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C
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Havana.
October 1, 2009 |
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The return of Mi
socio Manolo
and Cheo Malanga
Mireya Castañeda
THE play Mi socio Manolo recently returned
to the Havana stage – in a version of the classic
text by playwright Eugenio Hernández Espinosa (winner
of the Cuban National Theater Prize) written in the
1970s and set in a marginal neighborhood in Havana.
The new version is directed by Sara María Cruz
and José Ignacio León, the latter also assuming the
role of Cheo, while Manolo was played by René de la
Cruz, (junior).
Without detracting from the spirit of the
original, Sara María Cruz manages to contextualize
and energize the script, emphasizing the chain of
events that takes place between two characters of
humble origin, Manolo and Cheo.
One of the production’s principal fortes lies in
the balanced dramatic work displayed by René de la
Cruz (junior) and José Ignacio León. The former once
again demonstrates that since his leading role in
El cartero de Neruda, he has reached a level of
maturity and is at the peak of his artistic career
to date, giving free reign to a vast range of
expressive possibilities. The latter, who has less
stage experience, demonstrates that he is a natural
actor and efficient in term of his theatrical
development.
If that were not enough, this "return" of Mi
socio Manolo, Eugenio Hernández Espinosa is also
premiering the monologue Cheo malanga, in his
double role as writer/director.
It is precisely this work that leads us to a
conversation with the author of another classic,
María Antonia.
Maestro, I wanted to ask you, because Mi socio
Manolo has recently been restaged, how do you
like to see your work when it is brought to the
stage or screen by other directors?
Firstly, it is immensely satisfying for me that
people are interested in taking my work and adapting
it to any genre, be it dance, film or television. I
think that it is a tremendous boost for any creator.
Of course, I have always given artistic freedom to
other creators because I respect their intentions
and motivations for creating their own versions as
long as they never betray the essence of what I
wanted to say or suggest. Sometimes, I’m surprised
because there are certain things that one might not
be aware of, and you begin to see how a certain
point of view that you have overlooked is present in
another version. Sometimes, I feel very ill at ease
because essential aspects get overlooked given that
the particular director is not interested in them.
That dichotomy is what I like because some people
represent me, respect me and take on the role of
creator, and there are others whose points of view
do not coincide with the essence of mine.
Restaging means that it is a play that is still
alive, relevant…
That’s right. It’s interesting for me too because
I think the issue is that I have always written
about human beings and their circumstances, but
always concentrating on individuals, human beings,
and the passions of human beings don’t change: love,
hate, death, thieves, criminals, all exist. All
those motivations, from the psychological and social
point of view, are present on every latitude, in
every environment, sometimes controlled by the
treatment that each society metes out to individuals.
Of course, our conflicts are not remotely like the
conflicts that other societies have. Our conflict is
to make ourselves better every day; it’s another
kind of society.
Let’s talk about Cheo malanga…
This monologue destroyed me, speaking from a
metaphorical point of view; it really destroyed me
because he’s a very complex character. I knew him,
his life, his motivations, his history – part of it,
not entirely – because that would be betraying the
person on which the character is based,
but there are definitely
aspects. In this way, I’ve constructed this
character, in which a whole story is evoked,
the past that he doesn’t
succeed in making real and a present that
he doesn’t understand.
A character who is capable of understanding that,
with the revolution, there must be change and fights
for it but when he succeeds, he isn’t prepared. Not
many people are prepared because these are
vertiginous changes and they don’t wait for the
comprehension of someone who thinks more slowly and
the reaction is slower as well .
One has to be inside the
moving car and sometimes you fall out. In that
context, Cheo does fall out; he doesn’t understand
the dynamic and remains stuck in the past, and for
me, this is a very painful reality, not
understanding the importance the present has in
relation to the future. There are people who remain
in the past relating their story in order to live
and what they don’t realize is that, in doing that,
they are actually dying.
How did you decide what would happen to Cheo?
I saw Silvano Suárez’ version of Mi socio
Manolo with Pedro Rentería and Mario Balmaceda.
I was particularly interested in how Rentería played
the role of Cheo. As time went by, I started to
think what would become of Cheo in this story. Would
he go crazy, go to jail, disappear? Do we only know
what is told in Mi socio Manolo or do we take
up the story once again and do an X-ray of this
character to see what his social or philosophical
motivations were? What takes him to a confrontation
of that nature, where he is capable of killing his
friend? I set myself the task of delving into his
life, I let myself be borne along by the great
contradictions of this character, a truly tragic
character, because he was stuck in the past. The
present opened up a door of possibility for him that
he didn’t have the ability to assume and, when he
kills Manolo, he doesn’t do it on account of his
confrontation with him, but because of the one that
he has with himself.
You like monologues…
I like monologues for two reasons. First of all,
because for me, a monologue is a free structure in
two different ways. As a director, because I work
with an actor or actress and time consumes me
flexibly. There is also a much more profound
relationship; I know him or her better, and as I’m
the writer, this allows me to adapt myself, starting
out from the understanding that the actor has of
what I want, of who the character is, because
different situations can arise: put one in, remove
another, avoid certain issues in the text, but it
also gives me the opportunity of getting to know the
character better. When you write a play that has
more than one character – as I have done, there
comes a time when each one of them has a more
limited life, things remain that I might liked to
have developed more within that character, but it’s
not possible at that particular time. But with a
monologue, that’s not the case; you have the freedom
to move through different situations, to be able to
play at different levels.
That’s why you take a character from one play to
another?
Yes, even if he is evoked sometimes. For example,
in Emilina Cundiamor, she talks about her
husband Tibor Galárraga, fiercely criticizing him. I
remember that when Culture Minister Abel Prieto saw
that monologue performed at the Fine Arts Museum, on
the way out he said to me, "Well, and what does
Tibor think of all this?" And that gave me the
chance to focus on Tibor and write the monologue
Tibor Galarraga and create the counterpart. That
gives me the opportunity of taking up characters
that have been left behind, evoked or as is the case
with the male character in Alto riesgo. After
his outrages, what happens? Then there is La
balsa, he has committed an act of betrayal,
there’s no room for him, and he decides to leave. I
have sought characters if they have life. That’s the
case of María Antonia; these days I wouldn’t
have killed her, women like that don’t die, women
that fight, who have strength, that’s vital.
In fact, you didn’t kill her…
I think that’s true. The Caribeño Theater Group
is celebrating its 20th anniversary in March 2010
and there is a possibility that I’ll do Maria
Antonia, my first attempt at this piece, under
the masterly direction of Roberto Blanco.
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