I love Deborah Ross’s movie reviews in The Spectator. The poor woman mostly seems doomed to have to see films that disappoint, and when she says to stay away I usually do. Conversely, when she gives something a really big huzzah…hey, I’m there.
So I had to dash out to see “The Painted Veil”, which made our Deborah weep, apparently. I was one of the only people aged under 50 in the cinema, so I could tell right away that it was a Serious Proper Film for Grown-Ups and not like the usual eye-candy I usually go to see. (Art cinema, moi?)
Actually it wasn’t very arty at all, which explains the multiplex distribution. Instead it was a good-old-fashioned emotional drama told really well, with no fancy footwork. I loved the screenplay, which ticked all the boxes I can remember reading in Robert McKee’s ‘Story’ as well as a pretty strong Hero’s Journey for the Naomi Watts character, Kitty. I read somewhere that in the Extreme Love Story genre the lovers actually fall into the roles of Protagonist and Antagonist. I can’t remember seeing this technique better and more subtly executed than in this film. You can keep your histrionics and your ‘Frankly-my-dear-I-don’t-give-a-damn’s; what could be more touching than two people accepting each other’s minor failings as human beings, learning who they really are and falling deeply in love?
I thought I’d get away without crying…until they played that song À la claire fontaine. Nostalgia overwhelmed me; I remembered singing that song at school in French class.
I was warned once about the soppiness of middle-age by my father. He used to stream tears at sad movies and Italian opera. As a teenager I’d watch him, all crisply dry-eyed and make some cutting remark. “Wait until you’re in your forties,” he’d say, “and there’s nothing more beautiful than crying at Italian opera.”
Santiago de Cuba as seen from the balcony of Sandra’s house. We had a similar view in a house where we were taught by one of the most wonderful dancers I’ve ever seen – a young Afro-Cuban called Yoannis (it IS his real name – he deserves to be famous, he is AMAZING!)
Here’s a clip of Yoannis dancing his smooth, Santiago-style salsa at the Casa de la Trova – where I danced with him.
We met him in the Casa de la Trova, where the world’s best son cubano bands perform. This is where Compay Segundo, Eliades Ochoa and those Buena Vista old guys used to play. It’s an old house just off Parque Cespedes, the main square in Santiago. On the second floor, with an open balcony which overlooks the nearby alleyway, wooden ceiling fans fail to cool the air. By the time theyve danced a few numbers, all non-Cubans are glistening with sweat. The Cubans, however, wear white, stay cool and glide effortlessly across the floor, dancing in their unique Santiago style. We watch, mesmerised as old couples take the floor to the music of ‘Los Jubilados’ (the Retirees). In the hall next door, Yulieski takes me for a spin. He dances beautifully, quite unlike the Habaneros. It’s graceful, his left arm stays rigid in the ballroom hold and he guides me around the hall. Before long, I’m totally converted to the Santiago style.
We’ve told Yulieski that we want to learn to dance son, the old dance from which salsa takes many of its basic moves. He finds a guy he knows, a dance teacher – Yoannis – signalling to the young dancer that I’d like a dance. Yoannis looks me up and down very briefly. He stares at me archly. “Salsa or son?” “Son,” I say. “The timing is different,” and begins to move. “2,3,4…6,7,8. See? Not like salsa, on the 1.” We begin to dance. He doesn’t try anything fancy – dance teachers rarely show off with a dancer they don’t know. And I asked him to dance…so I get the bored-but-dutiful act. Yulieski watches. He’s from Santiago but he’s never tried dancing son. “I think of it as for older people,” he admits. “But it looks pretty good…”
Sandra and Odris, Yulieski’s girlfriend, are there too, but only Pupa seems to be having a good time. Odris looks bored rigid. “There’s a Casa de la Musica here in Santiago too,” she hints. “They play reggaeton.”
Reggaeton! The youngsters are all mad for it. No need for partners and no need to learn steps.
After the band finish, the DJ plays salsa and timba. People dance between the tables – the dance floor is too small. Yoannis takes a stick-thin Cuban woman by the hand as Adalberto Alvarez’s homage to the orishas of the Santeria religion, “Y Que Tu Quiere Que Te Den” begins to play. They begin to dance – son mixed with salsa. It’s a casual dance, improvised, but better than any performance I’ve seen, with the possible exception of Rafael di Busto and Janet Fuentes, the world champions of salsa. Once the chorus starts to salute the orishas – Yoannis and his partner break apart and begin to dance folkloric style – rumba and proper African dancing, laughing and joking, teasing each other. Our eyes are popping out at how amazing they are. The table next door is filled with European women. One of them leans over and tells us “He’s our dance teacher. Why don’t you get him to give you a private lesson?”
Later, trying to cool off on the balcony, I meet Yoannis and ask him for a private lesson. “How much do you charge?” “Have you got a thousand dollars?” he says. “No..how much for two hours?” “Well…if you don’t have a thousand dollars…then I charge ten dollars per hour per person.”
We meet Yoannis the next afternoon and he walks us through the streets of Santiago, saluting pals on the way, to a house where he’s borrowing the front room. There he spend an hour correcting some bad habits we’ve picked up in salsa, then we get down to the task in hand.
We’ve asked Yoannis to show us how to dance contratiempo – counter-time – the timing and movements of son, to the music of salsa. Proper Cuban salsa should mix son, mambo and rumba. But it isn’t easy! He makes us find the countertime on a whole series of tracks.
Yulieski watches, and dances on his own. As we leave his eyes are gleaming. “Let’s go out tonight and practice!”
We met our very first new Cuban friends within minutes of sitting down to a drink in the secluded patio of the Hotel Sevilla.
All tourists to Cuba (especially those who speak Spanish) will find themselves at some time being asked for stuff – spare soaps, toiletries, clothes, makeup. Everything except food is in very short supply in Cuba and therefore sells for often outrageous prices on the black market or in dollar-only shops. Actually, even food is in short supply – anything but bread, rice and beans. The minimum salary – which most people earn – is equivalent to 225 dollars per month (paid in Moneda National, not actual Cuban Convertible Pesos -CUCs). Tourists are the only route whereby Cubans can earn precious CUCs – known as dollars, to which they are equivalent.
A very Spanish-looking woman started talking to my daughter, asking her in Spanish if she was someone whom the woman had been told to meet. Well, it was probably a ruse to start talking to us. But I was in the market to meet Cubans – we had brought plenty of spare toiletries and clothes to exchange for company and tales of life in Cuba. So we started up a conversation.
The woman, Alicia (not her real name – I’m not going to use real names for any Cuba,s cos they can get into trouble for talking to tourists), was nervous about approaching us. The ubiquitous hotel security guards who try to stop ordinary Cubans entering hotels and talking to tourists had their beady eyes on her. She looked Spanish, rather than Afro-Cuban, so didn’t attract immediate attention. But she was still anxious, so we invited her to sit down with us for a drink. She accepted readily and then brought in her much more Cuban-looking boyfriend, Giovannis. They turned out to be from the eastern part of the island – Guantanamo and had relatives in Santiago de Cuba. Lucky for us -we’re in the market for making friends in the Oriente, where we’ll be in a few days.
Was Alicia a hustler – albeit a more sophisticated one? She is a primary school teacher, on medical leave in Havana where she’s having some treatment. Yes, the wonderful health system of which Cuba boasts requires people to cross the island (a 18 hour bus trip) for basic treatments, after you’ve endured horrendous queues at the consultants office. ‘There is hardly any tourism in Guantamano province’, she told us, ‘so I’m using the time in Havana to try to pick up some spare stuff from tourists…whatever you have left over.’
I got on rather well with Alicia – a well-read woman who quietly despaired to me about the trials of life in Cuba. We invited her and her partner to join us for a few days, going to the beach, around Havana, dancing at the world-famous salsa dance hall, Casa de La Musica.
‘I’m rubbish at dancing casino,’ Alicia admitted, shattering the illusion that all Cubans can dance salsa (casino is the Cuban term for partner-salsa). ‘I prefer reggaeton. But Giovannis can do it really well.’
Giovannis and I danced to the small Cuban-jazz band (Akana.com) who entertained us in the patio. He dances like someone from the Oriente (east end of Cuba) – small movements, more ballroom-style than the funkier Habaneros.
Behind the archways, the young sound technician danced alone, giving my teenage daughter the eye – any chance of a dance? Daughter gave her sleepy disinterested look. So I danced with him. Only eighteen but he had the confidence to stop me mid-dance and correct my style. ‘Loosen up’, he said. That’s how you have to be to follow Habaneros in casino. Everything is shaking.
Lovely Cristiano Ronaldo scored a Giggs-style goal in the 88th minute. (As in, reminscent of Giggsie’s goal against Arsenal in the FA Cup semi-final in 1999).
Awesome. It was lovely to see Alex Ferguson dancing like a little kid on the touchline.
I remember being in Manchester the night we won the Treble. Could that ever happen again?
A team of scientists and engineers from Cuba dance Rueda de Casino (to Ven, Ven, Ven by Los Van Van). Sigh. I wish any rueda team I’d ever danced with could look that good!
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