Film Review: Che - The Argentine

Films which have been a director’s labour of love often don’t live up to the energy, passion and desire that have been poured into their creation. Martin Scorsese’s dream of creating a great American epic in ‘Gangs of New York’ resulted in a meandering, overlong effort that at times felt artificial and irrelevant. That film was carried by the eye-scratchingly good performance of Daniel Day Lewis who is worth seeing in ‘There Will Be Blood’, a brutal and much more effective dissection of the development of the United States.
But what of Steven Soderbergh’s great Cuban epic, ‘Che’? It is a film that has been split into two parts, indicating that the director is unwilling to make any compromises when depicting the life of the world’s most iconic individual, Ernesto ‘Che’ Guevara. After several false starts and over ten years of preparation, it was the determination of producer Benicio Del Toro that finally brought the story to our screens, and he plays the lead in the film. ‘The Argentine' is part one, following Guevara and Castro’s revolutionaries from their landing in Cuba in 1956. We watch how the guerrilla force is assembled, following them through early skirmishes, their jungle training and finally their march on Havana.
Del Toro portrays Che with a brusque manner and the ambitious values the man came to represent: humble doctor, impassioned leader, skilled tactician, and proud Cuban. His Guevara is wholly likeable, offering his hand in earnest introduction to every villager and recruit he encounters. Yet his principles are not to be compromised, and one of the most striking scenes of the film is when he executes a rapist with dutiful authority. Surprisingly, this is not disturbing in the way you would expect. Throughout the film, Del Toro’s depiction of the Commandante is so steeled with purpose that his cry of ‘patria o muerte’ is chillingly persuasive.
‘The Argentine' is timeless and compelling. Soderbergh often uses a handheld camera as we follow Guevara and his men through the jungle. Cuban drums accompany the snake of uniforms working through the dank green vegetation, giving these sequences an unexpected natural majesty. This action is interspersed with scenes around Guevara’s address to the UN in 1964, and their gritty, monochrome presentation works to ground the film with a sense of drama and history.
Thus, the film’s greatest success is the simplicity of its presentation. There is no attempt to encompass a whole life in some sort of limp Hollywood biopic but let the material speak for itself instead. Del Toro presents us with a man who is stunningly admirable, no matter how you judge the events of his life. There is no attempt to justify the revolution, nor are we asked to condone what Guevara does, only bear witness to the actions of a remarkable human being. It is more than just a Cuban story.
So if ‘The Argentine' could be compared to a Scorsese film, it would be much closer to the equally compelling ‘Raging Bull’. Boxer Jake LaMotta’s indomitable spirit can be seen in Guevara’s thirst for revolution, and no doubt his self-destruction will be similarly rendered in the second film, ‘Guerilla’. Both films are of a time, yet speak beyond it. Whether in the Bronx heat or the Cuban jungle, we are reminded of the passionate, ambitious and violent struggle of our existence.

The Cuban Evolution

This article was written for the school's newspaper, The L, in January 2009 after our return from our holiday in Havana and Varadero.


The Cuban Evolution

How are you my fren’? Where you from? America? Germ’ny? Inglan’? Ingland! You like Hemingway? Hemingway very pop’lar here. Been to Floridita? Bodeguita del Medio? You right, very turista. Very ‘spensive. You see, Cuba is very poor. Here we have very liddle. Ev’ry mon we get rice and beans. But Cuba is very frenly too. You see Cuba an Inglan’ together are friends. Yes, dat’s right. Cuba an Inglan’ are friends together. Is very hard to leave Cuba. How do you leave? Only with invitation or how do you say? ...gettin’ married. We speak many peeple. We make many frens with peeple from America, Germ’ny, Inglan’, Ostralia. Many frens. Maybe you give me address. Maybe we visit you at Inglan’. Lissen my fren’. We going to the festival. What festival? Is a celebration of Cuban culcha. Muy famoso. You know Hemingway? Che Guevara? We celebratin’ the annivesary- yes, dat’s right- the annivesary of the revolution. Fifty years! Is big celebration. No, no, is not far. We show you. Is just up here. The festival.

That’s how we ended up in a bar drinking mojitos with a Cuban couple who were a little younger than us. We knew we were getting scammed early on, but they seemed nice enough and in true British style we were happy to buy someone a drink. The festival turned out to be a quiet bar on the same street where a local man was drinking alone, and we were invited to sign our names on the wall- a gimmick that had been stolen from the Bodeguita del Medio, a bar a few streets over that is famous with tourists.
We talked for about twenty minutes and asked questions about their lives and where they worked. There was never a quiet moment. Both our companions said they were studying at university, the boy to be a pilot and the girl a doctor. They even had a small child together. The funny thing was that at the end of it, we couldn’t remember their names. We had been kept so busy talking that we didn’t have the time to ask questions or take anything else in.
During our conversation, we were both told how poor Cuba was, and how hard it was to get any of the things that we could buy. We knew all this to be true, although there was something conniving about the way it was said. At times we spoke in Spanish, but often they slipped back into phrases of English they seemed to have learnt by heart, especially while we were talking as a group. The boy showed me a one peso note of the national currency, and gave it to me as a gift. All the time they were touching our shoulders, being very familiar as if we were old friends. The boy showed me his trainers. “You see dees? A gift from someone like you. From Inglan’.” Then he picked up my sunglasses and tried them on. “Wha’ you think?” he asked. I apologised and told him that I needed them for my holiday. He laughed uncontrollably, hugged me and put his head on my shoulder. It was hard not to like him, even though I knew he was using me. A silence followed which was a little awkward, but it was soon filled by his girlfriend who now began to ask me questions. The boy then started talking to my girlfriend, Natalie, and so the chat continued.
When we began to talk about cigars, the boy told me that he worked in a cigar factory to earn money while he was studying. He showed me his pass. “See this,” he said, “this for fabrica- for cigar, yes- make cigar- me- in the fabrica.” I said that I did want to buy a few cigars to take home for friends, and he told me he could help. “There are three places in Havana where they make puros, one is Partagas,” (a place I said I was going to), “is another but is far from city,” he said, “an’ there is the mercado. I take you there. Is very cheap. More cheap than Partagas.” I told him that I would like to see where it was and he seemed pleased, finishing his drink.
The bill arrived and it came to 16 cu (the tourist currency created to replace the dollar)- more than double what we had paid elsewhere. It was something we had expected so we paid. During our conversation, we had seen another Cuban bring in a couple of tourists, like us, and now it was obvious why they had left the bar without drinking anything.
We left and followed the younger couple as they led us through the streets of the old town back towards Havana city. Despite her initial enthusiasm to go to the bar, Natalie was now very weary of where we were going. I thought we might as well see the place they were taking us too. What harm could it be?
After a few minutes we were on a street behind one of the big hotels that had been cordoned off with a rope at either end so you could only walk down it. There were many Cubans hanging around by the doors of different buildings- this is not uncommon in Havana- and there were very few shops or other commerical places.
There was no market. Instead we shown to an older man, perhaps in his thirties, standing in front of the whitewashed windows of what looked like an old department store. “This my father- mi padre,” was how he was introduced. The man shook our hands, looked around and then went through a door that led into one of the houses on the street. The boy followed him and gestured us inside. We stopped.
“Look,” I said in Spanish, “thank you but we’re not going inside. I don’t want to buy anything today.” The boy looked at me with disbelief. I repeated what I had said, but still he didn’t believe me. In the end, I offered my hand and said for the last time, “gracias pero no quiero comprar algo hoy.”
Finally it sunk in that we would not take him up on his offer, and now his eyes misted over in quiet sorrow. He continued to shake my hand while looking at my face disconcertedly. I said thank you again and let go. We walked away.
The look on his face was haunting and unforgettable. I am still not sure how I should have read it: desperation, frustration or a genuine sense of melancholy because he was unable to see the deal through? My gut feeling is probably all of them.
The longer we stayed in Havana, the more we felt alienated by the place. As a city, it is compelling. The colonial beauty of the renovated old town contrasts heavily with the dilapidated terraces of fifties townhouses in the city. I have never known anywhere with such a buzz of life. The streets are filled with people- Cubans and tourists- yet there is no sense of danger or urgency that you might find in the capitals of other countries. You can sit at any bar and just soak up the tranquil atmosphere by listening to the lilting guitars of old mariachis, or the faint sound of water lapping at the sea walls.
As Cuba now gains much of its national income from tourists, it seems like the country has been set up just to take your money. You cannot help but feel cheated; every time you make a cash machine withdrawal you are charged a ten percent tax for converting the money to dollars to be taken from your account. There are many tourists shops where the prices are deliberately inflated and I was surprised to see that a bottle of rum I had bought in a corner shop was more expensive in the duty free section of the airport. It hit us most when we were leaving the country. You each have to pay a 30 cu airport tax before you can go through security and enter the departure lounge. Here we were stopped again when our bags were X-rayed as we had bought several pieces of art which were rolled up together. We were sent to a withered old man who examined the canvases and told us we had to pay another 7 cu in taxes, when we had only paid 20 for them both. It was annoying and, after examining the copy of the law for ‘exporting works of art’ that he had ready, we handed over our money at a small booth that was waiting for us.
It was a shame. We had many wonderful experiences in Cuba, including a family dinner to celebrate the New Year with our hosts Milagro and Guadalupe, two old ladies whose house we had been staying in. It was a pleasure to share their food and meet their relations, and to try and get them drunk on the tequila we had bought. This was a rather suicidal attempt, and I was in a worse condition than them by 1am. It didn’t matter, and it was satisfying to meet new people and learn about how they live. Surely that is why we go travelling, after all?
In any case, I was much happier spending my money on them. They too were earning from tourists, but with such a sense of decency and good service that you felt they earned it. Milagro, Guadalupe and her son Javier looked after us, giving us advice on what to buy where, and what not to do. You can imagine their amused looks when we told them about what happened in the bar, as they nodded knowingly in confirmation of the stories of their previous guests.
Despite the cries of siempre la revolucion that are painted proudly on government walls, Cuba is dependent on foreign tourism to keep its economy afloat. In many ways it is a very advanced nation, with free food, shelter and healthcare for all its citizens. If our young friends were to be believed, everyone had the opportunity to study for the best jobs, and indeed one of Milagro’s sisters was a very experienced lawyer. There is no sense of a class system and everyone seems genuinely proud of their country, their leaders and their history. Nevertheless, Cuba’s needs are great and its people have adapted to the tourist trade to survive. Whether it is renting out a room like in the casa particular where we stayed, working at commercial beach resorts like Varadero or by accosting people in the street, Cubans have been able to improve their lifestyles and earn more money from the people who visit them.
Ultimately, Cuba is a country that has defined itself as the opposite of the greedy capitalism which, to them, America represents. Imprisoned Cuban spies are heralded as heroes on billboards throughout the country, while George Bush is caricatured as a ‘cretin’ on the ground floor mural of the Museum of the Revolution. It is quite ironic then, that the Cuban people have developed the same taste for profit-making opportunism that they so despise.