SUGAR RAMOS

The Hands Killer Man

A true story

(c) Elio Ruiz, 2004-08

Ultiminio Ramos Zequeira told us his story while seated in the living room of his humble Mexican home, surrounded by a black and white photographic background. He came to the world in the year 1941 in a neighborhood in the city of Matanzas, at the north end of the Cuban island. There, at barely eleven years old, he began learning the art of boxing while his father made money betting on the fights. At fifteen, after several years of intense training under the supervision of his master "Kid Rapidez," Ramos jumped to the professional arena in the old Sports Palace of Havana through his father, a man whose desire to managing a champion of the world was so strong that he had fathered thirty-two children with two women. Only with the last one of them "Ultiminio" (Ultimate) would he realize his dream. However, the radical political split of Cuban society would turn the dream into a nightmare.

On his way to conquer the island's national title, the young Ramos caused the death of one of his opponents, the well-known and very young "Tigre Blanco" (White Tiger), victim of Ramos's killer right punch. The incident made him doubt whether to continue with his aim of becoming national champ. To his great surprise, the deceased young boxer's own mother encouraged him to continue his career and to conquer the championship, as Ramos eventually did. At the ceremony he dedicated the belt to "Tigre Blanco," to a thunderous applause from the crowd gathered in Havana's Sports Palace. His manager then would take him on a Latin American tour in 1959, just about when Castro's Revolution would change Cuba forever.

He fought in Venezuela, Panama, Puerto Rico and Mexico; this last country welcoming him as one of its own. His skillful dancing of Cuban music made him very popular amongst ladies in the land of the Aztecs. He decided to stay there while the political scene in his native land was sorted out. Ramos never imagined that it would be a permanent absence, although his father warned him early that he should never return to Cuba if he wanted to become great among greats in the sweet science. The elder Ramos distrusted the new rules of game in Havana.

The night of his debut in Mexico City the judge's decision went against Ramos, a shameless act, taking the victory away from him. To his own surprise, the public emphatically disagreed with the verdict and proceeded to set fire to the arena "Mexico." After this great show of sympathy, ferocious loyalty and support by the Mexican fans, the new "Sugar" realized that he had found a new homeland from which he could continue his career and his way to glory. The government who took power in Cuba had definitively decided to ban professional boxing.

Under the supervision of "Kid Rapidez" (also trainer to four future Cuban world champions*), and the management of Cuco Conde; on his way to winning the world championship, Sugar Ramos would have to fight a fearsome fighter from Ohio, featherweight Champion of the World Davey Moore * * , or "Little Giant" as the sport's media called him in the United States. In Mexico nobody could ever beat him. At home, he was undefeated. Responding to the Cuban boxer challenge, Moore said to the press, "If Sugar Ramos wants to take the championship away from me; of course he'll have to kill me first."

Exactly a year before, Cuban Boxer Benny Kid Paret was killed by the hands of Emile Griffith at Madison Square Garden in New York City. Nobody wrote a poem lamenting his murder, but about the fight, Norman Mailer wrote a note:

"Paret died on his feet. As he took those eighteen punches something happened to everyone who was in psychic range of the event. Some part of his death reached out to us. One felt it hover in the air. He was still standing in the ropes, trapped as he had been before, he gave some little half-smile of regret, as if he were saying, "I didn't know I was going to die just yet," and then, his head leaning back but still erect, his death came to breathe about him. He began to pass away. As he passed, so his limbs descended beneath him, and he sank slowly to the floor. He went down more slowly than any fighter had ever gone down, he went down like a large ship which turns on end and slides second by second into its grave. As he went down, the sound of Griffith's punches echoed in the mind like a heavy ax in the distance chopping into a wet log".

Complex and dangerous times came down following the Missile Crisis that put the world at the edge of nuclear war and Cuba as the eye of a historical hurricane. Sugar Ramos didn't understand the expectations created around the fight with Davie Moore, only because he was born in Cuba. For him, it was as simple as making good on the promise that he had made to his father when he was only a nine year old boy: become a World Champion.

Finally the fight was scheduled for March 23, 1963 (just one year after the fatal Paret-Griffith fight at MSG), on the baseball field at Dodgers Stadium in Los Angeles, California. The odds were for the African-American boxer ten to one. The Afro-Cuban would fight for his native city "Matanzas" and the name was printed on one of his pant's legs. Ironically "Matanzas" means slaughter in Spanish.

Songwriter Phil Ochs narrated the situation developed this way:

“It was out to California young Davey Moore did go,

to meet with Sugar Ramos and trade him blow for blow

He left his home in Springfield, his wife and children five;

the spring was fast approaching, it was good to be alive.

His wife, she begged and pleaded, "You have to leave this game.

Is it worth the bloodshed and is it worth the pain?"

But Davey could not hear above the cheering crowd

He was a champion, and champions are proud.

Hang his gloves upon the wall, shine his trophies bright clear,

Another man will fall before we dry our tears

For the fighters must destroy as the poets must sing,

as the hungry crowd must gather for the blood upon the ring”.

Sugar Ramos remembers today the feeling he had gotten that something bad was about to happen days before the fight when a heavy rain began to fall and didn't stop in Los Angeles. For a moment, even his coach entertained the idea of postponing the match arranged to take place under the stars. But like the saying goes, there's always calm before the storm. Finally the rain stopped, and the bell sounded for the first of fifteen rounds, televised coast to coast.

"A savage war was developing" that night, wrote the Los Angeles sport columnist Melvin Durslag. Starting from the ninth round, Sugar Ramos took control of the fight and in the tenth, Davey Moore was knocked out. The audience was stunned.

After his defeat, while he stood in the dressing room, Davey Moore collapsed into a coma due to cerebral injuries ***. Some people talked about a Cuban revenge. But no, it was only a weird, mysterious coincidence!

The bout and the aftermath were certainly the biggest sporting events news of the year to the point that the Vatican was forced to release a statement against professional boxing; it also inspired Bob Dylan to write a song titled "Who Killed Davey Moore?"

Who killed Davey Moore,

Why an' what's the reason for?

"Not I," says the referee,

"Don't point your finger at me.

I could've stopped it in the eighth

An' maybe kept him from his fate,

But the crowd would've booed, I'm sure,

At not getting' their money's worth.

It's too bad he had to go,

But there was a pressure on me too, you know.

It wasn't me that made him fall.

No, you can't blame me at all."

Devastated by the news broadcasted about the severity of Moore's condition, Sugar Ramos went to Los Angeles Memorial Hospital to visit the ex-champ. He arrived just in time to witness the courageous gladiator's last breath; he was so overcome with grief that he cried as if he had just lost one of his own brothers. Once again in Ramos's career, the victim's mother went to him and consoled and encouraged him to continue with honor, his boxing career. Sugar Ramos declared to the press: "I want to be a Champion of the World, but not at this price."

Two weeks later Sugar Ramos returned to Mexico City where the people give him a treatment reserved only for true national heroes. Multitudes waited for him at the airport with mariachis. The crowd took control and carried him to the Palacio Nacional, where a grateful President Lopez Mateo greeted him. He became a huge celebrity in Mexico capable of filling stadiums and bullfight plazas. It was the beginning of his glory days.

Like a dandy, he hired the services of a valet who became his inseparable companion. The valet was a hunchbacked man that according to myth would bring good luck. Because of his shape people began calling him "The Pigeon". If any contender refused to come to Mexico to fight him, Sugar Ramos looked for them anywhere escorted by his curious valet. Eventually they went to Japan, where the champion had a bad dream. He dreamt of a double funeral, into which he and his trainer were both present like astonished witnesses. There was something certainly very strange about the funeral. When the supposed family members opened the coffins, there were no bodies inside; instead there was money, a lot of money in gold coins. Sugar Ramos woke up and told the nightmare to his master who shared a room with him. "Kid Rapidez" calmed him down and told him: a dream is only a dream, my son, something like watching a movie. He advised him to relax and go back to sleep.

The following day he would defend the title against a difficult boxer known for his karate skills. His trainer and second on the corner for this fight and for many more was the legendary Angelo Dundee, former trainer of Mohamed Ali, Sugar Ray Leonard and others. Sugar Ramos was not able to clear his mind all day, before and after the fight. It was the only time that he remembers not calling his father before a fight.

"When we arrived to the place where the bout against Seki would be taking place", recalled Angelo Dundee, "they already had set up the ring but there weren't seats anywhere. I asked somebody about when they were going to bring the chairs and the man told me that in Japan the fans preferred the floor to sitting in chairs. When Ramos knocks out Seki, I turned toward Cuco Conde and told him: indeed Japanese prefers the floor". ****

On his way back to Mexico he called Cuba, as he always did when returning from one of his fights, to tell his father that once again he had successfully defended the title. He was shocked with news, which stopped his breath: his father and his grandfather had both died on the same day of that awful funeral nightmare in Osaka, Japan. Hearing the news was like the end of his world. He could not stop crying, alone surrounded by strangers, and then he realizes that his tears wouldn't stop falling, like the rain in Los Angeles before his fight with Davey Moore. Due to the political climate in his native Cuba he could not attend the funeral of his relatives and as he states: "With my father's death I lost the desire for fighting, I lost the willpower."

In one year and half he flew all around the world, even fighting in Africa before Mohamed Ali did it. The people of Ghana welcomed him at the airport as one of their own. However, other Ghanaians put a spell upon him so that he would lose before the local fighter. Mario "The Pigeon", opportunely informed, responded carrying a large crucifix as they left the dressing room heading for the ring. It seems that this act of faith was not enough to stop the spell of the African witchdoctors. It was a tough fight. Sugar Ramos won on a split decision. He almost lost it. For an instant, the African fighter put him on his knees. But Sugar Ramos composed himself and was able to finish and win the fight in the tenth round before an emotionally electrified audience.

Troubles go alongside fame. Certainly, the bed could be another dangerous ring. "In a boxer´s life there are occasions that one woman is a problem. There are boxers that know a lot of women and then get a big deal of problems. Ultiminio is a good kid that gets working out good and behaves professional but he doesn't give up to be a young man, strong, handsome, a celeb champion and for that, believe me, always there are women around", remarked his manager****.

The first defeat came down by the Vicente Saldivar´s left hand, a Mexican fighter who snatched away the title of the featherweight division. Then, Sugar Ramos upgraded category to the light welterweight, alternating victories and defeats in the ring as well as in business. One of these was a funeral parlor that carried his name as his own name had become a sort of trademark of death.

He lasted in boxing a few more years by dancing in the ring, until he met the unavoidable and ultimate defeat that awaits all gladiators. A young hungry fighter arrived and took the Champion's belt before the eyes of the world. His name was Carlos Ortiz, a legendary Puerto Rican Champion.

After retiring from sports he dedicated himself to his other love, music. Even today he can be found singing ballads, rumbas and even rap, in some clubs in Mexico City. Some people recall him as "the killer boxer". He still carries the infamous record of two opponents killed in his career; he still cries for both.

In 1998, executives of the boxing business remembered Sugar Ramos by inducting him to the Los Angeles Boxing Hall of Fame. In 2001 the city of Miami honored his nomination to Canastota's Hall of Fame in New York by placing his name among the greats of the old sweet science.

Mr. Ramos showed us a video of those moments, in which he appears as happy as a well cared-for and beloved child; the video was shot by his Mexican son, who bears his name and would perhaps like to become a professional fighter.

In the parade through the streets of Canastota, New York, where he cruises on a convertible like the other World Champions inducted on the same day, enthusiastic fans greet him wherever he goes. They request his autograph. During the procession Sugar Ramos gives them candies that he takes out of a paper bag. "Damn, man, glory is really beautiful", he told us.

He never went back to Cuba, a country where its own citizens must ask for a visa to visit it; he never saw the sons that were left behind after he left. One of them, who also happen to carry his name, became an amateur Champion in the Island and currently is a trainer. Neither has Sugar Ramos met any of his grandchildren and great-grandchildren. The Cuban regime doesn't forget his resonant success as an independent professional boxer, and his personal way to be a Negro. Nor does the accusing finger of Bob Dylan, although he doesn't mention him.

“Who killed Davey Moore

Why an' what's the reason for?

"Not me," says the man whose fists

Laid him low in a cloud of mist,

Who came here from Cuba's door

Where boxing ain't allowed no more.

"I hit him, yes, it's true,

But that's what I am paid to do.

Don't say 'murder,' don't say 'kill.'

It was destiny, it was God's will."

Holding back the tears, hitting repeatedly his fist on the palm of the other hand, Sugar Ramos concluded with a bitter gesture: "What are we going to do boy, that's the way the world turns".

FOOTNOTES:

* They were Luís Manuel Rodríguez, Ultiminio "Sugar" Ramos, José "Mantequilla" Nápoles and José Legrá. This last one was crowned World Champion as Spaniard.

* * There were two African-American boxers and Champions of the world with the same name, Davey Moore. Both died before the age of thirty. The Davey Moore we refer to in our story was a native of Lexington, Kentucky who then lived in Springfield, Ohio. He died in a hospital in Los Angeles, 1963 as a consequence of the fight against Sugar Ramos at Dodger Stadium. The other Davey Moore made his career in the eighties and was a native of New York. He died tragically in 1988 run over by his own car. Another mysterious coincidence. Source: Wikipedia.

*** "Neurologists determined the injury could not have been caused by a punch. Viewing a videotape of the fight, they focused on Moore's fall against the bottom rope late in the 10th round. In what a doctor called a ¨million-to-one¨ accident, the rope had struck Moore like an expert's karate blow". San Fransisco Chronicle, Friday, July 27, 2001.

**** Cited by Enrique Encinosa: "Azúcar y Chocolate, historia del boxeo cubano", ("Sugar and Chocolate, history of Cuban boxing").

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1szz9IXj_7c

(Versión en español aquí.)

My very first post when I started this blog was a link to some recordings by Yoruba Andabo I call "Cajones Bullangueros." A friend gave me a cassette copy of the recordings a few years earlier and it quickly became one of my favorite rumba records.

I digitized the tape, put the tracks on a CD and designed a little cover, calling the whole thing "Cajones Bullangueros," which I thought was an apt title, considering the instrumentation used and the inclusion of a standout track by that name. (Most of the other songs were later released (in different versions) on their classic "El callejón de los rumberos.")

The homemade cover

But as great as the recordings were, there was surprisingly little information about them out there. Although they appeared to have been professionally recorded, they didn't appear in any discography I could find.

There were only a couple of clues to go on: I noticed that parts of some of the tracks had been used in the films "Quién Baila Aquí" and "En El País de Los Orichas," and the fact that the engineer's voice could be heard announcing the track names suggested that these were tapes for a recording that had never been released.

Then a few years ago I was introduced to Elio Ruiz, the director of "Quién Baila Aquí" and "En El País de Los Orichas," who had just moved to New York. I learned that it was he who had made these recordings, specifically to use on the soundtracks of those films. He was surprised to find that the recordings had somehow made their way out of Cuba and were now circulating around the world.

So the mystery was solved but as time passes these recordings just keep getting better. They offer an all-too-rare glimpse of a moment, a group, and a style that have passed into history but remain as a touchstone for current and future generations.

Compared to many of the latest rumba releases, so obsessed with percussion pyrotechnics and "guarapachangueo" (which in my opinion has now come to mean "a license to overplay" more often than not) the playing here is more straightforward.

Although the performances are all strong, energetic and confident, and the cajones are indeed "bullangueros," there is a feeling of relaxed understatement throughout. Truly this is "rumba sin alarde" — no showing off from anyone.

The production quality is refreshingly natural, with none of the over-produced, cast-of-thousands coros like in recent recordings, which lose in "sentimiento" whatever they may gain in harmonic perfection.

Another thing it has going for it is a great repetoire. There are no weak songs here, all of them are first-rate, and in a variety of styles: besides guaguancó and columbia, there is Protesta Carabalí with its Abakuá section, and the first recording as a guaguancó of Pedro Flores' bolero "Perdón," a true stroke of genius, presumably on the part of Malanga, the group's vocal director.

And finally, to me it's important for remaining the most complete documentation we have of the voice of Calixto Callava, one of the great rumberos of all time.

I recently spoke with Elio. I was happy to hear that he is planning a 20th anniversary DVD edition of "Quién Baila Aquí," and plans to release a remastered edition of these historic recordings as a bonus CD. I asked him to tell me the story behind "Cajones Bullangueros," and here is his reply:

Dear Barry,

I wanted to reply briefly to your request to tell the history of the recording you've called "Cajones Bullanqueros." Here's how it happened.

In the summer of 1989 we were involved in the production of a documentary (later to be known as "Quién Baila Aquí: La rumba sin lentejuelas") with the Cuban "rumba de cajón" group Yoruba Andabo.

Cover of VHS edition of

"Quién Baila Aquí"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vd46XTiev7o

This effort, being without a budget and against the tide, without a doubt demanded all the love and altruistic willpower possible from the visual and musical production team.

Only one civil servant aware of the cultural importance of the topic, Mr. R. D., helped us with the teams that were under his administration, over the objections of the others who followed orders only reluctantly.

Elio Ruiz, during the filming of the

"rumba de solar" sequence in "Quien baila aquí"

Solar "La Madama." Cayo Hueso, Havana, 1989.

Foto: Courtesy Elio Ruiz

Even so, every day of recording was a battle and a conquest, exactly what is now called, in the jargon of independent cinema production, a "guerilla production."

One of my difficulties as producer of this project was to find a free studio where we could adequately record Yoruba Andabo.

Suddenly, the solution arrived thanks to one of our friends at the Escuela Internacional de Cine y Televisión de San Antonio de los Baños, in Havana Province. A Mexican named Samuel Larson Guerra, at the time a student and now a distinguished professional of sound design and cinema post-production in Mexico.

Escuela Internacional de Cine y Televisión

de San António de los Baños

This friend had the idea to make an "unauthorized incursion," that is, "guerilla-like," into the facilities of the school to make a clandestine recording of the soundtrack.

We feared that if we followed the more correct route of making a formal request, we would be rejected, the project dealing as it did with the "rowdy" rumba, made by "marginals."

In those days, national folklore was not so politically palatable as it was later, when the fall of the Berlin Wall and the collapse of the Soviet Union unleashed a real frenzy of afrocuban mysticism in the supposedly atheo-communist island.

Consuequently, the voice we hear identifying the tracks of this historic first musical production of Yoruba Andabo (which, by the way, will turn 20 this year) is that of "Sammy" Larson, as he was known by his friends in San Tranquilino, home of the EICTV.

The members of Yoruba Andabo called him "El Azteca." They had faith that he would make them famous. In a certain way this happened, but it was because they insisted in perfecting their work.

SAMMY WRITES:

"When I arrived in Cuba in December of 1986, as part of the first generation of students of the Escuela Internacional de Cine y Televisión, I had a pretty vague idea of what was Cuban.

Back then, as a "chilango" (Mexico City native), my favorite popular music was rock. From Cuba I heard mostly Nueva Trova and as a classical guitar student I was a big admirer of Leo Brouwer.

On the other hand, it was common back then at parties in Mexico to dance to Los Van Van's "Ven y Muévete." But outside of that, I must confess I was mostly ignorant of the richness and variety of cuban popular music.

I didn't know for sure what a guaguancó was, much less a "rumba de cajón." In those times, for me, the Caribbean was still something to be discovered, because although I liked reggae a lot and Bob Marley was one of my idols, the notion of the importance of Africa in Caribbean music and culture was not yet substantiated by direct, daily knowledge.

Towards the end of my first year in Cuba, I had the pleasure to meet Elio Ruíz, and after finding we had many common interests we quickly became close friends.

And so it was that we began our incursions of the streets and solares of Centro Habana and Cayo Hueso, places of ill repute, which some warned us to stay away from as places infested with anti-social and marginal types.

Nevertheless, for a group of students of EICTV, our stay in Cuba was spent in good measure between the school (an hour from Havana) and those Habanero neighborhoods where on any corner or in the patio of any solar one could run into a rumba de cajón, a vital and powerful expression of Cuban music in it's most African form.

In those solares and rumbas, I learned to appreciate and understand the clave and the tumbao, the vitality of the cultural sincretism of African tradition, the love of dance and the party, anyway, what ended up being for me, the heart of "cuban-ness."

It was in this context that I met Yoruba Andabo. When Elio suggested we record them in the sound studios of EICTV, where I was taking my first steps as a soundman, I immediately agreed.

The original recording was made onto 1" tape using a Studer 8-track machine.

Microphones were mostly Beyer M80, and probably some other lapel or tie-clip mics were used as well. As best I can remember no effects of any sort were used in the recording nor in the mixing. We sought to record the group in the most natural manner possible, which fortunately we were able to do. Nevertheless there was no mastering of the mix.

Studer 8-track machine

The original 1" tape was lost in the shuffle of school life and I have to say that when I looked for it and couldn't find it, I was very sorry not to have taken better care of it. The recording that remains is the stereo mix.

Given my limited experience, I think the result was surprisingly good, largely due to the high musical quality of all the members of the group, since everything was accomplished in a single session in single takes. And later, in the mixdown, thanks to the strict supervision of Giovanni and Malanga.

Back then I didn't give to much importance to the subject, I was just happily helping out my friend Elio, since the music was for "Quién baila aquí," the documentary he was making at the time, and also helping Yoruba Andabo, a group which for me represented all the wonderful things I had discovered in the streets and solares of Centro Habana."

ELIO CONTINUES:

Today many people know this recording—there are even those who have taken economic advantage of it, exerting no more effort than making pirated copies—without knowing the whole story, and what this friend Sammy risked to make it happen. When the directors of the school found out, they threatened to take disciplinary action against him.

Luckily these were no more than threats. As for me, I was prohibited from returning to the facilities of the school. Being able to put a name on the "black" list would be sufficient to soothe their "white" bureaucratic consciences.

The original group Yoruba Andado was formed by workers from the port of Havana, many now passed away.

They were:

Chan [Juan Campos Cárdenas]

Giovanni [del Pino]

[Pedro Celestino] Fariñas

†"Pancho Kinto"

†"El Chori" [Jacinto Scull Castillo]

†Callabas [Calixto Callava]

†Marino [Justo Marino Garcia]

"El Chiqui" [Ricardo Campos Lastra]

"Palito" [Orlando Lage Bouza]

and the musical director at the time was †"Malanga" [Rolando Rodriguez Oliva] (the other one, that is, the percussionist of the Orquesta Jorrín, and not the legendary rumbero from Matanzas [José Rosário Oviedo]).

The session at San Tranquilino was pure jazz, pure swing, that smooth "sentimiento manana," although still showing a few "defects" of a group which was not quite professional.

Listening to it today, I can evoke those times...

I can see Pancho Kinto with the only tooth left in his depopulated jaws, striking the cajón, the floor, and a bell, all with a spoon, a utensil I had never seen or heard used before in such a magical way.

I can see "El Chori," with his eyes closed, deep into the fabric of the rhythm, searching for the exact spot to place the drum stroke which, followed by more, make the quinto an instrument similar to the drumset in jazz, when performing a solo in the tiny space of 15 square centimeters. (After all, the rumba is the authentic Cuban Jazz, and it wasn't in vain that a Cuban rumbero like Chano Pozo made that relationship obvious.)

Giovanni, the leader of the group, I can see him too, raising the voices and playing the claves with impeccable time.

Chan, putting the flavor of aguardiente on his floreos, at times even surrealistic.

The smiling Fariñas, always smiling the same if he was singing a solo or in the coro.

And the unforgettable Calixto Callava, himself a classic, for his elegance and his composition of boleros and rumbas, with an unmistakable voice, yet in which one can hear the weakness form the lung cancer with which he was suffering. [Calixto Callava died a year and a half later, on December 19, 1990. — Ed.]

The real beauty of this tape perhaps is that it represents a style of rumba very close to that which these rumberos played themselves almost daily after getting off work at the docks, either on the counter of the bar at "Two Brothers," or with the drawers of a piece of furniture found in a solar where one of them lived.

Due to the clandestine circumstances of production, there was no opportunity to repeat takes. All the tracks are "Take one." The unrivaled distinctive characteristic of rumba de cajón is that it can be started up with anything that makes a sound when it is struck. The hood of a car will do, as will an empty pot. The cajón was, in its time, a substitute for the drum—when the drum was banned but the spanish authorities—and ended up being a unique form of its own.

So, in honor of the departed (Ibaé) who are present on this tape, I think it's very good that you make it available to all those lovers of rumba who want to download it from your page. It is the least we can do to avert the unscrupulous pirating of whoever thinks they have more rights than the others. Let it be for the enjoyment and benefit for all.

Thanks for your effort in spreading the rumba and helping rumberos cubanos on the island. They need it. It's encouraging to me to see the love that you have for this genre of cuban music.

Sincerely,

Elio Ruiz

Elio Ruiz is a Cuban filmmaker living in the United States. He has written for theater, television, movies and the print media. He has participated in productions in Cuba, Germany, Mexico and United States. In addition, he has taught drama, screenwriting workshops, and has been an acting coach for several institutions, including Cuba’s International School of Cinema and Television, the Universidad Autónoma de Mexico (UNAM), Centro de Capacitación Cinematográfica (known as C.C.C.), the Lumière Institute, the Cuauhtémoc University of Puebla, and Cinecipac, Mexico.

As screenwriter, filmmaker, and producer, he was recognized with several national and international awards and honorable mentions in the categories of Documentary and Documentary Mini Series, including the “Caracol” Award from Cuba’s Writer and Artist Union (UNEAC). In 1989 and 1990, he received the “Coral” Award at Havana’s International Film Festival for Miniseries Documentary and Documentary, respectively. Besides, he has received the “Pitirre” Award from Cine San Juan, Puerto Rico Film Festival, for best producer and documentary director for “Quien Baila Aquí (la rumba sin lentejuelas)”, “Who Dances Here (rumba without spangles)”.

His creative and journalistic writing has been published in Cuba, Mexico, Spain, Argentina and United States. Currently, he is working on several new projects. He is preparing a documentary movie about the Diaspora of Cuba’s professional boxers and former World Boxing Champion Sugar Ramos (member of the International Boxing Hall of the Fame in Canastota, New York State).

The 20th Anniversary bilingual version of "Quién Baila Aquí" will be available soon. The soundtrack will be included as a bonus CD.

Samuel Larson Guerra was born in Mexico City in 1963. In 1982 he enrolled in the Escuela Nacional de Música. From 1984 to 1986 he worked in the Cineteca Nacional in the Departamento de Documentación e Investigación. From 1987 to 1990 he studied cinematography at the Escuela Internacional de Cine y Televisión (EICTV) in Cuba.

Since 1991 he has worked professionally in film as Sound Designer and Editor, and also scored original music for films.

He worked as an Editor on the television documentary series "Mujeres y Poder" which won a National Journalism Award in 2000 for best television documentary series. Since 1991 up to the present he has taught classes and workshops in sound and editing for filmboth in Mexico and abroad. He is an active member of the Academia Mexicana de Artes y Ciencias Cinematográficas since August 2008.

http://esquinarumbera.blogspot.com/search/label/Yoruba%20Andabo

DE LA NECESIDAD DEL GUION AL ALCANCE DEL GUIONISMO

(en la historia del cine)

© Elio Ruiz, 2008

“Con un buen guión, un buen director puede realizar una obra maestra; con el mismo guión, un director mediocre puede lograr una película aceptable. Pero con un guión malo, un buen director tampoco podría lograr una buena película”.

A. Kurozawa

El guión cinematográfico es, como se ha dicho en innumerables ocasiones por los más diversos autores, el esquema de una película y al mismo tiempo el lugar donde reside la sustancia del fenómeno narrativo, es decir, el cuento, lo que cuenta y lo contado. Es también el plan general y por partes del relato que, a su vez, constituye el objetivo en sí del guionista y su producto heurístico. El mito por ratos recurrente de la película de ficción producida sin guión es exactamente eso, un mito emanado de la mentalidad arrogante de algunos cineastas y también del humano exhibicionismo que no sólo se manifiesta en maquillajes y adornos. Creer por ejemplo que El Proyecto de la Bruja de Blair se produjo sin guión, sólo por la dinámica documental que refleja su narrativa, sería una cándida ingenuidad de público en general - como dice la clasificación- justamente al que va dirigido el “engaño”. Sin embargo, no importa cuál haya sido la estratagema, lo importante de una película es que nos emocione, nos intrigue y en consecuencia nos entretenga. Para eso pagamos la entrada a la sala. Y con este prerrequisito El Proyecto de la Bruja de Blair cumple ampliamente.

Incluso cuando se prescinda efectivamente de un guión sobre el papel -para ciertos documentales, quizá- esto no quiere decir que el realizador no lo tenga al menos en la cabeza, mientras lo filma. Sería como admitir que no tiene ninguna idea o enseñanza emocional que compartir- en primer lugar con el elenco artístico y el equipo técnico-, lo que haría insostenible el concepto en sí de propuesta que se supone es toda obra audiovisual. Aun cuando su ideología artística sea “antinarrativa” la necesidad de crear un sentido -como asimismo un contrasentido- descansa en el imperativo de comunicar algo en el tiempo, de establecer un discurso y desplegar la emoción de la experiencia humana. Esas mismas necesidades le obligaría a guionizar en cualquiera de sus variantes dentro de una estrategia, o dicho de otro modo, establecer y desarrollar la idea o el tema para instituir una base común de entendimiento con el colectivo de producción, en primer lugar, y con el público al que va dirigido, que es su principal objetivo de comunicación.

Un caso clásico particularmente permeado de sustratos ideológicos lo es la cinta Casablanca, de Michael Curtis. La urgencia de hacer coincidir el estreno de la misma con la reunión en Marruecos de los líderes de la alianza antinazi para coordinar las operaciones de la contraofensiva de 1942, llevó a los productores, llegado el momento, a prescindir del tratamiento final del guión cinematográfico, confiados en el texto base, la obra teatral inédita Everybody goes to Rick´s, de los autores Murray Burnett y Joan Alison. La literatura dramática, como se sabe, no es sino una guía de instrucciones para una puesta en escena, o dicho de otro modo, no se escribe teatro para ser leído en silencio –aunque disfrutemos leer los tratamientos poéticos del teatro de W. Shakespeare y otros autores clásicos y modernos-, sino para ser visto y escuchado, es decir presenciado en el espacio y el tiempo, al igual que el propio cine. Dicho de otro modo, ambos son medios miméticos. Aquella urgencia de los productores de Casablanca -en respuesta a la demanda política por tener algo para celebrar el evento del pacto de los Aliados que tendría lugar en la ciudad marroquí del mismo nombre y estimular de esta manera la movilización de las masas estadounidenses hacia la llamada Segunda Guerra Mundial- les trajo muchísimos dolores de cabeza a los productores e incluso a los actores que sólo lograron sortear las dificultades de la improvisación gracias al talento del equipo artístico y técnico, cuyos guionistas fueron en orden de cesación los hermanos Epstein y Howard Koch. Aún después del rodaje, hubo necesidad de regrabar diálogos y por tanto escenas, lo que significa que no hubo un tratamiento realmente final del guión literario, sino del propio guión de montaje.

En conclusión, sin premisa claramente definida (logline en inglés), consistencia y coherencia dramatúrgicas, ni el encanto de Ingrid Berman ni la personalidad carismática de Humphrey Bogart, acompañados por la cálida voz de Sam al piano, les habría salvado del fracaso. Hoy tenemos a Casablanca como una de las más famosas películas de amor de la historia del cine, aun cuando su premisa general es una verdadera paradoja al respecto: el deber es más importante que el amor. Enseñanza moral fundamental para movilizar al público hacia la guerra, justo cuando los Estados Unidos estaba en vísperas de involucrarse masivamente en el escenario bélico europeo. Sin embargo, es esta la ideología o sistema de valores que ha llevado a personas de los más diversos orígenes y clases sociales y a lo largo de todos los tiempos a caer en graves errores de perspectiva existencial, por cuanto en realidad nada es más importante que el amor, excepto sus compañeras inseparables, la vida y la muerte. De este tipo de doctrina jerarquizante -a la que todos estamos sometidos por necesidad - surgen muchos agravios, desengaños y amarguras, pero es el tipo de lógica que los gobernantes se ven obligados a difundir con el objeto de someter a las masas en tiempos de crisis. Es el tipo de dolor que todo espectador individual ya conoce sea como víctima o victimario. En un sentido contrario al que indica la premisa del citado film, reza una máxima - nos recuerda Marshall Berman: “La razón es la esclava de las pasiones, dijo Hume (...) No es la razón en sí la que junta a la gente o la destruye, sino el corazón...”; agrega el autor de ¨Todo lo sólido se desvanece en el aire¨. No obstante ello, que también es verdad, la premisa de Casablanca resulta, por su negatividad autodestructiva implícita, de un mensaje al mismo tiempo racional y conmovedor que hace de ella un verdadero paradigma moderno en el muy habitado paisaje de la cultura de masas. De paso, recordemos que Homero - ¡eran otros tiempos! – estableció una premisa completamente emocional –rescatar a Helena- para justificar la guerra de los griegos contra Troya, no obstante sea esta una sublimación de las motivaciones verdaderamente materiales que empujaron a las partes a dicha epopeya.

Otro ejemplo digno de análisis lo es Acorazado Potenkin, que no es más que un fragmento de un libro cinematográfico más amplio que abarcaba varios episodios relacionados con la frustrada Revolución rusa de 1905. Razones políticas y de producción - es decir finanzas- impidieron la culminación del proyecto tal y como estaba originalmente concebido en el libro, lo que no impide que el cortometraje resultante de un episodio aislado tenga la suficiente fuerza de síntesis dramática y expresión simbólica como para ubicarse entre las obras maestras de la historia del cine. Es a nuestro juicio un caso típico de hiperguionización por defecto, ya que S. Eisenstein como cineasta montador, particularmente en el primer periodo de su carrera, daba la mayor relevancia al proceso de edición, donde finalmente armaba el sentido de sus obras confrontando planos sin aparente relación entre sí, pero totalmente ligados a una idea preconcebida de provocar sensaciones e ideas resultantes de tipo político-didáctico y de paso, durante aquellos experimentos, descubrió un lenguaje épico totalmente nuevo. Para él los planos eran semas con valores relativos como las palabras en la oración. Sus primeros guiones fueron apuntes para una gramática posterior altamente discursiva. En contraste, su guión para el malogrado proyecto “¡Que Viva México!”, es ya una muestra de literatura cinematográfica elevada al plano de la poesía, como también la concebía el dramaturgo y actor francés Antonin Artaud –curiosamente también iluminado tras un viaje mágico a México-, la que anticipa con claridad un montaje no lineal desde el mismísimo guión. La idea de Eisenstein era tejer un zarape de imágenes que reflejase la complejidad de México en 1930, veinte años después del estallido de la Revolución Mexicana. El hecho de que los inversionistas no comprendieran bien lo que quería hacer este gran creador y pensador –además el guión estaba originalmente escrito en ruso y sus productores eran Upton Sinclair y su esposa, dos liberales norteamericanos sin el conocimiento de ese idioma- dio al traste con el proyecto, lo que sin dudas constituye quizás el más desgarrador aborto de la historia del cine. Dentro de la concepción de la Psicología Pragmática habría que ver cuánto de guión de vida hubo en este fracaso.

Por último, otro ejemplo. El guión de Taxi Driver de Paul Schrader que cuenta con la leyenda de haber sido escrito en un tiempo record, fue completado, rellenado, interpretado de manera creativa no sólo por su director Martin Scorsese y otros colaboradores suyos, sino por el propio protagonista Robert de Niro, particularmente en la notable escena del monólogo -en realidad diálogo con sus fantasmas sicóticos- que sostiene el personaje protagónico frente al espejo. El guión sólo apunta: “Travis se mira en el espejo”. Esas seis palabras (en inglés cuatro) fueron convertidas en todo un ejercicio de actuación y puesta en cámara, escena sin la cual dicha película no sería la misma en lo absoluto. Un ejemplo más de los aportes de la improvisación razonada al guionismo, si tomamos a este como lo que es: una guía para la acción.

De forma que el guionismo está presente de principio a fin en el proceso creativo aunque los guionistas ocupen un lugar más bien relegado en el stablishment cinematográfico. Sin embargo, les quieran o no a los guionistas -¿por qué será?-, actualmente es inimaginable un productor en el riesgo de invertir dinero en un proyecto cuyos lineamientos no estén fundamentados previamente en términos de forma, contenido y mercadeo. Un productor sabe o debería saber que un determinado contenido coloca su producto en un determinado mercado y la escritura del guión es justamente la fase donde el contenido de una película comienza a prefigurarse, a tratarse, donde alcanza forma dramática la fábula y el relato que, en todo caso, es lo que vende. Un buen guión debe ser capaz de permitir la visualización total de la película y también su desglose parcial sin que pierda articulación. En el nivel de la producción, el guión es un tercio del todo; en el plano conceptual, es la base del todo; y en el guión literario, léase plan o estrategia narrativa, convertido posteriormente en escritura técnica, participan o deberían participar ciertamente cada uno los involucrados en el proceso creativo, justo después de salir de la imaginación del autor y antes de plasmarse en imágenes fotográficas o electrónicas. El guionista debería asimilar dicho brainstorming antes de acometer un tratamiento final. No debería tener la actitud de un literato aislado y omnisciente, atormentado y neurótico, sino la de un miembro del equipo creativo y responsable de la ejecución del proyecto. Sin embargo, o tal vez por lo mismo, sabemos de directores como el propio John Houston quien afirmaba que él no encontraba diferencia entre escribir y dirigir, sino que esto último era para él una extensión de lo primero. Es decir, hay realizadores que vieron, ven y verán al cine como una suerte de escritura.

En un trabajo de clase, una de mis alumnas en el Centro de Capacitación Cinematográfica de México- de origen asiático ella- resumió como sigue lo que pasa con la idea, el guión y la película, según su criterio:

“...me acuerdo de una enseñanza de Buda cuando descubrió que sus alumnos tenían fuertes apegos hacia el budismo: dice que `después de cruzar un río, ya no es necesario llevar una lancha. Si la quieres conservar cargándola no es posible avanzar rápido y ligero. Así que deben dejar el budismo después de aprenderlo sin amarrarse con ningún apego´. En este caso, el guión puede ser como una lancha y la película como un río: un guión guía y procura llevar una película hacia un objetivo claro. Y la idea de una película es como un río que siempre se transforma, el que es posible de remontar por medio del guión”.

Puede que la analogía sea correcta respecto al guión literario y al técnico - dos fases de un proceso-, no así respecto al guionismo como tal, que transita todas las etapas incluyendo la publicidad y la crítica, que precede y acompaña a la distribución. En efecto, la utilidad del guión literario termina justo cuando culmina el montaje. Con el wrap up del rodaje, la mayoría de los involucrados se deshacen del libro, como las mariposas de la envoltura de la crisálida. Creo que a eso se refería Heun-hee, la estudiante de cine coreana autora de las líneas precedentes. Pero no hay que equivocarse: el guión seguirá formando parte del contenido y la estructura del film con lo cual consigue una materialidad en el tiempo, de la que nada finalmente podrá sustraerlo, excepto el deterioro del soporte material de la película misma. Incluso el guión juega un rol ulterior en las reacciones y los comentarios del público durante la exhibición o a la salida de la sala de proyección.

“Yo soy Malcom X” , dicen los niños de diversas razas de un salón de clases en el epílogo de la película biográfica acerca del luchador afroamericano guionizada y dirigida por Spike Lee. Recurso distanciador este del tipo épico-brechtiano como corolario de un discurso de indentificación dentro de una narrrativa clásica seguida hasta la penúltima secuencia. En resumen, es la conclusión o moraleja del autor respecto a la fábula que nos ofreció, la reconstrucción de esta última en términos didácticos, si nos atenemos a la concepción de la poética de Brecht . Invitación anti-catártica del autor a pensar, más allá del suspiro. La idea o premisa que debe permanecer trabajando en la mente del espectador, más allá de la emoción.

La tendencia de algunos directores jóvenes ansiosos por romper moldes es creer que a última hora se puede improvisar en la locación, durante el rodaje, a lo Casablanca, cuando en realidad sólo se puede improvisar -es valiente y resulta fructífero hacerlo en ciertas circunstancias- cuando se tiene bien claro lo que se quiere decir y cómo se puede decir, en última instancia. Las buenas improvisaciones son el resultado de las mejores preparaciones. Esto lo saben muy bien los mejores intérpretes del jazz. La puesta en escena de Evrerybody goes to Richk´s... fue el guión para la puesta en cuadro de Casablanca, si nos servimos de la terminología de Eisenstein. Pero esta última lógica, que es reduccionista de la primera, necesitaba su propia guionística específicamente cinematográfica y fue allí donde se tropezaron con problemas dada la urgencia política de estrenar la película a tiempo. No obstante, remontaron la corriente adversa y llegaron, como sabemos, a buen puerto.

Tener una idea para una película -que es una forma particular de relato-, es poco menos que nada si no está plasmada en el papel, ya sea con palabras o dibujos. De hecho, todos podemos concebir ideas más o menos interesantes, pero muy pocos cuentan con la actitud y la aptitud necesarias de insistir en el proceso de dar a las mismas la estructura adecuada y desarrollarlas paso a paso, con paciencia, modestia y determinación. De manera que lo primero que honestamente usted debería de preguntarse a sí mismo antes de aventurarse en el oficio, sería: Es verdad que estoy lleno de ideas, pero ¿tengo el suficiente deseo de transformarlas en historias audiovisuales cualesquiera sean los desafíos? ¿Seré paciente con mi propia impaciencia hasta el punto final? ¿Aceptaré críticas y sugerencias acerca del resultado, sin sentirme injustificadamente agredido o humillado del todo? Sólo usted mismo, estimado amigo, podrá dar respuesta a esas importantes cuestiones cuyas respuestas harán de usted un buen guionista o no. Lo mismo es aplicable a quienes pretenden dirigir cine, los cuales con frecuencia son sus propios guionistas, en particular entre los llamados “Independientes”.

La práctica del guión nos permite la primera aproximación a la narrativa audiovisual, porque implica incluso el llamado guión gráfico o storyboard donde se evidencian las ideas. El guionismo es un proceso y se desarrolla por fases, como si de elevar un edificio se tratase. Primero se hacen estudios de suelo para medir su resistencia, luego se caba profundo en el subsuelo para cimentar y construir el sótano hasta el primer piso desde donde la estructura comienza a elevarse hasta el último nivel. Después de esto son relllenados cada uno de los pisos. En el caso del guión, partimos de una emoción (subsuelo), antes que de una idea (planta). Pero aquella emoción y aquella idea debería convertirse en una premisa (estructura primaria), que desplegada en el espacio-tiempo nos permitirá llegar a la estructura exterior (paradigma) y finalmente a la segmentación interior de pisos que vendrían a ser las secuencias de descripciones de los ambientes y acciones de los personajes, a su vez divididos en habitciones o escenas. Las fases del proceso total se da de la siguiente manera:

Idea_Historia_Premisa_Argumento_Sinopsis_ Linea de la historia_Tratamiento_

Adaptación_Desglose_Guión-Gráfico_Guión Técnico_Guión de Montaje.

Dicho sea, a manera de conclusión, con la cita de una recomendación de S. Eisenstein:

“!Pensad en las fases de un proceso!”

New York City, Oct.-Nov.- 2008

eliobern@gmail.com

Yoruba Andabo: El Niño Rey