongside the young singer Franquito. Tackling themes such as alcoholism, poverty and domestic violence, the film was well made given its production values, but it faired very poorly at the box office, probably due to distribution difficulties caused by the fact that the censors had given it a 14 certificate. Its soundtrack, composed in part by Mojica, did not help. Frustrated by this setback, Mojica later recalled a vivid nightmare he had during this time. In what was to become part of the director’s personal legend, in this dream he had seen himself being carried to his own grave by a mysterious man dressed in black. This man was none other than himself. Believing this nightmare to be a revelation, he decided to make a film out of it, which became À meia-noite levarei sua alma. The production was made on a shoestring budget. Mojica sold the family car, paying only a few technical staff for their work, namely the photographer who would work with him from then on, Giorgio Attili; the editor Luiz Elias, who would go on to work with him until the end of the 1960s; the set designer José Vedovato; and Mojica’s assistant director, Osvaldo de Oliveira, who would subsequently become one of the most important directors of popular cinema in São Paulo. The rest of the budget was raised by forming a cooperative with his students: in order to participate in the film, each of them had to contribute one hundred thousand

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cruzeiros. The film, which ended up costing some six thousand US dollars, was completed, but the director was heavily in debt. He therefore sold the film, shortly before it premiered, to the actor Ilídio Martins, who earned a great deal of money from a deal in which he resold his share, for three times its value, to the investor Nelson Teixeira Mendes in the wake of the film’s successful premiere in São Paulo on 9 November 1964.1 The plot of the film revolves around a wealthy and violent funeral director named Josefel Zanatas, aka Zé do Caixão/Coffin Joe – played by Mojica, but dubbed by Laércio Laurelli, an actor who spoke perfect Portuguese, unlike Mojica, who even in later years continued to make constant grammatical mistakes. Feared and hated by the townsfolk, Zé/Joe is obsessed with the idea of creating ‘the perfect son’, the only way of achieving immortality, in his mind. In order to realize this ambition, he kills whoever gets in his way – including his own wife, who fails to get pregnant, and his best friend, whose fiancée Coffin Joe desires. After she has been raped by him but before she commits suicide, she curses Coffin Joe and promises to exact her revenge from the afterlife. On the night of the feared procession of the dead, the non-believing Zé encounters a gypsy woman who predicts his tragic fate. Brushing off the warning, he is pursued by a procession of dead people. Running through the forest, he takes refuge in the cemetery, where he stumbles across the bodies of his victims. He is later found dead by the townspeople, with his eyes bulging wide open at the sight of hell.

An unparalleled character In the opinion of writer and scriptwriter Rubens Francisco Luchetti, who has ­collaborated with Mojica, Coffin Joe was a revolutionary creation: Coffin Joe … is the only great horror character in Latin American cinema. … When I was working with comic strips and on the radio, I was often asked to create Brazilian characters. But I found it impossible to create a Brazilian character within that fantastical and terrifying universe. Until Coffin Joe appeared.2 In creating the mythical figure of Coffin Joe, Mojica incorporated references to international horror film traditions, but also from Brazilian folklore, as well as elements drawn from his personal life, such as his first wife’s difficulty in conceiving.

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Coffin Joe’s physical appearance in particular is worthy of further analysis. The character has bushy eyebrows, long fingernails like claws, and sports a long, thick black beard. His goat-like features recall satyrs and other figures from classical mythology who are associated with lust, such as the god Pan and the Devil himself.3 Meanwhile, his black clothes and the flowing cape and top hat suggest vague aristocratic origins, and are reminiscent of the depictions of classic horror characters such as Count Dracula and the Phantom of the Opera. However, these features similarly allude to a recurrent figure in the Afro-Brazilian religious imaginary, namely Exu. Alexandre Agabiti Fernandez discusses the ­relationship between Exu and Coffin Joe as follows: In the Afro-Brazilian religion of candomblé, Exu is the dynamic element of everything that exists … . Considered to be impulsive and irritable, Exu is perverse and impetuous. An extrovert and a narcissist, he attests to the principle of reproduction, to sexual activity. Character traits like these are also present in Coffin Joe. In Africa Exu was compared to the Devil by the first missionaries, who were scandalized by the phallic references in the depictions of the deity. In Brazil such assimilation is more intense in beliefs that distance themselves from candomblé, with the latter remaining more faithful to its African roots. In certain variants of the religion Exu is the spirit of darkness, closely linked to the Christian Devil.4 Other references to Afro-Brazilian religious entities repeatedly appear in the mise en scène of Mojica’s films, such as statues of red devils with goatee beards, tridents, skulls, candles and bottles of sugarcane liquor. However, as Lúcio F. dos Reis Piedade has observed, it is in his behaviour that Coffin Joe fully represents a figure of evil. He tortures men and women indiscriminately, although the latter are his main victims. While men are punched, tortured and killed, his female victims are sexually abused and dominated, humiliated and subjected to a very particular version of hell, carnal and bloody, at the hands of their executioner. The embodiment of perversion in its archaic form, he commits blasphemy against the belief in a divine authority, suggesting that lack of belief and perversion go hand in hand. Another important dimension to the character is that, as Piedade has stated, Coffin Joe is a monster, but not a supernatural one: A character with the important feature that he is a sociopath, an aspect that is diluted by the almost super-human quality that is attributed to him, Coffin

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Joe, despite being mortal, embodies in the eyes of the spectator the figure of the monster, the ‘extraordinary character in an ordinary world’, to whom Noël Carrol refers. In other words, the scenarios that are presented, with their abuses and depravity, possess the tangible quality of daily life, but the gravedigger, as the catalyst, is situated on another level.5 Coffin Joe moves back and forth between the world of the living and that of the dead, being feared and despised in the same way by witches, souls in torment and the Devil. The irony is that such supernatural figures appear on screen precisely to punish Zé himself. In his films it is always the supernatural, and not ordinary men, who defeat the sociopathic monster, re-establishing normal life and putting the deviant individual in the position of terrified human being. As Cid Vale Ferreira has noted: You have a character who … is a man with certain obsessions, and is constructed with a particular care that differentiates him from all the characters who, at the time, were icons of horror films. … And, in addition, he has a wealth of Brazilian origins, based on superstitions and religions, which fill the gaps that one might imagine were a problem when it came to creating a Brazilian horror character … .6 The films’ moral overtones appear to have been derived from the religious melodramas that were still very popular in Brazil at the time when Mojica made his first films. It is worth stressing here that in Brazil, in which the supernatural has been habitually seen by large parts of the population not as a deviant  element but rather as one of the fundamental elements of existence, it would be difficult to create a story of great impact in which the supernatural simply represented evil. The great achievement of Mojica’s creation, therefore, was the invention of a character who does not believe in the supernatural and who, as a result of this, can be terrified by its intervention. However, by failing to believe and thus feeling entitled to commit a series of evil acts in the name of what he considers to be ‘reason’, this figure can also be seen as a tragic hero in the classic sense of ­someone who defies the gods and who gets punished accordingly. This strange amalgamation of sinner and tragic martyr perhaps helps to explain the mythical status that Coffin Joe has acquired in the Brazilian imaginary, especially due to his ability to return from the world of the dead in vari-

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ous ­sartorial guises, threatening and warning people on radio and television programmes, or once again terrifying the inhabitants of his community in the ­follow-ups to À meia-noite. In an attempt to explain Mojica’s cinema, Fernandez explores the idea of his work as an expression of dementia and transcendence.7 Zé/Joe is fascinated with questions for which he has no answers (like the meaning of life and death, the existence of the afterlife and of the supernatural), which clearly allude to the sacred. Mojica’s films abound with both sacred and profane references that have contributed a great deal to the ambiguous way in which Brazilian society has taken him on board, with the result that his public persona alternates between the image of ‘devil’ and ‘healer’. Critics have responded to his films in a similarly ambivalent way, identifying in them both reactionary politics and cinematic innovation.

A prodigy of popular horror In addition to giving rise to a unique screen icon, À meia-noite is a curious mix of references to the horror tradition. These include a blasphemous serial killer (the scene in which Coffin Joe watches a Good Friday procession while eating a leg of pork is unforgettable); attacks by deadly animals (the spider that kills Zé’s wife); ghostly apparitions (the procession of the dead); and decomposing corpses (images that would only be seen again in such graphic detail in George Romero’s Night of the Living Dead in 1968). The film also features scenes of sexual violence  – what would fall under the rubric of ‘sexploitation’ genres in other countries, although Mojica was apparently unaware of that cinematic tradition. In addition, there are well-executed scenes of graphic violence (such as the one where Zé amputates a finger in a bar brawl), as well as artisanal special effects that include direct intervention on the film stock and the negative. The film hit the bull’s eye in terms of popular tastes. À meia-noite was ambiguous, first and foremost, because it did not commit to being either a drama or a comedy. Furthermore, the ‘Brazilianness’ of the film meshed with imported elements, like the horror genre itself, until then unheard of in Brazilian cinema. But, above all, the film’s ambivalence was due to its both blasphemous and conservative nature. As stated above, everything that Zé ironically denounces as the ‘ignorance of the people’ ultimately proves to be true and indisputable, adding a moralistic message to the story.

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Confronted with such an unusual film, Brazilian critics were divided. Mojica’s admirers hailed his form of cinema, which was rooted in popular culture and created in precarious conditions by professionals with little intellectual background, but capable of creating high impact, while at the same time revealing Brazil’s cultural backwardness. For Mojica’s detractors, these same values constituted the various problematic aspects of his film, reinforced by the notion that Brazilian cinema should distance itself from (alleged) popular primitivism by engaging with the imported models of classical Hollywood cinema or modern European cinema. Meanwhile, the most acclaimed Brazilian filmmakers of the time, including Glauber Rocha, treated Mojica with a reverence that certainly contributed to the latter’s transformation into a celebrity. The filmmaker Carlos Reichenbach explicitly drew comparisons between the most iconic character of the ­avant-garde Cinema Novo and Coffin Joe as follows: Glauber Rocha created Antonio das Mortes, and Mojica created Coffin Joe, and curiously the two characters are brothers. It is no coincidence that notoriously Glauber interrupted a screening of À meia-noite in Rio de Janeiro to say: ‘This man is a genius’, and several other critics … have recognized the genius of his work. … These people were not wrong: they were able to foresee that they were in the presence of an artist without equal.8 What impressed the proponents of Cinema Novo was the radical stance and spontaneity with which Mojica tackled shocking subject matter, and that his iconoclasm was tied to real social concerns in Brazilian society. Among other topics, his film dealt with the culture of machismo, the dominance of economic elites (Zé is one of the richest men in his town) and with racism (Zé’s search for the ‘perfect son’). Another reason for his critical acclaim was the fact that this young, poorly educated director with a talent for publicity behaved like a starauteur. He began to appear on TV shows, always dressed as Coffin Joe, vowing to commit gross acts of barbarity, cursing people, and attracting the attention of fans. Mojica carefully fed the newspapers with news items (real or invented) about the box office success of his films, placed advertisements for casting sessions and issued invitation letters to film screenings in the shape of coffins. He gained further publicity from attending parties and leading spiritualist sessions. Even the difficulties that he encountered with the military dictatorship after 1964 were exploited in the promotion of his films and in interviews in which he

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Figure 10.1 Coffin Joe in Esta noite encarnarei no teu cadáver (1967). DVD screen capture.

described his work as a fight against intolerance and censorship on behalf of Brazilian cinema. Coffin Joe returned to the cinema in 1967 in the sequel Esta noite encarnarei no teu cadáver (Tonight I’ll Possess Your Corpse). This time Mojica’s iconic alter ego was accompanied by a hunchbacked assistant, and still in pursuit of the perfect woman. The duo kidnap, rape, blackmail, kill and torture in so-called ‘tests of fear’, which include half-naked women being subjected to attacking spiders and snakes. During the shot, real animals were used, something that dramatically intensified the experience of the actresses and the audience. At the end of the film, Coffin Joe finds himself in hell, where he discovers that Satan is his double (both are played by Mojica). Zé/Joe, unrepentant as always, ends up being chased by the townsfolk, and he ultimately drowns in a lake, where the dead bodies of his victims float beside him. Maintaining the violent tone of the first film, but exhibiting more spectacular scenes – even though once again the budget was miniscule – Coffin Joe caused a sensation. Copies circulated for several years and although the box office statistics were problematic, estimates indicate that it had significant commercial impact, being seen by millions of spectators.9 For Ferreira, the sequel marked a radicalization in relation to the original film:

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The first difference between the two films is the intent. In the first, … the horror  scenes had a certain comic quality. … In the second film the character acquires an almost expressionist quality in that his own madness is exaggerated.10 Esta noite left its protagonist at a crossroads: what else could happen to Coffin Joe, who had already murdered more than ten people, had visited hell and drowned in a lake? As Ferreira suggests, the second death of the character had opened up a range of options for a series franchise, because now Zé/Joe was no longer just a psychopathic gravedigger. He could be what people always feared he was: a monster.11 The next film in the series, O estranho mundo de Zé do Caixão (The Strange World of Coffin Joe, 1968), was divided into three episodes, with Coffin Joe merely appearing as the presenter. In the film we are introduced to another of Mojica’s alter egos, Professor Oãxiac Odéz,12 who offers a treatment to free people from the constraints of reason, by showing them that they are made of pure instinct. Oãxiac was depicted differently from Zé – without the cloak and top hat – despite still having the same dubbed voice and beard. The character’s crimes consisted of submitting people to the most extreme deprivations, cannibalizing them and exploiting them as his assistants. The film’s explicit bloodthirstiness infuriated the censors and led to numerous imposed cuts, which presumably harmed its box office success. The film marked the attempt by the scriptwriter Luchetti, who had by then joined Mojica’s team, to transform the director’s ideas into more structured and organic narratives. It was also made at a time when Zé do Caixão/Coffin Joe appeared on a weekly TV show scripted by Luchetti (‘Além, muito além do além’ [Beyond, Far Beyond the Afterlife], TV Bandeirantes station, 1968). The following year the duo acquired a comic strip magazine that ran for six editions, Estranho mundo do Zé do Caixão (Strange World of Coffin Joe), designed by Nico Rosso, one of the best comic strip artists in Brazil. Nevertheless, rash business decisions plunged Mojica and Luchetti into bankruptcy, alleviated in part by Luchetti’s work as a writer of pulp fiction and Mojica’s appearance in advertisements, his work as a party host and acting appearances in films by other directors, such as O cangaceiro sem Deus (The Godless Bandit, 1969), by Osvaldo de Oliveira, in which he played the role of a religious leader called Zé das Penitências (Penitence Joe); O profeta da fome (The Prophet

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of Hunger, 1969), by Maurice Capovilla, in which he played the fakir Alikhan; and Audácia – A fúria dos desejos (Audaciousness – The Fury of Desires, 1969), directed by Carlos Reichenbach and Antônio Lima, in which he appeared in pseudo-documentary scenes. Mojica’s most violent film, Ritual dos sádicos (Ritual of the Sadists, 1970), was only released in 1986 under the title O despertar da besta (The Awakening of the Beast). In a fragmented narrative influenced by the Brazilian ‘underground’ cinema movement, this feature-length film centred on the experiences of a doctor studying the hallucinations of a group of drug addicts who take LSD, and who encounter Coffin Joe. This time Mojica appeared in the film as himself, giving interviews, while his character wreaked terror in the psychedelic hallucinations of the characters. Ritual represents yet another transition in the figure of Coffin Joe, this time as a personification of the abstract idea of the ‘evil in each of us’. But once again, censorship scuppered the film’s chances and the constant interference by the authorities brought the director’s projects to a virtual standstill. Subsequently, Mojica reinvented himself. He and Luchetti made two featurelength films based on a character that Luchetti had created for a TV soap opera, played on film by Mojica. The director decided to make the two films simultaneously, using the same crew, and to then release them separately: first Finis Hominis (1971), and then Quando os deuses adormecem (When the Gods Sleep, 1972). Although not horror films, they retained fantastical elements, a quasi-messianic central character and a sensationalist approach in their portrayal of social issues. Both films involved an enigmatic character (Finis), who walks the streets naked (and then adopts the traditional dress of an Indian, wearing clothes that a woman gives to him), saving the victims of robberies, unmasking charlatans, pacifying married couples, curing the sick and attracting followers – before returning to his home, which turns out to be an asylum. Although the Finis films were not box office hits, at least they did not encounter many problems from the censors. They also retained one of Mojica’s central preoccupations: a mysterious entity brings about justice in a depraved environment. According to Fernandez, the two Finis films are in diametrical opposition to the character of Coffin Joe, which can provide a key to understanding the ­director’s films and their dichotomy between dementia and transcendence.13 But Zé/Joe had not gone forever. In 1973, following the worldwide success of The Exorcist, Mojica was contracted by the powerful São Paulo producer Aníbal

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Massaini Neto to direct Exorcismo negro (Black Exorcism, 1974). The trailer, at the time of writing still circulating on YouTube, once again drew attention to the by now characteristic blurring between Mojica as auteur/star and Coffin Joe as character: The desperation of a man trying to free himself from the demonic incarnation of his character. Coffin Joe, for the first time, faces an opponent as powerful as himself. Where does the reality of the filmmaker José Mojica Marins begin?  What is fictitious about the diabolical character of Coffin Joe? Could Coffin Joe be merely a demonic possession in the work of José Mojica Marins? Unlike Friedkin’s classic, the plot of Exorcismo negro was less concerned with demonic possession than with the relationship between creator and creature – and was thus markedly different from other films that exploited the success of The Exorcist around the world. In the film the director Mojica receives an invitation to visit a family on their farm, and discovers a case of possession. To avoid the worst, he will have to confront the Devil’s emissary, incarnated in his character, Coffin Joe. Exorcismo negro was released in December 1974, a month after The Exorcist had finally made it to Brazilian screens, where it attracted eight million spectators. Mojica’s film, by contrast, is said to have attracted an audience of around six hundred thousand, boosted by students from his acting school, who simulated hypnotic trances during the screenings and attracted the tabloid press. After this short-lived collaboration with the mainstream industry, Mojica had to resort once again to his artisanal mode of production. None of the films he made over the coming years went on to be a great success. In A estranha hospedaria dos prazeres (The Strange Inn of Pleasures, 1976), co-directed with his student, Marcelo Motta, a group of immoral people seek shelter in the inn of a man (Mojica) during the night of a storm, without realizing that the stranger who has taken them in is death itself. Inferno carnal (Carnal Hell, 1977), in which he would play a mad scientist, was interrupted by the actor/director’s heart attack, brought on in part by having fallen heavily into debt. Without wishing to miss an opportunity for self-publicity, the filmmaker invited the press to the hospital to declare that the ‘cinema mafia’ was trying to kill him. In Delírios de um anormal (Delirium of an Abnormal Man, 1978), Mojica, playing himself as a celebrated film director, is

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called upon to help in the psychiatric treatment of a patient obsessed by the idea that Coffin Joe wants to steal his wife.14 The 1980s and 1990s were very difficult decades for Brazilian cinema as a whole, but they proved to be particularly cruel for Mojica. In the late 1970s he had already begun to lose his popularity, being obliged to work on other people’s projects, often participating as an actor in cameo roles (as in the hit film O segredo da múmia [The Secret of the Mummy], 1982, by Ivan Cardoso). As was the case with other directors from São Paulo, he was also co-opted by the hard-core sex industry, for which he directed four films under the pseudonym of J. Avelar, such as 24 horas de sexo explícito (24 Hours of Explicit Sex, 1984) and 48 horas de sexo alucinante (48 Hours of Hot Sex, 1987). For several years Mojica earned a living hosting events at amusement parks, parties and acting schools, with only a few opportunities for greater exposure (such as when he presented the programme ‘Cine Trash’ on the TV Band station in 1996–97). But just when he appeared to be condemned once and for all to being a mere circus attraction, a change of fortune once again put him in the spotlight. In the 2000s the São Paulo production company Olhos de Cão decided to produce, with a budget of around five million reais, the third film in the unfinished trilogy featuring Coffin Joe: Encarnação do demônio (Incarnation of the Devil, 2008), distributed by Fox International.

Figure 10.2 Coffin Joe in Encarnação do demônio (2008). DVD screen capture.

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In the film Josefel Zanatas reappears, forty years older, as an ex-con who is taken in by his faithful hunchback Bruno (Rui Resende). Zé/Joe, the hunchback and the servants once again pursue adventures in their quest for the ultimate woman, searching the whole world only to find seven women who can satisfy the demands of the master. However, Zé ends up being killed at the hands of the Church and the police, but not without first making the seven women pregnant – and thus supposedly leaving seven heirs to realize his dream of ‘giving continuity to his blood’. By using the ploy of the character’s long imprisonment, the plot accounts for the protagonist’s difference in age in relation to the previous film, made in 1967, and draws an interesting parallel between the imprisonment of Zé and the ostracism suffered by Mojica himself. The big difference in relation to his previous works stems from the technical conditions. In a hilarious interview given to Ivan Finotti in 2006, he declared that some important differences between contemporary cinema and that of his era include the certificate from the IBAMA (the Brazilian Institute for the Environment and Natural Resources) for the use of animals and the concern for the welfare of the actors.15 The film was made by a team of young directors, scriptwriters and technicians with a background in horror films (including Dennison Ramalho and André Kapel Furman), featured acclaimed actors (such as the theatre director José Celso Martinez Correia) and was well received by the press, a first in Mojica’s career. With the support of this team, the film also drew on contemporary cinema trends, such as torture porn, and featured intense moments of physical horror, like the scene in which Coffin Joe inserts a rat into the vagina of one of his victims. In spite of all this, the film was a box office flop. But, finally, at seventy-two years of age, Coffin Joe and Mojica, for the time being, concluded their adventure, and the filmmaker was given an interview programme on cable television, called – of course – ‘O e­ stranho mundo de Zé do Caixão’ (The Strange World of Coffin Joe), which still airs on Brazilian television.

An insane auteur/actor According to Fernandez, the paradoxical coexistence of artificiality and spontaneity, of conventionality and authenticity, of imagination and reality in Mojica’s cinema permits two modes of expression:

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The first is shock, so dear to the surrealists, in which abnormality, excess, dreams, the irrational or the supernatural appear in a stable and everyday ­context. … The second mode of expression is involuntary humour.16 Performing a balancing act between shock and humour is seen as genius by some, and insane or ridiculous by others. As a director almost exclusively committed to the horror genre, Mojica has had the longest career in the history of Brazilian cinema, with more than forty-five years of virtually uninterrupted involvement in mass cultural production. However, having burst onto the film scene at the beginning of the 1960s, Mojica and his films could not escape the influence of ideas relating to auteur cinema, understood as a way of making and reading films based on the notion of an individual style. This style can be recognized in the recurrence of certain themes, iconographic configurations and ideological positions. Among the horror films produced in Brazil from the 1960s onwards, the first to gain any notoriety were those directed by Mojica with his distinctive signature – to be found not only in his films, but also in the peculiar way in which he always positioned himself, attracting attention even at a time when horror was far removed from the political, ideological and aesthetic agenda that was motivating Brazilian critics and directors. It is also worth pointing out that Mojica was not only a pioneer in Brazilian horror cinema, but indeed was one of the world’s pioneers in the production of explicit horror films, and is today considered one of the classic names of the gore tradition, alongside directors like Herschell Gordon Lewis and the Japanese Nobuo Nakagawa. Mojica’s pioneering work in the exploitation of gore caused surprise among international critics when his films began to gain recognition in the USA and Europe in the 1990s. Historians and fans were impressed with the degree of violence, and also with the playful and artisanal aspects of his films, recognizing a unique style of narrative and staging. It was no coincidence that when Encarnação do demônio was released, much was made of its relationship with torture porn, a subgenre of which Mojica was one of the pioneers. Mojica’s torture scenes are always exhibitionist, carried out in front of diegetic audiences and addressed to the cinema audience in a performative way. The impact of such scenes is reinforced by a kind of brutal realism: a recurrent technique used by the director was to force his actors to witness real scenarios of violence, which included mutilations, animal attacks and other extreme acts, thus achieving authentic performances from virtually untrained actors.

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However, a final very specific aspect of Mojica’s filmography, which is of particular interest here, is the fact that, among the masters of horror, he is one of the very few – and without a doubt the most ostentatious – to present himself on screen (and off) playing the monster himself, and thus manages, both in his films and in real life, to blur the distinctions between auteur and character almost to the point of insanity.17 What complicates discussions about Mojica’s auteurship is the fact that he emerged on the Brazilian scene at a time when the notion of the auteur demanded of directors articulate declarations to accompany the circulation of their films. However, in this process, Mojica adopted a strategy from the circus – provoked, to a certain extent, by the need to maintain his media presence – something that made his declarations almost always more contradictory than his films. Of the hundreds of statements made by the filmmaker, none holds the key to understanding a possible cinematic project. Such an understanding, if it is possible, can only be gleaned from fragments of numerous different declarations, many of them untrue, and above all from the long monologues in his films, ­veritable masterpieces of Mojica’s vacuous dialectic discourse. The fact that Mojica was only able on a few occasions to articulate a discourse beyond diatribe contributed to his fame as being mad and inconsistent. But, in addition to this difficulty, we must also remember his tendency to associate himself with people, companies and politicians of questionable conduct, becoming involved in the promotion of products and ideas that only served to reinforce the impression of him as an incoherent trickster. However, as Higushi has pointed out, perhaps the major complicating factor has been the blurring of the distinctions between the filmmaker and his most illustrious character. This confusion was initially fostered by Mojica himself and his habit of dressing like Coffin Joe, wearing a cape and letting his own fingernails grow to enormous lengths instead of using false nails. Consequently, despite attempts to put the issue of the character of Coffin Joe back in its generic context, what occurred was the transformation of a unique cinematic experiment into an oeuvre that is still considered, by most Brazilians, much more significant for its anecdotal value than for its cinematic qualities. However, if we manage to see his films as the result of a problematic process of construction, which took place over decades, we are able to view an oeuvre that is still far from exhausted in terms of its aesthetic, political and cultural potential. We can also recognize an actor able to produce one of the most original fictional creations within Brazilian cinema and horror cinema worldwide. Translated by Lisa Shaw

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Notes An earlier version of this chapter was published in Portuguese in the book O Cinema como itinerário de formação, edited by Rogério de Almeida and Marcos Ferreira-Santos (São Paulo: Editora Képos, 2011). 1. For more information on this deal, see A. Barcinski and I. Finotti, Maldito: a vida e o cinema de José Mojica Marins, o Coffin Joe (São Paulo: Editora 34, 1998), 115. 2. R.F. Luchetti, interview with the writer and scriptwriter about his partnership with José Mojica Marins, transcription by Laura Cánepa, in Coleção Coffin Joe. 50 anos do cinema de José Mojica Marins, direction and production: Paulo Duarte and Carlos Primati, 6 DVDs (521 min.), vols. 1 to 6 (Jundiaí: Cinemagia, 2002), Vol. 1. 3. L.F. Piedade, ‘A cultura do lixo: horror, sexo e exploração no cinema’, Masters dissertation, Universidade Estadual de Campinas, 2002. 4. A.A. Fernandez, ‘Personagens antípodas’. José Mojica Marins File. Portal Heco. Available at: (accessed 20 November 2007). 5. Piedade, A cultura do lixo, 123–26. 6. C.V. Ferreira, interview about the work of José Mojica Marins, transcription by Laura Cánepa, in Coleção Coffin Joe. 50 anos do cinema de José Mojica Marins, direction and production: Paulo Duarte and Carlos Primati, 6 DVDs (521 min.), vols. 1 to 6 (Jundiaí: Cinemagia, 2002), Vol. 1. 7. A.A. Fernandez, ‘Entre la démence et la transcendance – José Mojica Marins e o cinema fantástico’, Cinemas d’Amérique Latine 10 (2002), 117–18. 8. C. Reichenbach, interview with the filmmaker about À meia-noite levarei sua alma by José Mojica Marins, transcription by Laura Cánepa, in Coleção Coffin Joe. 50 anos do cinema de José Mojica Marins, direction and production: Paulo Duarte and Carlos Primati, 6 DVDs (521 mins.), vols. 1 to 6. (Jundiaí: Cinemagia, 2002), Vol. 1. 9. Today it is impossible to know the exact size of the film’s audience. Mojica’s biographers, Barcinski and Finotti (Maldito, 117) give an approximate estimate, claiming that it was exhibited in 186 cinemas in the state of São Paulo, and seen by an audience of 1.5 million spectators. Statistics from the INC (National Cinema Institute) show that São Paulo accounted for between 25% and 30% of the total national audience in Brazil at this time. Knowing that Mojica’s film was a hit throughout the country, it can be estimated that it was seen by an audience of between five and six million Brazilians. 10. Ferreira, interview in Coleção Coffin Joe, Vol. 2. 11. Ibid. 12. The name spells ‘Zé do Caixão’ backwards. 13. Fernandez, ‘Entre la démence et la transcendance’. 14. In order to make a film with the amount of money that was available to him, Mojica had an ingenious idea: the film consisted of a collage of scenes from his previous

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films that had been censored. Of the eighty-three minutes of the film, twenty minutes comprised new material and the rest was recycled. 15. I. Finotti, ‘A terceira morte de Zé do Caixão’. Folha de São Paulo, 28 December 2006. Available at: (accessed 28 December 2006). 16. A.A. Fernandez. ‘Um arranjo prosaico e extravagante’. José Mojica Marins File. Portal Heco. Available at: (accessed 20 November 2007). 17. At the time of the first release of Mojica’s films in Europe, in 1993, the journalist Horacio Higushi, in the magazine Monsters! International, wrote a long article on the director entitled ‘José Mojica Marins: The Madness in His Method’. Higushi suggested that Mojica exposed both himself and his actors to great risks during the making of his films, and in this respect resembled Coffin Joe in relation to his victims.

References Barcinski, A., and I. Finotti. Maldito: a vida e o cinema de José Mojica Marins, o Coffin Joe. São Paulo: Editora 34, 1998. Cánepa, L. ‘À meia-noite levarei sua alma’, in Rogério Almeida and Marcos FerreiraSantos (eds), O cinema como itinerário de formação. São Paulo: Képos, 2011. Fernandez, A.A. ‘Entre la démence et la transcendance – José Mojica Marins e o cinema fantástico’. Cinemas d’Amérique Latine 10 (2002), 117–28. Fernandez, A.A. ‘Personagens antípodas’. José Mojica Marins File. Portal Heco. Available at: (accessed 20 November 2007). Fernandez, A.A. ‘Um arranjo prosaico e extravagante’. José Mojica Marins File. Portal Heco. Available at: (accessed 20 November 2007). Ferreira, C.V. Interview about the work of José Mojica Marins. Transcription by Laura Cánepa. In Coleção Coffin Joe. 50 anos do cinema de José Mojica Marins. Direction and production: Paulo Duarte and Carlos Primati. 6 DVDs (521 min.), vols. 1 to 6. Jundiaí: Cinemagia, 2002. Finotti, I. ‘A terceira morte de Zé do Caixão’, Folha de São Paulo, 28 December 2006. Available at: (accessed 28 December 2006). Higushi, H. ‘José Mojica Marins: The Madness in His Method’. Monster! International 3 (October 1993), 18–37. Luchetti, R.F. Interview with the writer and scriptwriter about his partnership with José Mojica Marins. Transcription by Laura Cánepa. In Coleção Coffin Joe. 50 anos do cinema de José Mojica Marins. Direction and production: Paulo Duarte and Carlos Primati. 6 DVDs (521 min.), vols. 1 to 6. Jundiaí: Cinemagia, 2002.

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Piedade, L.F. ‘A cultura do lixo: horror, sexo e exploração no cinema’. Masters dissertation, Universidade Estadual de Campinas, 2002. Reichenbach, C. Interview with the filmmaker about À meia-noite levarei sua alma by José Mojica Marins. Transcription by Laura Cánepa. In Coleção Coffin Joe. 50 anos do cinema de José Mojica Marins. Direction and production: Paulo Duarte and Carlos Primati. 6 DVDs (521 min.), vol 1. Jundiaí: Cinemagia, 2002.

Laura Loguercio Cánepa is a journalist with a PhD in multimedia studies from the University of Campinas (Unicamp) in Brazil, and has published extensively on the area of Brazilian horror and exploitation films. She currently lectures on the Masters programme in Communication Studies at Anhembi Morumbi University in São Paulo. She is co-editor of the audio-visual and cinema  journal Rebeca and coordinates the film studies group within Intercom (the Brazilian Society of Interdisciplinary Communication Studies).

CHAPTER 11

As loiras Brazil’s screen blondes Stephanie Dennison

This chapter will analyse the star texts of a group of blonde ‘sex symbol’ actresses who dominated cinemas and glossy magazines in Brazil from the 1960s through to the 1990s and beyond. While there are, of course, award-winning ‘character’ actresses who have graced the Brazilian screen, such as Fernanda Montenegro (perhaps best known to international audiences through her performance in Central do Brasil [Central Station, 1998]) and her daughter Fernanda Torres, they are very much the exception to the rule that dictates that remarkable beauty and sexual attraction are prerequisites for a career as a successful actress. The actresses discussed in this chapter, Vera Fischer and Xuxa, were chosen for the fact that their star texts hinge on their representation of colour.1 It is their socalled ‘Nordic’ look (as Brazilians like to describe those of Northern European instead of the more common Mediterranean skin tone and physique), rather than the body of work they have produced or their commercial success, that has determined the iconic status of these performers. This being said, Vera Fischer and Xuxa were among the biggest stars of their respective generations in Brazil, and have each starred in a large number of critically acclaimed films. Discussing Brazil’s screen actresses and their star texts, it is important to bear in mind a number of issues that are unique to Brazilian ‘stardom’. For a start, it is worth considering the relationship that a number of mainstream actresses have had with the soft-core porn industry. From 1975 onwards, until the time of its socalled retomada (recovery or renaissance) in the mid 1990s, Brazilian cinema was marked by a very high incidence of nudity, partly as a result of greater freedom from censorship and partly as a reaction to competition from commercially very popular Italian soft-core porn films and the home-grown pornochanchadas. It was, and continues to be, perfectly acceptable for actresses to promote ­upcoming

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roles in films, relaunch flagging careers and announce dramatic changes in style with highly suggestive and revealing photo shoots for soft-core porn magazines such as Playboy and Revista Status. Both the now defunct Revista Status and the less ‘highbrow’ and more popular Brazilian Playboy were essential vehicles for the marketing of female stars in that period.2 It is important to note that the dissemination of such images is more widespread in Brazil than, say, in the UK. These magazines are not restricted to the ‘top shelves’; newsagents are scattered all over towns and cities in Brazil in the form of bancas or kiosks where the latest magazines are pinned up on display for passers-by to see. There is also a sizeable second-hand market for such magazines, which are displayed and sold by street traders in public squares. Although this chapter will refer to other iconic blonde actresses – Odete Lara, Norma Bengell, Darlene Glória – the focus will be on the star texts of Vera Fischer and Xuxa Meneghel, given their greater professional longevity, their impact at the box office and their greater reliance on their blondeness and skin tone in terms of career and self-promotion. In contrast, Odete Lara (b. 1929) and Darlene Glória (b. 1943), having been well-known screen actresses in the 1960s and 1970s respectively, abandoned their film careers at the height of their popularity.3 Norma Bengell (1935–2013), forever remembered as the blonde bombshell in films such as O homem do sputnik (Sputnik Man, 1959), in which she imitated Brigitte Bardot, and Os cafajestes (The Hustlers, 1962), later reinvented herself as a (brunette) film director and producer.

Vera Fischer Vera Fischer was born in 1951 in Blumenau in the southern state of Santa Catarina and is of German descent.4 She broke into television and movies on the back of her victory in the 1969 Miss Brasil beauty contest, during which she notably wore a Bavarian-style folk dress, which she subsequently wore again for her appearance at Miss Universe. She made her name starring in pornochandadas, the most memorable of which was Aníbal Massaini Neto’s A superfêmea (Superwoman, 1973). In this film, Fischer plays a naive, distant and devastatingly attractive beauty queen who is used by a marketing Svengali to promote a product deemed impossible to sell because of its associations with impotence: the male contraceptive pill. A date with ‘superwoman’ is offered as first prize in the competition, the suggestion

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being that the lucky winner will be able to try out the new product with his prize, in whose company impotence would simply be impossible. To an extent, Vera Fischer became this much desired and sought-after ‘superwoman’ in the 1970s and early 1980s. She starred in a number of box office hits after leaving behind the pornochanchada in the mid 1970s, including Braz Chediak’s 1981 adaptation of popular Brazilian author Nelson Rodrigues’s Bonitinha mas ordinária (Pretty but Slutty) and Arnaldo Jabor’s Eu te amo (I Love You, also 1981), and she was one of Brazil’s most popular cover girls at the time. In 1989 Fischer starred in Doida demais (Just Too Crazy), and by doing so handed gossip columnists a ready-made headline for reports on her increasingly stormy private life. Married twice (to actors Perry Salles and Felipe Camargo), her family life reads like a TV Globo soap opera. Both marriages were wrecked by violence. Rather than being seen as a victim of domestic abuse, Vera is portrayed as giving as good as she gets and, more often than not, as provoking violence through her drug and alcohol abuse, which also caused her to be sacked from (but always later re-employed by a surprisingly forgiving) TV Globo. In one incident, Camargo was hospitalized as a result of being attacked with a pair of scissors (one of Fischer’s maids suffered a similar fate), eliciting from the press the headline ‘Vera Scissorhands’. Vera’s inability to keep control of her senses and stay sober saw her hit rock bottom in the early 1990s when she notoriously lost custody of her young son. Having seemingly overcome a series of serious personal difficulties, the new millennium saw her once again as a regular on TV Globo’s primetime soap operas and, now into her sixties, she continues to make the headlines for her looks.5 In terms of star text and personal trajectory, Fischer remains very much an extreme case, but there are a number of features of both her film career and perceptions of her private life that resonate with the star texts of other blonde actresses.

Blondes, prostitution and self-destruction In Brazil blonde actresses tend to come from backgrounds that are associated in the popular imaginary with the world of prostitution, and interestingly they play characters from similar backgrounds on screen. Norma Bengell was a showgirl, and in Os cafajestes she is required to perform naked in front of the two male leads and, in what is a consciously voyeuristic sequence, the film audience too. Darlene Glória was a cabaret singer, a role that director Arnaldo Jabor later re-created

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for her in the film Toda nudez será castigada (All Nudity Shall Be Punished, 1972). And Vera Fischer was a beauty queen, a role she plays in A superfêmea. In 2000 in Xuxa popstar, Xuxa, after years away from the catwalks, played a supermodel. All of these actresses have played prostitutes in their most memorable films (a total of twelve roles between them). Blondes appear to be stereotypically linked to prostitution in Brazil and other places in Latin America in a way that they are not, for example, in anglophone countries, and in this sense many of the tropes of feminine whiteness (for example, a perceived purity) suggested by Richard Dyer, for example, are not so readily applicable in the Brazilian cultural context.6 This stems partly from the large population of poor ‘Germanics’ in the southern states of Brazil. While the international sex tourism industry in Brazil reflects a fascination on the part of foreign visitors with the ‘exotic’ mulata and black woman, many young southern Brazilian women of Northern European ancestry and skin colour have migrated to urban areas where they are prized for their ‘exoticism’ by Brazilians. There is a sizeable market for such ‘exotic’ women in cities such as Rio and São Paulo, and many fall into prostitution as a result. As well as a close association with prostitution, iconic blondes, seemingly without exception, have had turbulent and deeply troubled private lives, and are often presented as being ‘unhinged’. Like Vera Fischer, Darlene Glória and Norma Bengell nearly self-destructed through alcohol and drug abuse. Odete Lara’s tragic personal circumstances (her Italian immigrant parents committed suicide) became the subject of a film, Lara, in 2002. Both Lara and Glória quit their film careers and sought refuge in new-age religions, while Fischer went on a well-publicized ‘soul-cleansing’ trip to India at the height of her personal troubles. Xuxa, never one to miss a marketing opportunity, has declared her faith in the power of fairies and elves – and made two commercially successful films on the topic. Bengell, in the mould of the archetypal blonde, was thought of as a loose cannon. Although she was imprisoned briefly at the height of the military dictatorship in the 1960s for her outspoken opposition to censorship, she gained little respect in artistic circles as a result. She attracted considerable criticism, for example, in the 1990s when, as a fledgling film director, she approached then President Itamar Franco unilaterally to demand greater support for the Brazilian film industry, in the light of Fernando Collor’s dismantling of state support mechanisms. The insinuation was that Bengell was looking out for her own interests, rather than representing the aspirations of the industry.7 It is telling that when they transgress their boundaries as sex symbols and assume responsibility and

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power as successful businesswomen, blondes like Bengell and Xuxa have been portrayed as ruthless and individualistic.

The loira versus the morena Given that Vera Fischer and Sônia Braga (b. 1950) are contemporaries, it is useful to compare their star texts in terms of their representation of the Brazilian loira and morena (darker-skinned brunette) respectively.8 Braga became a star in the 1970s and early 1980s with a number of films that emphasized her multiracial background, and in roles that exuded an earthy, maternal sexuality in films such as Dona Flor e seus dois maridos (Dona Flor and Her Two Husbands, 1976) and as the quintessential mulata in the Jorge Amado adaptation Gabriela, cravo e canela (Gabriela, Clove and Cinnamon, 1983). But it is not just in terms of screen images and characters that differences between Braga and Fischer become immediately apparent. For a start, there are differences in how both actresses were photographed for features in magazines at the height of their fame. In terms of lighting, Braga was frequently shot (particularly when releasing a film or TV series in which she played a mixed-race character) as being literally ‘cinnamon-coloured’ (the cor de canela associated with mixed-race women, and romanticized in novels by Amado, among others). Fischer’s skin colour (and that of other blonde stars) was always less significant, as it was the blonde hair, blue or green eyes, European features and ‘doll-like’ complexion, revealed in facial close-ups, that served as the primary markers of whiteness and beauty.9 That said, pale white skin has until very recently been rarely seen in glamour photography in Brazil. White stars were often, in fact, lit so that their skin looked tanned. On a more general level, the differences in the setting of glamour shots of Braga and Fischer conform to stereotypes of race in Brazil. Braga, like the characters she has always played, is wild and untameable, with her cabelo ruim (‘bad’, as in unruly, hair) very much a marker of the racial other in Brazil: the common usage of the phrase makes it clear that ‘African’ features are seen to deviate from an accepted standard of beauty. In a typical magazine feature she is photographed in a forest, surrounded by nature, and is not obviously ‘made up’.10 In contrast, Fischer, in a feature for the same magazine, is wearing heavy makeup: glossy lips, heavy blusher and carefully coiffured hair.11 In fact, she is photographed here (and elsewhere) very much in the style of a high-class prostitute,

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for example shot naked underneath luxurious furs, wearing expensive jewels, on the telephone or in a bubble bath, in what is understood to be a hotel room. The frequency of voyeuristic overhead shots of Fischer staring straight into the camera contrasts with the predominance of level, sideways-on shots of Braga, suggesting a d ­ ifferent relationship between audience and star. The ‘natural’ quality of Sônia Braga emphasized in her film roles and photo shoots was also reflected in interviews. For example, in an interview for Fatos e Fotos gossip magazine in 1976,12 Braga described how her ambition in life was to have a little farm, where she would pick fruit, make her own clothes or not wear any at all. In reality, after international breakthrough hits such as Kiss of the Spider Woman (1985) and The Milagro Beanfield War (1988), Braga went on to become one of the most powerful Latino celebrities in Hollywood, and carve out a prolific career for herself in mainstream US productions. Nevertheless, in promoting her public persona, Braga’s simple ambitions stand in stark contrast to, for example, Vera Fischer’s publicized desires to leave behind the world of the pornochanchada and to be taken seriously as an actress, or the European theatrical pretensions of Odete Lara and Norma Bengell, or the media empire created by a very astute Xuxa. Screen blondes in Brazil are, then, set apart from the majority of the population, as indeed they are numerically: they are distant and difficult to fathom, qualities that make them irresistible, but as their star texts reveal, they can ­ultimately be bought for the right price.

The über-loira: Xuxa A significant shift in the portrayal of blondes in the media and their impact on popular culture took place in the 1980s in Brazil with the arrival on the scene of model-turned-actress and TV presenter Xuxa Meneghel. Xuxa was born in 1963 in Santa Rosa, a small town in Rio Grande do Sul, Brazil’s southernmost state, the grandchild of Austrian, Polish, Italian and German immigrants.13 Her family moved to the suburbs of Rio de Janeiro when she was seven (her father was an officer in the Brazilian army) and she was ‘discovered’ and became a model in 1978. Around this time, she embarked on a widely publicized relationship with Brazilian football star Pelé, said to be the most famous black man on earth, certainly the most recognized Brazilian in the world at the time, and twenty-three years her senior. Amélia Simpson has argued that Xuxa’s relationship with Pelé

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Figure 11.1 Xuxa stars as Cinderella in Xuxa em o mistério de Feiurinha (2009). DVD screen capture.

at the beginning of her TV and film career enabled her to play up her whiteness without accusations of being racially insensitive.14 Her behaviour may have elicited comment from time to time from Brazilian feminists, concerned with her promotion of gender stereotypes and beauty myths in general, but little comment has been made on her explicit promotion of the ideal of whiteness. Xuxa is, to an extent, incomparable with other actresses, not just because of her success first and foremost as a TV presenter and her singing career in the children’s market, but because of her wealth and business empire. In the 1990s Xuxa regularly appeared in the Forbes Entertainment Rich List (in thirty-seventh place in 1992, with a fortune of $100,000,000). Randal Johnson and Robert Stam may argue that ‘Xuxa’s films are commercial successes that are likely to be soon forgotten’15 and that they thus do not form part of Brazil’s cinematic canon, but it is impossible to deny the impact of Xuxa’s stardom, both on Brazilian society in general and on commercial Brazilian cinema specifically. While Xuxa is

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undoubtedly better known for her television work and the intense merchandising opportunities that this brings (she is also one of Brazil’s most successful recording artists), her film career is far from insignificant. She has made fifteen feature films to date, nearly all of which, since 1980, have had the name ‘Xuxa’ in the title. So even though she plays characters with names other than her own, by having her own name in the title of her films the understanding is that she is playing herself. In other words, in her films she becomes a princess, a queen, a supermodel, a successful dancer and a goddess, respectively, all of which, in Brazil, are tropes of feminine whiteness. She began her children’s movie career starring in three films alongside Os Trapalhões, a comedy quartet who had also built a considerable following on television. She broke out on her own in 1988 in Super Xuxa contra Baixo Astral (Super Xuxa versus Satan), only to rejoin the Trapalhões (but now with top billing) in 1989 in A Princesa Xuxa e os Trapalhões (Princess Xuxa and the Trapalhões), one of the quartet’s most popular movies. The formula was repeated the following year in Xuxa e os Trapalhões em o mistério de Robin Hood (Xuxa and the Trapalhões in the Mystery of Robin Hood, 1990), on which Xuxa’s production company Xuxa Produções acted as associate producer. In 1990 Xuxa teamed up with another hugely popular children’s TV performer, Sérgio Mallandro, in a joint venture entitled Lua de cristal (Crystal Moon). With just under five million spectators, it was the biggest film of the 1990s, and it guaranteed Xuxa a second box office hit at a time when the Brazilian film industry had all but ground to a halt. The years 1990 and 2000 were important landmarks in her movie career in that she made semi-autobiographical films – in Lua de cristal she plays Maria da Graça (her real name), a young girl who moves from the sticks to the big city, comes across all sorts of dishonest people and dangerous situations, and finds her way with the help of luck and, the film suggests, good friendships. In 2000’s Xuxa popstar she plays a famous international model who returns to Brazil to find love. Xuxa spent most of the 1990s making very lucrative straight-to-video films and CDs for children as well as TV programmes. She returned to cinemas in 1999 with Xuxa requebra (Xuxa Gets Down), in which she picked up on the fashion for dancing competitions in the style of A Loira do Tchan and faced head on and incorporated her (fake) blonde ‘competitor’ Carla Perez.16 Xuxa also picked up on a popular fascination with duendes (elves) and their magical powers in Xuxa e os duendes (Xuxa and the Elves, 2001) and the sequel, Xuxa e os duendes II: no caminho das fadas (Xuxa and the Elves II: On the Trail of the Fairies, 2002). She

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released another couple of films in quick succession in 2003 and 2004, Xuxa ­abracadabra and Xuxa e o tesouro da cidade perdida (Xuxa and the Treasure of the Lost City), in which she managed to incorporate even more product placements of Xuxa merchandising than in previous movie outings. For the rest of the 2000s she released on average one blockbuster film per year, before ­concentrating almost exclusively on TV shows in the first half of the 2010s. The embarrassing skeleton in Xuxa’s closet remains her participation in Walter Hugo Khouri’s Amor, estranho amor (Love, Strange Love, 1982). Khouri, considered (perhaps generously) by some to be the Bergman of Brazil, made a series of complex and sexually highly charged films in the 1960s, 1970s and 1980s which invariably starred blondes (among them Xuxa, Vera Fischer, Odete Lara and Norma Bengell). In Amor, estranho amor Xuxa plays Tamara, a young prostitute who is brought from the south of Brazil to a high-class brothel in order to seduce a powerful politician. While at the house, she seduces the young son of prostitute Anna, played by Vera Fischer. Xuxa, like other blonde actresses, continues to be dogged to this day by rumours of affairs with men in high places, affairs that she has always denied. Part of Xuxa’s star text is an ‘alternative’ discovery myth which confuses the plotline of Amor, estranho amor with real life, suggesting that Xuxa was brought by her military father to Rio de Janeiro to be sold to politicians. But such urban myths and the sexual content of the film did not in themselves preclude a career working with children, for within a year of the release of Amor, estranho amor Xuxa had secured her first TV presenting job with the now extinct TV Manchete, to be snapped up shortly afterwards by the all-pervasive TV Globo. Amor, estranho amor did Xuxa’s career no harm in Brazil (if anything, it can be said to have offered another context with regard to the consumption of Xuxa’s image on TV – for example, the ‘shorts and thigh-length white boots look’ that she sported and that was imitated by young girls throughout Brazil in the 1980s). It would be difficult in other contexts, for example, to imagine that an actress who had made an ‘art-house porn’ film in which she performed a sexual act with a pre-pubescent boy could become one of the most successful children’s television presenters. But as Amélia Simpson observes, the fact that Xuxa played a prostitute in the film made the initiation ceremony acceptable in Brazil, given the relatively accepted tradition of young men experimenting sexually with maids and other ‘subaltern’ females.17 Where it posed potential problems was in Xuxa’s move into the Argentine market and the Latino market in the USA.18

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Remarkably enough, at around the same time that Xuxa’s on-screen sexual relationship with a young boy failed to raise more than the odd eyebrow, Vera Fischer was also crossing the slippery boundaries between representations of art, sexual liberation and potential child abuse, when she appeared in a special edition of soft-porn magazine Suplemento (now a much sought-after collector’s item). As well as featuring ultra-soft-focus shots of Fischer relaxing (naked) at home and in her garden, and joined by her (naked) husband, actor Perry Salles, their infant daughter, Rafaela, also appears (naked) in the magazine, in shots that range in ‘innocence’ from a re-creation of the ‘Madonna and Child’ to the three of them at play on a double bed. In 1998 Xuxa gave birth to a daughter, Sasha, who, like Rafaela, receives considerable media exposure and regularly appears on TV and in photo shoots with her mother. According to Simpson, Xuxa ‘established a public image as a compliant, sexually provocative woman with a childlike, innocent quality. That image tells females how to be, and males what to expect’.19 By posing nude for magazines and starring in a Walter Hugo Khouri film, Xuxa established herself first and foremost as a desirable sexual being, before retreating into the innocent (and financially lucrative) world of children’s television, films and music, from which she could continue to flaunt her sexual attractiveness but in a way that posed no threat to the patriarchal order. The pornochanchada of the 1970s, regardless of its inherent male chauvinism, helped to bring debates about sexual freedom to the fore in Brazil. For example, Darlene Glória’s character in Toda nudez será castigada and Vera Fischer in an interview for Playboy openly discuss the protofeminist issues of female masturbation and sexual desire. In contrast, through her childlike and coy observations on sex20 and through her screen persona as children’s favourite, Xuxa can be seen to have promoted a return to the infantilization of female sexuality in the 1980s and 1990s. She represented ‘a specific gender role that was under attack by women’s movements in Brazil and abroad [and thus] performed the important function of reasserting the validity of the old-fashioned way’.21 But Xuxa also has had a complicated family life: like Vera Fischer, she has tried hard to create an image of a happy family that ultimately fails to convince. In the wake of talk of lesbian relations with her manager, the vilified Marlene Mattos, Xuxa became pregnant. She split from boyfriend and father of her child, actor and model Luciano Szafir, before Sasha was born, eliciting rumours that the model, who is five years her junior, had been hand-picked by Xuxa to produce a ‘designer’ baby. When they were together, she sounded

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as uncommitted and dispassionate about him as she had done about Pelé twenty years earlier.

Conclusion In Brazil blonde female film stars are generally portrayed as detached, distant and unhinged, with turbulent, complex and complicated private lives, and incapable of finding peace of mind. They frequently play prostitutes on screen. By contrast, darker actresses like Sônia Braga, rather than playing prostitutes, play women who are happy to give their sexuality away for free without a second thought. Sônia Braga built her fame on this perceived accessibility, her warmth, her passion and many other qualities that Brazilians pride themselves on to make them distinctive and special. Like the superfêmea played by Vera Fischer, who is substituted by an automaton at one point in the film and no one seems to notice, Xuxa’s screen performance (and that of the blonde clones in the world of children’s television she helped to spawn, such as Angélica and Eliane), while visually striking, comes across as formulaic in the extreme and soulless. Early on in her career, Braga declared that she was not interested in having children and did not ever have any. Her childless status (i.e. her pursuit of sexual pleasure over the need to procreate) has not been held against her and she did not seem to fall under pressure, unlike Xuxa, for example, to reproduce. Having had a child under controversial circumstances, Xuxa, like Fischer, is frequently depicted in the media as a ‘failed’ mother. The contrasting acceptance of Sônia Braga’s childless status can be viewed as conforming to the notion of the sterility of the mulata left over from Enlightenment ideas of racial degeneration. But  Sônia is hardly an archetypal mulata in the sense that she is not seen as ‘tragic’ – tragedy and self-destruction are very much the domain of the screen blondes.

Notes This chapter is a revised and updated version of ‘Bombshells: Pin-up Actresses Post 1960’, in Lisa Shaw and Stephanie Dennison, Brazilian National Cinema (Abingdon: Routledge, 2007), 161–74.

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1. Skin colour, rather than racial and ethnic origins per se, affects how Brazilian stars are consumed by home audiences. 2. Even wholesome children’s entertainer Xuxa posed naked in Playboy at the beginning of her career in the early 1980s. The notable exception to this rule, ironically, was Norma Bengell, who appeared in the first full frontal nude shot of Brazilian cinema in Os cafajestes (The Hustlers, 1962). 3. Odete Lara has rarely appeared in public since. Darlene Glória made a tentative return to screens in 1987 after a thirteen-year hiatus. 4. Blumenau is regarded as one of Brazil’s most Germanic towns, having attracted a large number of German immigrants in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. It hosts Brazil’s annual Oktoberfest. 5. Fischer notably posed for Brazilian Playboy in 2000 aged forty-nine. Now in her sixties, she makes the news for ongoing battles with her weight. 6. Richard Dyer, White: Essays on Race and Culture (London: Routledge, 1997). For a more detailed exploration of this issue, see Stephanie Dennison, ‘Blonde Bombshell: Xuxa and Notions of Whiteness in Brazil’, Journal of Latin American Cultural Studies 22(3) (2013), 287–304. 7. Such strong reaction to Bengell’s visit to speak to Itamar Franco may have been provoked by the fact that the then president was a notorious womaniser, and that rumours were rife at the time that Bengell in her youth had a sexual relationship with a president. Bengell’s honesty and morality continued to be questioned in the 1990s as a result of run-ins with the law regarding her overspending and alleged misappropriation of funds during the making of her notorious flop O guarani (The Guarani Indian, 1996). 8. For a more detailed exploration of Sônia Braga’s star text, see Stephanie Dennison, ‘The New Brazilian Bombshell: Sônia Braga, Race and Cinema in the 1970s’, in Stephanie Dennison and Song Hwee Lim (eds), Remapping World Cinema: Identity, Culture and Politics on Film (London: Wallflower Press, 2006). 9. Vera Fischer appears more frequently in facial close-ups than Sônia Braga, which conforms to the age-old cliché of the morena/mulata’s beauty being located in her body. 10. Manchete, 12 May 1982, 13–16. 11. Manchete, 14 July 1980, 20–22. 12. Unmarked magazine clipping from the Museu de Arte Moderna film archive, Rio de Janeiro. 13. Xuxa is therefore perceived as being whiter than the average white Brazilian of Portuguese descent. The fact that all of Xuxa’s grandparents were foreign-born is also significant, as having a European grandparent usually means having the right to a foreign passport (and thus an alternative, ‘first-world’ identity). 14. Amélia Simpson, Xuxa: The Mega-Marketing of Gender, Race and Identity (Philadelphia, PA: Temple University Press, 1993), 15. See also Amélia Simpson,

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15.

16.

17. 18.

19. 20.

21.

‘Representing Racial Difference: Brazil’s Xuxa at the Televisual Border’, Studies in Latin American Popular Culture 17 (1998), 197–221. Randal Johnson and Robert Stam, ‘The Shape of the Brazilian Film Industry’, in Johnson and Stam (eds), Brazilian Cinema (2nd edition) (New York: Columbia University Press, 1995), 16. Carla Perez, who starred in Xuxa requebra, was the first so-called Loira do Tchan (blonde dancer in the popular 1990s Bahian group É o Tchan!, whose departure prompted a national competition to find a replacement). She starred in a minor hit film based loosely on her rise to superstardom called Cinderela baiana (Bahian Cinderella, 1998). Many other iconic blondes have starred in Xuxa’s films, including her main competition on TV, Angélica (in Xuxa e os duendes) and Vera Fischer (in Xuxa e os duendes II). Simpson, Xuxa, 14. Xuxa has successfully had the film removed from circulation. In June 1991 she won a judgement prohibiting (temporarily, at any rate) the distribution of the film on video. A similar judgement was passed recently prohibiting DVD distribution. Simpson, Xuxa, 30. Hamilton Almeida Filho, ‘Playboy entrevista: Sônia Braga’, Playboy (Brazil), 1982. Unmarked magazine clipping, Museu de Arte Moderna film archive, Rio de Janeiro. See, for example, her interview for Brazilian Playboy in 1982. Simpson, Xuxa, 30.

References Almeida Filho, H. ‘Playboy entrevista: Sônia Braga’, Playboy (Brazil), 1982. Unmarked magazine clipping, Museu de Arte Moderna Film Archive, Rio de Janeiro. Dennison, S. ‘Blonde Bombshell: Xuxa and Notions of Whiteness in Brazil’. Journal of Latin American Cultural Studies 22(3) (2013), 287–304. Dennison, S. ‘The New Brazilian Bombshell: Sônia Braga, Race and Cinema in the 1970s’, in Stephanie Dennison and Song Hwee Lim (eds), Remapping World Cinema: Identity, Culture and Politics on Film. London: Wallflower Press, 2006, 135–43. Dyer, R. White: Essays on Race and Culture. London: Routledge, 1997. Johnson, R., and R. Stam (eds). Brazilian Cinema. 2nd edition. New York: Columbia University Press, 1995. Shaw, L., and S. Dennison. Brazilian National Cinema. Abingdon: Routledge, 2007. Simpson, A. ‘Representing Racial Difference: Brazil’s Xuxa at the Televisual Border’. Studies in Latin American Popular Culture 17 (1998), 197–221. Simpson, A. Xuxa: The Mega-Marketing of Gender, Race and Identity. Philadelphia, PA: Temple University Press, 1993.

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Stephanie Dennison is Professor of Brazilian Studies at the University of Leeds. She is co-author with Lisa Shaw of two books on Brazilian cinema, Popular Cinema in Brazil, 1930–2001 (Manchester University Press, 2004) and Brazilian National Cinema (Routledge, 2007). She co-edited with Song Hwee Lim Remapping World Cinema: Identity, Culture and Politics on Film (Wallflower, 2006). She was co-editor of the cinema journal New Cinemas (Intellect) 2010–11 and co-edits the Routledge ‘Remapping World Cinemas’ book series. Her edited book Contemporary Hispanic Cinema: Interrogating the Transnational in Spanish and Latin American Film was published by Tamesis Press in 2013.

CHAPTER 12

A star is born The rising profile of the non-professional actor in recent Brazilian cinema Charlotte Gleghorn

In the history of world cinemas many directors have used non-professional actors in fictional feature films, notably Vittorio De Sica and Roberto Rossellini during the Italian neo-realist movement of the 1940s and early 1950s. The New Latin American Cinema of the 1960s and 1970s, in particular the Brazilian Cinema Novo, remained committed to the central tenets of Italian neo-realism in its attempts to convey the region’s social injustices. In recent decades, internationally acclaimed films such as Pixote: a lei do mais fraco (Pixote: The Law of the Weakest, Hector Babenco, 1980), Central do Brasil (Central Station, Walter Salles, 1998), Cidade de Deus (City of God, Fernando Meirelles and Kátia Lund, 2002) and Linha de passe (Walter Salles and Daniela Thomas, 2008) have all juxtaposed performances by non-professional children and adolescents with those of professional adult actors. These interventions from non-actors have received a great deal of media attention, framing the reception of the films and their relationship to the real. Review articles and interviews with directors and actors alike refer to young ‘discoveries’ as the ‘stars’ of the films they inhabit, thus signalling the ways in which single ­performances and their related media hype intersect with notions of celebrity. This chapter will discuss how the non-professional or ‘natural’ actor may be constructed as a star in diverse and unpredictable ways. Taking as its principal points of reference the roles of Fernando Ramos da Silva and Vinícius de Oliveira, renowned respectively for their performances of the characters of Pixote and Josué in Pixote and Central do Brasil, I examine how the non-actor is discursively presented as a star in his/her own right. Although obviously different from traditional and self-conscious constructions of stardom during the studio era in Hollywood, non-professional performers are also implicated in complex mediatic processes that propel them to fame.

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Pixote and Central do Brasil are emblematic cinematic texts in depicting issues of child poverty and marginality in Brazilian film. Separated by almost twenty years, they vary in tone and are borne from different socio-historical moments, yet they employ some of the same strategies to replicate reality on screen, notably in their use of child non-actors. The films’ investment in the extra-diegetic lives of child actors underscores the significance of social class in the construction of authenticity, and harnesses the symbolic power of the child to generate empathetic responses.1 Filmed in 1979 and released during the period of ‘opening up’ (abertura) of the military dictatorship (1964–85), Pixote offers a damning portrait of a society that refuses to take responsibility for abandoned children, of which Fernando Ramos da Silva/Pixote is an exemplary case. By contrast, Central do Brasil addresses the problem of the abandoned child by embarking on a spiritual road trip to the heart of the nation, where a revitalized sense of the heteronormative traditional family unit provides an escape route from an otherwise tragic end. Although the style and ideology of these two films are markedly different, the casting and subsequent media coverage of Fernando Ramos da Silva and Vinícius de Oliveira provide interesting correspondences between the construction of the classical star text and the trajectory of the non-professional actor. By presenting the case of Fernando Ramos da Silva and the ‘Pixote phenomenon’ as a springboard to discuss the career of Vinícius de Oliveira, this chapter will explore the widespread use of child non-professional actors in recent Brazilian cinema, arguing that the socially committed praxis of much filmmaking of the retomada – the post-1995 renaissance of the film industry in Brazil – has in turn created a new brand of stardom, which reflects the need for greater social responsibility in ­relation to the deprived and marginalized citizens of the country.

The immortalization of Pixote and cinematic afterlife Often regarded as the most successful Brazilian film of the 1980s, Pixote depicts the institutionalization and widespread neglect of Brazil’s homeless children.2 The film’s indictment of state ‘care’ can be inscribed within a longer and international cinematic tradition that aims to effect social critique through an engagement with the ‘institutional lives of children’, as seen in productions such as Los olvidados (The Young and the Damned, Luis Buñuel, 1950), Crónica de un niño solo (Chronicle of a Boy Alone, Leonardo Favio, 1965) and the Brazilian Vera

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(Sérgio Toledo, 1987).3 Fernando Ramos da Silva, as the eleven-year-old, eponymous lead character of Pixote, anchors the narrative as he negotiates the violence of a state-run juvenile detention centre and the streets. His centrality is clearly marked from the outset of the film through the use of close-ups and zooms on his elfin face. The film begins with a police round-up of children following the murder of a judge, and the group of boys are subsequently incarcerated in a reform home. The home does nothing to rehabilitate the children, however, but merely abuses and exploits them, and, following unrest in the centre after the dishonest scapegoating of one of the children for the murder of another, a group of boys, including Pixote, escape and turn to a life of delinquency on the streets of São Paulo. The film ends tragically as the group become increasingly involved with serious crime. Sueli (Marília Pêra), the prostitute with whom they collaborate, leads an unsuspecting client to their home, in order to ambush and rob him. Taken by surprise, Pixote mistakenly shoots Dito (Gilberto Moura), the leader of the group of boys. The film ends with Pixote facing an uncertain future, as he walks down a train track towards the horizon, alone and with few prospects. Following his starring role, and the national and international success of Pixote, Ramos da Silva had a short-lived acting career, which was stunted by his insufficient literacy skills.4 After he was dismissed by TV Globo, where he was contracted for a bit-part in a telenovela (soap opera), the mayor of the town of Duque de Caxias, who had become familiar with the boy’s story, offered to fund Fernando’s studies at acting school.5 But Fernando did not complete the course, and returned to his old neighbourhood, Diadema, in the industrial periferia (poor outskirts) of São Paulo, where, like his on-screen counterpart in Pixote, he eventually became involved in petty crime. He was frequently stopped by the police and twice arrested for minor offences, which he attributed to the public’s inability to differentiate between Pixote and Fernando. Indeed, society’s failure to distinguish between fiction and reality was apparently a source of personal anguish as he felt both frustrated at the limited acting roles he was offered and distressed that the authorities mistook him for the street urchin he had immortalized on screen.6 In his own words, ‘they created a Pixote, but they didn’t know how to prepare him for life’.7 Even the film’s director, Hector Babenco, seemed to conflate actor and character, although he nonetheless recognized that Fernando experienced his role in a different way: The background Fernando came from was the same as that of the character he played in the film. But for him it was different. After the film opened in Rio,

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a journalist asked Fernando if he wasn’t afraid to live through the same situations as were shown in the film. He said, ‘Sorry, but in the film that was Pixote, my name is Fernando’. He could not accept the idea that the two are the same; and I’m telling you it is one and the same, because at ten o’clock Fernando is in the street and the police ask him where he’s going. And he answers, ‘I don’t know’. They say, ‘Come with us’. And the film begins again. The reality of Fernando’s life is the same as Pixote’s … But he didn’t accept that idea, because for him it’s so different … being an actor.8 Such was Fernando’s dissatisfaction at this ‘almost seamless coincidence of actor/ persona and character’9 that he apparently begged José Louzeiro – the author of the book Infância dos mortos (Childhood of the Dead, 1977), on which the film was originally based – to pen a sequel that would restore the integrity of his legendary alter ego and, by extension, redeem the life of the actor.10 Unfortunately, there was no such salvation for Pixote or da Silva, and the one-time star of Babenco’s film became a victim of a police raid when in 1987 he was shot dead at the age of nineteen. His death created a furore in the media and his fate became widely known in Brazil.11 Subsequent to his death, at least one book – Pixote, nunca mais! A vida verdadeira de Fernando Ramos da Silva (Pixote, Never Again! The Real Life of Fernando Ramos da Silva), written by Cida Venâncio Silva, Fernando’s widow – has been published, and two films have been made – Quem matou Pixote? (Who Killed Pixote?, José Joffily, 1996) and Pixote in memoriam (Felipe Brisso and Gilberto Topczewski, 2005) – which recount da Silva’s involvement in Pixote and the unjust treatment he subsequently received. In November 2009 a number of talks and screenings took place in Fernando’s hometown of Diadema to commemorate the film’s thirty-year anniversary, including a special debate with Hector Babenco.12 The genesis of the production, its domestic and international success, the death of the protagonist and the debates the film has spawned have, in Piers Armstrong’s account of retomada cinema, created an urban mythology: ‘These “mythologies” are … productive cycles mediating through different arenas of social, critical and creative domains. It is apt that Pixote, a remarkable synthesis of social documentation, psychological pathos and artistic execution, presents the most extraordinary mirroring between life and art’.13 The various re-fashionings of the story, and the on-going discussions that Fernando’s incarnation of Pixote generates, point to the multiple ways in which the actor has belatedly become a star.

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Hailed as one of the best child actors of all time, Fernando Ramos da Silva’s performance has in turn fetishized the film as the epitome of disaffected youth and institutionalized violence. As Susan Hayward remarks, ‘a film itself can obtain fetish status when, for example, a star has died young and/or in tragic circumstances’.14 This fetishization, I suggest, relates to the ways in which the film continues to monitor the shifting socio-political climate in Brazil with regard to street children. In other words, the enduring fascination with the Fernando/Pixote story reflects how performance, narrative and the fate of the actor map onto the contemporary climate. This is suggested in a recent article that compares the experiences of several former street children in 2010 with conditions experienced in the early 1980s. Writing about one of the success stories, the authors remark, ‘it’s worth remembering that if she had been born in the past, her fate would have been, let’s say, somewhat pixoteesque’.15 Thus, Ramos da Silva’s performance stands as a potent signifier of doomed youth and a virtual index of the status of Brazil’s street children today.

Pixote resurrected The continuing relevance of Pixote to contemporary Brazil is illuminated by the way Fernando’s on-screen character and Vinícius de Oliveira’s Josué in Central do Brasil are so frequently compared, since the fate of the latter in some way offers an antidote to Fernando’s tragic end, proving that it is indeed possible to overcome and transcend social disadvantage. Ismail Xavier, in his account of Brazilian cinema in the 1990s, remarks: We should note how Josué appears as a new Pixote, who this time succeeds in finding his substitute mother figure, contrasting his own story with the disgraceful experience of the original Pixote, who searched for the nursing mother in the figure of the prostitute, but found a character who followed the codes of realism, not the codes of the moral parable.16 Deborah Shaw, in her discussion of Pixote and Central do Brasil, has also contrasted the lives of the two non-actors: ‘Even in the biographical lives of the actors who play the children, the contrast between Fernando Ramos da Silva (Pixote) and Vinícius de Oliveira could not be greater; as has been seen, Fernando was

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murdered by police at the age of nineteen, after a life of petty crime’.17 Stephanie Dennison and Lisa Shaw compare the two boys in the following way: ‘Just like the ill-fated young star of Hector Babenco’s film Pixote …, Vinícius de Oliveira was not an actor before joining the cast of Central do Brasil’.18 Scholars and critics frequently remark on Vinícius’s performance and charming portrayal of Josué, juxtaposing the romanticized story that surrounds his selection for the role with the very different circumstances of da Silva’s past. The anecdote repeatedly surfaced in promotional interviews at the time of the release of Central do Brasil, and has subsequently continued to circulate as a piece of extra-cinematic folklore. The story goes that Salles had already auditioned 1,500 young boys for the part of Josué when he stumbled over his future protagonist working as a shoeshine boy in Santos Dumont airport in Rio de Janeiro.19 To add to the romantic dimension of the story, it transpired that Vinícius had never even seen a film. As both Deborah Shaw and Stephanie Dennison have noted astutely, this story is not without commercial appeal, as those who become familiar with it are not only intrigued by his performance but also feel warmed by the role that the film has played in his life.20 This folklore both endorses de Oliveira as a representative of the marginalized classes and celebrates his ultimate triumph over adversity. Indeed, as Walter Salles explains, ‘for many Brazilians he’s the boy who managed to escape that deterministic future’.21 As a condition of his participation in the film, a clause was built into his contract stipulating that the production company, Videofilmes, should provide for his education. Alongside his studies, he has appeared in several theatre productions and in Walter Salles and Daniela Thomas’s film, Linha de passe, in which he plays the part of an aspiring footballer, Dario. Despite the contrasting cinematic depictions and biographical outcomes, however, Pixote and Central do Brasil used similar processes to select and prepare their casts. In fact, both films credit acting coach Fátima Toledo, who has since gone on to train the non-professional cast for Cidade de Deus, O Céu de Suely (Suely in the Sky, Karim Aïnouz, 2006), Tropa de elite (Elite Squad, José Padilha, 2007), Mutum (Sandra Kogut, 2007) and Linha de passe. Pixote was the first film Toledo worked on, but it is worthy of note that she has since contributed to many of the most successful Brazilian films of recent years, and, moreover, those that have generated much discussion regarding realism, performance and the status of the non-actor. In interviews, Babenco and Salles have justified their use of non-professional actors in terms of them bringing something to the projects that professional child

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Figure 12.1 Vinícius de Oliveira’s role as Dario in Linha de Passe once again emphasizes his association with marginalized, urban youth. DVD screen capture.

actors could not. Babenco states, ‘the children are from the poor neighbourhoods of São Paulo, because in Brazil child actors are very bad. They work in soap operas in television and they are very stereotyped children. I would never have gotten the same results from actors as from the children from the poor districts of São Paulo’.22 For his own part, Salles reports that ‘I … wanted to use non-actors, mainly because they can reach into themselves without pretension and let their experiences show on screen’.23 He was also reportedly touched by Vinícius’s response to his invitation to audition for the part, when he insisted that the other shoeshine boys should also be given an opportunity to test for the role: ‘Ultimately, the film is about solidarity and discovering compassion, and he had those qualities ingrained in him’.24 Integral to the realism of the two films in question, the use of non-professional actors imbues the representations with a claim to authenticity. This is particularly striking in the circumstances surrounding the release of Pixote in North America, where the feature was prefaced with a two-minute introduction by the director, establishing the socio-political context and ‘facts’ about street children in Brazil for foreign audiences. This prologue, as Randal Johnson notes, ‘clearly attempts to convince the spectator of the veracity of the events the film represents’ and serves to accentuate Fernando’s biography in relation to the character of Pixote,

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as the camera zooms in on the actor in his home environment and the director’s voice recounts his family situation.25 Thus, although both films are fiction features, with undeniably constructed narratives, they have a discernible documentary quality, which is intimately related to the relationship between the actors’ on- and off-screen lives. The depth and range of language and embodied repertoires that these non-actors bring to the films attests to their knowledge of the social worlds to which their characters pertain.26 In this way, the directors authenticate their versions of reality and simultaneously make these films credible as instances of social critique. Casting is a crucial concern in this dynamic.

Stardom and typage In many ways, and as the case of Fernando Ramos da Silva illustrates, non-­ professional actors awkwardly occupy the position of star that the media affords them. My analysis of the two case studies above demonstrates how extra-diegetic anecdotes surrounding actors’ lives at the moment of the release of their films inform their participation and their character development, in addition to the spectator’s response to the presumed realism of the representation. As is the case with more traditional stars, ‘the image on screen is already contextualised by the circulation of biographical and personal anecdotal materials that frame their appearances on and off screen’.27 In this way, the spectator is bound into a pact with the non-actor, which resembles the relationship established between a star and his/her fans. The star offers a kind of reciprocal contract with the spectator, since the constitution of a star is built not only on the mediatized construction of an off-screen persona but also on the spectator’s expectations of their on-screen performances. Any deviation from these expectations in this respect breaks the contract of the star text, which relies as heavily on the spectator’s recognition of their characteristic traits as it does on the institutional machinery that creates the idealized image in the first place.28 Thus, given that it is through repetition that the audience comes to recognize and appreciate certain aspects that correspond to the actor, stardom is habitually consolidated following a series of ­performances. As Robertson Wojcik reminds us: Typification – and, indeed, stardom – occurs through the actor’s recurrence across a number of films in different roles. Recognition of the actor in a series

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of films creates a double identification in which we see not only the character but also the star. This recognition is crucial both to the star’s function in the text and his or her extratextual success.29 Since I have been discussing two actors who have had interrupted acting trajectories, this process of contract and expectation is certainly less obvious. One might assume that the relative anonymity of these non-professional actors in the public realm, and their scarce film appearances, contradict the doctrine of cinematic stardom, which supposes a sustained career whereby the aura and characteristic traits of the star on and off screen are consolidated through multiple performances. However, in his survey of the specificities of acting for the screen, Siegfried Kracauer once suggested that there are more affinities between the Hollywood star and the non-actor than one would imagine. Integral to his comparison is the role of casting and ‘typage’, a concept intrinsic to Soviet montage cinema and fundamentally related to cinematic realism.30 Kracauer writes, ‘the typical Hollywood actor resembles the non-actor in that he acts out a standing character identical with his own or at least developed from it, frequently with the aid of make-up and publicity experts. As with any real-life figure on the screen, his presence in a film points beyond the film’.31 Different aspects of ‘type’ feed into the concept of typage but primary to our discussion here is the idea that both stars and non-actors are chosen for roles based on physical appearance, and the social milieu their bodies are seen to represent.32 According to Kracauer, ‘nonactors are chosen because of their authentic looks and behaviour. Their major virtue is to figure in a narrative which explores the reality they help constitute but does not culminate in their lives themselves’.33 In this way, the presumed authenticity of the non-actor comes to stand in for a social group, as they are regarded as ‘part and parcel of that reality’.34 The ‘look’ of the non-actor is fundamental in achieving the desired effect. Thus, Ramos da Silva’s face was highlighted in Pixote through multiple close-ups and lighting. The significance of his face is reflected in the comments made by one reviewer, who writes that he ‘has one of the most eloquent faces ever seen on the screen. It’s not actually bruised, but it looks battered. The eyes don’t match, as if one eye were attending to immediate events and the other were considering escape routes. It’s a face full of life and expression and one that hardly ever smiles’.35 The role of the close-up in creating a continuum between the on- and off-screen persona has been widely discussed, perhaps most notably by Béla Balázs, who wrote in his Theory of Film that ‘the

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Figure 12.2 Josué (Vinícius de Oliveira) cries as he watches Dora’s bus leave at the end of Central do Brasil. The close-up emphasizes the importance of the character’s reaction for narrative closure. DVD screen capture.

language of the face cannot be suppressed or controlled’.36 Indeed, the common assumption that ‘the close-up reveals the unmediated personality of the individual, and this belief in the “capturing” of the “unique” “person” of a performer’ is central to the star text, as articulated by Richard Dyer.37 Nevertheless, while these parallels between stars and non-actors attest to their similar framing in terms of extra-cinematic discourse, wherein ‘both the non-actor in typage and the Hollywood star create a role homologous with themselves’, it should be noted that the consequences of typecasting are different for stars and non-actors in accordance with their narrative drives.38 Indeed, as Robertson Wojcik argues: The non-actor in typage differs markedly from the Hollywood star because the two models of type are based on competing notions of identity and the role of the individual. In typage, the non-actor represents a social type, characterized by social class and social role … Thus, a person may be cast as something he is not, since the role is based on physical appearance … and is not meant to reflect his real identity.39 This, in turn, is related to the difference between the demands of the bourgeois psychological drama and the requirements of social critique. Yet, in the cases of the non-actors explored here, we have seen how biographical anecdotes c­ irculate

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in the press to consolidate the idea that the filmic characters appear as true resemblances of the actors’ personalities. To offer a more recent example, Cidade de Deus clearly illuminates the continuity of social milieu between the favela off screen and that represented in the fiction: The acting talents of these unknown children and adolescents became a source of constant praise and generalized consensus but the dividing line between fact and fiction was further blurred by the social origins of these actors who escaped the fate of their fictional characters, yet lived in direct contact with the contradictions of the favelas. The film itself insists on the ambiguity between the ‘real’ and the fictional by pairing off at the end of the narration the pictures of the actors with the photographs of the real drug dealers that they had been embodying.40 In other words, elements of the film’s form serve to underline the significance of the actors’ lives to the realism of the films, and validate their involvement as emblematic of their social groups. While Robertson Wojcik suggests that for non-actors the most important aspect of typage is physical appearance – and it is important to remember that early theories of typage arose in the era of silent film, thus removing the importance of the voice (and therefore accent) in relation to the actor – I would argue that extra-diegetic storylines significantly impact upon the non-actor’s reception in the public sphere, predetermining their reception, the coverage they receive in the media and, most importantly, any future roles the actor may play. Although it may be true that a non-actor can ‘be cast as something he is not’, the press coverage of their personal lives means they are still deemed to be more representative of their perceived social milieu than someone from another sector. An interesting example to consider in this context is the actor Leandro Firmino, who played Zé Pequeno (Li’l Zé), the most dangerous and feared gangster of the favela, in Cidade de Deus. As Fátima Toledo has noted, ‘he [Leandro] is gentle and sweet … At first, he wasn’t sure about playing a character so different from himself, but I think that in the end the difference helped’.41 Much like Fernando Ramos da Silva, however, Leandro Firmino would like to be given other kinds of roles, ones that do not necessarily reinforce his iconicity as a violent gangster.42 Stereotyping is a common concern among non-professional actors who would like to further their film careers through exploring other roles. While,

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as Lúcia Nagib has argued, ‘it is clearly inadequate to attribute the film’s realist aspect simply to the physical appearance and origins of the cast’,43 the case of Cidade de Deus nonetheless reveals how non-professional actors who are being applauded for their visceral performances as drug dealers and villains struggle in acquiring roles that move beyond the topography of the favela. Vinícius de Oliveira’s recent casting as Dario in Linha de passe serves to reify the actor’s face as a symbol of marginalized yet aspiring youth on the urban fringes. In the film, Dario’s struggle to become a professional footballer serves as a locus of hope for the entire family, a not uncommon dream in Brazil, where hundreds of young men audition for professional positions, as the coach reminds us towards the beginning of the film. The world of football not only provides the title of the film but also a circular structure to the story’s denouement, with the character of Dario showing most signs of achieving his dreams, as he scores a penalty in the game at the close of the film.44 One reviewer attributed a ‘ravaged magnetism’ to the performance of Vinícius de Oliveira, claiming that ‘one face stands out, the kind of face that owns a film and haunts you long after you’ve seen it’, and recalling the actor’s earlier success in Central do Brasil ten years earlier.45

Conclusion The non-professional actors discussed in this chapter in many ways embody the political charge that the star’s body, performance, aura and public persona offer. Both Vinícius de Oliveira and Fernando Ramos da Silva imbue the films they appear in with a reality effect and in so doing create ideological repercussions that echo Dyer’s conception of the political work of the star in the national imaginary. As Dyer writes, ‘stars have a privileged position in the definition of social roles and types, and this must have real consequences in terms of how people believe they can and should behave’.46 The actors in question were not amateurs who dreamed of being stars, but rather individuals who were chosen for, among other factors, their linguistic vernacular and knowledge of social worlds with which the director and screenwriter were less familiar. By way of their celebrated performances, however, they have become stars by default, creating an interface between the ‘official’ culture and the marginalized world of the streets and favelas. Journalistic accounts of their lives and newfound status at once celebrate their successes and paradoxically reinforce their socio-economic m ­ arginalization, typecasting them

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in roles that are deemed to be emblematic of their social origins. Moreover, as we have seen, the involvement of non-professional actors in recent Brazilian film does not necessarily herald improved conditions for them in real life. By delineating some of the parallels between the construction and mediation of the star and the non-actor, I hope to have shown how these bodies are ‘always already an ideological construction’.47 The circulation of anecdotal material that emphasizes the Brazilian non-actor’s social status presents an interesting parallel with the consolidation of a star’s roles through their off-screen persona. This process acts like acoustic feedback; the biographical information reverberates both within and without the cinematic representation, influencing the public’s perception of the non-actor’s ‘real’ character and the roles they will be permitted to play in other films. This complex circuitry, which binds biography to representation and back again, mediated by attendant public discourses, unmasks the potent symbolism of the non-actor to the new realism of Brazilian cinema. Filmmakers such as Babenco, Salles, Meirelles and Lund choose the non-professional route not merely as an aesthetic option but also because of their perception of the social function of cinema in Brazilian society.48 These filmic ciphers of social class provide unique windows onto the interlaced realities of different sectors of Brazilian society, while at the same time facilitating the emergence of stars in a non-classical sense.

Notes All translations in this chapter are my own, unless otherwise indicated. 1. As Deborah Martin recently reminded me, the non-professional child actors who feature in La ciénaga (Lucrecia Martel, 2001, Argentina) received little media attention for their portrayal of middle-class children. Personal communication, 22 August 2013. I would like to thank her and the editors for their insightful comments on earlier drafts of this chapter. 2. D. Shaw, Contemporary Cinema of Latin America: Ten Key Films (London and New York: Continuum, 2003), 142; P. Armstrong, ‘Essaying the Real: Brazil’s Cinematic Retomada and the New Commonwealth’, Journal of Iberian and Latin American Studies 15(2) (2009), 87. 3. Deborah Martin, personal communication, 22 August 2013. 4. The present paragraph draws heavily on Robert Levine’s thorough account of Fernando Ramos da Silva’s life. See R. Levine, ‘Pixote: Fiction and Reality in Brazilian Life’, in D.F. Stevens (ed.), Based on a True Story: Latin American History at the Movies (Wilmington, DE: SR Books, 1997), 201–39.

A STAR IS BORN . 223

5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10.

11. 12.

13. 14. 15.

16.

17. 18. 19.

20.

21. 22. 23.

Ibid., 208–9. Ibid., 209. Fernando Ramos da Silva, cited in Levine, ‘Pixote’, 209. G. Csicsery and H. Babenco, ‘Individual Solutions: An Interview with Hector Babenco’, Film Quarterly 36(1) (1982), 5–6. A. Higson, ‘Film Acting and Independent Cinema’, Screen 27(3–4) (1986), 124. Levine, ‘Pixote’, 209. For an in-depth analysis of the romance-reportagem (reportagenovel) and Babenco’s first two films, see R. Johnson, ‘The Romance-Reportagem and the Cinema: Babenco’s Lúcio Flavio and Pixote’, Luso-Brazilian Review 24(2) (1987), 35–48. Armstrong, ‘Essaying the Real’, 99. L. Mindrisz, ‘Babenco discute Pixote em Diadema’, ABCD Maior, 14 November 2009. Available at: (accessed 16 July 2010). Armstrong, ‘Essaying the Real’, 99. S. Hayward, Cinema Studies: The Key Concepts (London and New York: Routledge, 2000), 335. ‘Não é demais lembrar que se tivesse nascido em tempos idos, provavelmente seu destino seria, digamos, pixotesco’. P. Carriel and J.C. Fernandes, ‘Vitória no país dos Pixotes’, Gazeta do Povo, 12 July 2010. Available at: (accessed 16 July 2010). I. Xavier, ‘Brazilian Cinema in the 1990s: The Unexpected Encounter and the Resentful Character’, in L. Nagib (ed.), The New Brazilian Cinema (London and New York: I.B. Tauris, 2003), 60. Shaw, Contemporary Cinema of Latin America, 164. S. Dennison and L. Shaw, Popular Cinema in Brazil, 1930–2001 (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2004), 211. Shaw, Contemporary Cinema of Latin America, 163. Serendipity placed the director and Vinícius de Oliveira in the same place at the same time, thus making an irresistible wink to that early proponent of Italian neo-realism, Vittorio De Sica’s Sciuscià (Shoeshine, 1946). In this film, the innocence of the child shoeshine protagonists is compromised when the two boys are unwittingly involved in the world of crime. When they are separated in a juvenile detention centre, their relationship unravels and their friendship meets with a tragic end. Shaw, Contemporary Cinema of Latin America, 163; S. Dennison, ‘A Meeting of Two Worlds: Recent Trends in Brazilian Cinema’, Journal of Iberian and Latin American Studies 6(2) (2000), 142. Salles, cited in N. James, ‘Heartbreak and Miracles’, Sight and Sound 9(3) (1999), 15. Csicsery and Babenco, ‘Individual Solutions’, 4. B. Flynn, ‘Shoe-Shine Star’, The Guardian, 24 August 1998. Available at: (accessed 16 July 2010).

224 . CHARLOTTE GLEGHORN

2 4. Salles, cited in Flynn, ‘Shoe-Shine Star’. 25. Johnson, ‘The Romance-Reportagem and the Cinema’, 44. 26. Levine estimates that approximately 40% of Pixote’s original script was modified as a result of the collaboration of the street boys who made up the cast. Levine, ‘Pixote’, 203. 27. B. King, ‘Articulating Stardom’, Screen 26(5) (1985), 40. 28. P. Robertson Wojcik, ‘Typecasting’, Criticism 45(2) (2003), 233. 29. Ibid., 233, my emphasis. 30. S. Kracauer, Theory of Film: The Redemption of Physical Reality (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, [1960] 1997), 93–101. 31. Ibid., 99. 32. As Robertson Wojcik acknowledges, face casting is but one aspect. In 1940s Hindi cinema, for example, voice casting became a crucial pattern in filmmaking. See Robertson Wojcik, ‘Typecasting’, for more detailed information. 33. Kracauer, Theory of Film, 99. 34. Ibid., 99. 35. V. Canby, ‘Babenco’s Pixote Shows the Boys of Brazil’, The New York Times, 5 May 1981. Available at: (accessed 16 July 2010). 36. B. Balázs, Theory of the Film: Character and Growth of a New Art (London: Denis Dobson, 1952), 63. 37. R. Dyer, Stars (London: British Film Institute, [1979] 1998), 15. 38. Robertson Wojcik, ‘Typecasting’, 231. 39. Ibid., 232. 40. B. Jaguaribe, ‘Favelas and the Aesthetics of Realism: Representations in Film and Literature’, Journal of Latin American Cultural Studies 13(3) (2004), 335. 41. ‘ele é meigo e doce … No início, ficou inseguro por interpretar um personagem tão diferente do que ele é, mas acho que a diferença acabou ajudando’. N. Fernandes, ‘Leandro Firmino da Hora – A redenção pelo cinema’, Revista Quem, 2002. Available at: (accessed 16 July 2010). 42. Ibid. 43. L. Nagib, Brazil On Screen: Cinema Novo, New Cinema, Utopia (London: I.B. Tauris, 2007), 108. 44. This penalty is, of course, bitter-sweet as his mother was not able to attend the match to pay the scout the bribe required to seal the deal. 45. T. Robey, ‘Film Review: Linha de passe’, The Telegraph, 19 September 2008. Available at: (accessed 27 November 2013). 46. Dyer, Stars, 8.

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7. Higson, ‘Film Acting and Independent Cinema’, 124. 4 48. Further research could be carried out in the area of non-professional stardom, not least with respect to the overlapping discourses of cinematic and musical fame. As demonstrated by the cases of O Invasor (The Trespasser, Beto Brant, 2002) and Antônia (Tata Amaral, 2006), hip hop artists are increasingly involved in the replication of the favela imaginary and their participation in films such as these both attracts people to the films and provides fertile ground for the elaboration of a hybrid form of stardom. Following his appearance in Cidade de Deus, the singersongwriter Seu Jorge has featured in a number of films and his music now has greater international reach. See Katia Augusta Maciel’s chapter in this volume.

References Armstrong, P. ‘Essaying the Real: Brazil’s Cinematic Retomada and the New Commonwealth’. Journal of Iberian and Latin American Studies 15(2) (2009), 85–105. Balázs, B. Theory of the Film: Character and Growth of a New Art. London: Denis Dobson, 1952. Canby, V. ‘Babenco’s Pixote Shows the Boys of Brazil’. The New York Times, 5 May 1981. Available at: (accessed 16 July 2010). Carriel, P., and J.C. Fernandes. ‘Vitória no país dos Pixotes’. Gazeta do Povo, 12 July 2010. Available at: (accessed 16 July 2010). Csicsery, G., and H. Babenco. ‘Individual Solutions: An Interview with Hector Babenco’. Film Quarterly 36(1) (1982), 2–15. Dennison, S. ‘A Meeting of Two Worlds: Recent Trends in Brazilian Cinema’. Journal of Iberian and Latin American Studies 6(2) (2000), 131–44. Dennison, S., and L. Shaw. Popular Cinema in Brazil, 1930–2001. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2004. Dyer, R. Stars. London: British Film Institute, [1979] 1998. Fernandes, N. ‘Leandro Firmino da Hora – A redenção pelo cinema’. Revista Quem, 2002. Available at: (accessed 16 July 2010). Flynn, B. ‘Shoe-Shine Star’. The Guardian, 24 August 1998. Available at: (accessed 16 July 2010). Hayward, S. Cinema Studies: The Key Concepts. London and New York: Routledge, 2000. Higson, A. ‘Film Acting and Independent Cinema’. Screen 27(3–4) (1986), 110–32. Jaguaribe, B. ‘Favelas and the Aesthetics of Realism: Representations in Film and Literature’. Journal of Latin American Cultural Studies 13(3) (2004), 327–42.

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James, N. ‘Heartbreak and Miracles’. Sight and Sound 9(3) (1999), 12–15. Johnson, R. ‘The Romance-Reportagem and the Cinema: Babenco’s Lúcio Flavio and Pixote’. Luso-Brazilian Review 24(2) (1987), 35–48. King, B. ‘Articulating Stardom’. Screen 26(5) (1985), 27–50. Kracauer, S. Theory of Film: The Redemption of Physical Reality. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, [1960] 1997. Levine, R. ‘Pixote: Fiction and Reality in Brazilian Life’, in D.F. Stevens (ed.), Based on a True Story: Latin American History at the Movies (Wilmington, DE: SR Books, 1997), 201–39. Mindrisz, L. ‘Babenco discute Pixote em Diadema’. ABCD Maior, 14 November 2009. Available at: (accessed 16 July 2010). Nagib, L. Brazil On Screen: Cinema Novo, New Cinema, Utopia. London: I.B. Tauris, 2007. Robertson Wojcik, P. ‘Typecasting’. Criticism 45(2) (2003), 223–49. Robey, T. ‘Film Review: Linha de passe’. The Telegraph, 19 September 2008. Available at: (accessed 27 November 2013). Shaw, D. Contemporary Cinema of Latin America: Ten Key Films. London and New York: Continuum, 2003. Xavier, I. ‘Brazilian Cinema in the 1990s: The Unexpected Encounter and the Resentful Character’, in L. Nagib (ed.), The New Brazilian Cinema. London and New York: I.B. Tauris, 2003, 39–63.

Charlotte Gleghorn holds a Chancellor’s Fellowship in the School of Languages, Literatures and Cultures at the University of Edinburgh. Between 2009 and 2013 she worked on the European Research Council project ‘Indigeneity in the Contemporary World’, hosted at Royal Holloway, University of London. Her PhD, awarded in 2009 from the University of Liverpool, analysed the work of Argentine and Brazilian women filmmakers. Her current research examines contemporary Indigenous film and video from Latin America, focusing on the theme of authorship. Her publications include chapters in Latin American Cinemas: Local Views and Transnational Connections (University of Calgary Press, 2010) and New Trends in Argentine and Brazilian Cinema (Intellect, 2012), and articles in Interventions (2013) and the Journal of Latin American Cultural Studies (2013).

CHAPTER 13

The black body reframed Lázaro Ramos and the performance of interracial love Ben Hoff

In the context of a Brazilian film industry dominated by lighter-skinned actors, it is easy to forget that ever since its very inception, Afro-Brazilians have exerted an on-screen presence.1 Pioneers of early fictional film during the silent era, such as Benjamin de Oliveira and Eduardo das Neves, can be seen as precursors to Grande Otelo, Paulo Matozinho, Eliezer Gomes, Léa Garcia, Ruth de Souza, Milton Gonçalves, Zezé Motta and other well-known Afro-Brazilian actors who have played leading roles in films of the twentieth century. These, however, were largely exceptions to a rule that relegated many other actors of African descent, as Joel Zito Araújo aptly puts it, ‘to ride the service lift’,2 a reference to the peripheral on-screen roles in which they have often been cast.3 This reflects the lingering national preference for white skin, with which, ever since embranquecimento or ‘whitening’ first appeared as a political agenda, cinema and later television have been complicit.4 The use of the past tense in describing this lack of AfroBrazilian performers is deliberately provocative but reflects a certain perception that things have changed, or at least are in the process of doing so.5 Lázaro Ramos heads the list of a new generation of black actors including Taís Araujo (Ramos’s wife), Flávio Bauraqui, Seu Jorge, Isabel Fillardis, Darlan Cunha, Douglas Silva and Camila Pitanga,6 whose frequent cross-overs between the small and big screens appear to embody a new climate of visibility. This involves the emergence of increasingly complex constellations of Afro-Brazilian imagery that transcend the rather one-dimensional representations of old. Lázaro Ramos, who hails from the city of Salvador in the northeastern state of Bahia, is perhaps the best known, most prolific and critically acclaimed of these artists, boasting a long list of credits spanning his formative years in theatre, his later appearances on the big screen and, more recently, in television drama. In

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addition to being an actor, he is also a television presenter, theatre director, children’s writer as well as a Brazilian ambassador for UNICEF, and he was listed among the top one hundred most influential Brazilians in 2009 by Brazilian magazine Época. The TV show Espelho, dedicated to Afro-Brazilian culture, politics and identity that, since 2007, he has produced, directed and presented on cable channel Canal Brasil, is particularly indicative of how he has contributed to the national debate on race, discrimination and black identity. Ramos obviously perceives his career as a clear intersection between artistic expression and political consciousness. According to an illuminating interview with the publication Raça Brasil,7 this dual motivation has ‘heavily influenced’8 his choice of on-screen roles, through which this image has also been constructed.9 Christine Gledhill argues that stars reach their audience primarily through their bodies,10 and this is particularly evident in the case of Ramos who, as a successful black (as opposed to mixed-race) actor, represents a minority within a minority. He seems acutely aware of his exceptional status and, consequently, of  the currency his body wields on screen: ‘my large nose, big mouth, wide eyes … I’ve always been very happy with my features and felt comfortable with them. But for many people they’re ugly. While for others they’re attractive. As I realized in the telenovela11 [‘Insensato coração’], they can carry a certain sexual allure’.12 Ramos’s various on-screen personae have given increased representational space to the black body where, traditionally, Brazil’s ‘aversion to blackness’, to use a term coined by Darién Davis, had resulted in its marginalization in cinematic and televisual representation.13 The lack of romantic pairings of blacks and whites (at least those which are reciprocal and non-exploitative) attests to this valorization of ‘whiteness’, which until fairly recently remained ingeniously obfuscated by the accompanying mythology of a racial democracy. As part of this mythology, themes of interracial love have been deployed in Brazilian cultural production to resolve social conflicts and promote the idea of a unified nation within the national imaginary (the iconic novels Iracema and O Guaraní are both pertinent examples).14 Arguably, black/white pairings are largely absent since the juxtaposition of contrasting skin tones connotes racial difference and division, as opposed to more ‘unifying’ images of miscegenation embodied by the Amerindian or more latterly the mulato/a as objects of amorous desire.15 It can thus be argued that the black body has emerged as a type of forbidden fruit – to be exploited and ­consumed, but generally out of view and behind closed doors.

THE BLACK BODY REFRAMED . 229

Paying close attention to issues of performance and representation, this chapter explores the extent to which cinematic roles played by Ramos challenge the above-described ‘aversion to blackness’ precisely through the actor’s pairing with white actors in romantic storylines.16 Rather than trying to determine whether or not Ramos constitutes a ‘positive’ black role model, the discussion is more concerned with discerning what his star text has to say about the way Brazil views itself and how it negotiates the rights and social status of Afro-Brazilians. As Gledhill argues, stars reflect indigenous cultural codes and function as ‘condensers of moral, social and ideological values’.17 Stars are also, she suggests, shifting signifiers that may call cultural codes into question according to changes in the social, economic and political environment. In its tensions between onscreen roles and politicized public persona, Ramos’s star text embodies this duality, with the actor emerging as an icon of black consciousness and mobility onto which more traditional attitudes towards race, shaped by the ideology of ­embranquecimento, are projected. In the following pages, the analysis focuses chiefly on Ramos’s cinematic roles in the films Madame Satã (2002), O homem que copiava (The Man Who Copied, 2003) and Cidade Baixa (Lower City, 2005), but it relates these, in the final ­section, to his more contemporary cross-overs into television drama.

Madame Satã: reclaiming the black body Ramos’s first lead performance on the big screen (and still arguably his best) was in the critically acclaimed Madame Satã, directed by Karim Aïnouz. Ramos plays João Francisco dos Santos (1900–76), a contradictory, real-life character who occupies a privileged place within carioca18 cultural memory as one of Rio’s most notorious malandros (streetwise hustlers and petty criminals), but also as an openly gay cabaret artist and carnival queen known as Madame Satã. The film is set in the supposedly ‘bohemian’ Rio neighbourhood of Lapa in the 1930s – a period in which the ideology of embranquecimento was becoming firmly entrenched through the policies of the Vargas regime (1930–45).19 The film could quite easily have played on Lapa’s reputation at the time as a ‘Tropicalized Montmartre’ – an exceptional, sophisticated, ‘anything-goes’ space of social conviviality imagined in the accounts of Gasparino Damata20 and Luís Martins.21 Instead it eschews this vision in favour of depicting an ‘anti-Lapa’ – to quote the

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film’s director of photography Walter Carvalho – that makes clear that social and racial prejudice were as rife here as in any other part of the city.22 The protagonist is subjected to repeated episodes of racial and homophobic abuse throughout the film, his violent resistance to which is consistently punished by various jail sentences. As the director notes, this was somebody who was ‘triply stigmatized’ since he was poor, black and homosexual.23 Madame Satã’s transgressiveness is two-fold: it celebrates the beauty of ‘blackness’ to be enjoyed from the other side of the colour bar, and it does so through a homosexual relationship reclaimed as passionate and gratifying. The affair between João Francisco (Ramos) and Renatinho (Fellipe Marques), framed as an at times tender expression of the legitimate desire between two men, is admittedly rather troubled and short-lived. Renatinho is killed off before the relationship has had any chance to blossom, which registers as yet another disappointment to beset the eponymous protagonist through the course of the film’s narrative. But Ramos’s highly charged performance in the few intimate scenes that occur render these as some of the most memorable of any queer-marked Brazilian film to date. His coquettish posturing contributes to the sexual tension between the two characters, as he gracefully sidles up to his future lover with caresses and sexual whisperings before then gruffly pushing him away in rebuff. In bed, Ramos toys again with the expectations of both Renatinho and the viewer, submissively surrendering to his partner’s advances before then re-establishing his dominance over proceedings, roughly turning his lover onto his front in preparation for the sexual act. Here Ramos positions his body in a way that hungrily envelops that of Marques, who reciprocates by voraciously licking the former’s hand and sucking his fingers. This ebb and flow, according to which graceful sensuality quickly gives way to more fraught, almost violent moments of intense passion, is indicative of Ramos’s turbulent interpretation of João Francisco more broadly in the film, which plays on the real-life figure’s renowned volatility. These matters of performance are complemented by Carvalho’s fluid, mobile cinematography, which is characterized by the use of close-ups and extreme close-ups that accentuate the sexual contact of male bodies – their interlocking mouths in particular – privileged in the frame to convey the sensation of intimacy between the two men. The appearance of Ramos’s skin is of particular note here; extreme close-ups reveal the details of skin texture while the nuances of skin colour are enhanced by the bleach-bypass technique, an optical effect that entails either the partial or complete skipping of the bleaching function during

THE BLACK BODY REFRAMED . 231

Figure 13.1 Lázaro Ramos in Madame Satã (2002). DVD screen capture.

the processing of colour film. The resultant broadening of the tonal spectrum of the image reveals, according to the director, the various shades of ‘brownness’ as well as the ‘goldenness of brownness’, with Ramos’s body attaining a glowing quality despite the consistently dimly lit surroundings and the more natural reflectivity of Marques’s white skin.24 João Francisco’s visual representation and Ramos’s performance create an affront to the idea of the black body as ugly and dirty, further reinforced by the privileged place the character/actor’s body enjoys more generally within the film. Direct cuts to extreme close-ups of parts of Ramos’s body frequently replace conventional establishing and re-establishing shots, normally mobilized to (re)-position the body in on-screen space. In these instances, the protagonist effectively becomes the establishing shot, for which a scene depicting a trip to the beach with his friends serves as a pertinent example. Shots of the trio swimming in the sea cut to a close-up of Ramos’s upper torso, which occupies most of the frame, the edge of his shoulder and arm exactly matching the outline of Sugar Loaf Mountain’s lower section, which is visible in the background. Consequently, beyond its establishment as an object of beauty, the black body is also literally foregrounded as an integral part of the carioca landscape, thus simultaneously reversing its traditional exclusion from the official Brazilian national imaginary, of which the prevalent policy of embranquecimento in the era in which the film is set was so representative.

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Cidade Baixa: a fetishized gaze? Ramos’s body exerts an equally marked if less exceptional presence in Cidade Baixa, directed by Sérgio Machado and co-written by Aïnouz. Ramos plays the role of Deco, who scrapes a living from transporting goods on the small boat he owns with his (white) childhood friend Naldinho (Wagner Moura). Karinna (Alice Braga) is a (white) prostitute who hitches a ride with them back to Salvador’s so-called ‘Cidade Baixa’ (Lower City) in exchange for sexual favours. She quickly becomes entangled in a love triangle with the two men and spends most of the film wracked with indecision about which of them she should be with. It is tempting to psychoanalyse Karinna’s indecision as a comment on Brazilian national/racial identity or a crisis thereof. Indeed, the trigger for the film’s narrative, whereby Naldinho is stabbed while defending Deco’s honour after a series of racist slurs from a drunk bar patron,25 suggests that the broader theme of race relations might be explored in the narrative that follows. The fact that this scene is cross-cut with shots of a cock-fight, whose two participants are also black and white, respectively, adds weight to this assumption. But if the conflict between the two birds is to represent anything, it is the toxic effects of jealousy that Karinna’s vacillation will subsequently have on Deco and Naldinho’s friendship. This friendship represents a dissolution of difference, alluded to through their mutual referencing as ‘brothers’ who experience a similar lack of opportunities in life and are forced to make a living through both legitimate and illegitimate means. Marginality appears as an effect of class rather than race, in contrast to Madame Satã, where both clearly play a role. While the historically dominant class-overrace discourse in relation to Brazil’s social make-up (expounded by sociologists and thinkers, most famously social anthropologist Gilberto Freyre) has been rigorously interrogated in recent years, this issue becomes even more complex in the context of Salvador, which has the highest proportion of Afro-Brazilian inhabitants of any city in Brazil and where the fault lines of racial hierarchy are harder to discern than elsewhere. The interracial relationship between Deco and Karinna would be far less exceptional here than, for example, in the southern city of Porto Alegre, the setting for O homem que copiava, which I will discuss in due course.26 Cidade Baixa is marked by a matter-of-factness that normalizes interracial love – and indeed interracial friendship – even if this normality might be at odds with viewers’ expectations in racially less diverse areas of Brazil. Thus, while the film may have inadvertently helped to challenge such ­expectations outside of

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Bahia, this does not appear to relate to any conscious agenda on the part of the director, in contrast to Madame Satã, a film in which race is explicitly addressed as an issue.27 Interestingly, on the level of visual representation, links can be drawn between Madame Satã and Sérgio Machado’s film in that Ramos’s body is highly valorized despite Cidade Baixa’s apparent ‘blindness’ towards racial difference. This representation is in contrast to that of Moura (Naldinho), whose physicality is given far less emphasis. Superficially this disparity reveals itself in the film’s costume decisions – the use of vest tops, for example, to emphasize the muscularity of Ramos’s arms and shoulders, in contrast to the normal t-shirts worn by Moura. Indeed, on many occasions Ramos is seen bare-chested – certainly far more so than Moura is. The motivation might have had more to do with showing off Ramos’s impeccable physique than anything else, presumably a not entirely unwelcome sight for many viewers. And yet it is symptomatic of more implicit racial codings that are present in the film, which align Deco with a rampant and uncontrollable sexuality that contrasts with that of the other (predominantly white) males in the film. This is not to say that Naldinho himself is not also envisaged in highly sexualized terms, since the female gaze here is refracted from Karinna’s point of view in relation to the two friends. Yet we come to associate Naldinho with sexual acts that more generally in the film are often interrupted or frustrated, itself a reflection of the film’s wider thematic enquiry into the crisis of masculinity. The latter has its most poignant reflection in a scene where a sailor, who having paid for sex with Karinna, is unable to perform and subsequently takes leave of his cabin to shoot himself dead. In contrast, the desire between Deco and Karinna is most definitely fulfilled, and while these scenes show Karinna clearly brought to orgasm, the same cannot be said for her sexual liaisons with Naldinho.

‘Black as body’ The stereotype of an ultra-virile black man of hyperbolic sexuality is not new in the repertoire of cinematic representations. Donald Bogle, for example, identifies this figure as the ‘buck’, along with other personifications of blackness such as the ‘coon’, ‘tom’, ‘mulatto’ and ‘mammie’ in Hollywood film, while in the Brazilian context he emerges as the negão, just one of twelve male archetypes which João Carlos Rodrigues identifies as being part of national cinema.28 Such typologies,

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while useful, are necessarily problematic in that on-screen characters are not always easily reducible to a standardized set of attributes, particularly in a case such as that of João Francisco in Madame Satã, who defies definition throughout most of the film. Nevertheless, what is important is the issue of perspective. Robert Stam has noted that not uncommonly the negão exists as a projection of the sexual desires of white women, sometimes bracketed as part of a dream or fantasy sequence, as in the film adaptation of Nelson Rodrigues’s Bonitinha mas ordinária (Pretty but Slutty, 1981).29 Cidade Baixa and Madame Satã move beyond fantasy in that the black body is both desired and enjoyed within the ‘real’ world experienced by the characters. Gender considerations aside, endowing the black body with greater representational space and reclaiming it through an interracial storyline as a legitimate object of desire from a white point of view can obviously lead to criticisms of fetishization or objectification. This charge gains even greater validity if one recalls that both Cidade Baixa and Madame Satã are directed by white men. Charles Johnston once argued that the white gaze tends to deny black people psychological interiority, instead reducing them to bodily existence, a phenomenon he termed ‘black as body’.30 Recalling his unease when entering a predominantly white bar in Manhattan, he elaborates in the following terms: ‘I am seen. But, as a black, seen as stained body, as physicality, basically opaque to others … Their look, an intending beam focusing my way, suddenly realises something larval in me. My world is epidermalized, collapsed like a house of cards into the stained encasement of my skin. My subjectivity is turned inside out like a shirtcuff’.31 Johnson’s account echoes that of Frantz Fanon, who in Black Skin, White Masks (originally published in 1952) discussed the heightened sense of physical self-awareness and/or inferiority engendered through the presence of the black body in a white world. He argued that ‘the Negro symbolises the biological’, with his latent sexual potency and muscular strength seen as ‘redeeming’ physical features by the white man in the face of his own frailty and libidinal shortcomings. The black body, he wrote, is invoked as a space onto which the white man projects his own insecurities, symbolizing ‘an irrational longing for unusual eras of sexual license [and] orgiastic excess’.32 Contained within such ‘compliments’ are, of course, hidden backhanded insults – namely the idea that physical superiority comes at the expense of intellect and a reasoning mind. This means, Fanon continues, that the ‘handsome Negro’ also emerges as a symbol of biological danger – ‘a phobogenic object, a stimulus to anxiety’.33 ‘Negro’, he writes, ‘brought forth

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biology, penis, strong, athletic, potent, boxer, Joe Louis, Jesse Owens, Senegalese troops, savage, animal, devil, sin’.34 It also has to be said that the strong emphasis placed on Ramos’s physicality in both films reinforces this idea of ‘black as body’ – something which is not limited merely to the depiction of Deco and João Francisco’s erotic encounters. Rather, the rampant desire we associate with both characters in each film is reflective of a broader masculinity of excess envisaged as being explosive, unbridled and barely containable, and which is expressed through both the sexual act and violence, or frequently a combination of the two. Madame Satã, in this respect, appeals to a positive interpretation of this violence on the part of the viewer – a tool of resistance in the face of social discrimination and prejudice, indicative of somebody who, in the words of the director, ‘always stood up for himself and never let himself be put down’.35 However, beyond the preservation of personal honour, the outcomes of João Francisco’s acts of violence can only tenuously be cited as ‘personal victories’ over barriers of class, race or sexuality. The first act of defiance, for example, fails to secure either João Francisco or his friends’ entry to the predominantly ‘white’ space of the High Life nightclub, instead resulting in their humiliating ejection from the establishment. His second and third violent outbursts elicit some degree of justice for João Francisco – at the Cabaret Lux he is able to extract the wages he is due, while the patron at the Danúbio Azul pays for his insolence with his life – but ultimately both are punished by the authorities with lengthy jail sentences. As I have argued elsewhere,36 it is the moments of rupture in the film’s narrative provided by João Francisco’s cabaret performances that articulate a discourse of liberation, with queer appropriation of the carnivalesque providing temporary reprieve from corporal incarceration. In Cidade Baixa, Ramos’s character is afforded no such redemption. Here violence is readable as a symptom of the latent sense of emasculation that pervades a whole generation of young men denied opportunity and who see violence as the sole tool of social mobility. Indeed, it is the very first act of violence committed by Deco in defence both of his friend and his own honour that brings Karinna back into the film’s narrative and thus serves as the trigger for the rapid breakdown of the friendship between the two young men, and the subsequent (mis)direction of violence towards Naldinho. In the confrontations involving the two friends, Naldinho appears the weaker of the two; his attempt to stand up for Deco in the first fight is thwarted by the penetrating blade of the knife brandished by the racist attacker, and the subsequent fight between the two protagonists ends with

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Naldinho being pinned down by Deco, who delivers repeated blows to his face. The only times Naldinho succeeds in dominating other men in violent confrontations is when he is in possession of a gun (wielded haphazardly with a distinct lack of confidence and expertise), only serving to underline his inferior ability to defend himself in contrast to the brute force associated with Deco’s knuckles, which he uses in a professional capacity in the boxing ring. While boxing matches appear to offer him a more honourable means of sustaining himself beyond the life of violent crime in which Naldinho has become involved, the fact that he is paid to lose these contests renders them little more than a cipher for his own dwindling sense of self-esteem.

‘Deactivation’ in O homem que copiava Beyond issues of black marginality, Ramos also seems particularly inspired by roles that incorporate more positive visions of black subjectivity. ‘One of the saddest, most cruel aspects of racism is the idea that there exists a given place for each person … you have to dream bigger, go to different places’, he argues.37 Some of his other films attempt to depict a more diverse Afro-Brazilian experience. His role in O homem que copiava (The Man Who Copied) provides a particularly marked counterpoint to the films discussed above. Ramos plays André, a nineteen-year-old stuck in a dead-end job as a photocopier operator whose tentative foray into criminality through the production of counterfeit banknotes leads him to the more serious crime of a security van hold-up netting him over two million reais. In contrast to Madame Satã and Cidade Baixa, this film implies no direct correlation between blackness and criminality and overall seems concerned with playing down any notion of racial difference in the world in which André exists. In this romantic comedy, criminality is not a matter of survival, but a means of supplementing the meagre minimum wages that pay for the rent, utilities and food but which allow little access to leisure activities or participation in Brazil’s burgeoning consumer culture. The difference between the three films owes itself in part to the exigencies of genre and target market, both of which render O homem que copiava a radically different proposition in comparison with the other two films. As an off-beat, light-hearted comedy drama produced by Brazil’s largest media conglomerate, Globo, and aimed at a more mainstream audience, one perhaps does not expect

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any profound enquiry into race, poverty, criminality or violence and how these issues may or may not impact upon each other. Far from being exceptional, André is presented as just one of millions of Brazilians, neither rich nor poor, but who is nevertheless locked into a lacklustre daily grind, the soundtrack to which is aptly provided by the repetitive drone of his photocopier. And despite the serious nature of his crimes, the fact that these are committed in the name of love, as opposed to materialistic desires, means the viewer tends to forgive them. The over-insistent use of voice-over in the first section of the film is another strategy to tie audience identification with the protagonist. Interestingly, the white-onblack gaze is often reversed in O homem que copiava – diverting our attention away from Ramos himself towards the object of his affection, white shop assistant Sílvia (Leandra Leal), whom he spies on through a pair of binoculars from his bedroom window, again aligning us with André’s point of view. As the film progresses, André begins to pursue Sílvia, paying for lottery tickets with the counterfeit banknotes and using the change to purchase goods in the shop where she works as an excuse to see her. As his desires grow, so does his urge (somewhat prematurely it has to be said) to marry her, something he believes he can only achieve if he has the means to support her, which leads him to perform the holdup. As luck would have it, André’s lottery numbers come up at about the same time, landing him a sizeable fortune in addition to the one he has already stolen. The pair then flee to Rio de Janeiro, where Sílvia is reunited with her biological father and the couple live, we presume, happily ever after. Beyond the film’s rather contrived storyline, the idea that André is ‘just like anyone else’ is hardly convincing. Porto Alegre, the film’s setting, capital of Brazil’s southernmost state of Rio Grande do Sul, is not renowned for being a racial melting pot, and the fact that André is the only black person we see in the entire film (aside from momentary glimpses of his mother) serves to underline his difference to the other characters. Indeed, the fact that the film makes no overt acknowledgement of race means that the issue comes across as the elephant in the room for much of the film. These deficiencies aside, André and Sílvia’s relationship does endure, thus defying Darién Davis’s observation that ‘a certain fatalism often dooms interracial relations’ in Brazilian cinema.38 (Madame Satã and Cidade Baixa are no exception in this respect.) This is especially significant in the context of a film produced by Globo Filmes, part of the Globo media empire that has been much criticized for its complicity in the privileging of whiteness both in terms of casting and on-screen representation.39 It was not until 1995 that Brazilian v­ iewers

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were presented with a functional black nuclear family on prime-time television in the telenovela ‘A próxima vítima’ (The Next Victim), and more enlightened representations of interracial relationships have been similarly lacking. If in Madame Satã and Cidade Baixa Ramos’s body is represented in terms of an aggressive, highly sexualized physicality, the reverse is true in O homem que copiava. André comes across as passive, shy, mild-mannered and distinctly awkward in the company of the opposite sex. This serves the plot well – only somebody as romantically inept as André would surely take the risk of producing counterfeit banknotes only to waste the proceeds on the purchase of a useless dress that is solely an excuse to initiate a conversation with the sales girl. Such characteristics jar with the crimes he later commits, ensuring that the latter appear exceptional and out of character, contrasting him with João Francisco and Deco, whose lives, from the start, are interwoven with a form of ‘innate’ criminality from which they struggle to extrapolate themselves. And yet the film’s insistence on André’s essential good character verges on infantilization, a characteristic of roles traditionally given to black actors in Brazilian film history, not least to attenuate any potential sexual threat, notably those played by Grande Otelo.40 Of particular note in André’s case is the way in which the film’s narrative is spliced with excerpts from the cartoons that he designs, many of which seem to focus on his experiences at school. Narrated in a distinctly childlike manner, these intertextual diversions ultimately reinforce the idea that André has remained essentially unchanged since his childhood days. The way his relationship with Sílvia is represented – innocent, chaste and unconsummated – does little to challenge this impression. Indeed, it is not until he asks her for her hand in marriage that he plucks up the courage to kiss her – although this is a brief, fairly passionless kiss, and is quickly replaced by a less risqué lingering hug. The de-eroticization of their relationship in the film could, of course, be regarded as being part and parcel of the typical productions of Globo Filmes, which lean towards more wholesome family entertainment. And yet the film makes no hesitation in depicting the blossoming relationship between André’s friends, Marinês (Luana Piovani) and Cardoso (Pedro Cardoso), in sexual terms. Indeed, one of the first things the couple do after André shares with them the spoils of the robbery is hire an executive suite at a swish downtown hotel. The sexual act is not directly shown but the camera affords us a post-coital image of the couple that leaves us in no doubt that they were there to enjoy the bed as opposed to other hotel facilities. Rather, the film’s legitimization of André and

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Sílvia’s relationship goes hand in hand with its de-eroticization, with the validation of their union seemingly contingent on the viewer’s understanding that no sex is actually occurring between the two. The implication seems to be that feelings of affection between a black man and a white woman are one thing but the on-screen consummation of such sentiments is quite another. There is arguably, however, a more insidious discourse being played out in the representation of this relationship. As Richard Dyer notes, black men, ‘when they are not brutes’, are indeed generally envisaged in terms of passivity, that is ‘nonactive’ – something common to the representation of oppressed groups more generally in dominant discourse.41 This passivity suits dominance, Dyer writes, because passivity allows the fantasy of power over the oppressed to be exercised, and because this is a confirmation of actual power, it is all the more powerful.42 From this perspective, the film’s insistence on the non-predatory nature of André’s sexuality can be read as part of a wider process of ‘deactivation’, as Dyer terms it, in which the possibility of him posing any real threat – sexually and/or socially – is consistently negated. This argument might seem tenuous in light of André’s recourse to criminal activity as a path to social betterment, for as Dyer argues, a dominant perception has been that black people in fact do nothing to ‘improve their lot’, a view which is itself used to justify their subordination ideologically.43 The fact that the security van hold-up, in particular, is conducted ineptly (André allows his balaclava to be removed and clumsily shoots the security guard in the leg as a response) implies that even in crime this black man is essentially ineffective, and thus the path he has chosen confirms rather than challenges hegemonic power structures that have kept black people ‘in their place’, thus denying them alternative, legitimate means of social mobility.

Art, politics and stardom The performance and representation of race on screen is inherently challenging, for inevitably in trying to tackle one (perceived) aspect of black subjectivity another is either reinforced or left unchallenged. Narratives of interracial love, in particular, while attempting to reclaim the black body as a legitimate object of desire, may struggle to entirely disentangle themselves from the prevailing ideologies that have relegated this racialized body to a position of inferiority in the first place. The three films analysed above are collectively structured by the tension

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between a violent, overly sexualized masculinity of excess on the one hand, and its passive, desexualized and ‘deactivated’ counterpart on the other, further evidencing the continued influence of dominant archetypes, even in films starring actors like Ramos who are generally perceived to be ‘breaking the mould’. This says perhaps more about the way in which Brazil views itself than it does about Ramos as a supposedly politically committed actor, and it seems clear that while the valences of the black body continue to be redefined, the lingering spectre of embranquecimento will mediate to some degree the projection and reception of the Brazilian media. In the construction of star texts, the relationship between politics and artistic expression has always been one of ambivalence, both in Brazil and beyond. In this respect, Ramos acknowledges that while his own political agenda often influences the sorts of roles he chooses, these may not always neatly align with each other. Indeed, from his perspective as an artist, the appeal of a certain role may lie precisely in its political incorrectness.44 Much has been made of his role as the hypersexualized André in the Globo network’s telenovela ‘Insensato coração’ (Irrational Heart, 2011) for example, whose sheer one-dimensionality was matched only by the patent stereotyping involved in his characterization, which again conformed, with less irony than Ramos would probably care to admit, to the archetypal mould of the negão. When Raça Brasil made such a suggestion, however, Ramos shrugged off any implication of a wrong decision in taking on such a role, saying that it was a ‘great’ role for him and that the controversy it provoked could only be seen positively in that it made people ‘reflect on sexual desire [and] family values’.45 His role in the landmark telenovela ‘Duas caras’ (Two Faces, 2007) was also polemical. Ramos won plaudits for his interpretation of Evilásio, the first black ‘hero’ of a prime-time soap opera,46 yet in the portrayal of the interracial relationship between his character and Júlia (Débora Falabella), a white middle-class documentary-maker, the programme was similarly criticized for its recourse to racial stereotyping. One scene of love-making between the two characters is particularly telling in this respect. Júlia invites Evilásio back to the ‘headquarters’ for the documentary she is shooting, which turns out to be a rented room in the back of a favela dwelling. The last thing on her mind is spending the evening working, the improvised cutting room having been transformed with the help of candles and low-key lighting for a romantic encounter. Her subsequent advances are hardly subtle, drawing Evilásio’s attention to the couch which, she points out, also turns into a

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bed ‘in case someone needs to sleep here’. Testing the sofa’s robustness, the two then bounce up and down together, before they begin kissing, shot from afar with the candles flickering out of focus in the foreground. As Joyce remarks, the scene in many respects is typical romantic soap opera fare, except that here an initial, discreet long shot is replaced by a series of close-ups that cross-cut between the characters’ bodies, emphasizing the disparity between their respective skin colours. This cinematography reflects what is more broadly this production’s distinctly unapologetic attitude with regard to interracial love, which through this on-screen pairing of Ramos and Falabella it attempts to legitimize throughout the narrative, although provoking a distinctly mixed reception from its viewers. However, a subsequent brief moment of pillow talk between the two characters suggests that ‘legitimization’ arguably hinges on the fetishization of difference as opposed to notions of racial equality. Evilásio interrupts his passionate kissing of Júlia with the declaration that ‘I cannot believe you are really going to be mine, my little whitey’, to which she purrs in reply: ‘I am already yours, my big delicious negro’.47 Not only does Evilásio’s incredulity at winning Júlia’s affections implicitly valorize whiteness as something desirable, thus reinforcing rather than challenging Brazil’s longstanding ‘white ideal’, it also pays lip service to the idea that because he is black, essentially she is out of his league, hence his ‘surprise’. Her retort, in turn, reflects the fact that ‘positive’ representations of black men simultaneously continue, at least in part, to draw or play on time-old ‘compliments’ about their sexual or physical prowess. Indeed, while in this scene arguably both characters are equally objectified, overall in this telenovela objectification relates to Evilásio, whose body, virility and physique are continually evidenced through camera angles articulated from female points of view and wardrobe decisions that keep his clothing to a minimum in scenes where the same cannot always be said of the female characters alongside him. Significantly, in contrast to the three films discussed in this chapter, Ramos’s character in ‘Duas caras’ does eventually transcend the traditional limitations imposed on him by the colour of his skin, assuming political office as opposed to other, clandestine ‘professions’ on the well-trodden path of criminality. This reflects the fact that alongside its rather blatant stereotyping, this telenovela does attempt a rather more enlightened depiction of black masculinity, characterizing Evilásio as an intelligent, loving family man of honour and integrity. Ramos views these tensions in the protagonist’s portrayal in overwhelmingly positive terms, as a sign that Brazilian television drama – often associated, he argues, with more

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one-dimensional characterizations when contrasted with its cinematic counterpart – is maturing to some degree: ‘Television went through periods … where you played a character who was politically correct – the successful guy, the good family guy with no conflicts, or someone who’s totally marginalized … coming back to Brazilian telenovelas [are] characters we haven’t seen for quite some time … characters who you love one day and hate the next’.48 Certainly in terms of honouring his own political agenda, his dramatic trajectory seems to be firmly headed in the direction of the small screen. The ‘utopian’ discourse that inflects a more recent telenovela in which he has participated – ‘Lado a lado’ (Side by Side, 2012/13), which has a historical setting and centres on the friendship between Laura (Marjorie Estiano), the white daughter of a baroness, and Isabel, a slave-descendant played by Camila Pitanga – is particularly indicative of Ramos’s aforementioned concern that black people should dream of ‘other places’. There is no doubt, however, that his move into the mainstream domain of television drama brings with it its own constraints, particularly in terms of reconciling a politicized public persona with the profile and agenda of large broadcasting conglomerates such as Globo. Ramos seems to navigate these tensions adeptly. The media, for example, picked up on his (perceived) glacial reception of Ali Kamel, whom he interviewed on the TV programme Espelho in relation to Kamel’s controversial book Não Somos Racistas (We’re Not Racist, 2006), which incidentally (or not as the case may be) appeared as part of the mise en scène in one scene of ‘Duas caras’ to the dismay of some viewers.49 When pinned down on the matter, however, by Raça Brasil with the intention of forcing an admission that Kamel’s thesis was in direct opposition to his own beliefs, Ramos gave a tellingly evasive response. ‘It’s a complex subject [racism in Brazil] and difficult to explain’, he suggests vaguely, before admitting that ‘up to a point I understand what Kamel was trying to say when he argued that “we [Brazilians] are not racist”’.50 Not that we should mistake empathy here for agreement – Ramos certainly makes no secret of his belief that race discrimination is a longstanding problem in Brazil. But these admissions tend to be followed by a (perhaps overly) optimistic opinion of the current status quo. In another interview he states: ‘Of course racism exists but I think things are evolving. People in Brazil, they have a very fluid identity. To suggest that there exists one truth, one path, one correct appearance … it’s a fight we’ll always face up to, because together we can achieve a lot’. It is unclear here whether ‘we’ refers to blacks or Brazilians in general, but that is, one suspects, rather the point. For in stressing diversity – both within

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the nation as a whole and, more specifically, the Afro-Brazilian population itself – Ramos simultaneously appears to endorse multiculturalism while distancing himself from more reductionist notions of identity politics and black militancy which, while flourishing in the USA, have always sat more uncomfortably in the Brazilian context. ‘Of course we’re a collective’, he admits, ‘but you have to look at each black person as an individual as well. Each person has their own life story, pain and cultural references’.51 The actor, it seems, is happy to align his political sails with the black agenda, but is increasingly mindful not to sail too close to the wind.

Notes 1. According to the 2008 census conducted by the Brazilian Institute of Geography and Statistics (IBGE), the Brazilian population is comprised as follows: brancos (whites) 48.43%; pardos (brown/mixed-race) 43.8%; pretos (black) 6.84%; amarelos (yellow – East Asian) 0.58%; indígenas (Amerindian) 0.28%; undeclared (0.7%). Since 1991 pardo has referred to those with some Amerindian ancestry and, in this sense, while used as a term to describe people who have a skin tone darker than whites and lighter than blacks, it does not necessarily imply a straightforward white-black combination. The IBGE acknowledges that these categories are disputed and that much of the population does not identify with them in day-to-day parlance. Indeed, if allowed to choose any classification, Brazilians will give almost two hundred different answers. S. Schwartzman, ‘Fora de foco: diversidade e identidades étnicas no Brasil’, Novos Estudos CEBRAP 55 (1999), 83–96 (86). For the purposes of this chapter, ‘Afro-Brazilian’ is used to refer both to pretos and pardos of African ancestry and who self-identify or are identified by others as such. On a demographic level, ‘black’ refers specifically to pretos while terms such as ‘black consciousness’ refer to more North American-inspired notions of identity politics and an accompanying culture with which some (but not all) pretos and pardos may identify. 2. This and all subsequent quotations from Portuguese are by the author. 3. J.Z. Araújo, A negação do Brasil: o negro na telenovela brasileira (São Paulo: SENAC, 2001), 104. 4. Embranquecimento or branqueamento was a policy favoured by successive postabolition governments according to which white European immigrants were encouraged to settle in Brazil (and favoured in the sphere of employment) not only because they were deemed to be better workers than Afro-Brazilians, but also because it was hoped that through miscegenation they would gradually ‘lighten’ the country’s gene pool. K. Butler, Freedoms Given, Freedoms Won: Afro-Brazilians

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in Post-Abolition São Paulo and Salvador (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1998), 36. The ‘white ideal’ embodied in this policy has, in the contemporary era, established a racial hierarchy of desirability vis-à-vis skin tone which continues to be perpetuated by the mass media through its idealization of Brazilians with European features. The popularity of the film and television star Xuxa serves as one of the most fitting examples of this – see Stephanie Dennison’s chapter in this volume. 5. See, for example, D. Davis, ‘Fading In: Race and the Representation of Peoples of African Descent in Latin American Cinema’, in D. Davis (ed.) Beyond Slavery: The Multilayered Legacy of Africans in Latin America and the Caribbean (Boulder, CO: Rowman and Littlefield, 2006), pp. 249–265, or S.N. Joyce, Brazilian Telenovelas and the Myth of the Racial Democracy (Lanham, MD and Plymouth: Lexington Books, 2012). 6. Camila Pitanga’s star text attests to the fluidity of racial categories in Brazil and how skin colour frequently emerges as a matter of point of view. For while Pitanga, daughter of black actor Antônio Pitanga, self-identifies as black, her television roles tend to identify her as white or mixed-race either through narrative cultural referencing or her visual presentation. Indeed, in a survey conducted by Datafolha, only 27% of participants identified her as ‘black’ as opposed to 36% who thought she was mixed-race (quoted in L. Capriglione, ‘Pesquisa mostra que cor de celebridades revela critérios “raciais” do Brasil’, Folha de São Paulo, 23 November 2008. Available at: [accessed 12 August 2013]). 7. Raça Brasil is a Brazilian magazine aimed at a black/Afro-Brazilian readership that covers issues of Afro-Brazilian politics, culture and identity. 8. This and all subsequent quotations of Ramos’s words have been translated by the author from the original Portuguese. 9. Ramos, quoted in S. Almada, ‘O Espelho: Entrevista com Lázaro Ramos’, Raça Brasil 182 (2013). Available at: (accessed 1 August 2013). 10. C. Gledhill, Stardom: Industry of Desire (London: Routledge, 1991), 210. 11. This term is usually translated as soap opera in English, although in contrast to British soap operas, which continue indefinitely, Brazilian telenovelas run for a set period (usually around nine months). 12. In Almada, ‘O Espelho’, n.p. 13. D. Davis, Avoiding the Dark: Race and the Forging of National Culture in Modern Brazil (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1999), 8. 14. Novels written by José de Alencar and published in 1865 and 1857, respectively. 15. In Brazil, mulato/a is a widely used term that typically refers to a person of both European and African heritage. In national culture the image of the mulata woman, in particular, has been invoked as a positive, though overtly sexualized embodiment

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16. 17. 18. 19.

20. 21. 22. 2 3. 24. 25.

26.

of ‘Brazilianness’. In the USA, in contrast, ‘mulatto’ historically has been used as a derogatory term to insult people of mixed parentage. Such romantic couples are in contrast, it should be noted, to his own relationship with Taís Araujo, who is also Afro-Brazilian. Gledhill, Stardom, 215. Carioca refers to somebody or something from the city of Rio de Janeiro. Afro-Brazilians shared a particularly ambivalent relationship with the Vargas regime’s nationalizing project. Certainly the government’s co-option of elements of Afro-Brazilian culture, most notably samba but also the martial art/dance capoeira and Afro-Brazilian religions candomblé and umbanda, created the illusion of black inclusion in the Brazilian ‘national family’ while garnering a new sense of AfroBrazilian pride with regards to increased (but still limited) black participation in areas such as music. At the same time, however, it also glossed over the historical inequalities that had led to the pauperization and marginalization of Afro-Brazilians in the first place. Davis, Avoiding the Dark, 92. In turn, the prevailing patriotic discourse of brasilidade or ‘Brazilianness’ ensured the maintenance of the status quo since any attempt to contest the asymmetrical power relations that continued to exist between blacks and whites could be dismissed as anti-nationalistic. Significantly, by 1938, the Frente Negra Brasileira (the Black Brazilian Front, a political movement) had already been banned by the government, reflecting the more hardline nationalist stance taken by the regime during the authoritarian Estado Novo (New State) between 1937­and 1945. G. Damata, Antologia da Lapa (Rio de Janeiro: Desiderata, 2007). L. Martins, Noturno da Lapa (Rio de Janeiro: Civilização Brasileira, 1964). In A. Werneck, ‘A anti-Lapa de Karim Aïnouz: bairro surge recriado pela fotografia’, Jornal do Brasil, 17 December 2002, B2. K. Aïnouz, ‘Macabea com raiva’, Cinemais 33 (2003), 181. K. Aïnouz, Madame Satã [DVD Commentary] (New York: Wellspring Media, 2004). This confrontation recalls a key scene from Madame Satã, which takes place in the Danúbio Azul bar where, after one of João Francisco’s cabaret performances, he is approached by a drunk patron who subjects him to a torrent of racist/homophobic abuse. As well as eliciting from the protagonist one of the film’s most significant lines (in accordance with the film’s wider decoupling of gender and sexuality) – ‘I’m queer and no less of a man for being so’ – it also prompts his most memorable act of defiance in which, still enraged, he follows the drunk home and shoots him in the back. Even in a more general Brazilian context, interracial relationships have tended to be more commonplace and less controversial in lower-class contexts such as that portrayed in Cidade Baixa – see, for example, F. Winddance Twine, Racism in a Racial Democracy: The Maintenance of White Supremacy in Brazil (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1998).

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27. See, for example, Aïnouz, ‘Macabea com raiva’. 28. J.C. Rodrigues, O negro brasileiro e o cinema (São Paulo: Pallas, 2002). See also D. Bogle, Toms, Coons, Mulattoes, Mammies and Bucks: An Interpretative History of Blacks in American Films (New York: Continuum, 2001). 29. R. Stam, Tropical Multiculturalism: A Comparative History of Race in Brazilian Cinema and Culture (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1997), 334. 30. C. Johnson, ‘A Phenomenology of the Black Body’, in Laurence Goldstein (ed.), The Male Body: Features, Destinies, Exposures (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1994), 123–29. 31. Ibid., 122. 32. F. Fanon, Black Skin, White Masks (St Albans: Paladin, 1968), 167. 33. Ibid., 151–65. 34. Ibid., 66. 35. Aïnouz, ‘Macabea com raiva’, 179. 36. B.C. Hoff, ‘Relocating Cities and Dissident Sexualities: Queer Urban Geographies in Contemporary Latin American Cinema’, doctoral dissertation, University of Liverpool, 2012, 180. 37. Ramos, quoted in Almada, ‘O Espelho’, n.p. 38. Davis, ‘Fading In’, 253. 39. See, for example, Araújo, A negação do Brasil. 40. See João Luiz Vieira and Leonardo Côrtes Macario’s chapter in this volume for a detailed analysis of the star text of Grande Otelo. 41. R. Dyer, Heavenly Bodies: Film Stars and Society (London: Routledge, 2003), 111–12. 42. Ibid. 43. Ibid. 44. In Almada, ‘O Espelho’. 45. Ibid. 46. See, for example, Joyce, Brazilian Telenovelas. 47. The English translation of the script is borrowed from Joyce, Brazilian Telenovelas, 61. Her choice of the word ‘negro’ to translate ‘preto’ is perhaps strategic – supporting her argument that the telenovela frequently played on its own political incorrectness alongside equally ‘provocative critiques of Brazil’s “racial democracy”’ (ibid., 45). 48. In Almada, ‘O Espelho’. 49. In one episode, which aired in March 2008, Evilásio’s sister, Gislaine, is glimpsed momentarily reading Kamel’s book, which was published in 2006 and provoked much controversy. Kamel criticizes the policy of affirmative action for filling places in the country’s public universities, arguing that it is a source of, rather than a cure for racism, a phenomenon he claims as being largely alien to Brazil until fairly recently. The brief appearance of the book in the episode of ‘Duas caras’ was not lost on the media, and Eduardo Guimarães, who writes for a non-profit watchdog organization, argues that: ‘blacks and whites in ‘Duas caras’ interact according to every comma

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told in the hateful book … they [Globo] are in fact racist, because they try to stymie the struggle for equal opportunities for blacks in the job market and in universities affirming shamelessly that such opportunities exist. In addition to being racist, they are liars’. Quoted in Joyce, Brazilian Telenovelas, 55. 50. In Almada, ‘O Espelho’. 51. Ibid.

References Aïnouz, K. ‘Macabea com raiva’. Cinemais 33 (2003), 177–87. Almada, S. ‘O Espelho: entrevista com Lázaro Ramos’. Raça Brasil 182 (2013). Available at: (accessed 1 August 2013). Araújo, J.Z. A negação do Brasil: o negro na telenovela brasileira. São Paulo: SENAC, 2000. Bogle, D. Toms, Coons, Mulattoes, Mammies and Bucks: An Interpretative History of Blacks in American Films. New York: Continuum, 2001. Butler, K. Freedoms Given, Freedoms Won: Afro-Brazilians in Post-Abolition São Paulo and Salvador. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1998. Capriglione, L. ‘Pesquisa mostra que cor de celebridades revela critérios “raciais” do Brasil’. Folha de São Paulo, 23 November 2008. Available at: (accessed 12 August 2013). Damata, G. Antologia da Lapa. Rio de Janeiro: Desiderata, 2007. Davis, D. Avoiding the Dark: Race and the Forging of National Culture in Modern Brazil. Aldershot: Ashgate, 1999. Davis, D. (ed.). Beyond Slavery: The Multilayered Legacy of Africans in Latin America and the Caribbean. Boulder, CO: Rowman and Littlefield, 2006. Dyer, R. Heavenly Bodies: Film Stars and Society. London: Routledge, 2003. Fanon, F. Black Skin, White Masks. St Albans: Paladin, 1968. Gledhill, C. Stardom: Industry of Desire. London: Routledge, 1991. Hoff, B.C. ‘Relocating Cities and Dissident Sexualities: Queer Urban Geographies in Contemporary Latin American Cinema’. Doctoral dissertation, University of Liverpool, 2012. Johnson, C. ‘A Phenomenology of the Black Body’, in Laurence Goldstein (ed.), The Male Body: Features, Destinies, Exposures (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1994), 121–35. Joyce, S.N. Brazilian Telenovelas and the Myth of the Racial Democracy. Lanham, MD and Plymouth: Lexington Books, 2012. Martins, L. Noturno da Lapa. Rio de Janeiro: Civilização Brasileira, 1964. Rodrigues, J.C. O negro brasileiro e o cinema. São Paulo: Pallas, 2002.

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Schwartzman. S. ‘Fora de foco: diversidade e identidades étnicas no Brasil’. Novos Estudos CEBRAP 55 (1999), 83–96. Stam, R. Tropical Multiculturalism. A Comparative History of Race in Brazilian Cinema and Culture. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1997. Twine, F.W. Racism in a Racial Democracy: The Maintenance of White Supremacy in Brazil. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1998. Werneck, A. ‘A anti-Lapa de Karim Aïnouz: bairro surge recriado pela fotografia’. Jornal do Brasil, 17 December 2002, B2.

Ben Hoff completed his PhD at the University of Liverpool in 2012 and is currently an independent researcher in film, gender and queer theory. He has published a number of journal articles and book contributions relating to Latin American culture and is author of Reprojecting the City: Urban Space and Dissident Sexualities in Recent Latin American Cinema, forthcoming from Legenda. He also works as a freelance copyeditor and translator and has recently begun retraining in ­counselling and psychotherapy.

CHAPTER 14

Seu Jorge as a cross-media star Between local authenticity and global appeal Katia Augusta Maciel

One of the internationally most recognized Brazilian singer/songwriters to emerge since the late 1990s, Seu Jorge has achieved remarkable success across a range of media, including appearances in Brazilian and international films, and on television. His status as a contemporary Brazilian icon and an ambassador for Rio de Janeiro was confirmed in 2012, when he appeared alongside legendary footballer Pelé in the closing ceremony of the Olympic Games in London, heralding the handover to Rio de Janeiro as the next Olympic city. In this chapter, I analyse how Seu Jorge’s star persona functions across the various media he operates in, with a particular emphasis on his film performances. I also discuss how his star persona has been received at home and by fans elsewhere, particularly on the internet. On a more general level, this chapter aims to demonstrate  how contemporary practices of media convergence impact on debates  about stardom. The intention is thus not only to understand stars as commodities,1 but also to focus on the input of stars into media culture,  and  to observe how current processes of convergence affect individual stars. Born Jorge Mário da Silva in the Belford Roxo favela in Rio de Janeiro on 8 June 1970, Seu Jorge grew up in poverty and surrounded by violence. After his sixteen-year-old brother was killed, he fled Belford Roxo and started living on the streets, surviving on odd jobs. His fortune changed in the 1990s when he joined an amateur theatrical troupe and began to style himself as ‘Seu Jorge’, a theatre actor and singer/songwriter on the rise.2 Between 1996 and 1999, he fronted the band Farofa Carioca, before releasing his debut solo album Samba Esporte Fino (2001, also known as Carolina outside Brazil), which attracted much attention and critical acclaim for its innovative approach to the musical genre of

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samba. On the website allmusic.com, critic Jason Birchmeier hailed Seu Jorge’s debut album as: the best of both worlds, the album’s style of samba-funk is thoroughly modern, particularly in terms of its vibrant production, yet still harks back to classic Brazilian samba-funk albums of the 1970s such as Jorge Ben’s África Brasil (1976) and Gilberto Gil’s Refazenda (1975).3 Birchmeier’s comment illustrates how Seu Jorge fitted his musical persona within the frame of what Richard Dyer has termed a ‘crossover star’, someone ‘who though rooted in a particular tradition of music with a particular audience, somehow manages to appeal, and sell, beyond the confines of that audience’.4 Only a year after the album’s release, Seu Jorge was cast by Fernando Meirelles and Kátia Lund to play the character of Mané Galinha/Knockout Ned in Cidade de Deus (City of God, 2002), also writing and performing songs for the film’s soundtrack. City of God was both a domestic and international film hit and proved instrumental in turning Seu Jorge into a cross-media and increasingly international star.5 His second solo album, Cru (2004), confirmed his newfound status as a cosmopolitan artist, but at the same time maintained his connections to his musical (and social) roots. First released not in Brazil, but in France, the album contains cover versions of songs by French singer Serge Gainsbourg and by the American songwriting team Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller, but it also features the song ‘Eu sou favela’ (I Am Favela), originally made famous by the traditional samba singer Bezerra da Silva (1927–2005), which tries to counterbalance the ghetto stigma by presenting a positive view of the favela and its inhabitants. Once again, it was a film that propelled Seu Jorge’s musical career. His appearance in Wes Anderson’s The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou (2004), which I discuss in more detail below, featured some cover versions of David Bowie songs in Portuguese and accompanied by acoustic guitar, which fed into the album The Life Aquatic Studio Sessions (2005). Both film and album augmented Seu Jorge’s international recognition, and cemented his high profile at home as well, which he maintained with his follow-up albums América Brasil (2007) and Músicas para churrasco (2011). In the past decade he has collaborated with some of the biggest popular music stars in Brazil, including Daniela Mercury, Ivete Sangalo and Ana Carolina, but has also worked with newer artists such as Max de Castro, Teresa Cristina and the hip hop band Conexão Baixada. As part of a collective project,

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Figure 14.1 Seu Jorge in The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou (2004). DVD screen capture.

Seu Jorge joined Almaz featuring alongside multi-instrumentalist Antonio Pinto and members of the band Nação Zumbi from Pernambuco. Their eponymous 2010 album, Seu Jorge e Almaz, served as an homage to the history of Brazilian popular music with covers of songs by Dorival Caymmi, Nelson Cavaquinho, Tim Maia and Baden Powell, alongside a version of Kraftwerk’s ‘Das Model’. In all his activities, I would argue that Seu Jorge performs the role of a ‘cultural mediator’. I use this term in the sense as it has been coined by Brazilian anthropologist Hermano Vianna in his book The Mystery of Samba: Popular Music and National Identity in Brazil.6 Vianna defines ‘cultural mediators’ in the Brazilian context as those artists and/or intellectuals who have contributed through their work to the popularization and integration (though not necessarily in a homogenizing way) of cosmopolitan and local elements within Brazilian culture.7 The main examples that Vianna cites are the sociologist Gilberto Freyre (1900–87), French poet/anthropologist Claude Lévi-Strauss (1908–2009) and musician/ composer Pixinguinha (1897–1973), whose respective ideas and practices of cultural miscegenation affected and transformed Brazilian cultural production in the

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twentieth century. Vianna demonstrates that, at least since the early eighteenth century, successive ‘cultural mediators’ moved between and brought into contact high and low folk traditions and modern cultural forms imported from abroad, and that such interactions had a historical impact on the production of Brazilian popular music (particularly samba), as well as in shaping ‘the cultural fabric’ of Brazilian identity at different historical moments.8 By moving across different media platforms, performing in Brazil and abroad, singing in different languages and shaping a star persona that draws on and mixes together local and non-local cultural elements, Seu Jorge has functioned as one such cultural mediator. He has acted as a bridge, introducing elements of Brazilian culture to international popular culture and vice versa. His 2006 song ‘América do Norte’ (North America) articulates significant hints about his selfperception as cultural mediator: Vem dançar o samba-rock lá do Grajaú/ Americana vamo nesse samba-blue/ Diga eu te amo/ E eu I Love You/ (Come and dance the samba-rock from Grajaú9/ American girl let’s dance this samba-blues/ Say eu te amo/ And I say I love you/ )10 By mixing references to different musical genres (samba, rock and blues) in the lyrics, as well as code-switching into English within otherwise Portuguese lyrics, the song mediates processes of cultural exchange that spring from circulation and contact. Other examples of his linguistic experimentation and versatility include Seu Jorge’s recording of Robertinho Brant’s song ‘Fiore de la cittá’ with lyrics in Italian, and his celebrated David Bowie cover versions in The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou. Bowie’s liner notes for The Life Aquatic Studio Sessions Featuring Seu Jorge strengthen the idea of Seu Jorge as cultural mediator: ‘Had Seu Jorge not recorded my songs acoustically in Portuguese, I would never have heard this new level of beauty which he has imbued them with’. In the following pages, I look in the first instance at Seu Jorge’s film performances and how they articulate and have developed his distinctive star persona. Subsequently, I investigate how this persona is then radiated outwards or ­corresponds to his other media performances and also how it is picked up in

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fan discourses. As stated previously, Seu Jorge first found cinematic recognition in 2002 when he appeared in the role of Knockout Ned in City of God, which, apart from bringing him to the attention of international audiences, also established him as a hero for domestic viewers, someone to be watched and heard, and moreover an ‘authentic’ persona. Since City of God, he has appeared in a range of domestic as well as international film productions, encompassing hard-hitting social dramas in the vein of his first film, but also including historical films such as Andrucha Waddington’s Casa de areia (The House of Sand, 2005), and comedies E aí … comeu? (So, Did You Score?, 2012) and Reis e ratos (Kings and Rats, 2012). Seu Jorge’s first major film role, Knockout Ned, was based on a real-life ­gangster who lived in the City of God favela that gives the film its title. The fact that the character is played by a popular Brazilian singer/composer with a personal favela background adds complexity to Seu Jorge’s filmic performance. He embodies, as Ismail Xavier has argued, what the film represents to the rest of the non-professional cast: the possibility of escaping the favela by merit of artistic talent.11 Both the real-life Ned and Seu Jorge tried to leave the ghetto, but only the latter succeeded. Seu Jorge’s body and personal biography attest to the fact that real-life Ned’s tragic fate could have been different. In his first scenes in City of God, Seu Jorge’s performance is marked by the relaxed facial expressions, laughter and skilful dance moves of an average, supposedly peaceful, good-looking and popular working-class type who lives in the ghetto. By associating this portrayal with Seu Jorge’s personal history and successful career, his cinematic performance contributes to attenuating the harsh reality of the real place, while also popularizing the notion that the favela can be fashionable and hip. Seu Jorge’s performance, however, gradually becomes more physical and fragmented, characterized by intense and angry looks as well as the cold and brutal gestures of a man tormented by a desire for revenge. The camerawork and the way he is framed explore through extreme close-ups his wide-open eyes and stiff facial expressions to reveal the inner changes of his character, as he transforms from a quiet, considerate man into a criminal. Seu Jorge’s performance here mediates complex aspects of life in ghettoized communities, as evinced by the cruel fact that other real-life favela inhabitants who performed with him in City of God later returned to crime or to an ordinary and marginal existence.12 In explaining popular music’s contributions to film, Michel Chion argues that there is never ‘a total fusion of the elements of sound and image’; instead the

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audio-visual contract ‘allows the two to subsist separately while in combination’.13 Similarly, stars such as Seu Jorge convey layers of meaning to a film, adding to the image track without being blended with or overcome by the characters or their actions on screen. These meanings are related to the public and artistic elements of the persona the star has established.14 In this respect, it is worth stressing that apart from providing the film with social authenticity, City of God also uses Seu Jorge’s star persona and image as a pleasurable body to be looked at, and as a musical talent to be admired. For example, the sequence in which Li’l Z forces Knockout Ned to strip on the dance floor is shot with a handheld camera and sometimes blurred focus but it still allows for tantalizing glimpses of Seu Jorge’s naked body. Popular appeal also springs from Seu Jorge’s musical input in the film. Despite the tragic fate of Knockout Ned, who is ruthlessly killed, it is Seu Jorge’s voice that is last heard while the film’s credits are rolling. He sings: ‘Sou morador da favela, Também sou filho de Deus/ Sou operário da vida. Da vida que Deus me deu’ (‘I live in the favela, I’m also God’s son/ I am a worker of the life God has given me’).15 Thus, Seu Jorge reclaims his authentic role as survivor, one that is being denied to Ned, and emerges as the real hero of City of God. The song, ‘Convite para a vida’ (Invitation to Life), was later released on the film’s soundtrack CD, and circulated widely on the internet (YouTube, blogs and torrents), and Seu Jorge later regularly sang it at live concerts in Brazil and abroad. When performing in domestic films, in which he often plays criminals who defy authority in different ways, Seu Jorge transfers to the cinematic realm the core elements of his public and artistic persona, giving his characters a weight they would not have if played by another actor. These elements are explored in a different way in his international films. The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou (2004), Wes Anderson’s off-beat comedy drama about an eccentric oceanographer and his eclectic submarine crew, gave Seu Jorge the opportunity to perform opposite stars such as Bill Murray, Angelica Huston, Willem Dafoe and Cate Blanchett, and promoted his musical talent. He plays the Brazilian Pelé dos Santos, a safety expert, who is shown testing explosives wearing Speedos, trainers and a scuba diving mask. Like the rest of Zissou’s crew, Seu Jorge’s character is deliberately bizarre but not at all out of place and his performance primarily accentuates his body and his voice. This is achieved through a mise en scène that explores his looks and gestures as well as his musical talent. Zissou’s crew is decidedly multinational. Apart from Seu Jorge, it includes a German explorer (played by Willem Dafoe) and a British reporter

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(portrayed by Cate Blanchett). However, while Dafoe and Blanchett derive the comic effect of their characters primarily through strong, clichéd accents, Seu Jorge has almost no dialogue in the film, and his main vocal contribution is by singing in his native Portuguese, rendering his appearance in the film both enigmatic and exotic at the same time. While the film generally works as a piece of ensemble performance, Seu Jorge’s character is almost self-contained. Whenever playing his guitar and singing, he is frontally framed in the centre of the screen, sometimes even looking directly into the camera, which not only contravenes classic cinematic conventions, but also appears to mimic the live performer’s engagement with his audience. In these scenes, he is usually on his own, ­demanding the audience’s full attention. When not singing songs, Seu Jorge’s performance style is mainly characterized by relaxed gestures and an intense but cool gaze. His character is a team player whose reliability earned him a prominent place in the crew, and he comes across as a good guy, cool, stylish, frank and trustworthy. At the end of the film, while the credits are rolling, Seu Jorge, still characterized as Pelé dos Santos, wearing the distinctive red hat of Zissou’s crew and a black suit, performs one last song on the stage that featured in the film’s opening scene. He sits on a chair, legs crossed, looking relaxed and comfortable. He finishes singing and leaves the stage, taking the chair and the guitar with him, as if determining the end of the spectacle. There is nothing left to see except the text on screen: ‘Soundtrack available on Hollywood Records’. In Rupert Wyatt’s Irish-UK co-produced thriller The Escapist (2008), Seu Jorge plays Viv Batista, a former pharmacist who works in a prison library and enjoys some privileges by supplying drugs to inmates. Acting style and on-screen persona are similar to the character portrayed in the earlier Wes Anderson film. Batista is a man of few words who often looks relaxed but who remains watchful. His inner state is mainly conveyed through close-ups exploring Seu Jorge’s facial expressions and intense gaze. The scene in which Batista blends a cocktail of drugs is a typical example. Seu Jorge is shown leisurely humming a song and chewing gum, while extreme close-ups of him laughing frenziedly expose the character’s scornfulness. The scene also presents Batista as cool and selfassured, capable of working with precision although apparently not taking matters seriously. Seu Jorge is framed frontally and from below, emphasizing his body on screen and his character’s skilfulness. The Escapist thus incorporates features that are easily recognized in Seu Jorge’s previous cinematic performances, which

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establishes performative and character continuity across different films, essential for the development of a distinctive star presence. Batista wears a black hat similar to the red one worn by Zissou’s crew, and he becomes a key member of a group planning to escape from prison. Batista is also introduced in the film by freeze-frame images and on-screen titles, as is Seu Jorge’s character in The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou. When witnessing a torture scene, Batista is supposed to show no emotions. Seu Jorge thus adopts a cold look that at the same time conveys anger. His gaze and body language suggest that Batista is a strong man who can sustain pain and violence, but who will seek revenge when the time comes, thus resembling Knockout Ned in City of God. The combination of a tough gaze and a blasé attitude seems to be the main feature of Seu Jorge’s performance style on screen. These aspects feed into his image as a cool, stylish and cutting-edge musical performer. The association of his star image with these features has been carefully constructed through different cinematic performances. For instance, before playing the role of Viv Batista in The Escapist, Seu Jorge played a fisherman in Casa de areia (2005), relying in his performance on his physical presence, unyielding gestures, brave looks and silences more than any line of dialogue. As in The Escapist, it is his image on screen that conveys more than the respective character’s drives and behaviour. Seu Jorge’s casting as Beirada in Tropa de elite 2: o inimigo agora é outro (Elite Squad: The Enemy Within, 2010) drew significantly on the star’s personal background, as City of God had done nearly a decade previously. His character is introduced as one of the most dangerous drug lords in Rio, confined to the notorious prison, Bangu I. At the beginning of the film, Beirada is leading a massacre inside the prison to secure his leadership position. Seu Jorge’s intense gaze and strong body are once again explored in frontal shots and close-ups. He holds a gun to threaten his victims and demand respect. Defying whoever crosses his path, including to some extent the camera and the audience, Seu Jorge’s performance resembles in several aspects the work of actor Leandro Firmino da Hora as Li’l Zé in City of God. The performers use similar facial expressions (wide open and intimidating eyes, for example), a raised voice and brief lines of dialogue, often repeating the slang term ‘rapá’ (man or ‘bro’). I have argued elsewhere that the association of this word with the sound of bullets, extreme close-ups of Li’l Zé’s face and gun, and his violent attitudes towards other characters on screen emphasize the menace his figure represents.16 Beirada’s threatening character is built through a similar portrayal. His nervous gestures, pointing with a gun and

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shouting orders, are followed by a handheld camera and shown through a hectic fragmented montage that allows only glimpses of his actions, as in many key sequences in City of God. Beirada is getting out of control when a human rights activist named Fraga (Irandhir Santos) is sent to negotiate the end of the bloodshed. He is the only one to whom Beirada shows some respect. Beirada, hesitant and frightened, is told by Fraga that the police are ready to storm the prison if Beirada does not surrender. Fraga pleads with the criminal to stop and put down his gun, assuring Beirada that he can trust him. They finally reach an agreement, but moments later the police step in and kill Beirada, triggering the narrative’s descent into further violence and corruption. Of course, topics such as these have also often been tackled by Seu Jorge in the lyrics of his songs, and his portrayal of Beirada thus is linked to the political critique evident in his songwriting, as well as a familiar and popular performance style. Beirada is a small role in comparison to Knockout Ned, but the character has a big impact on plot development in Elite Squad: The Enemy Within by unleashing the conflicts that will affect the protagonists throughout the narrative. Beirada is portrayed as a victim of the system and as someone who is trying to put things right, although by violent means. Seu Jorge’s extra-cinematic public and artistic personae help to foster a sympathetic view of Beirada, tying the character’s tragic fate to the fight for human rights and justice. Seu Jorge’s star image clearly contributed to the promotion of the film. Trailers, interviews on television, a video from his rehearsals for the role, and a forty-five-minute ‘making of’ documentary can all easily be found on the internet and feature on the DVD release both at home and abroad, evincing the varied strategies that draw on his star status adopted in the film’s publicity campaign. Elite Squad: The Enemy Within has become the most successful Brazilian film in terms of box office earnings up to the present. Over eleven million spectators saw the film in the domestic market, outperforming even James Cameron’s Avatar (2009).17 Of course, Seu Jorge is not solely responsible for the film’s success, but he definitely added popular appeal to the production, and not only in Brazil, since ­international audiences are by now well acquainted with him. In order to understand Seu Jorge’s star image fully, however, and more specifically his reception, one has to look beyond his cinematic appearances. Music videos and recordings and DVDs of live concerts and tours, as well as official and fan-originated internet content, have been equally important in constructing

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and maintaining his star persona and in creating an international fan base. These media representations are essential for the commodification of Seu Jorge as a star text, as a national (Brazilian) brand that can in turn aid in promoting and selling other national brands. A good example of this is a trailer for the DVD of Seu Jorge’s celebrated ‘America Brazil’ tour in 2008, which can be accessed on YouTube.18 The opening titles of the DVD carry the colours of the Brazilian flag, and in the trailer, original footage from the tour is juxtaposed with images of Seu Jorge watching football, mingling with some of Brazil’s indigenous people, walking through the rainforest and performing with traditional samba players from Rio’s Portela Samba School. Tellingly, the tour was sponsored by a cachaça (sugar cane spirit) brand that adopted as its motto ‘a pure Brazilian spirit’. By moving across different media, Seu Jorge’s star persona has both contributed to and benefited from the contemporary era of media convergence.19 Henry Jenkins argues that as a consequence of the digitalization of media content, and the creation of media conglomerates, franchises and transmedia activities on different levels, new forms of creativity and interaction characterize cultural production.20 He suggests that media producers and advertisers have concluded that a product’s market potential is increasingly being shaped by the sum of ­interactions with customers across a range of different media:21 Consumers not only watch media; they also share media with one another, whether this consists of wearing a T-shirt proclaiming their passion for a particular product, posting a message on a discussion list, recommending a product to a friend, or creating a parody of a commercial that circulates on the internet.22 Jenkins also notes that these practices have generated conflicts, such as instances of media piracy and ‘spoiling’ communities on the internet. As a cross-media product, Seu Jorge has an ambivalent relationship with consumers of his artistic output and star image. He has shaped his career through interactions with his audience across different media (theatre, film, music, television and the internet), thus both promoting and relying on convergence culture to establish a longlasting relationship with fans, while facing the economically detrimental impact of file sharing and free downloading on his career. I would suggest that Seu Jorge is fully aware of media convergence ­practices and has exploited them in order to foster his star status. His official website

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f­eatures videos, film trailers, short films, videos from concerts in Brazil and abroad, TV commercials in which he appears, interviews on television, links to critical reviews, comments from fans and his own comments on past and upcoming events, as well as links to social media.23 Although the only interactive feature of the website is the tool that allows fans to post comments and photos, the website does encourage audiences to enjoy and share different experiences through its variety of easily accessible ‘texts’. Fans are subtly led to search for data in different platforms in order to fully experience Seu Jorge’s artistic oeuvre and to get to know and engage with his star persona. Jenkins has argued that the exploitation of multiple media platforms expands the emotional bond between cross-media stars and their fans around the world.24 He explains that for economists, consumer loyalty is essential in stabilizing the market for a product, allowing new promotional approaches to attract new consumers.25 It seems symptomatic that Seu Jorge’s main fan club is named ‘Seguidores de Seu Jorge’ (literally ‘Seu Jorge’s followers’). The name connotes devotion, while also referring to the fact that the group follows the artist on social media such as Facebook and Twitter. In these virtual spaces, fans can reaffirm their admiration, request new songs and shows, openly discuss the quality of Seu Jorge’s performances or express opinions on his costumes and hairstyles. For Jenkins, such participatory initiatives have a synergistic effect that motivates more consumerism, with each new event (a comment from a fan, an interview with Seu Jorge) or new performance (a concert or a filmic role) adding to previous ones.26 For example, after his success in Wes Anderson’s film, Seu Jorge launched a music video, co-starring Bill Murray and Willem Dafoe, his colleagues in the feature-length film. The video features the song ‘Tive Razão’ (I Was Right) from his album Cru. In the video Seu Jorge reproduces the performance style of his character in the film: he amuses himself with his own music and thoughts, as if detached from what is happening around him, and is portrayed sitting relaxed with his legs outstretched, his acoustic guitar on his lap. He wears a similar hat to that worn by his character in Anderson’s film, and is framed by a frontal camera angle, which recalls the way he is framed in the film’s musical numbers. The latter are available on YouTube in order to promote the film’s soundtrack album, and by drawing on a similar aesthetic and performance style, the music video has had so far over three million views on YouTube alone.27 YouTube has also been a significant medium to expand Seu Jorge’s fan base beyond national borders, which in some cases has led to remarkable instances of

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creative engagement by fans with the singer’s star text and work. Thus, in addition to numerous videos on YouTube featuring Seu Jorge’s Bowie cover versions, there are also videos of fans from different countries performing covers, in turn, of Seu Jorge’s versions. One of the videos features a fan nicknamed ‘Glaciermoon’ singing Seu Jorge’s version of ‘Lady Stardust’. Although Glaciermoon apologizes in the info section on YouTube by stating, ‘I don’t speak Portuguese, sorry if I mispronounced anything’,28 he does not seem intimidated by a supposed language barrier. Another fan has some advantage over others since he claims he has lived in Brazil for a few months and speaks Portuguese. His versions of Seu Jorge’s covers of ‘Rock ’n’ Roll Suicide’ and ‘Life on Mars’ have had over thirty-nine thousand views since they were first posted in 2007. This fan notes that in response to his version he has received ‘lots of requests for lyrics and tabs’, thus posting links to other websites where these data can be found.29 As often happens on the internet, one link leads to another, extending, through numerous blogs, videos, songs, photos and reviews, Seu Jorge’s worldwide popularity and his cross-media presence.30 As I have aimed to demonstrate in this chapter, the circulation of Seu Jorge’s star image across different media platforms has resulted in attracting both a domestic and an international audience, widening his market and the reach of his look, his ideas, art and vocal talent. These effects are achieved by exploring, and conversely fostering, key practices of media convergence. Audiences are tacitly led to follow his creative output in different platforms. It is only through a combination of browsing the internet, listening to his albums and watching his films and live concerts that it is possible to grasp Seu Jorge’s star image in its full complexity. In this sense, cross-media stardom has political implications, as by exploiting multiple contacts between his star image and audiences, Seu Jorge increases his power to influence social attitudes and to shape cultural identities.

Notes 1. R. Dyer, Stars (London: British Film Institute, 1979); G. Turner, Understanding Celebrity (London: Sage, 2004); D. Marshall, Celebrity and Power: Fame in Contemporary Culture, an Introduction (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2004). 2. Data retrieved from: (accessed 20 May 2011), also found in Marco Werman’s interview with Seu Jorge for ‘The Talbot Players’ TV show, available at: (accessed 25 August 2013).

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3. Data retrieved from: (accessed 24 May 2011). 4. R. Dyer, Heavenly Bodies: Film Stars and Society (London: BFI, 1987), 67. 5. K.A. Maciel, ‘Film, Popular Music and Television: Intertextuality in Brazilian Cinema’, PhD thesis, University of Southampton, 2008. 6. H. Vianna, The Mystery of Samba: Popular Music and National Identity in Brazil (Chapel Hill and London: The University of North Carolina Press, 1999). 7. Ibid., 29. 8. Ibid., 30–32. 9. Grajaú is a neighbourhood in Rio de Janeiro. 10. Translations of song lyrics are by the author. 11. I. Xavier, ‘Angels with Dirty Faces’, Sight & Sound 13(1) (2003), 28–30. 12. According to director Fernando Meirelles in the extra features of the film’s DVD. 13. M. Chion, Audio-Vision: Sound on Screen (New York: Columbia University Press, 1990), 188. 14. J. Bicknell, ‘Just a Song? Exploring the Aesthetics of Popular Song Performance’, The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 63(3) (2005), 267. 15. Extracted from the English subtitles on the film’s DVD. 16. Maciel, ‘Film, Popular Music and Television’. On the same topic, see also L. Nagib, ‘Talking Bullets: The Language of Violence in “City of God”’, in E.R.P. Vieira (ed.), ‘City of God’ in Several Voices: Brazilian Social Cinema as Action (Nottingham: Critical, Cultural and Communications Press, 2005), 32–43. 17. Data retrieved from: (accessed 10 June 2011). 18. The trailer can be seen at: (accessed 2 June 2011). 19. H. Jenkins, Cultura da convergência (São Paulo: Aleph, 2009), 106–236. 20. Ibid., 235–36. 21. Ibid., 63. 22. Ibid., 68. 23. Data retrieved from: (accessed 25 May 2011). 24. Jenkins, Cultura da convergência, 106–7. 25. Ibid., 109–10. 26. Ibid., 138–39. 27. The video can be found at: (accessed 27 August 2013). 28. Data retrieved from: (accessed 2 June 2011). 29. Data retrieved from: (accessed 2 June 2011).

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30. In support of this point, it is relevant to note Seu Jorge’s appearances in a number of television channels’ documentaries and shows such as ITV’s ‘The South Bank Show’ and CNN’s ‘The Scene’, among others, and the fact that he has twice been awarded the Latin Grammy, in 2008 and 2012, respectively.

References Bicknell, J. ‘Just a Song? Exploring the Aesthetics of Popular Song Performance’. The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 63(3) (2005), 261–70. Chion, M. Audio-Vision: Sound on Screen. New York: Columbia University Press, 1990. Dyer, R. Heavenly Bodies: Film Stars and Society. London: British Film Institute, 1987. Dyer, R. Stars. London: British Film Institute, 1979. Jenkins, H. Cultura da convergência. São Paulo: Aleph, 2009. Maciel, K.A. ‘Film, Popular Music and Television: Intertextuality in Brazilian Cinema’. PhD thesis, University of Southampton, 2008. Marshall, D. Celebrity and Power: Fame in Contemporary Culture, an Introduction. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2004. Turner, G. Understanding Celebrity. London: Sage, 2004. Vianna, H. The Mystery of Samba: Popular Music and National Identity in Brazil. Chapel Hill and London: The University of North Carolina Press, 1999. Vieira, E.R.P. (ed.) ‘City of God’ in Several Voices: Brazilian Social Cinema as Action. Nottingham: Critical, Cultural and Communications Press, 2005. Xavier, I. ‘Angels with Dirty Faces’. Sight & Sound 13(1) (2003), 28–30.

Katia Augusta Maciel holds a PhD in Film Studies (University of Southampton) and an MA in Film and Television Production (University of Bristol). She has a degree in Journalism (Federal University of Pernambuco) and has worked as a journalist and filmmaker since 1998.  She has been working as a lecturer at the Federal University of Rio de Janeiro since 2009, and is currently researching aesthetic and industrial processes of media convergence within  contemporary Brazilian cinema.

CHAPTER 15

Latin lover or Latin(o) loser? Rodrigo Santoro and the Hollywood stereotype Daniel O’Brien

This chapter looks at the US career of Rodrigo Santoro (born 1975) as a case study in crossover stardom. Arguably, Santoro is the best-known Brazilian actor working in Hollywood since the days of Carmen Miranda in the 1940s and early 1950s.1 Over the last decade, he has appeared in films such as Charlie’s Angels: Full Throttle (McG, 2003), Love Actually (Richard Curtis, 2003),2 300 (Zack Snyder, 2007), the two-part Che (Steven Soderbergh, 2008), I Love You Phillip Morris (Glenn Ficarra and John Requa, 2009), What to Expect When You’re Expecting (Kirk Jones, 2012) and The Last Stand (Kim Jee-woon, 2013). He also played Nicole Kidman’s romantic interest in a widely noticed 2004 Chanel No. 5 advert directed by Baz Luhrmann, screened both on television and in cinemas, and featured in the hit US television series ‘Lost’ during its third season (2006–07), his character appearing in seven episodes. This chapter will examine the extent to which Santoro’s background figures in his US film and television work, whether a notion of ‘Brazilianness’ plays any part, and what type or types of masculinity he represents. It will also suggest that Santoro’s status as a crossover star requires qualification. While the films may rework and even subvert the familiar Latin American character types for the most part, this remodelling is by no means unconditionally positive or progressive. Indeed, several of his Hollywood roles invoke problematic or at least contentious Latino stereotypes dating back to the silent era of US cinema.

Background A native of Petrópolis, Rio de Janeiro state, Santoro made his television debut in 1993, in the Brazilian soap opera ‘Olho no olho’ (Eye to Eye), but came to national

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prominence thanks to his role as a young priest seduced by a prostitute in the mini-series ‘Hilda Furacão’ (Hilda Hurricane) in 1998. Both series were produced by TV Globo, the dominant player in the Brazilian television industry, which has extensive interests in other media.3 Santoro’s first feature film was O trapalhão e a luz azul (The Trapalhão and the Blue Light,4 Paulo Aragão and Alexandre Boury, 1999), produced by Globo’s film division to showcase Brazilian punk band Raimundos. Santoro consolidated his film career – and gained his first significant international exposure – with Abril despedaçado (Behind the Sun, Walter Salles, 2001), the tale of a blood feud set in Brazil’s arid northeastern interior, the sertão, during the early 1900s.5 Featuring heavily in the film’s promotion, he is cast as a peasant’s son caught between family honour and the chance of a new life. Santoro’s very attractive features and expressive, sensitive eyes are framed by his long dark hair and heavy stubble, a look maintained, with minor variations, in much of his US work. Discussing Santoro’s presence in Behind the Sun, Lisa Shaw and Stephanie Dennison characterize him as a ‘strikingly handsome former TV actor’.6 Leaving aside the fact that Santoro continues to work in television, both in Brazil and the US, this description could imply a performer with a background less reputable or respectable than the cinema or the theatre, hired largely for his looks. However, Shaw and Dennison go on to state that Santoro was cast in Behind the Sun on the strength of his performance in Bicho de sete cabeças (Brainstorm, Laís Bodanzky, 2001), playing a withdrawn teenager wrongly incarcerated in a mental institution.7 Thus, Santoro has both good looks and proven acting talent, underlined and endorsed by his Best Actor awards for Brainstorm at the Brasilia and Recife film festivals.8 His biggest commercial success in Brazil is probably Carandiru (Hector Babenco, 2003), one of several domestic hits in the 2000s, which out-grossed the Hollywood competition.9 This prison drama is an ensemble piece, yet Santoro’s transvestite Lady Di is one of the most prominent and sympathetic characters, due in no small part to his performance. While this chapter is not concerned directly with Santoro’s Brazilian credits, it will reference Behind the Sun and Carandiru. His roles in these films may not be typical or representative of his career in Brazil; these are, however, the most widely distributed of his Brazilian films in English-speaking territories.10 The circulation of Santoro’s image in English-language media texts suggests that he has become one of the dominant faces of recent Brazilian cinema in terms of its international reception. Lúcia Nagib’s study Brazil on Screen: Cinema Novo, New Cinema, Utopia (2007) features Santoro on the cover, in a publicity still

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from Behind the Sun.11 Framed in a low-angle long shot, he is seated on a wooden swing, facing the camera upside down with an expression that suggests joy or exultation, while his tanned skin connotes health and the outdoors. Santoro’s face and right arm are highlighted, emphasizing his good looks and muscular build. He is framed against a blue sky filled with white clouds, suggesting a sense of freedom, pleasure, release, or even the utopia of the book’s title. This reading is, however, qualified by the storyline of the film itself, and the image is not directly addressed or analysed in Nagib’s text. She refers to Santoro as the ‘leading man of the moment’,12 acknowledging his star status yet implying it must inevitably pass. An undisputed star in his native Brazil, Santoro is in demand for important roles in major Hollywood films, but he has yet to make the transition to leading man. His most prominent US role to date has arguably been that of the villain King Xerxes in 300. Before examining Santoro’s US screen roles in detail, this chapter will consider the notion of crossover stardom and its relation to his career trajectory.

Latino crossover As Richard Dyer notes, the term ‘crossover’ originates in popular music, and a crossover star is one who appeals – and sells – to multiple subcultures while remaining rooted in the particular subculture that defines him or her.13 In this context, the concept of a crossover star has no intrinsic national, ethnic or racial connotations. Mary C. Beltrán suggests that where film stars are concerned, ‘the term has often been used to refer to nonwhite and particularly Latina/o performers who succeed in becoming popular with white audiences’.14 From this perspective, Santoro’s US career is an example of crossover success, even if his star status in Hollywood remains potential rather than realized. As far as can be determined, his US film and television work, which takes him away from Brazil for extended periods, has not impacted on his popularity back home. Santoro remains one of Brazil’s biggest stars, playing lead roles in both film and television productions in his native country. To date, Santoro has played relatively few roles in the US where he is marked explicitly as Brazilian. A number of Santoro’s characters are implicitly Brazilian, but their exact nationality is left unresolved. In Love Actually, his workplace has a clock set to Brazilian time,15 and his character in ‘Lost’ is identified as Brazilian only for this to be questioned by later events.16 In the animated feature Rio

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(Carlos Saldanha, 2011), he provides the voice of Tulio, a Brazilian ornithologist. The film is set largely in Rio de Janeiro and depicts the city in a positive light as picturesque and visually spectacular. Santoro’s most notable Brazilian characters in his live-action US films are Bruno Silva in Redbelt (David Mamet, 2008) and David Santiago in Post Grad (Vicky Jenson, 2009). Silva is a variation on the stereotypical Latino hustler and discussed as such below. Any potentially positive traits – such as loyalty to his family – are negated by his essentially amoral nature. His sister, Sondra (Alice Braga)17 appears to be honest and dependable, yet she ultimately reveals herself to be equally corrupt. Their grasping materialism is contrasted with the honour and decency of Mike Terry (Chiwetel Ejiofor), an African American martial arts expert and war veteran married to Sondra. Mike’s ethnicity embodies an integrity alien to his Latin American wife and brother-in-law, though the negative depiction of Brazilians is balanced to a point by the so-called Professor (Dan Inosanto), the Brazilian jujitsu master who recognizes and rewards Mike’s untainted skill and valour. In Post Grad David Santiago is a variation on the archetypal – or clichéd – Latin lover. For most of the film his Brazilian identity is implied rather than stated: he wears a sweatshirt that references Rio de Janeiro, and counts in Portuguese while kicking a football in the air. One character refers to him as ‘Pelé from across the street’, invoking the world-famous Brazilian soccer star who serves as an unofficial ambassador of a perceived Brazilian cordiality. Intelligent, articulate and cultured, David works as a director of infomercials, suggesting that motivated Brazilian émigrés can be successful in the US even in highly competitive media industries. However, his relationship with the heroine is represented as problematic, a point addressed in more detail below, and he eventually announces his return to Brazil, suggesting an incompatibility with the US way of life in the long term. Both Redbelt and Post Grad play with longstanding stereotypes – the bandit and the lover – that construct Brazilian masculine identity as problematic in the North American context.

Brazilian ‘whiteness’ and the Hollywood Latino Shaw and Dennison refer to Santoro’s ‘“Mediterranean” movie star good looks’, underlining his European rather than Latin American or specifically Brazilian physical appearance.18 His embodiment of ‘Brazilianness’, with his southern

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European skin tone and phenotype, is highly characteristic of national film and television celebrities in Brazil. Despite representing over half the population, Afro-Brazilians continue to be severely under-represented in the visual media, and ‘the exclusion of a large proportion of the nation is taken as read in Brazilian national cinema’.19 In common with many other countries, Brazil’s cinema screens have long been dominated by Hollywood imports,20 which highlighted Caucasian stars (with a handful of exceptions), making local audiences accustomed to the idea of stardom as an intrinsically ‘white’ phenomenon.21 Discussing 1920s film magazines, Shaw and Dennison note how ‘the unwritten rules of Brazil’s racial hierarchy, historically underpinned by the insidious ideology of “whitening”, were central to the emerging star system’s visual aesthetics’.22 Carmen Miranda, the most internationally famous Brazilian star, was a ‘a green-eyed, white-skinned woman of southern European descent’,23 while Eliana Macedo, a major star of the 1940s and 1950s, was ‘the wholesome, fresh-faced, pale-skinned girl-nextdoor … whose screen persona owed more than a little to Hollywood stars such as Debbie Reynolds’.24 In a culture where whiteness was considered the ideal and socially advantageous, and where these qualities were endorsed consistently in imported Hollywood films, the marginalization of Afro-Brazilians in domestic cinema reflected the prevailing ideology. Discussing Hollywood’s favoured type of Latin American performer, Beltrán states: ‘Over the last century most Latina/o stars have had fair skin and European phenotypic features (body type, facial features, hair type, etc.)’.25 Thus, the traits required for stardom in Brazil have traditionally been similar to those of the US film industry, although in Hollywood even the lightest skinned and most European-looking Brazilian would be classed as ethnically ‘Other’ rather than white, and cast accordingly. There is little doubt that Carmen Miranda became ‘the respectable face of a pan-Latino identity in Hollywood during the “Good Neighbour Policy” of the late 1930s and 1940s’.26 I would argue that, sixty years on, Santoro’s US success reflects similar attitudes, as do many of his Hollywood roles. Outlining the requirements for a Latino star to succeed in Hollywood, Beltrán cites ‘the ability to speak English well and without an “undesirable” accent’.27 While Santoro has demonstrated both qualities in his US work, he did not have a significant speaking role in a Hollywood film until 300. His scenes and dialogue in Love Actually are minimal, and in both Charlie’s Angels: Full Throttle and the television film The Roman Spring of Mrs Stone (Robert Allan Ackerman, 2003) he does not speak at all. His casting in these roles would suggest that, initially at least,

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Santoro’s appeal to US film producers lay primarily in his physical appearance rather than his acting or vocal ability. Reviewing Behind the Sun in Variety, David Rooney noted that Santoro’s ‘dark, expressive eyes’ and status as ‘swoon material’ could only increase the film’s marketability to US audiences.28 Sight and Sound critic Leslie Felperin directly addressed Santoro’s potential as a crossover star: ‘With his slightly cross-eyed beauty and gentle, effete Keanu Reeves-like mien, Rodrigo Santoro could be the next international Latin pin-up in the tradition of Antonio Banderas or Javier Bardem’.29 Despite drawing favourable comparisons with an established ‘Caucasian’ Hollywood star (Reeves),30 Felperin suggests that Santoro will need to follow a similar route to Spanish actors Banderas and Bardem, namely playing roles with an explicit or implicit Hispanic or Latin American identity, with the attendant risk of stereotyping.31

US and Them Hollywood’s typing or stereotyping of Latin American characters – and consequently actors – must be placed in a broader historical and cultural context. Put bluntly, the USA’s political and territorial goals during the nineteenth century required that people from south of the US border with Mexico be represented as markedly different and inferior. Charles Ramírez Berg argues: ‘In order to rationalise the expansionist goals laid out by the Monroe Doctrine and Manifest Destiny, Latinos – whether US citizens, newly arrived migrants from the south, or Latin Americans in their own countries – needed to be shown as lesser beings’.32 The seizure of land and forcible displacement of legitimate Latino owners, and the exploitation of cheap and expendable Latino labour, could be rationalized and legitimized as the natural order of things: ‘Prejudice holds that They are inherently not as good as We are because They are different from Us’.33 This attitude gives rise to the stereotype, defined by Berg as ‘a negative generalisation used by an in-group (Us) about an out-group (Them)’.34 While stereotypes can potentially be neutral or even positive, by and large they are employed and intended to be received as derogatory, not least because they deny the possibility of individuality within the targeted group. Berg observes: ‘Stereotypes flatten, homogenize, and generalize individuals within a group, emphasizing sameness and ignoring i­ndividual agency and variety’.35 Sarah Berry notes how from the start the white-dominated North American film industry found it both expedient and p ­ rofitable to perpetuate and

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popularize ethnic stereotypes, particularly in terms of e­ xoticism, sexual or otherwise.36 This is not to say that all Hollywood filmmakers consciously endorsed negative and demeaning stereotypes of non-Caucasians as part of a conservative and openly racist agenda. Discussing the career of African American singeractor Paul Robeson, Dyer states that even progressive white groups ‘were caught in white discourses that had a way of handling the representation of black people so as to keep those represented in their place’.37 Thus, African or Latin American characters in US films could be given positive traits but without any suggestion of a status equal to the white protagonists. Reflecting mainstream attitudes to ethnic minority groups, Hollywood had little reason – cultural, social or economic – to deviate from representations with proven popular appeal in favour of more progressive and radical portrayals that might alienate audiences and p ­ rovoke negative repercussions extending beyond the box office. Berg identifies six basic Latino stereotypes: ‘el bandido and the harlot, the male buffoon and the female clown, the Latin lover and the dark lady’.38 While these types are associated largely with the classical Hollywood era – roughly 1930–60 – it can be argued that they persisted after the demise of the studio system and remain in force today. As Beltrán states, ‘These sorts of one-dimensional images continue to be seen and to carry weight’.39 It should be noted, however, that these images of Latino and Latin American peoples have been challenged. Beltrán cites the 1980s as ‘a period when the first Latino-helmed feature films reached national audiences’, with examples including El Norte (Gregory Nava, 1983), La Bamba (Luis Valdez, 1987) and Born in East L.A. (Cheech Marin, 1987), which offered more interesting and compelling characters with whom Latino audiences could identify.40 For the most part, however, mainstream Hollywood still favours the familiar depictions of Latinos as ‘outsiders or at best sidekicks or temporary love interests’.41 Of the three male types listed by Berg, I would argue that Santoro has played roles that invoke el bandido and, more prominently, the Latin lover, albeit in modified forms.

El Bandido and the Latin lover Though by no means typecast in violent roles in his native Brazil, Santoro launched his Hollywood career as a gun-wielding assassin in Charlie’s Angels: Full Throttle. This figure could be equated with the bandido type, yet his character’s

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name, Randy Emmers, does not connote an obvious Latin American identity. If anything, he appears to be a Californian surfer dude who rides the waves to relax between assignments. Furthermore, as noted below, Emmers’ status as a lethal man of action is undercut by his representation. In ‘Lost’, Santoro plays a cold-blooded murderer who kills for financial gain, though his preferred method of poisoning suggests uneasiness with hands-on violence at odds with the standard depiction of the bandido. Redbelt’s Bruno Silva is a fight manager involved in match fixing, making dirty money from other people’s combat. Favouring black shirts and gold chains, he is an aggressive hustler who robs without placing himself at direct risk. By and large, Santoro’s US credits to date have avoided the bandido type, at least in its most obvious form. His Hollywood career has been associated more with the Latin lover image, invoking and sometimes subverting its inherent clichés. Berg suggests that the Latin lover stereotype originated with Italian-born actor Rudolph Valentino,42 one of the biggest Hollywood stars of the 1920s. Discussing Valentino’s performance in The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse (Rex Ingram, 1921), Gaylyn Studlar notes how ‘the film exploited the exoticism of non-Anglo ethnicity’.43 Handsome and seductive, Valentino, as Beltrán states, ‘demonstrated the appeal of mysterious ethnic Others as romantic figures to US audiences in this period’.44 The film made Valentino a star and, consequently, a major box office asset that Hollywood was keen to exploit or emulate. While Valentino was a European who played Latin American characters, Beltrán identifies a small number of Latino actors who achieved stardom in similar roles during the mid to late 1920s, including Ramón Novarro and Gilbert Roland.45 Berg sees little progression in Hollywood’s representation of Latin male sexuality over the decades, suggesting that subsequent Latin actors such as Ricardo Montalbán and even Antonio Banderas ‘haplessly reiterate the erotic combination of characteristics instituted by Valentino: eroticism, exoticism, tenderness tinged with violence and danger’.46 The rise and persistence of the Latin lover stereotype suggests that it has a ­significance and resonance for US audiences beyond mere Hollywood convention. Berg argues that Valentino’s success ‘created the basis for the Latin lover as the possessor of a primal sexuality that made him capable of making a sensuous but dangerous – and clearly non-WASP – brand of love’.47 This combination of desirability and threat, linked inextricably with Valentino’s ‘foreign’ nature, chimed with 1920s debates on female suffrage, recreation and sexuality, a­ longside

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increasing tensions over immigration. Beltrán notes how in this climate social norms relating to masculinity, femininity and whiteness were subject to challenge and even revision.48 Valentino’s ethnicity and sexuality were especially relevant during an era when public debates on racial purity and eugenics were socially and intellectually respectable. Studlar argues that these men of suspicious foreign origin were thought to be an insidious threat to the nation. Their ability to sexually entice America’s women meant that the latter were weakening in their will to fulfil their primary charge: keeping the nation’s blood pure.49 The Latin lover threatened not only the chastity and virtue of the white American woman; his seduction of the latter – potential or realized – risked tainting the national bloodline with his foreign nature, invariably represented in negative terms.

The Latin lover revisited More than eighty years on from Valentino’s heyday, Santoro’s embodiment of the Latin lover, while not embroiled in debates about racial purity, reflects similar anxieties that are manifested in what I term frustrated or thwarted consummation. In Love Actually, Karl (Santoro), a successful designer, seems indifferent to smitten colleague Sarah (Laura Linney), a blonde American WASP. At the office Christmas party, however, he asks her to dance, the red shirt beneath his grey suit suggesting an emerging passion, underlined by the soundtrack’s abrupt shift to slow and romantic music as their bodies connect and Karl plays with Sarah’s hair. Relocating to Sarah’s bedroom, their sexual foreplay is interrupted by two phone calls from her mentally disturbed brother. Sarah places family obligation over sexual desire and romantic longing, leaving Karl sitting on the edge of her bed. Similarly, Santoro’s unnamed character in the Chanel No. 5 advertisement is drawn to Nicole Kidman’s white, blonde movie star but once again their tentative relationship is fleeting and, it seems, unfulfilled. Shots of Kidman wearing Santoro’s jacket and shirt could be read as signifying a sexual liaison, yet the most intimate moment depicted is a passionate rooftop kiss against a city backdrop. What Santoro offers Kidman’s fragile star is not a lasting romantic

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r­ elationship but a temporary refuge, from which she must inevitably return to her own world, alone. Post Grad links Santoro’s David with heroine Ryden Malby (Alexis Bledel), another young woman at a crossroads in both her professional and personal life. Softly spoken and sensitive, he cooks for her, showing his domesticated side, and listens to her problems. David’s Latin lover side emerges, however, as he flatters Ryden, offers her wine and places her on his couch, assuming the dominant position figuratively and literally as he sits on its arm. His seductive overtures are reciprocated but ultimately prove unsuccessful as Ryden’s eccentric yet loving family arrive just in time to ‘save’ her from this exotic sexual tempter. David’s second attempt at seduction is rebuffed and Ryden is paired off with fellow American Adam Davies (Zach Gilford), who points out David’s unsuitability in terms of his age, fashion sense and, by implication, ethnic identity, referring to him as ‘Pelé’ and ‘Rico Suave’.50 The film concludes with the happy resolution of the Ryden-Adam relationship, the ‘threat’ of David now eliminated, and a reaffirmation of the North American family unit, from which David must be excluded, as is underlined by his voluntary return to Brazil. In all these instances, the Latin American, however cultured, charming and ‘European’ in appearance, is denied a sexual relationship with the white woman. A brief office scene in Love Actually has Karl and Sarah exchange awkward Christmas greetings, suggesting their attempt at a relationship is over (Sarah is later shown celebrating Christmas with her brother; Karl is not seen again). In the Chanel advert, Kidman literally walks away from Santoro and up a red-carpeted flight of steps, representing her return to the world of show business and celebrity. Santoro’s character in ‘Lost’, Paulo, appears to be an exception, as his relationship with Nikki (Kiele Sanchez), another blonde American, is clearly though not explicitly sexual. This relationship is, however, based on deception, theft, murder and a mutual distrust that results indirectly in their deaths. In The Last Stand Santoro plays drop-out Frank Martinez, ex-boyfriend of deputy sheriff Sarah Torrance (Jamie Alexander). Frank regains Sarah’s affection, signified with a kiss, and their relationship is seemingly rekindled. While Sarah is marked as Caucasian, her dark hair and tanned skin downplay her status as a ‘white’ woman. Moreover, their romantic/sexual union is on hold throughout The Last Stand, placed outside the film’s diegesis. In both Love Actually and Post Grad, the predatory aspect of Santoro’s Latin lover persona is nullified, in part at least, by the white woman ­appearing to

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take the lead. There is some suggestion in ‘Lost’ that Nikki is a cold, m ­ anipulative femme  fatale and Paulo her besotted and gullible dupe, although the issue is not clarified. Charlie’s Angels: Full Throttle and The Roman Spring of Mrs Stone place him in a subservient relationship with an older woman, with an implied sexual element. In the former, Santoro is first seen handing a mobile phone to Madison Lee (Demi Moore), a former Angel gone bad who dominates all the men  in her life. The Roman Spring of Mrs Stone locates aging, widowed actress Karen Stone (Helen Mirren) in Rome’s subculture of the gigolo or marchetta (a slang term for prostitute). Santoro’s nameless and mute character appears to represent the dark side of male prostitute masculinity. His dishevelled appearance, slumped posture and hangdog expression are contrasted with the smart, well-groomed gigolos, led by the self-regarding Paolo (Olivier Martinez). In marked contrast to Paolo’s compliments and courtship, Santoro’s character ­urinates in a doorway a few feet from Mrs Stone and later taps on a window to attract her attention, starting to masturbate once her head is turned. This uncouth, socially unacceptable invocation of male anatomy and sexuality seems to have a predatory aspect, with Santoro’s character half-smiling at Mrs Stone’s reaction, yet he backs away from her when confronted. In terms of power relations, she retains the upper hand. In one scene, he is literally lying in the gutter, looking up at Mirren’s character on the roof of her penthouse suite, their ­contrasting statuses illustrated in the most literal fashion. When he finally makes direct contact with Mrs Stone it is at her invitation, in the form of the apartment keys she throws down to the pavement. A series of close-ups show her smiling as he approaches, the images finally losing focus and fading to black, implying an encounter that culminates in sex, death or possibly both. As in Charlie’s Angels: Full Throttle, Santoro’s character, denied his own voice and distinct identity, is controlled by a stronger yet flawed older woman whose desires and appetites are ultimately destructive. To date, Santoro’s only sustained and ‘legitimate’ relationship in a Hollywood film is in What to Expect When You’re Expecting, in which he is cast as Jennifer Lopez’s husband. The Puerto RicanAmerican Lopez, an actor and singer, is regarded widely as Hollywood’s biggest Latina/o star, so her screen pairing with Santoro as the film’s token Latino couple is conventional, conservative and above all safe. Furthermore, their sex life, implied rather than shown, is procreational rather than recreational, although they are the only couple in the film who must adopt a (non-white) child to ­complete their family unit.

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Figure 15.1 A model Hollywood Latino couple? Rodrigo Santoro with Jennifer Lopez in What to Expect When You’re Expecting (2012). DVD screen capture.

The Latin body From Valentino onwards, the sexuality of the Latin lover has been contained in and expressed through his body. While this strategy is not exclusive to Latin types, Beltrán suggests that ‘Latina/o actors appear to have the most difficulty escaping publicity that labels them as exceptionally and innately sexy, or as having excessively sexy and/or voluptuous bodies’.51 Santoro’s US film roles bear this out, although in several instances his white co-stars display just as much or even more flesh. Love Actually has Karl strip down to his black underwear, Santoro’s muscular torso and tanned skin contrasting with Laura Linney’s pale white body, and in ‘Lost’ Paulo strips to the waist for an underwater swim. I Love You Phillip Morris highlights Santoro’s torso in two short scenes, though here the open display of his body is marked as part of his character’s explicitly homosexual identity. In Charlie’s Angels: Full Throttle, Randy Emmers is first glimpsed bare-chested, backlit by an open fire, and his major scene is built around the display and objectification of Santoro’s uncovered body, glistening in the sunlight. Emmers is observed covertly by Alex (Lucy Liu) and Dylan (Drew Barrymore) and the audience shares their perspective via the composition, framing and editing, most directly through a point-of-view shot that gives the impression of l­ooking through a pair of

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­ inoculars. If this scene reverses the standard Hollywood practice of o b ­ bjectifying women for the male gaze, it does little to counter ideas of Latin Americans as intrinsically and excessively sexual, reinforced through the prolonged display of their spectacular bodies. The display of Santoro’s body in his Hollywood films is linked to a recurring passivity, with his given character’s imposing or enticing appearance not translating into physical action or endeavour. This may be a carryover from his Brazilian roles, as in Behind the Sun Tonho (Santoro) is associated largely with passivity, both in narrative and visual terms, and his decisions seem directed by other characters. It would, however, be unwise to generalize from this one example, and I will focus instead on established Hollywood strategies. Berg argues that Hollywood stereotyping is due largely to storytelling conventions: If one of the distinguishing features of the Hollywood cinema is its goal-oriented protagonist, we can say with a high degree of certainty that, sociologically speaking, that goal-driven hero will be a white, handsome, middle-aged, upper-middle-class, heterosexual, Protestant, Anglo-Saxon male.52 This statement may itself be criticized as a generalization, given that numerous mainstream Hollywood films feature young, working-class and/or female protagonists, yet the whiteness of these characters who aspire, strive and achieve remains a crucial factor. As noted, non-white characters in classical Hollywood films were denied equality, extending to their ability to be agents of change. Dyer writes: ‘The basic strategy of these discourses might be termed deactivation. Black people’s qualities could be praised to the skies, but they must not be shown to be effective qualities active in the world’.53 A similar deactivation is at work in several of Santoro’s US roles. His street hustler in The Roman Spring of Mrs Stone is shown repeatedly slumped, prone and motionless. Bruno Silva is a notable non-combatant in Redbelt, a film concerned with martial arts training and contest, his aggressive verbal manner never translating into physical violence or action of any kind.54 In Charlie’s Angels: Full Throttle, surfer-hitman Randy Emmers should connote action and virility, albeit of a negative kind, yet the film undercuts this representation. Instead of riding his surfboard, he merely sits on it, paddling with one hand. His first kill is not shown and the second attempted hit, during a motorbike race, is thwarted. Furthermore, for much of the latter sequence, Santoro is clearly doubled by stuntmen or

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integrated into CG effects, the actor barely in action at all. In There Be Dragons (Roland Joffé, 2011), set during the Spanish Civil War, Santoro’s communist rebel leader is rarely seen in combat, shoots impotently at enemy planes and ultimately kills only himself. Frank Martinez in The Last Stand is an exception, joining Sheriff Ray Owens (Arnold Schwarzenegger) in his fight against the bad guys. Crouched, dishevelled and passive in his early scenes, army veteran Martinez literally stands up to be counted when Owens needs help. While Martinez reasserts his masculinity through lethal force, graphically depicted, it is Owens who gets both the biggest weapon and the prolonged showdown with the chief villain, his new deputy conforming to the loyal Latino sidekick stereotype.

The Other Embodying various permutations of the Latin lover, Santoro also represents concepts of Otherness, the most interesting of which are his depictions of gender and sexual ambiguity. These have antecedents in early Hollywood, with Studlar arguing that 1920s stars such as Valentino ‘increasingly transgressed standards of normative masculinity’,55 but also relate to Santoro’s career in Brazil. In Carandiru, transvestite prostitute Dirceu, known as Lady Di, invokes the classical Hollywood female star in his posture, mannerisms and gestures, underlined by an image of Marilyn Monroe on his sweatshirt. His relationship with a fellow prisoner is represented in a positive fashion; they may bicker like ‘regular’ heterosexual lovers, yet they demonstrate an unshakeable mutual commitment. Santoro’s early scenes as Jimmy in I Love You Phillip Morris present the character’s ethnic and sexual difference in a non-judgemental manner. He is introduced walking down a street arm in arm with his lover, Steven Russell (Jim Carrey), wearing open sandals, tight black jeans and a brightly coloured shirt, worn unbuttoned. These images play on established Hollywood stereotypes, as do his delicate arm movements and pursed lips, yet the depiction of Jimmy seems positive, emphasized by a freeze-frame of his smiling face. He is gentle, reassuring and loyal to Steven, but firm when he discovers the latter’s criminal activities. Jimmy’s brief reappearance in the film, via flashback, alters his representation to conform to less progressive notions of gay male identity, linked here with ethnic ‘Otherness’. Clearly very ill, he is shown in a hospital bed, attached to a nasal drip, with marks on his face and neck that have become a standard dramatic signifier of AIDS.56 The gay white

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protagonists, Steven and Phillip (Ewan McGregor), though incarcerated for much of the film, remain healthy and alive, looking forward to a future together. Santoro’s highest profile and most contentious depiction of Otherness occurs in 300. Persian King Xerxes’s extraordinary height and deep voice suggest a supermasculine potency, yet his representation otherwise subverts conventional notions of manliness as contained and expressed by the body.57 Like Lady Di, Xerxes is depicted in terms of performance, display and sexual ambivalence. His hairless brown body58 is adorned with gold chains and jewellery, and his face is pierced with numerous gold rings. He also wears make-up, including gold eyeshadow. This appearance contrasts with Spartan King Leonidas (Gerard Butler), a white man whose beard denotes a maturity befitting a leader of men, while his muscular, unadorned physique is built, ostensibly, for action rather than display. Stepping down from his vast gold throne, Xerxes strikes a pose – right knee bent, left hand on hip, right arm gesturing towards Leonidas – that seems affected and effete alongside the Spartan’s more natural stance. When Xerxes asks Leonidas to kneel at his feet, a close-up of the Persian king’s lips hints at sexual desire. Unlike Lady Di and Jimmy, however, Xerxes is not explicitly homosexual but rather offers alternatives to conventional heterosexuality which are marked as decadent and deviant, underlined by his ‘harem’ of amputees and disfigured lesbians. Xerxes’s self-conscious performance of divine kingship is ruptured repeatedly. Defied by Leonidas, he shows a loss of self-control, emphasized by a close-up of his facial tremor, while his foreign accent becomes more pronounced as his voice is raised in anger.59 Watching his troops routed by the Spartans, Xerxes turns away  – in emphatic slow motion – howling with impotent rage. While Xerxes is not defeated within the film’s diegesis, Leonidas’s final spear throw slices open the Persian king’s face, exposing the frail mortal beneath the godlike façade. Where Lady Di and Jimmy’s ‘Otherness’, in the form of their highly visible gay identity, is linked with sensitivity, kindness and affection, Xerxes represents the ‘Other’ in entirely negative terms: aggressive, materialistic, arrogant, corrupt and barbaric.

Conclusion Beltrán suggests that, post-2000, ‘Latina/os are being featured in more nuanced and compelling roles, while more Latina/o actors and actresses are gaining the publicity and popularity that qualify them as full-fledged members of the Hollywood

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star system’.60 While this may be true for stars such as Jennifer Lopez and Antonio Banderas, Rodrigo Santoro has yet to benefit fully from these changing attitudes and increased opportunities. As noted, his current Hollywood status requires qualification, especially compared to that of Puerto Rican actor Benicio Del Toro, star of Che, Banderas and, to a lesser extent, Javier Bardem and Mexican actor Gael García Bernal, who have all played starring or co-starring roles in US films on a regular basis. After Santoro’s initial Hollywood appearances in Charlie’s Angels: Full Throttle and Love Actually, he was not seen in another US feature film until 300, released nearly four years later. This may be attributed partly to his ongoing career in Brazil, yet his subsequent US credits in supporting roles suggest he is not yet regarded as star material on a par with more high-profile Latino actors. Perhaps Santoro does not conform sufficiently to Hollywood requirements of a Latino star. There is a case for arguing that while he has the sensuality and sensitivity of a Banderas,61 he lacks the latter’s rugged machismo, as seen in Desperado and The Mask of Zorro. Furthermore, Santoro’s US roles tend to invoke questionable stereotypes, casting him as the marginalized outsider, a fleeting presence to be replaced, displaced or eliminated by the right and usually white person. His Brazilian identity rarely figures in his US roles, but when referenced tends towards the ambivalent or negative, with the notable exception of the animated film Rio in which Santoro does not physically appear. In terms of the classic Latino types, he is the Latin lover who is not permitted to make love, or the sexual plaything of an older white woman; as a bandido he is a man of action who is essentially inactive or ineffectual. His US portrayals of ‘Otherness’ in terms of sexual and gender ambiguity involve either kindly yet peripheral and doomed figures, or aggressive intruders with no redeeming features. In terms of his Hollywood career, Santoro can be characterized as a successful working actor who regularly wins roles in both medium- and big-budget productions. He has not, however, made the transition to leading man and cannot, at this point, be said to have achieved the star status he enjoys in Brazil.62 Until this happens, it seems Santoro is fated to perpetuate remodelled yet retrograde Latino stereotypes that play with the clichés of Hollywood typecasting but offer little that is positive or progressive.

Notes 1. Sônia Braga, a major Brazilian star of the 1970s and 1980s, appeared in a handful of Hollywood films, notably the US-Brazilian co-production Kiss of the Spider Woman

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2. 3. 4.

5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10.

11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 2 2. 23.

(Hector Babenco, 1985), The Milagro Beanfield War (Robert Redford, 1988) and The Rookie (Clint Eastwood, 1990). See also Stephanie Dennison’s chapter in this volume. Although shot mostly in England, with a predominantly British cast and crew, the film was financed by Hollywood major Universal. L. Shaw and S. Dennison, Brazilian National Cinema (Abingdon: Routledge, 2007), 38. Active from the 1970s, Os Trapalhões were a hugely popular slapstick comedy troupe, similar to the American Three Stooges, whose numerous films and television shows drew heavily on Brazilian popular culture and sometimes parodied Hollywood blockbusters (see S. Dennison and L. Shaw, Popular Cinema in Brazil, 1930–2001 [Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2004], 154–57). Shaw and Dennison, Brazilian National Cinema, 109. Ibid., 112. Ibid., 113. Ibid. Ibid., 11. Behind the Sun was distributed in the US by Miramax, while Carandiru was partfunded by Sony Columbia’s Brazilian arm, with US distribution through Sony Pictures Classics. This gave greater exposure to Santoro’s work and helped bring him to the attention of Hollywood filmmakers. L. Nagib, Brazil on Screen: Cinema Novo, New Cinema and Utopia (London: I. B. Tauris, 2007). Ibid., 30. R. Dyer, ‘Paul Robeson: Crossing Over?’, in Lucy Fischer and Marcia Landy (eds), Stars: The Film Reader (London: Routledge, 2004), 199–212 (199). M.C. Beltrán, Latina/o Stars in US Eyes: The Making and Meanings of Film and TV Stardom (Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2009), 145. The film also features a throwaway reference to transsexual Brazilian prostitutes, a more contentious representation of the nation’s population. Paulo (Santoro) claims to be a celebrity chef from Brazil, yet he is in fact a thief and murderer whose real name and nationality remain unknown. A fellow Brazilian actor and niece of Sônia Braga – see Stephanie Dennison’s chapter in this volume for more details on the latter. Shaw and Dennison, Brazilian National Cinema, 112. Santoro is of Italian ancestry. Ibid., 11. By the 1920s, 85.9% of films shown in Brazil were North American. Ibid., 20. See Maite Conde’s and Stephanie Dennison’s chapters in this volume for more details on this ‘whitening’ process in Brazilian cinema. Shaw and Dennison, Brazilian National Cinema, 119. Ibid., 117. Miranda was born in Portugal, but her family emigrated to Brazil when she was still an infant. See the chapter by Ana Rita Mendonça and Lisa Shaw in this volume for a detailed analysis of Miranda’s star text.

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24. Ibid. See Lisa Shaw’s chapter in this volume for more information on Eliana Macedo and the parallels that were drawn between her and Debbie Reynolds, as well as between other white Brazilian stars and their Hollywood counterparts. 25. Beltrán, Latina/o Stars in US Eyes, 7. 26. Shaw and Dennison, Brazilian National Cinema, 117. 27. Beltrán, Latina/o Stars in US Eyes, 8. 28. Rooney, 2001, available at: < http://variety.com/2001/film/awards/behind-thesun-1200470067/> (accessed 11 April 2011). 29. Felperin, 2002, available at: < http://old.bfi.org.uk/sightandsound/review/1812> (accessed 11 April 2011). 30. Reeves is clearly ‘read’ as a ‘white’ star, but his biological father was a Hawaiian-born American whose mother was of mixed Hawaiian and Chinese heritage. 31. Banderas’s first US starring role was in Desperado (Robert Rodriguez, 1995), as a Mexican mariachi and gunfighter, followed by his swashbuckling Mexican avenger in The Mask of Zorro (Martin Campbell, 1998). Bardem achieved his Hollywood breakthrough as a hitman in No Country for Old Men (Ethan and Joel Coen, 2007). While the character’s nationality is not specified, his appearance and accent, and the film’s location on the Tex-Mex border, suggest he is of Mexican origin. 32. C. R. Berg, Latino Images in Film: Stereotypes, Subversion, Resistance (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2006), 4. 33. Ibid., 4, 15. Emphasis in the original text. 34. Ibid., 15. 35. Ibid., 16. 36. S. Berry, ‘Hollywood Exoticism’, in Fischer and Landy, Stars: The Film Reader, 181–197 (188). 37. Dyer, ‘Paul Robeson’, 206. 38. Berg, Latino Images in Film, 39. 39. Beltrán, Latina/o Stars in US Eyes, 2. 40. Ibid., 108. 41. Ibid. 42. Berg, Latino Images in Film, 76. 43. G. Studlar, This Mad Masquerade: Stardom and Masculinity in the Jazz Age (New York: Columbia University Press, 1996), 166. 44. Beltrán, Latina/o Stars in US Eyes, 20. 45. Ibid., 17–18. 46. Berg, Latino Images in Film, 76. 47. Ibid. 48. Beltrán, Latina/o Stars in US Eyes, 19. 49. Studlar, This Mad Masquerade, 152.

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50. A reference to a Latino character in the ‘Hannah Montana’ television series (2006–11). The teenage son of wealthy parents, Suave is bright and enterprising but also insecure, arrogant and manipulative. 51. Beltrán, Latina/o Stars in US Eyes, 10. 52. Berg, Latino Images in Film, 67. 53. Dyer, ‘Paul Robeson’, 206. 54. In Che Part 1, Raúl Castro (Santoro) is first seen in a domestic environment, alongside his brother Fidel (Demián Bichir) and Ernesto Che Guevara (Benicio Del Toro), the three of them dressed in civilian clothes. While Raúl later stands alongside Fidel and Che wearing the green uniform of revolution, they become active figures while he remains passive, never seen in combat or command. On another level, both Fidel and Che grow beards, denoting mature masculinity and leadership, while Raúl has only a thin moustache. Raúl’s passivity has no ethnic connotations, as the contrast is with other Latin American characters, yet Santoro once again represents an inactive masculinity. 55. Studlar, This Mad Masquerade, 5. Emphasis in original text. 56. These are also seen in Philadelphia (Jonathan Demme, 1993) and the television miniseries ‘Angels in America’ (Mike Nichols, 2003). 57. Santoro’s height was increased in post-production with digital tweaking and his voice was deepened. 58. Santoro’s natural skin colour was darkened in post-production. 59. The actors cast as Spartans speak with British accents of varying types. 60. Beltrán, Latina/o Stars in US Eyes, 154. 61. As displayed by Banderas in Philadelphia, his first major US film, where he plays Tom Hanks’s lover. 62. In 2014, Santoro reprised his previous roles in 300: Rise of an Empire (Noam Murro, 2014) and Rio 2 (Saldanha, 2014), and in 2016, he had a supporting part in the western Jane Got a Gun (Gavin O’Connor).

References Beltrán, M.C. Latina/o Stars in US Eyes: The Making and Meanings of Film and TV Stardom. Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2009. Berg, C.R. Latino Images in Film: Stereotypes, Subversion, Resistance. Austin: University of Texas Press, 2006. Dennison, S., and L. Shaw. Popular Cinema in Brazil, 1930–2001. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2004. Fischer, L., and M. Landy. Stars: The Film Reader. London: Routledge, 2004. Nagib, L. Brazil on Screen: Cinema Novo, New Cinema and Utopia. London: I. B. Tauris, 2007.

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Shaw, L., and S. Dennison. Brazilian National Cinema. Abingdon: Routledge, 2007. Studlar, G. This Mad Masquerade: Stardom and Masculinity in the Jazz Age. New York: Columbia University Press, 1996.

Daniel O’Brien is a freelance writer and teacher, who makes regular contributions to encyclopaedias, dictionaries and other reference works, and writes articles and reviews for journals such as Film International. He has written books on such subjects as Clint Eastwood, Frank Sinatra, British science fiction, Hong Kong horror movies, the Hannibal Lecter books and films, Paul Newman and Daniel Craig. His research interests include representations of masculinity and ethnicity on film, and popular European cinema, and his academic publications include the forthcoming Classical Masculinity and the Spectacular Body on Film: The Mighty Sons of Hercules. He completed a PhD on the peplum film genre at the University of Southampton, where he currently works as a part-time tutor.

IndexIndex À bout de souffle (Breathless, 1959) 168 Abreu, Nuno Cesar 11 Abril despedaçado (Behind The Sun, 2001) 264, 265, 268, 275 Ackerman, Robert Allan 267 Adamatti, Margarida 165 Agonia (Agony, 1978) 122 Aïnouz, Karim 215, 229 Aitaré da Praia (1925) 48 Alencar, José de 4, 25, 69, 113, 244 Alencar, Renato de 162 Alexander, Jamie 272 ‘Almaz’ (band) 251 Almeida, Abílio Pereira de 128, 138 Alô, alô, Brasil! (Hello, Hello, Brazil!, 1935) 75, 153 Alô, alô, carnaval! (Hello, Hello, Carnival!, 1936) 75–76 Alves, Carmélia 144, 146, 148 Amado, Jorge 200 Amants, Les (The Lovers, 1958) 171 Amaral, Tata 225 Ameche, Don 77 À meia-noite levarei sua alma (At Midnight, I’ll Take Your Soul, 1964) 178, 179–180, 183–184 Amei um bicheiro (I Loved A Gangster, 1952) 126, 166 Amor, estranho amor (Love, Strange Love, 1982) 204 Ana Carolina (Ana Carolina Souza) 250 Anderson, Marta 122 Anderson, Wes 15, 250, 255, 259 Andrade, Joaquim Pedro de 9, 121–122 Andrade, Mário de 121 Andrea, Zenaide 95, 100, 101 Ângela (1951) 138 Aníbal, Augusto 4 Ankito (Anchizes Pinto) 120 Antônia (2006) 225

Antunes Filho (José Alves Antunes Filho) 82–83 Aparecida, Neide 97–98, 100 Aragão, Paulo 264 Araújo, Luciana Corrêa de 12, 25, 46–59, 61, 93, 97 Araújo, Taís 227 Argila (Clay, 1940) 70 Árido movie (Arid Movie, 2006) 56 Armstrong, Piers 213 Arnheim, Rudolf 1 Aronna, Michael 95 Assalto ao trem pegador (Assault on the Pay Train, 1962) 121, 126, 172 Atlântida (studio) 6, 9, 14, 96, 98, 102, 103, 112, 114, 115, 118, 119, 120, 154, 164, 166 Attili, Giorgio 179 Audácia – A fúria dos desejos (Audacity – The Fury of Desires, 1969) 187 Audrá Jr., Mário 128 Augusto, Sérgio 151 Aurora-Film (production company) 47–48, 50–51, 54 Avatar (2009) 257 Aventuras de Robinson Crusoé, As (The Adventures of Robinson Crusoe, 1978) 122 Aviso aos navegantes (Calling All Passengers, 1950) 119 Azevedo, Alinor 14, 145–161 Babenco, Hector 15, 210, 212–213, 215–216, 222, 264 Babington, Bruce 106 Baden Powell (Baden Powell de Aquino) 251 Baile perfumado (Perfumed Ball, 1997) 56 Baker, Josephine 117–118 Balázs, Béla 1, 218–219 Banana da terra (Banana of the Land, 1939) 73, 76, 85, 114

284 . INDEX

Banderas, Antonio 268, 270, 278, 280 Barbosa, Jarbas 172 Barbosa Júnior 4 Bardem, Javier 268, 278, 280 Bardot, Brigitte 98, 197 Bardot, Julie 95 Barreto, Erick 86 Barreto, Lima 173 Barro humano (Human Clay, 1929) 55, 174 Barros, André Luiz 74, 151 Barros, Fernando de 165 Barrymore, Drew 274 Barthes, Roland 1, 13, 129 Bastos, Othon 8 Batista, Dircinha 94 Batista, Linda 119, 146, 148 Bauraqui, Flávio 227 Bell, Audrey 30 Beltrán, Mary C. 265, 267, 269, 270, 274, 277–278 Ben, Jorge 250 Benamou, Catherine 119 Bengell, Norma 94, 98, 168–169, 197, 198, 199, 200, 201, 204, 207 Benjamin, Walter 1 Berardo, Rubens 156 Berg, Charles Ramírez 268–269, 270, 275 Bergfelder, Tim 1–22 Bergman, Ingmar 204 Bergman, Ingrid 14, 82, 129, 131, 137 Berkeley, Busby 86 Berlim na batucada (Berlin to the Samba Beat, 1944) 151 Bernal, Gael García 278 Bernard, Auricélia 154 Berry, Sarah 268–269 Bertal, Josette 93 Besse, Susan 26–27 Bezerra da Silva, José 250 Biáfora, Rubem 138 Bicho de sete cabeças (Brainstorm, 2001) 264 Birchmeier, Jason 250 Black-Out (Otávio Henrique de Oliveira a.k.a Blecaute) 146, 148

Black Skin, White Masks (Peau noire, masques blancs, book, 1952) 234 Blanchett, Cate 254–255 Bledel, Alexis 272 Boca de Ouro (Gold Mouth, 1963) 9, 169, 171 Bodanzky, Laís 264 Bogle, Donald 233 Bollini Cerri, Flaminio 165 Bombonzinho (Little Bonbon, 1938) 114 Bonitinha mas ordinária (Pretty but Slutty, 1981) 198, 234 Borba, Emilinha 119, 153 Borden, Olive 53 Born in East L.A. (1987) 269 Boury, Alexandre 264 Bow, Clara 26, 36 Bowie, David 250, 252, 260 Braga, Alice 232, 266 Braga, Sônia 15, 200–201, 206, 207, 278–279 Brandão, Darwin 100–101 Brando, Marlon 164 Brant, Beto 225 Brant, Robertinho 252 Brasil, Edgar 70 Brasil Filme S.A. (production company) 138 Brasil Fox Filme (production company) 69 Brasil Vita Filmes (production company) 69–70 Brastoff, Sascha 85 Braza dormida (Sleeping Ember, 1928) 31–32 Brent, Evelyn 36 Bressane, Júlio 122, 123 Brisso, Felipe 213 Broken Coin, The (1915) 50 Bromfield, John 101 Brooks, Louise 53 Buarque, Chico 81 Bulbul, Zózimo 124 Buñuel, Luis 211 Burle, José Carlos 151 Butler, Gerard 277 Byard, Andrea 97

INDEX . 285

Cabiria (1914) 50 Caçula do barulho, O (The Unruly Youngster, 1948) 115 Cafajestes, Os (The Hustlers, 1962) Caiçara (1950) 132–133, 137 Cais do vício (Harbour of Vice, 1953) 165 Caldas, Paulo 56 Cale, John 82 Camargo, Aguinaldo 118 Camargo, Felipe 198 Camargo, Joracy 114 Cameron, James 257 Cánepa, Laura Loguercio 14, 178–195 Cangaceiro, O (The Bandit, 1954) 173 Cangaceiro sem deus, O (The Godless Bandit, 1969) 186 Capellaro, Vittorio 4 Cantinflas (Mario Fortino Alfonso Moreno-Reyes) 114 Capovilla, Maurice 187 Carandiru (2003) 264, 276 Cardoso Júnior, Abel 88 Cardoso, Ivan 124, 189 Cardoso, Pedro 238 Careta (magazine) 25 Carmen Miranda: Bananas Is My Business (1995) 86 Carnaval Atlântida (Atlântida Carnival, 1952) 120 Carnaval cantado do Rio, O (Rio Carnival in Song, 1932) 75 Carnaval no fogo (Carnival on Fire, 1949) 115 Carne, A (Flesh, book, 1888), 62–63 Carne, A (Flesh, film, 1924) 32, 64–67, 71 Carneiro, Milton 145 Carrero, Tônia 97, 134 Carrey, Jim 276 Carvalho, Inalda de 97, 100, 102 Carvalho, Joubert de 74 Carvalho, Lucy de 168 Carvalho, Walter 230 Casa de areia (The House of Sand, 2005) 253, 256 Castro, Max de 250 Castro, Ruy 88

Cataldi, Antonio 4 Cavalcanti, Alberto 132–133, 137 Cavaquinho, Nelson 251 Caymmi, Dorival 73, 251 Celi, Adolfo 137 ‘Cena Muda, A’ (film magazine) 7, 25, 60, 80, 132–133, 165, 167 Cendrars, Blaise 130 Central do Brasil (Central Station, 1998) 15, 196, 210, 211, 214, 219, 221 César, Augusto 101 Céu azul (Blue Sky, 1940) 114, 115 Céu de Suely, O (Suely in the Sky, 2006) 215 chanchada (genre) 9, 13, 14, 98, 111–113, 115, 117, 119, 120, 122, 123, 139, 166, 169, 173 Chaney, Lon 50–51 Chaplin, Charles 1, 114 Charlie’s Angels: Full Throttle (2003) 263, 267, 269–270, 273, 274, 275, 278 Che (2008) 263, 281 Chediak, Braz 198 Chion, Michel 253–254 Chiozzo, Adelaide 94 Cia. Cinematográfica Atlas (production company) 178 Cidade baixa (Lower City, 2005) 229, 232–233, 234, 235, 236, 237, 238 Cidade de Deus (City of God, 2002) 10, 15, 210, 215, 220, 221, 250, 253–254 Cidade Mulher (Woman City, 1936) 70 ‘Cinearte’ (film magazine) 7, 11, 23, 25–28, 32–33, 35–39, 46, 53, 75 Cinédia (production company) 55, 69, 114, 122 ‘Cinelândia’ (film magazine) 7, 13, 93–110, 131, 133–135, 165 ‘Cine Revista’ (film magazine) 25 Cinema Marginal (film movement) 56–57, 122 Cinema Novo (film movement) 8–9, 11, 24, 56–57, 81, 113, 121, 139, 166, 169, 171, 172, 173, 184, 210 Citizen Kane (1941) 171 Civelli, Mário 128 Coisas nossas (Our Things, 1931) 5

286 . INDEX

Colégio de brotos (College of Chicks, 1955) 102, 103 Collor, Fernando 199 Conde, Maite 12, 23–45 Conexão Baixada (band) 250 Copacabana (1947) 78 Correia, José Celso Martinez 190 Cosmonautas, Os (The Cosmonauts, 1962) 120 Costa, Lúcio 79 Costa, Ruy 114 Costallat, Benjamin 29–30, 62–63, 65 Crain, Jeanne 96, 97 Crawford, Joan 52 Crónica de un niño solo (Chronicle of a Boy Alone, 1965) 211 Cunard, Grace 49 Cunha, Darlan 227 Cupim, O (The Termite, 1959) 116 Curi, Aída 168 Curtis, Tony 95, 97 Curtis, Richard 263 Dafoe, Willem 254, 259 Damata, Gasparino 229 Davis, Bette 163 Davis, Darién 228, 237 Delfino, Luiz 145, 156 Del Toro, Benicio 278 Delirios de um anormal (Delirium of an Abnormal Man, 1978) 188 Dennison, Stephanie 15, 115, 123, 196–209, 215, 264, 266–267 Desperado (1995) 278, 280 Despertar da besta, O (The Awakening Of The Beast, 1986), see: Ritual dos sádicos Destino das Rosas (The Fate of the Roses, 1930) 50–51 Deus e o diabo na terrra do sol (Black God, White Devil, 1964) 8, 172 De vento em popa (Wind in the Sails, 1957) 115 Diegues, Carlos 172 Dietrich, Marlene 82, 85, 130

Diniz, Leila 82 Doida demais (Just Too Crazy, 1989) 198 Doll Face (1945) 87 Dominó negro (The Black Cloak, 1950) 165 Dona Flor e seus dois maridos (Dona Flor and Her Two Husbands, 1976) 200 Down Argentine Way (1940) 77, 78 Downey, Wallace 5, 73, 153 Duarte, Anselmo 9, 164, 172 Dumont, José 57 Dupla do barulho, A (The Terrible Twosome, 1953) 111, 115, 119 Durbin, Deanna 79 Dusek, Eduardo 83 Dyer, Richard 1, 3, 73–74, 88, 100, 105, 106, 169, 199, 219, 221, 239, 265, 269, 275 Eastwood, Clint 174 E aí... comeu? (So, Did You Score?, 2012) 253 É de chuá (It’s Groovy, 1958) 120 Ejiofor, Chiwetel 266 Eletra, Tônia 179 Eliane (2002) 137 Elias, Luiz 179 El Norte (1983) 269 ‘embranquecimento’ (‘whitening’) 229, 240, 243–244 Encarnação do demônio (Incarnation of the Devil, 2008) 189–190, 191 Escapist, The (2008) 255–256 Espiã que entrou em fria, A (The Lady Spy Who Came In From The Cold, 1967) 116 Esta noite encarnarei no teu cadáver (Tonight I’ll Possess Your Corpse, 1967) 185–186 Este mundo é um pandeiro (The World is a Tambourine, 1947) 115, 163 Estiano, Marjorie 242 Estranha hospedaria dos prazeres, A (The Strange Inn of Pleasures, 1976) 188 Estranho mundo de Zé do Caixão, O (The Strange World of Coffin Joe, 1968) 186 E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial (1982) 122

INDEX . 287

Eu te amo (I Love You, 1981) 198 Exorcismo negro (Black Exorcism, 1974) 188 Exorcist, The 187 Exu Piá, coração de Macunaíma (Exu Piá, Heart of Macunaíma, 1987) 122 Falabella, Débora 240–241 Fanon, Frantz 234 Faria, Betty 118 Farias, Roberto 172 Farney, Cyl 96, 99, 100, 102–104, 106, 111, 164, 166, 172 Farney, Dick 99, 102–104 ‘Farofa Carioca’ (band) 249 Favela dos meus amores (Shantytown of My Loves, 1935) 69–70, 151 Favio, Leonardo 211 Faye, Alice 85 Felperin, Leslie 268 Fenelon, Moacyr 144–161, 165 Fernanda, Maria 27 Fernanda, Silvia 130 Fernandez, Alexandre Agabiti 181, 183, 190–191 Ferreira, Francisco José 165 Ferreira, Cid Vale 182, 185–186 Ferreira, Lírio 56 Ferreira, Procópio 4 Ficarra, Glenn 263 Figueiró, Luely 98 Filha do advogado, A (The Lawyer’s Daughter, 1926) 49, 50, 52–53, 54–55 Filho, Daniel (João Carlos Daniel) 168, 171 Filho, Jardel (Jardel Frederico De Bôscoli Filho) 164 Fillardis, Isabel 227 ‘Filmelândia’ (film magazine) 7 Filmes Artísticos Brasileiros (production company) 64, 71 Finis Hominis (1971) 187 Firmino, Leandro 220, 256 Fischer, Vera 15, 196, 197–201, 204–206 Ford, Francis 50 Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, The (1921) 270

Freire, Rafael de Luna 14, 162–177 Freyre, Glberto 5, 232, 251 Furman, André Kapel 190 Gable, Clark 79 Gabriela, cravo e canela (Gabriela, Clove and Cinnamon, 1983) 200 Gainsbourg, Serge 250 Gam, Giulia 56 Garbo, Greta 1, 14, 26, 129 Garcia, Léa 124, 227 Gardner, Ava 164 Garland, Judy 85, 88 Gil, Gilberto 250 Gilda (1946) 115, 163 Gilford, Zach 272 Gledhill, Christine 228, 229 Gleghorn, Charlotte 15, 210–226 Globo Filmes (production company) 10, 236–238, 264 Glória, Darlene 197, 198–199, 205 Golias, Ronald 120 Golpe, O (The Coup, 1955) 116 Gomes, Alberto de Freitas Dias 9 Gomes, Eliezer 172, 227 Gonçalves, Abigail 117 Gonçalves, Dercy 4 Gonçalves, Milton 124, 227 Gone With The Wind (1939) 131 Gonzaga, Adhemar 46–48, 50–51, 55, 61, 65, 66, 67, 69, 114 Goulart, Jorge 144, 148, 149–150 Goulart, Paulo 167 Grable, Betty 77, 130 Grande cidade, A (The Big City, 1965) 172 Grande feira, A (The Big Fair, 1962) 172 Grande Otelo (Sebastião Bernardes de Souza Prata) 4–6, 9, 11, 13, 111–127, 163, 166, 167, 168–171, 197, 198, 227, 238 Green, James 85 Guaranis, Os (The Guarani Indians, 1908) 4–5, 113 Guerra, Ruy 9, 168 Guimarães, Augusta 34

288 . INDEX

Hahner, June Edith 27 Hansen, Miriam 36 Hardy, Oliver 113 Hayward, Susan 214 Hayworth, Rita 82, 115, 163–164 Herbert, John 164 Herói do século XX (Hero of the 20th Century, 1926) 51 High Noon (1952) 111 História de uma alma (The Story of a Soul, 1926) 54–55 Hoff, Ben 10, 15, 227–248 Homem do Sputnik, O (Sputnik Man, 1959) 98, 197 Homem que copiava, O (The Man Who Copied, 2003) 229, 232, 236–239 Hopper, Hedda 100 Hoskins, Allan Clayton 117 Hunchback of Notre Dame, The (1923) 50 Huston, Angelica 254 Ilei, Jorge 166 I Love You Phillip Morris (2009) 263, 274, 276–277 Inconfidência Mineira (Conspiracy in Minas Gerais, 1948) 60, 70 Infância dos mortos (Childhood of the Dead, book, 1977) 213 Inferno carnal (Carnal Hell, 1977) 188 Ingram, Rex 270 Inosanto, Dan 266 Invasor, O (The Trespasser, 2002) 225 It’s All True (1942–43) 118–119 Jabor, Arnaldo 198–199 Jacobbi, Ruggero 128, 165 Jansen, William 61 Jardim, Euclides 50, 53 Jardim, Lia 26, 37 Jenkins, Henry 258–259 Jenson, Vicky 266 Julian, Rupert 50 Joffé, Roland 276 Joffily, José 213 Johnson, Randal 202, 216–217

Johnston, Charles 234 Jones, Kirk 263 Jorge, Manoel 155–157 ‘Jornal Illustrado, O’ (journal) 28 José, Paulo 121 Jovens prá frente (Smart Youth, 1968) 116 Jurando vingar (Swearing Vengeance, 1925) 54 Jurema, Mazyl 52 Kamel, Ali 242 Keaton, Buster 51 Kelly, Grace 97, 102 Kerrigan, Eugênio 31 Khouri, Walter Hugo 204, 205 Kidman, Nicole 263, 271, 272 Kim, Jee-woon 263 Kiss of the Spiderwoman (1985) 201 Kogut, Sandra 215 Kracauer, Siegfried 1, 219 Kraftwerk (band) 251 Kurosawa, Akira 171 La Bamba (1987) 269 Lábios sem beijos (Lips without Kisses, 1930) 162 Lage, Eliane 13–14, 128–143 Lago, Mário 115 Lamour, Dorothy 97 Landi, Neide 98 Lane, Virgínia 118, 146 Lara, Odete 197, 199, 201, 204 Last Stand, The (2013) 263, 272, 276 Latini, Mario 172 Laurel, Stan 113 Laurelli, Laércio 180 Leal, António 25 Leal, Leandra 237 Lee, Rita 83 Leiber, Jerry 250 Leonardo, José Gonçalves 4 Lévi-Strauss, Claude 251 Lewgoy, José 163 Lewis, Hershell Gordon 191 Leys Stepan, Nancy 37–38

INDEX . 289

Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou, The (2004) 15, 250, 251, 252, 254, 255, 256, 259 Ligiéro, Zeca 74 Lima, Antônio 187 Lima, Pedro 37–38, 46–48, 50–51, 55, 61, 64, 65, 67 Limite (Limit, 1931) 69 Linha de passe (2008) 210, 215–216, 221 Linney, Laura 271, 274 Lins, Isa 31 Liu, Lucy 274 Lloyd, Harold 51 Lollobrigida, Gina 98 Lopez, Jennifer 273, 274, 278 Los Olvidados (The Young and The Damned, 1950) 211 ‘Lost’ (TV series) 263, 270, 272, 273 Louis, Joe 235 Louzeiro, José 213 Love Actually (2003) 263, 265, 267, 271, 272, 274, 278 Lua de cristal (Crystal Moon, 1990) 203 Luchetti, Rubens Francisco 180, 186, 187 Lucíola (1916) 25, 30 Luhrmann, Baz 263 Lund, Kátia 15, 210, 222, 250 Lys, Lola 31–32 Macario, Leonardo Côrtes 13, 111–127 Macedo, Eliana 6, 96, 98–100, 105, 130, 134, 163–164, 267 Macedo, Watson 6, 166 Machado, Sérgio 232 Maciel, Ana Carolina de Moura Delfim 13, 128–143 Maciel, Katia Augusta 15, 249–262 Macunaíma (1969) 9, 121–122 Madame Satã (2002) 229–231, 232, 233, 234, 235, 236, 237, 238 Mademoiselle Cinema (film) 30, 63, 65–67, 71 Mademoiselle Cinema (book, 1923) 29–30, 63, 65 Madrigano, Francisco 31 Magnus Filmes (production company) 168

Maia, Tim 251 ‘malandro’ 229 ‘Malho, O’ (magazine) 33 Mallandro, Sérgio 203 Malraux, André 13, 129 Mamed, Sonia 101 Mamet, David 266 Mancini, Rafael 166 Manga, Carlos 100, 116 Mansfield, Jayne 122, 130 Maranhão, Luis 52 Marcelino, pan y vino (The Miracle of Marcelino, 1955) 179 Marin, Cheech 269 Maristela (production company) 128, 165 Marlene (Victória Bonaiutti Delfino dos Santos) 144, 145–146, 148, 150–153 Marques, Fellipe 230 Martel, Lucrecia 222 Marten, Leo 32, 64–66 Martinez, Olivier 273 Martins, Luís 229 Marx, Groucho 78 Mask of Zorro, The (1998) 278, 280 Massaini Neto, Aníbal 187–188, 197 Matar ou correr (To Kill or Run Away, 1954) 111, 120 Matarazzo Sobrinho, Francisco 128, 132 Matozinho, Paulo 227 Matogrosso, Ney 83 Mattos, Lídia 130 Mattos, Marlene 205 Maura, Avany 94, 96, 100, 102 Mauro, Humberto 31, 69–70, 114, 151, 162 Mayer, Rodolfo 154 Mazzaropi, Amácio 9, 11 McDonald, Paul 3 McG (Joseph McGinty Nichol) 263 McGregor, Ewan 277 Meirelles, Fernando 10, 15, 210, 222, 250 ‘melindrosa’ 24–45 Mello, Selton 56 Mendes, Otávio Gabus 69 Mendonça, Ana Rita 13, 73–93 Mercury, Daniela 250

290 . INDEX

Mesquitinha (Olympio Bastos) 4 Metido à bacana (A Fake Smart, 1957) 120 Meu destino em tuas mãos (My Destiny in Your Hands, 1963) 179 Meu destino é pecar (My Fate is To Sin, 1952) 165 Milagro Beanfield War, The (1988) 201 Minnelli, Liza 85 Miranda, Aurora, 76, 86 Miranda, Carmen 5–6, 11, 13, 15–16, 73–93, 114, 117, 263, 267 Mirren, Helen 273 Mocidade louca (Crazy Youth, 1927) 31 Mojica Marins, José 11, 14, 178–195 Moleque Tião (A Kid Called Tião, 1943) 118, 121 Monroe, Marilyn 94, 97, 98, 164, 276 Montalbán, Ricardo 270 Monte, Marisa 83 Monteiro, José Carlos 163 Montenegro, Fernanda 196 Moore, Demi 273 Morganti, Maria Helena 101 Morin, Edgar 1, 13, 129–130 Moreyra, Álvaro 28–29, 68–69 Morfina (Morphine, 1928) 31–32, 37 ‘Motion Picture’ (film magazine) 93 Motta, Marcelo 188 Motta, Zezé 124, 227 Moura, Gilberto 212 Moura, Roberto 122 Moura, Wagner, 232–233 ‘Moving Picture World, The’ (film magazine) 7, 93 Multifilmes S.A. (production company) 128 Murray, Bill 254, 259 Mutum (2007) 215 Nabuco, Joaquim 5 Nação Zumbi (band) 251 Nachtergaele, Matheus 56 Nagib, Lúcia 221, 264–265 Nakagawa, Nobuo 191 Naldi, Nita 68

Na mira do assassino (In the Sights of The Killer, 1967) 172 Na senda do crime (The Road to Crime, 1954) 165 Não somos racistas (We’re Not Racist, book, 2006) 242 Nava, Gregory 269 Negri, Pola 55 Nem Sansão nem Dalila (Neither Samson nor Delilah, 1954) 115 Neo-realism (movement) 210 Neves, Eduardo das 227 Neves, Pedro 51 Nhô Anastácio chegou de viagem (Mr Anastácio Returned From A Trip, 1908) 4 Niemeyer, Oscar 79 Night of the Living Dead (1968) 183 Nobre, Antônio 149 Nobreza Gaúcha (Gaucho Nobility, 1953) 166 No cenário da vida (On The Stage of Life, 1930) 52 Noites cariocas (Rio Nights, 1935) 115 Novarro, Ramón 55, 270 Nouvelle Vague (film movement) 8, 168 Nunes, Vera 118 O’Brien, Daniel 15–16, 263–282 Obrigado, doutor! (Thank You, Doctor, 1948) 154 Oliveira, Benjamin de 4–5, 113, 227 Oliveira, Dalva de 146, 148 Oliveira, Osvaldo de 179, 186 Oliveira, Vinícius de 210–211, 214–216, 219, 221 Onde a terra acaba (Where The World Ends, 1933) 69 O’Neill, Eugene 164 Orgeron, Marsha 93–94, 100 Orloff, Alex 66 Oscarito (Oscar Lorenzo Jacinto de la Inmaculada Concepción Teresa Diaz) 4, 6, 11, 13, 96, 98, 111–127, 163 Owens, Jesse 235

INDEX . 291

Padilha, José 215 Pagador de promessas, O (The Given Word, 1962) 9 Paige, Betty 163 ‘Palcos e Telas’ (film magazine) 25, 60–61 Papai fanfarrão (Boastful Daddy, 1956) 116 ‘Para Todos’ (film magazine) 7, 25, 31, 46, 48, 50, 60–62, 65, 66 Paranaguá, Paulo 139 Pastrone, Giovanni 50 Payne, Tom 132–138 Peixoto, Mário 69 Pelé (Edson Arantes do Nascimento) 13, 201–202, 206, 249, 266 Peluffo, Manuel 165 Penteado, Yolanda 132 Pêra, Marília 82, 212 Perdida (Lost Woman, 1916) 32 Peréio, Paulo César 56 Pereira dos Santos, Nelson 9, 14, 121, 166–167, 171 Pessoa, Ana 12, 32–33, 60–72, 93 Phantom of the Opera, The (1925) 50 Philbin, Mary 51–52 Pickford, Mary 68 Pidgeon, Walter 96 Piedade, Lúcio dos Reis 181–182 ‘Pilhéria, A’ (magazine) 55 Pinto, Antonio 251 Piovani, Luana 238 Pires, Roberto 172 Pitanga, Antônio 124, 172, 244 Pitanga, Camila 227, 242, 244 Pixinguinha (Alfredo da Rocha Vianna Filho) 251 Pixote: a lei do mais fraco (Pixote: The Law of the Weakest, 1980) 15, 210, 211–216, 218 Pixote in memoriam (2005) 213 Pixote: nunca mais! A vida verdadeira de Fernando Ramos da Silva (Pixote: Never Again! The Real Life of Fernando Ramos da Silva, book, 1988) 213 ‘Photoplay’ (film magazine) 7, 93

Polo, Eddie 50 Pongetti, Henrique 145, 152 Ponti, Nino 31 ‘pornochanchada’ (genre) 11, 173, 197–198, 201, 205 Porto, Carlos Alberto 128 Post Grad (2009) 266, 272 Powdermaker, Hortense 129 Presença de Anita, A (Anita’s Presence, 1951) 165 Presley, Elvis 115 Princesa Xuxa e os Trapalhões, A (Princess Xuxa and the Trapalhões, 1989) 203 Produtora Cinematográfica Brasil Filme S.A. (production company) 128 Profeta da fome , O (The Prophet of Hunger, 1969) 186–187 Quando a noite acaba (When The Night is Over, 1950) 165 Quando elas querem (When Women Love, 1925) 31 Quando os deuses adormecem (When The Gods Sleep, 1972) 187 48 horas de sexo alucinante (48 Hours of Hot Sex, 1987) 189 Quem matou Pixote? (Who Killed Pixote, 1996) 213 ‘Radiolândia’ (radio magazine) 8 Ramalho, Dennison 190 Ramos, Lázaro 10, 15, 227–248 Rashomon (1950) 171 Ravina (1958) 138 Ray, Mona 117 Rebelião em Vila Rica (Rebellion in Vila Rica, 1957) 97 Redbelt (2008) 266, 270, 275 Reeves, Keanu 268 Regina, Elis 83 Regina, Vera 118 Reichenbach, Carlos 184, 187 Rei do barulho, O (The King of the Deck of Cards, 1973) 122 Reis e ratos (Kings and Rats, 2012) 253

292 . INDEX

Requa, John 263 Resende, Beatriz 29 Resende, Rui 190 Restier, Renato 163 ‘retomada’ (Brazilian film renaissance after 1995) 196, 211, 213 Retribuição (Retribution, 1925) 31, 36–37, 47–50 ‘Revista do Rádio’ (radio magazine) 8 Reynolds, Debbie 94, 98–99, 163, 267 ‘Revista Status’ (magazine) 197 Ribeiro, Agildo 172 Ribeiro, Júlio 62–63 Ribeiro Jr., Luiz Severiano 112, 114, 115 Ribeiro, Milton 173 Ricci, Felipe 31 Richers, Herbert 172 Rio (2011) 266 Rio, 40 graus (Rio, 40 degrees, 1954) 14, 166–167 Rio, zona norte (Rio, North Zone, 1957) 121, 167–168, 175 Ritual dos sádicos (Ritual of the Sadists, 1970) 187 Roberto, Paulo 154 Robeson, Paul 269 Rocha, Glauber 8–9, 11, 139, 184 Rocha, Glauce 170 Rocha, Jaime Faria 154 Rocha Melo, Luís Alberto 14, 144–161 Rodrigues, Dulce 169 Rodrigues, João Carlos 11, 233 Rodrigues, Nelson 9, 169, 171, 198, 234 Rodríguez, Johnny 85 Roiz, Gentil 31, 47–48 Roland, Gilbert 270 Roland, Ruth 49 Roman Spring of Mrs Stone, The (TV film, 2003) 267, 273, 275 Romero, George A. 183 Rosa, Lelita 26, 31 Rossellini, Roberto 210 Rosso, Nico 186 ‘Rua Nova’ (magazine) 54 Russell, Jane 130

Saldanha, Carlos 266 Salgado, Olíria 53 Salles Gomes, Paulo Emílio 24–26, 35–36, 38, 140, 144–145 Salles, Perry 198, 204 Salles, Walter 15, 210, 215–216, 222, 264 Sanchez, Kiele 272 Sangalo, Ivete 250 Sangue mineiro (Blood of Minas Gerais, 1930) 31, 36, 69, 174 Santoro, Dante 149 Santoro, Fada 96, 164 Santoro, Rodrigo 15–16, 263–282 Santos, Carmen 11–12, 30, 31–32, 36, 60–72 Santos, João Francisco dos 229–231, 234, 235 Schnoor, Eva 31 Schwarzenegger, Arnold 276 Seabra, Antônio 61–62 Segredo da múmia, O (The Secret of the Mummy, 1982) 189 ‘Selecta’ (magazine) 25, 46, 48, 51, 61 Serrano, Louis 97 Sete faces de um cafajeste, As (The Seven Faces of a Cafajeste, 1968) 173 Seu Jorge (Jorge Mário da Silva) 10, 15, 227, 249–262 Severo, Ary 50–51, 54 Sganzerla, Rogério 123 Shaw, Deborah 215 Shaw, Lisa 1–22, 13, 73–93, 93–110, 115, 123, 134, 215, 264, 266–267 Shearer, Norma 53, 55 Shubert, Lee 76–77 Sica, Vittorio De 210, 223 Silva, Aparecida Venâncio 213 Silva, Douglas 227 Silva, Fernando Ramos da 210–211, 212–214, 215, 217–218 Silva, Hélio 166 Simpson, Amélia 201–202, 204, 205 Sina do aventureiro, A (The Adventurer’s Fate, 1957) 179 Sinhá Moça (The Landowner’s Daughter, 1953) 131, 138

INDEX . 293

Snyder, Zack 263 Soares, Ilka 131 Soares, Jota 49–51, 52–53 Soderbergh, Steven 263 Sonofilmes (film studio) 114 Sontag, Susan 87 Sorrah, Renata 56 Souto, Hélio 101 Souza, Ruth de 124, 138, 227 Sozzi, Wilma 95, 97, 102 Spielberg, Steven 122 Springtime in the Rockies (1942) 77 Stam, Robert 3, 38, 123, 202 Stamato, João 32 Stamp, Shelley 27, 36 Stardom: Contemporary stardom 9–10, 56, 196–209, 210–226, 227–248, 249–262 Brazilian cinema until 1930 3–5, 23–45, 45–55, 60–72 Hollywood and Brazilian cinema 3, 6–8, 73–92, 93–110, 263–282 Queer stardom 84–88, 229–231 Stardom and race 3–5, 11–127, 227–248 Stardom from the 1930s until the late 1950s 5–6, 93–110, 111–127, 128–143, 144–161 Stardom in the 1960s and 1970s 9, 162–177, 178–195 Theoretical frameworks and previous scholarship 1–3, 10–11 Steves, Almery 31, 37, 47–49, 51 Stoller, Mike 250 Stromboli (1950) 137 Studlar, Gaylyn 27, 270–271, 276 Suarez, Laura 145, 156–157 Superfêmea, A (Superwoman, 1973) 197, 199, 206 Super Xuxa contra Baixo Astral (Super Xuxa versus Satan, 1988) 203 ‘Suplemento’ (magazine) 205 Szafir, Luciano 205 Tambem somos irmãos (We Are Also Brothers, 1949) 118, 121, 151, 166

Tanko, J.B. (Josip Bogoslaw) 120 Taylor, Elizabeth 98, 105 Teixeira, Afonso 147 Teixeira, Guiomar 49, 52 Teixeira, Norberto 49 Teixeira Mendes, Nelson 180 ‘Tela, A’ (film magazine) 25 ‘telenovela’ (TV genre, soap opera) 198, 212, 240, 263–264 Teresa Cristina (Teresa Cristina Macedo Gomes) 250 Terra é sempre terra (Land is always Land, 1951) 137 Tesouro perdido (Lost Treasure, 1927) 31 That Night in Rio (1943) 78 The Gang’s All Here (1943) 77, 86–87 There Be Dragons (2011) 276 Thomas, Daniela 15, 210, 215 Thomas, Larri 101 300 (2007) 263, 267, 277 Tibiriçá, Antonio 31 Tocaia no asfalto (Ambush on the Asphalt, 1962) 172 Toda nudez será castigada (All Nudity Shall be Punished, 1972) 199, 205 Toledo, Fátima 215, 220 Toledo, Sérgio 212 Topczewski, Gilberto 213 Torá, Lia 36–37 Torres, Fernanda 196 Torres, Miguel 168 Torres de Lima, Oséias 50 Totò (Antonio Griffo Focas Flavio Angelo Ducas Comneno Porfirogenito Gagliardi De Curtis di Bisanzio) 114 Trapalhão e a luz azul, O (The Trapalhão and the Blue Light, 1999) 264 ‘Trapalhões, Os’ (comedy quartet) 9, 116, 203, 279 Tristezas não pagam dívidas (Sadness Pays No Debts, 1943) 115 Tropa de elite (Elite Squad, 2007) 215 Tropa de elite 2 (Elite Squad: The Enemy Within, 2010) 256–257 Tropicália (artistic movement) 81–82

294 . INDEX

Tudo Azul (It’s All Right, 1952) 14, 144–161 TV Globo (TV company) 9–10, 198, 204, 212, 240, 264 ‘typage’ 217–221 Universal (Hollywood film studio) 95 Urutau (1919) 60–62, 70 Valadão, Jece 9, 14, 162–177 Valdez, Luis 269 Valentino, Rudolph 55, 270–271, 276 Vamos com calma (Let’s Go Quietly, 1956) 102 Vanderley, Paulo 166 Vajda, Ladislao 179 Vargas, Darcy 80 Vargas, Getúlio 5, 79, 113, 115, 119, 162, 229 Vedovato, José 179 Veloso, Caetano 81–82, 83 Vera (1987) 211–212 Vera Cruz (film studio) 8, 13–14, 97, 128, 131, 132–135, 137, 138, 139–140, 164, 165, 169, 172, 173 Veríssimo, Paulo 122 Viana, Castro 154 Viana, Didi 31, 34 Vianna, Hermano 251–252 Viany, Alex 144–145 Vício e beleza (Vice and Beauty, 1926) 31–32 Vidas secas (Barren Lives, 1963) 172, 176 Vieira, João Luiz 13, 26–27, 111–127, 153 Vincendeau, Ginette 106 24 horas de sexo explícito (24 Hours of Explicit Sex, 1984) 189 von Stroheim, Erich 51, 53 Voz do carnaval, A (The Voice of Carnival, 1933) 75, 114 Waddington, Andrucha 253 Walcamp, Mary 49

Wanderley, Eustórgio 54 Wanderley, José 116 Warner Bros. (Hollywood film studio) 95 Watusi (Maria Alice Conceição) 118, 125 Weekend in Havana (1941) 77 Welles, Orson 118–119, 171 What To Expect When You’re Expecting (2012) 263, 273, 274 Williams, Esther 97, 103 Winchell, Walter 76–77 Wojcik, Pamela Robertson 217–218, 219, 220 Woods, Eva 94–95 Worsley, Wallace 50 Wyatt, Rupert 255 Xavier, Ismail 11, 24, 26, 35–36, 38, 171, 214 Xavier, Nelson 173 Xuxa (Maria da Graça Xuxa Meneghel) 9, 15, 196, 197, 199, 201–206 Xuxa abracadabra (2003) 204 Xuxa e os duendes (Xuxa and The Elves, 2001) 203 Xuxa e os duendes II: no caminho de fadas (Xuxa and The Elves II: On the Trail of the Fairies, 2002) 2003 Xuxa e o tesouro da cidade perdida (Xuxa and the Treasure of the Lost City, 2004) 204 Xuxa e os Trapalhões em o mistério de Robin Hood (Xuxa and the Trapalhões in the Mystery of Robin Hood, 1990) 203 Xuxa requebra (Xuxa Gets Down, 1999) 203 YouTube 259–260 Zampari, Franco 128 Zé de Caixâo/Coffin Joe (see: Mojica Marins, José) Ziembinski, Zbigniew 169