Hablando sin miedo
Ladies and gentlemen, I have a little bragging to do if you'll indulge me for a minute.
Last night, I went to see a movie entitled Cañitas with Pavel. Like The Amityville Horror, the title refers to the location (in this case the street, in Mexico City district of Las Lomas) of an allegedly true story involving the Devil moving in and failing to pay sufficient rent. The similarities don't end there, actually: the movie is based on a book by Carlos Trejo, who claims to have lived through the events therein.
And, like Amityville, Cañitas is not a good movie. Pavel's eventual verdict was that it was very unfortunately "mediocre", meaning that it's not good enough to be terrifying yet not bad enough to be charming and hilarious. It's poorly directed, poorly written, poorly filmed, and, while reasonably well acted on most accounts, it is altogether too convinced of its own brilliance. I did, admittedly, jump once at a scene involving shattering glass and tender facial areas.
(The director, Julio Cesar Estrada, recently appeared on the cover of a cinema-related magazine along with acclaimed Mexican directors Alfonso Cuarón, Guillermo del Toro and Alejandro González Iñárritu, quite obviously photoshopped into an existing photo of the award-winning threesome. I'm not entirely sure who did the photoshopping, but it was quite clear that Estrada did not necessarily belong in such esteemed company.)
But! Is any of that the point? Because while Pavel was commenting to our roommate Luis, himself a filmmaker, about the shoddy dialogue and poor cinematography, all I could say about the movie was: "I UNDERSTOOD IT!!"
Movies are not generally a problem for me here, as the majority of mass market movies spring from the moist womb of the Hollywood machine and Mexicans, bless them, appear to be considerably more accepting of subtitles than our own dub-happy selves. I've generally clung to my faulty Spanish as a reason not to attend too many foreign language films, which are impressively prevalent here also (see above re. acceptance of subtitling) although I did prove reasonably competent reading ability in Mel Gibson's dialogue-light Apocalypto. My listening skills, however, as used in my day to day existence, remain in doubt.
And so, when Pavel suggested we see Cañitas, my stomach dropped. "Hell," I thought, "Go for it. It's a horror movie, so how important is the dialogue anyway?" However, walking to the theatre, I was preoccupied by fears of being completely lost (and therefore bored) or of getting tired sometime into it and tuning out. As we bought hot dogs and popcorn (dinner of champions!), I felt a pervasive need (thankfully resisted) to assure the ticket-taker that I wasn't some useless gringa. As the previews rolled, I wondered what the hell I was doing at a Spanish language movie.
But I did it, I did it, I did! And not any flimsy "well, I think I know what's going on" but actually understanding the dialogue itself - probably 85%. It would have been higher even, my comprehension ratio, had the movie's creators not fallen into the tragically hackneyed pit of voice scrambling for the evil characters; screw with the language at all - children, special effects, mumbling - and I am LOST.
And while Cañitas is hardly Proust, the boost I felt realizing that I could maybe do this whole Spanish-thing will make me a lifelong fan of that terrible, odious film.
Spanish scares me. I love its logic (particularly in comparison with the willy nilly free-for-all that is English) and its purring r's, and how a mildly heated discussion over a traffic ticket becomes a linguistic swordfight between saucy Latin lovers in black masks and pirate shirts while smouldering woman with heaving bosoms throw rose blooms into the air. I love the variations between Mexican Spanish and Argentinian Spanish and Spain Spanish. I love how it feels to try to pronounce the double-r's and double-l's, and how Pavel claps his hands and calls me "niñita" (little girl) when I do.
Around Pavel, in fact, Spanish is quite simply wonderful; around everyone else, however, it is quite simply terrifying. I have grown used to Pavel's accent and his phrases, and I understand much of what he says even when he launches into rapidfire Spanish instead of his S-L-O-W and C-A-R-E-F-U-L Spanish. The rest of the city, however, often sounds to me like an fleet of pirate shirt-clad machine guns: rrrrr-ttt-rrrrr-ttt-rrrrr-tttt! And there is absolutely nothing I have experienced more alienating than not being able to communicate - worsened, perhaps, by my own obsession with language.
I can communicate now in Spanish, and I managed to open a bank account with internet access and an extra debit card for my parents (for my debt) without help, but it remains the Prom Queen I haven't the courage to just ask to dance already. In moments of clarity and when I am dealing with strangers who will never see me again, I am reasonably confident; Mexicans respond to even the poorest effort with jovial affection and, often, unassuming tutoring. Generally, after saying something in English, I go over it in my head and realize, no, I actually *could* have said that in Spanish after all. Yet my attempts to actually speak Spanish are slow and awkward and, as a result, despite living in Mexico, more than 90% of my day is in English. Curse my friends and their flawless bi- (sometimes tri- and quadri-) lingualism.
When I moved here, my goal was to be conversational in three months. I envisioned throwing myself into the proverbial deep end with brazen assuredness polish it right up. What I've realized since is that brazen assuredness is not among my stronger characteristics, and the resulting delay in the development of my Spanish skills weighs heavily on my conscience.
So you can only begin to imagine the deep joy I felt when, while watching that wonderful banal attempt to recycle horror movie cliches, I realized that, despite my fear and passivity, it's creeping in there. That beautiful, elusive language is getting through.
As I said to Pavel on the street outside the theatre: "I can do this! I can DO this!" He squeezed my elbow.
My next goal: a movie actually worth my 32 pesos.
Last night, I went to see a movie entitled Cañitas with Pavel. Like The Amityville Horror, the title refers to the location (in this case the street, in Mexico City district of Las Lomas) of an allegedly true story involving the Devil moving in and failing to pay sufficient rent. The similarities don't end there, actually: the movie is based on a book by Carlos Trejo, who claims to have lived through the events therein.
And, like Amityville, Cañitas is not a good movie. Pavel's eventual verdict was that it was very unfortunately "mediocre", meaning that it's not good enough to be terrifying yet not bad enough to be charming and hilarious. It's poorly directed, poorly written, poorly filmed, and, while reasonably well acted on most accounts, it is altogether too convinced of its own brilliance. I did, admittedly, jump once at a scene involving shattering glass and tender facial areas.
(The director, Julio Cesar Estrada, recently appeared on the cover of a cinema-related magazine along with acclaimed Mexican directors Alfonso Cuarón, Guillermo del Toro and Alejandro González Iñárritu, quite obviously photoshopped into an existing photo of the award-winning threesome. I'm not entirely sure who did the photoshopping, but it was quite clear that Estrada did not necessarily belong in such esteemed company.)
But! Is any of that the point? Because while Pavel was commenting to our roommate Luis, himself a filmmaker, about the shoddy dialogue and poor cinematography, all I could say about the movie was: "I UNDERSTOOD IT!!"
Movies are not generally a problem for me here, as the majority of mass market movies spring from the moist womb of the Hollywood machine and Mexicans, bless them, appear to be considerably more accepting of subtitles than our own dub-happy selves. I've generally clung to my faulty Spanish as a reason not to attend too many foreign language films, which are impressively prevalent here also (see above re. acceptance of subtitling) although I did prove reasonably competent reading ability in Mel Gibson's dialogue-light Apocalypto. My listening skills, however, as used in my day to day existence, remain in doubt.
And so, when Pavel suggested we see Cañitas, my stomach dropped. "Hell," I thought, "Go for it. It's a horror movie, so how important is the dialogue anyway?" However, walking to the theatre, I was preoccupied by fears of being completely lost (and therefore bored) or of getting tired sometime into it and tuning out. As we bought hot dogs and popcorn (dinner of champions!), I felt a pervasive need (thankfully resisted) to assure the ticket-taker that I wasn't some useless gringa. As the previews rolled, I wondered what the hell I was doing at a Spanish language movie.
But I did it, I did it, I did! And not any flimsy "well, I think I know what's going on" but actually understanding the dialogue itself - probably 85%. It would have been higher even, my comprehension ratio, had the movie's creators not fallen into the tragically hackneyed pit of voice scrambling for the evil characters; screw with the language at all - children, special effects, mumbling - and I am LOST.
And while Cañitas is hardly Proust, the boost I felt realizing that I could maybe do this whole Spanish-thing will make me a lifelong fan of that terrible, odious film.
Spanish scares me. I love its logic (particularly in comparison with the willy nilly free-for-all that is English) and its purring r's, and how a mildly heated discussion over a traffic ticket becomes a linguistic swordfight between saucy Latin lovers in black masks and pirate shirts while smouldering woman with heaving bosoms throw rose blooms into the air. I love the variations between Mexican Spanish and Argentinian Spanish and Spain Spanish. I love how it feels to try to pronounce the double-r's and double-l's, and how Pavel claps his hands and calls me "niñita" (little girl) when I do.
Around Pavel, in fact, Spanish is quite simply wonderful; around everyone else, however, it is quite simply terrifying. I have grown used to Pavel's accent and his phrases, and I understand much of what he says even when he launches into rapidfire Spanish instead of his S-L-O-W and C-A-R-E-F-U-L Spanish. The rest of the city, however, often sounds to me like an fleet of pirate shirt-clad machine guns: rrrrr-ttt-rrrrr-ttt-rrrrr-tttt! And there is absolutely nothing I have experienced more alienating than not being able to communicate - worsened, perhaps, by my own obsession with language.
I can communicate now in Spanish, and I managed to open a bank account with internet access and an extra debit card for my parents (for my debt) without help, but it remains the Prom Queen I haven't the courage to just ask to dance already. In moments of clarity and when I am dealing with strangers who will never see me again, I am reasonably confident; Mexicans respond to even the poorest effort with jovial affection and, often, unassuming tutoring. Generally, after saying something in English, I go over it in my head and realize, no, I actually *could* have said that in Spanish after all. Yet my attempts to actually speak Spanish are slow and awkward and, as a result, despite living in Mexico, more than 90% of my day is in English. Curse my friends and their flawless bi- (sometimes tri- and quadri-) lingualism.
When I moved here, my goal was to be conversational in three months. I envisioned throwing myself into the proverbial deep end with brazen assuredness polish it right up. What I've realized since is that brazen assuredness is not among my stronger characteristics, and the resulting delay in the development of my Spanish skills weighs heavily on my conscience.
So you can only begin to imagine the deep joy I felt when, while watching that wonderful banal attempt to recycle horror movie cliches, I realized that, despite my fear and passivity, it's creeping in there. That beautiful, elusive language is getting through.
As I said to Pavel on the street outside the theatre: "I can do this! I can DO this!" He squeezed my elbow.
My next goal: a movie actually worth my 32 pesos.
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